Читать книгу A Crime On Canvas - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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ETHEL uttered no cry, nor summoned assistance. In some vague, intangible way she felt as if she had gone through the whole thing before, as if she were acting exactly as her grandfather would wish. She knew what a self-contained man he was, and how annoyed he would be were his servants to see him at that moment. It appeared to Ethel, too, as if, sooner or later, this black thing was inevitable. No man could go on for ever with such a cloud hanging over him as seemed to overshadow the life of Sir Arthur Blantyre.

The girl was cool and collected. She leant down by her grandfather's side and raised his head from the floor. Already a little colour was creeping back into his face, the whiteness was leaving his lips. As he sat up, half unconscious and oblivious to his surroundings, he still clutched the fragment of cloth in a tenacious grip. Ethel would have been less than human if she had not glanced at the innocent-looking object which had been the cause of all this emotion. Her grandfather must have been moved to the very depths of his being to give way like this.

The old Adam surging up in Ethel's heart took possession of her, and she looked eagerly at the strip of canvas in Sir Arthur's hand. What could there be in it to cause such an agitation? For the scrap of canvas contained nothing more repulsive than a lovely, innocent face, painted by a master hand. It was little more than a miniature, though, to judge from its ragged edges and oval shape, it might have been cut with a pair of scissors from a frame. As to the rest, it was a girl's face, fair and smiling, radiantly beautiful, with eyes dark, appealing and pathetic. Ethel's knowledge of art matters was limited. But it needed no critic to tell her that this was no idealization of the painter's dream, but a true and faithful portrait. Despite the beauty of the drawing and the sweet simplicity of the face, the artist in some subtle way had made the features suggest trial and suffering.

As Ethel gazed intently upon this picture her feeling of curiosity gave way to another and different emotion. She seemed to have seen that face before. It was impossible, of course, but she could not rid herself of the impression that here was no stranger to her. Then there burst upon her a vivid flash of illumination. Given a little difference in age, in dress and expression and the picture would pass for a likeness of herself. There was no mistaking this fact when once it had come home to her. Who, then, was the stranger?

Still dazed by this startling discovery the girl was staring at the picture when Sir Arthur opened his eyes and suddenly grasped what was going on. He realized by instinct what Ethel was doing, struggled painfully to his feet and crushed the offensive painting convulsively in his hands. Then he turned almost sternly to his granddaughter.

"Give me some coffee," he gasped, "and get me some brandy from the sideboard. Now tell me the truth. Have you seen this accursed thing? I must know."

"I looked at it, of course," Ethel said with a slight accession of colour in her cheeks. "I don't want to pry into your secrets, but I couldn't very well help seeing it. But, please, drink this coffee before you say another word."

Sir Arthur appeared as if about to speak, then changed his mind. He sipped his coffee slowly and thoughtfully, his dark eyes brooding over the past.

"How old are you?" he demanded abruptly.

"I think I have come to years of discretion," Ethel ventured to say. "I shall be twenty on my next birthday. If you have anything to say, I think you can trust me."

There was something of reproach in the remark and it was not without effect on Sir Arthur. All these years he had been wrapped up in himself and his troubles. It had never occurred to him that Ethel was verging upon womanhood.

"Perhaps you are right," he said, apparently speaking more to himself than his companion. "I am a lonely old man. I have no friend to assist and advise me. I wonder if I dare trust you. I wonder if I dare tell you the story of my past—the story of a proud man whose sin found him out when it was too late for repentance. But, no, not yet. I cannot do it yet. I must go my own way for the time being. You are to forget what you have seen this morning. You are never to mention it to a soul. Now tell me truthfully—did you see that picture?"

"I saw it, yes," Ethel said boldly enough, "and I cannot help thinking it very strange that a thing so beautiful——"

"Ah, beauty is not always what it seems," Sir Arthur burst out. "There is a beauty so diabolical and so fair that it lures men to destruction. You know nothing of that. Now, another question, what did you think of the picture? Did you see any resemblance to anybody?"

"I did," Ethel said candidly. "I was very much struck with the resemblance between the picture and myself."

Once more the pained look came over Sir Arthur's face. He shook his head sadly.

"I was afraid of it," he murmured. "Now there is one thing I want you to promise me. You must do your best to forget what you have seen this morning. Above all you must not dwell upon the fancied likeness between the picture and yourself. I won't say that it is a coincidence, because that would not be altogether true. In all the years we have been under this roof I don't think I have ever said so much to you before. Heaven knows, it may be for the best that my hand has been forced in this fashion. It may be that you can help me, but of that I will say no more for the present. Now leave me."

The last words were harsh and spoken in the voice which Ethel generally associated with her grandfather. The girl was excited. Her heart was beating rapidly. At last things had been violently shaken out of their old groove and the time for movement and action was come. She had the high courage and resolution of her race. She was ready to welcome anything that would lift her out of the monotony against which her whole soul rebelled. If there was trouble and danger she was ready to share it. Anything was better than the appalling dreariness of her existence.

Yet, as the day went on, Sir Arthur made no further sign. It seemed as if he meant to ignore the breakfast incident, for he sat moodily over his lunch without more than an occasional word to the girl flung to her as a man would toss a bone to his dog. It was the same at tea time in the dim oak-panelled hall where the firelight gleamed on armour and spear, on china and picture, and during the long ceremonious dinner, over which they sat until there were moments when Ethel could have jumped from her chair and cried aloud.

But the girl possessed her soul in patience. She felt that the time was coming when she might be asked to be up and doing. There was more savour in life now, more enjoyment in her piano and the flowers which she loved so well; indeed, but for the flowers and their constant arrangement the hours at Glenallan would have hung heavily upon her hands. They were like friends and comrades to her. She handled them as carefully and tenderly as a mother fondles her young and delicate child. So Ethel sat there until the lights began to go out and the servants one by one crept up to bed. She was not in the least sleepy or tired. There was no need to hurry for, despite his years, Sir Arthur was a late man, and many a time had Ethel heard him come wearily up the stairs when the dawn was breaking and the birds were beginning to sing in the great Lebanon cedar trees outside, which were one of the joys and pride of Glenallan. Even as she sat, she could hear Sir Arthur pacing up and down his study. She heard him stop presently. Her quick ears detected the sound of a window being opened and a murmur of voices, borne on the breeze, drifted along the corridor. Then the hall light went out. There was a gentle flicker up and down the walls as if some one were passing with a lantern. Very softly Ethel turned out the drawing-room lights and fumbled her way to the door. There, surely enough, was the outline of a figure clad in a rough pilot jacket, which she had no difficulty in recognizing as that of her grandfather.

He passed stealthily along the interminable corridors like a thief in the night. It was curious to watch a man playing the spy under his own roof. Ethel's curiosity was aroused and her pulses were quickened. Was she a child that she should be shut out continually from her grandfather's confidence? She set her white teeth grimly together.

"It may be wrong," she murmured, "but, at any risk, I am going to follow."