Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 53

The melancholy series of events which we have recorded in the two preceding chapters occurred long before the period in which the action of our story takes place.

Let us now follow the thread of our narrative.

We have already signified that Lord Ethalwood returned to Broxbridge Hall very shortly after the servants’ party, at which our hero had played no insignificant part.

In a small room, called the study, “a thin, tall, aristocratic man, of three-score years and ten,” is seated; around the walls of the apartment are ranged glass bottles, crucibles, together with a variety of other articles, emblematical of a chemical laboratory. The solitary occupant of the studio might be taken for a necromancer of the middle ages, so spectral and weird-like is he in appearance; and at times his deep-sunken eyes seem to light up and flash with unwonted fire, while at others they are cold, inexpressive, and passionless.

His long bony fingers are busily occupied in reaching ever and anon some ponderous volume, the pages of which he scans with a curious and absorbing interest.

This old man is Lord Ethalwood, who, despite his years and the sorrow they have brought, is still firm and vigorous—​still full of active intellectual life.

He is a philosopher—​a searcher after truth—​a solitary and silent worker in his old ancestral home.

To him the wonders revealed by scientific research have been a solace and a comfort in the hours of his affliction.

He has pursued his studies with unwearying industry; has never relaxed, but has worked as hard—​and, indeed, harder, perhaps—​than many men whose means of existence depended upon their own exertions.

There is good reason for this: the recluse at Broxbridge needed some occupation to drive away the miserable thoughts which at times took possession of him.

Without some such employment his life would have been one long sorrow.

He had made chemistry his study, he had also dipped deeply into the science of astrology, and when wearied of these he followed up his train of observations in astronomy.

At the top of his palatial residence he had erected an observatory.

This was furnished with a large telescope, which was said to be the finest in the country. He had always had a taste for scientific pursuits; in the later years of his life it was a passion with him.

He had little else to occupy his thoughts, for he had long since withdrawn himself from society, and with the exception of a few choice friends he did not much care about mixing with what is called the fashionable world.

Nevertheless he was not altogether a recluse: with those who knew him best he was the same genial, courtly, high-bred gentleman, whose presence was deemed an ornament in any fashionable or aristocratic coterie.

But a deep shadow had fallen on the house of Ethalwood—​a shadow which no ray of sunlight dispelled.

For an hour or so the master of Broxbridge remained in his studio, working out some difficult problem in chemistry. Presently he arose, passed out of his laboratory, and made his way to the observatory.

To reach this he had to pass through the picture gallery, on the walls of which were ranged in chronological order portraits of his dead ancestors.

He seldom passed through the picture gallery without taking a glance at the long line of portraits, the very contemplation of which seemed to take him back to brighter and more glorious days.

He was proud of his ancestors, many of whom had been identified with the history of the country.

A miserable sense of depression and loneliness came over him as he contemplated the time-honoured works of art. He thought some of his race looked reprovingly on him out of their dingy frames.

At his death there would be an end to the unbroken line of the Ethalwoods. He had no son to inherit the title and estates, which would go to a distant relative, whom he held in utter aborrhence. This thought was perfect agony to him.

He turned abruptly away and made for the observatory, and strove to drown his sorrow in the depths of science.

In a short time, however, he again sought the laboratory. As he arrived at the door of the picture gallery he was startled by a loud noise, a sort of clatter and crash—​so it seemed to him—​which reverberated through the whole apartment.

He hastened forward, and beheld a cloud of dust.

When this had cleared away he was enabled to ascertain the cause of the strange sounds. The portrait of Gervase Lord Ethalwood, with its massive oak frame, had fallen to the floor.

The master of Broxbridge was greatly affected. His pale face became a thought paler, and his limbs trembled.

A superstitious fear seemed to creep over him.

He looked upon the circumstance as an ill omen.

Had fate in store for him any greater trial?

For awhile he stood motionless and spell-bound, his eyes being all the while riveted on the fallen picture.

His ancestor, Gervase Lord Ethalwood, was deemed the most honoured of his race. He had distinguished himself both in the field and in the senate—​had enjoyed the confidence of his Sovereign.

“This is a most remarkable circumstance—​the more so since it happened while I was at the entrance of the picture gallery,” murmured Lord Ethalwood. “Most remarkable—​and—​and significant.”

As he was hesitating how to act he observed at the other end of the gallery the well-known features of Mr. Jakyl, who was advancing in his usual quiet and unobtrusive manner.

“Oh, it’s you, Jakyl!” said his lordship, walking up to the picture. “Do you know of the accident?”

“I heard a noise, my lord,” returned the butler, “and hastened to ascertain the cause.”

“The picture, the likeness of my great ancestor—​it has fallen.”

They both looked at the object in question.

“The rings have given way,” observed Mr. Jakyl, pointing to the rings through which ran the cords which supported it.

