Wyant’s affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance with
his land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification of
Count Ottaviano’s story.
The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct account
of his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a man of
distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, and
lived either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. His
wife owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was the
second son, came there from time to time to look into its management.
The eldest son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt
of Count Ottaviano’s was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in
Siena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most
amiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the
strange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to
the adjustment of the young lady’s dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very
properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however,
who was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for
coming to Siena to inspect his mother’s estate.
Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano’s personality the story had a
tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs
of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another
aspect. It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was
a suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who
could tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering
broken purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard’s fate was being played
out? Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the
lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa
with sanitary plumbing and a telephone?
One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful problems;
and that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant’s entrance, raised a placidly
wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and her chair had
been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so that she made a
cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings.
“What a nice morning!” she said; “it must be delightful weather at
Bonchurch.”
Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its
threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird with
clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyond
the opposite houses.
Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was surprised
at his reappearance he said at once: “I have come back to study Miss
Lombard’s picture.”
“Oh, the picture--” Mrs. Lombard’s face expressed a gentle
disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acuter
sensibilities. “It’s an original Leonardo, you know,” she said
mechanically.
“And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to have
inherited her father’s love for art.”
Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: “It’s unusual in so
young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later.”
Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. “That’s what I say! I was quite
different at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a pretty bit
of fancy-work. Not that I couldn’t sketch, too; I had a master down from
London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung up in their drawing-room
now--I did a view of Kenilworth which was thought pleasing. But I liked
a picnic, too, or a pretty walk through the woods with young people of
my own age. I say it’s more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling
for art, and do crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up
everything else. I was taught that there were other things.”
Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, could not
resist another question. “And Miss Lombard cares for nothing else?”
Her mother looked troubled.
“Sybilla is so clever--she says I don’t understand. You know how
self-confident young people are! My husband never said that of
me, now--he knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were very
particular; I was brought up to have opinions, and my husband has always
respected them. He says himself that he wouldn’t for the world miss
hearing my opinion on any subject; you may have noticed that he often
refers to my tastes. He has always respected my preference for living
in England; he likes to hear me give my reasons for it. He is so much
interested in my ideas that he often says he knows just what I am going
to say before I speak. But Sybilla does not care for what I think--”
At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at Wyant. “The
servant is a fool; she didn’t tell me you were here.” His eye turned to
his wife. “Well, my dear, what have you been telling Mr. Wyant? About
the aunts at Bonchurch, I’ll be bound!”
Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbed his
hooked fingers, with a smile.
“Mrs. Lombard’s aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to the
circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly Packet from
the curate’s wife across the way. They have the rector to tea twice a
year, and keep a page-boy, and are visited by two baronets’ wives. They
devoted themselves to the education of their orphan niece, and I think
I may say without boasting that Mrs. Lombard’s conversation shows marked
traces of the advantages she enjoyed.”
Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure.
“I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular.”
“Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in
anything but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blankets
every spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to the
student of human nature.” Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. “But we
are missing an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour.”
Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door and down
the passageway.
The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an inner
radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of the lady’s
flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself with jewel-like
precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which had escaped him on
the previous day.
He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his sardonic
grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair forward, and
seated himself on a carved settle against the wall.
“Now, then,” he said, “tell Clyde what you can; but the letter killeth.”
He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the claws
of a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant’s notebook with the obvious
intention of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch.
Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the speculations
which Doctor Lombard’s strange household excited, sat motionless for a
few minutes, staring first at the picture and then at the blank pages
of the note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard was enjoying his
discomfiture at length roused him, and he began to write.
He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard rose to
unlock it, and his daughter entered.
She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him.
“Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to come
back this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is here now;
he says he can’t wait.”
“The devil!” cried her father impatiently. “Didn’t you tell him--”
“Yes; but he says he can’t come back. If you want to see him you must
come now.”
“Then you think there’s a chance?--”
She nodded.
He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously.
“You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment.”
He hurried out, locking the door behind him.
Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise
at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for
hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her
small face pale and tumultuous.
“I arranged it--I must speak to you,” she gasped. “He’ll be back in five
minutes.”
Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly.
Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him
at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture
overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a
voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate.
“How can I help you?” he said with a rush of compassion.
“Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it’s so
difficult--he watches me--he’ll be back immediately.”
“Try to tell me what I can do.”
“I don’t dare; I feel as if he were behind me.” She turned away, fixing
her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. “There he comes, and
I haven’t spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be
hurried.”
“I don’t hear any one,” said Wyant, listening. “Try to tell me.”
“How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain.” She
drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge--“Will you come here again
this afternoon--at about five?” she whispered.
“Come here again?”
“Yes--you can ask to see the picture,--make some excuse. He will come
with you, of course; I will open the door for you--and--and lock you
both in”--she gasped.
“Lock us in?”
“You see? You understand? It’s the only way for me to leave the
house--if I am ever to do it”--She drew another difficult breath.
“The key will be returned--by a safe person--in half an hour,--perhaps
sooner--”
She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for
support.
“Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her.
“I can’t, Miss Lombard,” he said at length.
“You can’t?”
“I’m sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider--”
He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit
to pause in its dash for a hole!
Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless.
“I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is
impossible. Can’t I talk to you again? Perhaps--”
“Oh,” she cried, starting up, “there he comes!”
Doctor Lombard’s step sounded in the passage.
Wyant held her fast. “Tell me one thing: he won’t let you sell the
picture?”
“No--hush!”
“Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that.”
“The future?”
“In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven’t
promised?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t, then; remember that.”
She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock.
As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of
ravaged brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strange
face, seen momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain as
part of an inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reached
out like the cry of an imprisoned anguish.
Wyant turned away impatiently.
“Rubbish!” he said to himself. “SHE isn’t walled in; she can get out if
she wants to.”