Читать книгу A Crime On Canvas - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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IT was not a difficult task that Ethel had set herself, seeing that her grandfather had not the least idea that he was being shadowed. The track he took was a strange one to the girl, though she had flattered herself she knew the house thoroughly. Sir Arthur appeared to be leading towards the kitchens. But he branched off presently along a passage, which, to the girl's surprise, was thickly, not to say richly, carpeted, and gave a general idea of comfort and luxury. She thought it odd she had never been through it before. But she had other thoughts to occupy her attention. With a sudden feeling that she was not behaving altogether well, she contrived to keep her grandfather in sight till he paused before a door which he proceeded to open with a patent latchkey he had taken from his pocket. He did not seem to trouble whether he was being followed or not. The idea of such a thing had never occurred to him, for he left the door open and turned up the lights.

Glenallan was still an old-fashioned house rejoicing in its old-fashioned traditions, but one innovation Sir Arthur had introduced, and that was the electric light. The room was flooded now to its utmost corner, so that Ethel could stand in the passage and see what was going on. At the first blush there was nothing to rouse her suspicions or cause her any feeling of alarm. It was just an ordinary sitting-room, evidently furnished with a view to gratify a pretty feminine taste. The carpet was of soft Aubusson silk, daintily figured after the most elegant design; the richly-gilt furniture belonged to the period of Louis Quatorze, and possessed all the graceful character of that epoch, without the garishness inseparable from the tasteless imitation. The tables and chairs were covered with priceless tapestry, and most of the pictures on the brocade-panelled walls were those of beautiful women, the work of famous French artists; indeed, the whole room might have been transported bodily from Versailles or one of the old French palaces. Doubtless some bygone Blantyre had furnished this room for herself regardless of cost, though why she had chosen an out-of-the-way room, accessible only by a dingy corridor, Ethel could not divine.

One thing she did not fail to notice, and that was the unfinished and neglected appearance of the electric fittings. There were no beaten copper or brass electroliers, carefully selected to harmonize with the surroundings, nothing but loose flexes in solitary bulbs hanging here and there as if the work had been hastily rigged up by some amateur. It occurred to Ethel that the workman who had been responsible for the contract had been purposely excluded from this apartment.

Naturally, all this added to the mystery and excitement of the adventure. Taking her courage in her hands Ethel advanced closer, so that she could look into the room and observe what was going on. She saw her grandfather standing in front of a beautifully inlaid table on which were scattered books in priceless bindings. These he swept carelessly to the ground as if they were so much waste paper. Then he drew back one of the brocade panels in the wall and produced a large portfolio of prints or water-colour drawings. He laid the portfolio on the table and began to search amongst the contents as if looking for something. Then he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he withdrew what seemed to be a pair of paintings in oils upon canvas. For a long time he bent over the uppermost of these and examined it with the most painstaking scrutiny.

Would he never be done with the pictures? They appeared to be of absorbing interest. Almost unconscious of what she was doing, the girl advanced nearer and nearer until at length she was actually inside the room. She laid an unsteady hand upon the back of a chair for support. A board creaked under her feet with a snap like a pistol shot and Sir Arthur started and rubbed his eyes. He looked round in a vague and lack-lustre way. It was some little time before he realized that he was not alone. Then he turned and caught Ethel by the shoulder in a grip that caused her to wince. She had not expected such strength in so feeble a frame.

"You are hurting me," she whispered.

"It is a wonder I did no worse," Sir Arthur said hoarsely. He seemed beside himself with rage. "So you followed me here. Why did you do so? Surely you must know how dishonourable a thing it is to spy upon my movements."

Ethel hung her head. A red wave of shame swept over her beautiful and sensitive face. For it was a dishonourable thing to do. There was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of the matter.

"I am exceedingly sorry," she faltered, "but some impulse I could not resist constrained me to follow you. You have looked so miserable and unhappy of late that I have longed to help you; but I meant no harm. I mean no harm now. If you tell me to go I will do so at once and leave you to yourself."

Sir Arthur appeared to hesitate. The anger had died out of his face. His eyes were sombre. At the same time he had not altogether forgotten himself, for he took a sheet of paper lying on the top of the portfolio and laid it over the oil painting which he had been studying so intently. The action was not lost upon Ethel.

"You are here and the mischief is done," he said. "Whether you stay or not matters little. But you must not mention to a soul what you have seen to-night. It comes as a great surprise to you, of course, to know that there is such a room under this roof so remote from the state apartments. I dare say you are asking yourself who is responsible for all this luxury and extravagance. You have probably noted that the furniture and the pictures are as fine as anything else we have in the house. Well, so far as you are concerned, your curiosity is not likely to be gratified—at least not yet. I must prove your ability and your courage first. But you have seen enough to know that I am a desolate and miserable old man, and that I have a secret trouble which has poisoned and ruined my life. If I were less proud I should not suffer so much. But, then, you see, I am a Blantyre, and I have never been allowed to forget it since the day when I was old enough to understand anything. It is through my pride that I suffer. It is through my pride that this punishment has fallen so heavily upon me. The fiend who tortures me night and day knows this. He knows how to hit me on the tenderest spot, and he knows how to take vengeance. He is none of your clumsy haters who strikes with a bludgeon, or ends a life with a knife or a revolver—his methods are far more subtle."

"I am afraid I don't understand," Ethel said. "But there are ways of striking back. Surely, in this twentieth century, it is impossible for any one to carry out the practice of the Borgias or the Brinvilliers. And if you are not strong enough yourself to cope with this trouble, you must find some friend who is able to assist you."

"Not one," Sir Arthur cried in anguished tones. "I have not a single friend on the face of God's earth. If I could find one man devoted to my interests, why, then, I might summon back my lost courage and fight the thing to the finish. What I want is a friend who is absolutely alone in the world, who has suffered as I have done myself, and who would cling to me and do my bidding from a sense that fidelity to me was the only policy possible to him. Ah, if you could find me some one like that——"

Ethel made no reply for a moment. She was filled with a brilliant idea, though she dared not give utterance to the thought that thrilled her. She knew the very man whom Sir Arthur most needed at this critical juncture. But she would not speak yet, she told herself. She would wait till the morning.

"I think some one might be found," she said.

Sir Arthur turned away from her with a gesture of despair. As he did so his arm came in contact with the sheet of paper overlying the picture on the table, so that it came fluttering to the floor. In that instant, under the broad light of the electrics, Ethel had a full view of the picture. It was a half-length drawing of a girl in a white dress with a bunch of violets at her throat. It was only possible to get a glimpse of the smiling face for a moment before the paper was replaced. But that moment was enough. It was the same face painted in exactly the same form as the scrap of canvas which had so affected Sir Arthur in the morning. Ethel turned so that her grandfather should not see the startled expression in her eyes. But he had forgotten her, and as she looked towards the door she saw, or thought she saw, a long slim hand feeling for the electric switch. Before Ethel could make up her mind whether it was a delusion or not the switches clicked noisily and the room was plunged in darkness.