“Strange, most unaccountable!” ejaculated the nobleman. “Most incomprehensible.”

“Well, my lord, it is not so surprising after all,” returned the butler. “The wood is decayed.”

“Umph! You had better lift it up and place it against the wall, then get the steps and hang it up in its place.”

The butler gave utterance to an expression of surprise.

“What’s the matter?” enquired his master.

“The wood on which the picture is painted is perfectly rotten. I am afraid to touch it in case it should fall to pieces.”

This was found to be the case. The picture of Gervase Lord Ethalwood was in such a decayed state that the panel on which that marvellous man had been painted was like touchwood, which had been so worm-eaten that it threatened to tumble to pieces.

“I dare not touch it, my lord,” said Mr. Jakyl, in evident concern.

“The only wonder is that it should have hung so long in its position. How long has it been painted, my lord?”

“More than three centuries. What do you propose to do? Send up to London. Telegraph at once to a frame-maker to come immediately. I would not have the painting injured by unskilful treatment, not on any account.”

“Send to London?” repeated the butler.

“Of course, that will be the best plan.”

A bright idea occurred to the butler, who said in a half apologetic tone, “We have a very clever young man from London working in the neighbourhood, who, I think, would be able to make a good job of it.”

“What is he, and who is he?”

“He’s in the picture line, my lord and is very clever, so I’m told. His name is Peace.”

“Do you think he is a skilful workman?”

“Oh dear me, there’s no question about that.”

“Very well. Send for him at once; there will be no harm in hearing what he says. Send for him, Jakyl.”

And with these words Lord Ethalwood returned to his laboratory.

Peace, who was at work at his shop in Dennet’s-lane, was surprised to receive a message from the Hall, commanding his immediate attendance, upon a matter of urgent business.

He put on his best attire and presented himself at Broxbridge.

He was at once taken into the picture-gallery by the prudent and well-behaved Mr. Jakyl.

Mr. Peace made a careful examination of the picture.

“It’s all to pieces,” he observed to the butler, “and if you attempt to move it it will crumble into dust. I never saw anything so gone. The wood on which it is painted is literally powder. It will require all my skill to make a job of it.”

“Do you think you can restore it? Don’t undertake it unless you see your way clear, for I must tell you frankly that his lordship sets more store by this than anything else in the whole establishment.”

“If I can’t do it, nobody can,” returned Peace; “but don’t let me get you into trouble. If you have no confidence in me send to London.”

“I will consult his lordship,” observed the butler, proceeding at once to the laboratory.

He returned with his master.

“Well,” said the latter, addressing himself to Peace, “how about this picture? Can anything be done with it? I don’t mind the price—​only I want it made sound.”

“And it is no easy task, my lord,” answered our hero, “seeing that it is so old and decayed; but I will do my best with it.”

“Tell me how you intend to proceed with your work?”

“The surface of the picture is not much injured. The dry rot, as it is termed, has not affected the painting, but it has left the wood like a honeycomb. What I purpose doing is to make a plaster of Paris bed for it. When the face of the picture is once safely deposited in this bed of plaster it will be then my business to make the panel upon which it is painted firm and secure.”

“And, pray, how is that to be effected?” inquired his lordship.

Peace smiled, and said—

“By a process I use in cases of this sort. It is an invention of my own, and I think when the work is completed your lordship will acknowledge that it is a very ingenious one.”

Lord Ethalwood looked hard at the speaker.

“It may be, but I am still in ignorance as to your mode of operation. I understand chemistry, and should like to hear something more definite about your process.”

“The panel on which the portrait is painted is so decayed that you might put your finger through it with the greatest ease. I intend to fill up all the interstices with a solution, which, when set, will make it stronger than ever. When done it will last for centuries, but the difficulty will be in effecting this without injury to the surface, and before I begin I must inform your lordship I cannot be answerable for any injuries to the painting which are at present not discernible, but which may present themselves in the course of the restoration.”

“You seem to be intelligent enough. Do your best—​only I charge you to use the greatest care. You will bring your materials with you and work here, I presume.”

“I cannot do otherwise, my lord; any attempt to remove it would be attended with positive destruction.”

“Very well, Mr. Jakyl, you will see that the picture-restorer has all he requires,” said Lord Ethalwood as he left the apartment.

Peace returned to Dennet’s-lane with the understanding that he was to commence operations at the Hall on the following morning.

He was in some trepidation as to the success of his enterprise, which, to say the truth, required all his skill and care to ensure a satisfactory result; but he was not a man to be daunted by trifles.

On the following morning, therefore, he proceeded to the picture gallery with several bags of plaster of Paris.

His first proceeding was to see if he could with safety remove the panel from the frame, which was almost in as bad a state as the panel itself.

He found that he could not do this with safety; the panel would not bear forcing with the chisel. He therefore prepared a bed of plaster for the frame as well as the picture.

