CHAPTER XIX

A VANISHED PORTRAIT

"ARE you really better? I'm glad."

Phyllys spoke warmly. Dinner was over, and she and Mrs. Keith had quitted the dining-room, leaving Giles with Mr. Dugdale, this evening, as often, a self-invited guest. Mrs. Keith was gone to her boudoir, and Phyllys found Colin in the drawing-room.

He had been three days invisible, prostrate with headache, and she had been told that he could not appear this evening. Here, however, he was, in the deep armchair, close to the oriel window. He stood up when she came in, despite an eager "Oh, don't!" but was glad to go back.

She sat down and scanned the ivory-tinted face.

"Ought you to have come down?" she asked, as one hand was pressed slowly over the fair hair, its slender fingers perceptibly thinner for three days of starvation and intense pain.

"Thanks, I'm all right now."

She glanced at a book on his knee, half-open, his hand between the leaves. "Have you been trying to read?"

"Not much. There's a paragraph by Kingsley that I thought you might like."

"May I see it?" She took the book and read eagerly the sentence indicated:—

"'Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful. Beauty is God's handwriting; a wayside Sacrament. Welcome it in every fair face, every fair sky, every fair flower, and thank for it Him, the Fountain of all loveliness, and drink it in simply and earnestly with 'all' your eyes. It is a charmed draught, a cup of blessing.'"

Phyllys's own face was very fair with thoughts evoked.

"I'm glad you've shown me that. It is just what one wants to feel—to do. If beauty really is—that—one can't be wrong in loving it."

"One might rather be wrong not to value it," he suggested.

"But—" and a pause—"there are ugly things in Nature."

"Many things that we stamp as ugly are not so. Part of our condemnation is conventional. Part is due to imperfect sight. We don't detect the exquisite finish—or the balancing of parts. What looks to us like ugliness may belong merely to roughness of outline, due to our blindness. Then, too, we fail to make out the true inwardness. The beauty of Divine handwriting may be there, yet the key is wanting, and we can't translate into the vernacular."

"You wouldn't say that there is beauty in everything!"

"No. But there is an enormous amount more of it than men see. It needs a trained eye and a brain awake. Form and colour are lost upon those who are Nature-blind and Art-blind. And for the most part you will find unlovely outlines—hardness, stiffness, angularity—in human conceptions, not in Divine."

"You like flat surfaces in sculpture," she suggested with quickness.

"Flat surfaces in sculpture—and in Nature—don't mean the rigid flatness of a sheet of iron. There are delicate mouldings—roundings—the melting, so to speak, of one surface into another. Nature's divisions, like Nature's tints, merge by gradations. You don't find squares and oblongs. In a rainbow no man living can define where one colour ends and the next begins."

She smiled acquiescence. Colin's words had power to set her thinking. She did not know how rarely he opened out like this; how studiously his true self was hidden. In Giles she saw the reserve of a man habitually silent; but she had not divined in Colin the deeper reserve of an apparent frankness which told nothing. Once in a way he was really frank with Phyllys; but she was almost the sole exception. He could seldom bring to the surface those things for which he most cared.

He murmured another quotation:

"'Nature is a poem written by God; and Art is man's translation of it!'

"I forget who said that. But if Nature is a Divine poem, the least we can do is to try to read it."

Phyllys repeated the words to herself.

"I wonder whether all sculptors feel as you do?" she questioned.

"I was not speaking from the sculptor's point of view." His voice had altered, becoming indifferent. Without looking up Phyllys knew that he and she were no longer alone.

Mrs. Keith had appeared, and was in one of her restless moods. She had not known that Colin meant to come down, and the fact seemed to annoy her. She could not sit still, but fidgeted from chair to chair, talking without a break.

There was a draught from the oriel window, and would Colin mind its being shut? No, she really couldn't have any window open. It was so chilly. If he wanted more air, why did he not stay in the study? Mr. Dugdale would be in directly, and Mr. Dugdale was such a fatiguing person, particularly if one was ill. But Colin never took advice, as all the world knew—much better for him if he would.