He oiled the surface of both, and, with the assistance of the young carpenter, in whose shed he worked, he succeeded in placing the picture and frame in its bed of plaster.

This was effected happily without any mishap.

His next process was to work into the wood with a fine soft brush a solution formed of oils, resinous gums, and driers. After he had saturated the worm-eaten wood with this, driving it well home to the back of the oiled surface, he left it to dry till the following day, when a similar process was gone through, with the addition of a little cement.

What remained of the honeycombed rotten wood had by this time become fixed and firm—​there was no fear of its crumbling into powder.

On the third day he mixed up his patent solution as he termed it. This consisted, like the first coating, of oils, resinous gums, driers, and a larger proportion of cement. Warming the whole in an iron ladle he poured its contents on the back of the picture.

This, like the rest, was left for some hours to set, and on the following day he poured on more of the same composition, until the whole of the injuries to the wood were filled up.

This last process was witnessed by Mr. Jakyl and the footman, both of whom professed to be deeply interested in the proceedings.

Lord Ethalwood himself examined the work after Peace had left, and expressed himself well satisfied with it as far as it had gone.

In a day or two the composition was set as hard as a rock, and our hero lifted up the frame from the plaster bed, not, it must be confessed, without some anxiety.

As he expected he found a number of small holes, about the size of a pin’s head, made by his composition on the painting itself.

Luckily these were chiefly in the background of the picture, only two being observable on the face of the dead Gervase Lord Ethalwood.

Peace removed the panel from its frame—​it was as firm and solid as a piece of slate—​he placed it on an easel and looked carefully at its surface.

“Well,” said Mr. Jakyl, “it’s all right, with the exception of those ugly spots.”

“It was impossible to avoid showing these; the fact is the decay in another year or so would have gone so far as to destroy entirely the whole of the picture. We may think ourselves lucky it’s no worse,” observed Peace.

“Yes, I suppose so, but his lordship will think them a great disfigurement,” observed the butler.

“You had better ask his lordship to have a look at it.”

“I am very well satisfied with the work.”

Lord Ethalwood was communicated with. He accompanied his butler into the picture gallery.

He glanced at the portrait of his great ancestor, whose features were as dingy and faded as they well could be; this was more especially observable as the representation of the old nobleman was brought to the light.

“I hope your lordship will be pleased with my work,” said Peace. “It has been one of the most difficult tasks that I have ever undertaken; but you wil find, I think, my lord, that you have now a picture more endurable than any in your gallery.”

“Yes, it does you great credit,” returned the nobleman; “great credit, I admit. But these spots, they are sad blemishes.”

“They were holes in the painting itself, which, in another year or two, would, in all probability, have become like a colander.”

“Ah, yes; I see. I suppose so.”

“But, with your permission, my lord, I will make the work perfect—​so perfect, indeed, that no human eye will be able to detect the slightest fault or injury to it. Will your lordship trust me with the picture for a few days?”

“What, take it away? Oh, dear no. I should not like that.”

“I cannot very well do it here.”

“And why not, I pray?”

“Well, in the first place, I shall require assistance. These spots must be carefully gone over with colour, and—​besides, several other things will have to be done to it.”

“All of which, I presume, can be done here? If not, it must remain as it is, until such time as I meet with a good restorer.”

“Then, as you wish it, I will endeavour to do it here,” returned Peace.

It was so arranged. In the course of a few days, our hero sent for a well-known man in the trade, who was an adept in that branch of the profession.

The effigy of the valiant Gervase Lord Ethalwood was subjected to the restoring process. The dirty brown—​or black varnish would be the more correct term—​was removed by means of powdered cuttle fish. Then the spots were carefully picked out with colour, which had to be matched with that already on.

After this the face of the old earl was glazed, and when this had been done, the transformation was positively magical.

Lord Ethalwood was delighted. He ordered a costly frame from our hero. In this the restored picture was placed, and then hung up in its original position in the gallery.

He inquired of Peace what he was indebted to him; the answer was twenty pounds. Lord Ethalwood wrote a cheque for fifty, which he handed to our hero.

Nothing could be more satisfactory than this little stroke of business.

Peace returned to the “Carved Lion,” and told Brickett of his success, and there was a general rejoicing at the hostelry on the following night. Peace at this time had no reason to complain of fortune’s favours; he was doing a good business, had been singularly fortunate—​had made a number of friends, and had every reason for pursuing an honest course of life; but he, nevertheless, soon began to be restless and dissatisfied. It must, however, be acknowledged that for a long time after his introduction to Lord Ethalwood’s palatial establishment, he continued to lead a respectable life.

He was much taken with the girl, Nelly, but she did not seem to offer him any encouragement. This not a little vexed him, for when they first met she appeared amiable enough. He did not very well know what to make of her.

But what concerned him the most was the mysterious disappearance of Bessie Dalton; this he could not in any way account for. He would have given anything to clear up that mystery.