All this and more was endured with a calm which Phyllys had once taken for unshakeable serenity. She knew better now. She had learnt to decipher the dent in his forehead, the compression of his under-lip, the increased slowness of the dragging voice; and this evening his self-control was more severely tested than usual, from weakness.

But Mrs. Keith, whose one aim was to separate those two, to have Phyllys as a "close preserve" for Giles, saw nothing. She fidgeted and fussed till the door opened.

"Here they come!" And she started up. "Now we must have some music. I want Phyllys to play the Moonlight Sonata."

Giles interposed in curt tones, "Not to-night. Colin can't stand it."

Colin frowned slightly. "Pray make no difference for me," he said. "If you do, I must decamp."

"But we don't want music. Nobody wants it. We all want to talk," urged Phyllys.

She greeted Giles with a smile, and he came to her side, not speaking. Mrs. Keith was insisting energetically on music. Phyllys played so well, and she and Giles loved listening. Colin would not mind, she knew.

"Of course not. Shall I get the sonata?" asked Colin.

"Nonsense!" There was a roughness in the "timbre" of Giles' voice which Phyllys had heard before, and it always surprised her. "You must keep still."

Phyllys gave the speaker a reproachful glance; then turned to Colin. He submitted, but not as if obliged to do so. She noticed a curious reticent dignity in his manner. She met his eyes—blue depths, full of expression—and wondered whom he recalled. The hidden picture flashed up before her mind, and she forgot the question of music, gazing at him.

Somebody else gazed also. Mr. Dugdale's remark might have been an echo of her thoughts.

"Odd! That look again!"

"'Isn't' he like?" Phyllys all but said. The words were on her lips when she remembered that she had undertaken not to allude to the picture, and that nobody except herself and Mrs. Keith was supposed to be aware of its existence.

Yet plainly Mr. Dugdale was aware! What could Mrs. Keith have meant?

"Extraordinary!" continued the cool tones. "I've not taken a look at the old portrait for ages: but my memory is good. Colin brings it back."

"I don't understand," Colin said.

"The old painting in a corner of the gallery—used to hang in this room. You've developed an astonishing resemblance to it."

Mrs. Keith stood listening, her face hard set; her fingers clutched about her fan.

"You had that fancy before," she said. "Utterly ridiculous!"

For once she made a mistake. Had she acquiesced, the matter might have dropped. Opposition made Mr. Dugdale eager to prove his point.

"We'll compare him with the original. Come, Colin."

Colin did not stir. "Another time," he suggested.

"Oh, ah! I forgot your head. Well, I'll take a look myself. Never can imagine why that picture should have been banished to the darkest corner in the house!" he muttered as he went—not the first time he had made such a remark.

He was gone for some time, and Mrs. Keith moved restlessly, as if unable to sit still. Phyllys thought her looking old and haggard, and her mouth had a drawn look. No further mention was made of music; and when Mr. Dugdale returned, he said bluntly—"Been moved again! Where, pray?"

"The portrait not there?" asked Giles in surprise.

"Not that I can discover. I've looked all round."

"But of course it is there!" exclaimed Mrs. Keith, facing him indignantly. "It has not been moved."

"Not taken from the corner!"

"Certainly not! Unless Giles—"

Giles made a negative gesture.

"Of course I could not tell. Giles might have moved it, unknown to me. I have had no authority here for years." She spoke with a hard laugh.

"It was in its usual corner not long ago," observed Giles. "I remember seeing it."

"It is not there now," stated Mr. Dugdale in his most dogmatic manner.

"You are sure you have not overlooked it!"

"Come and see for yourself," and the two went off.

Mrs. Keith sat down. "How hot it is! I should like the window open."

Phyllys started up, but was forestalled by Colin. He remained at the casement, as if thankful for outer air.

Mrs. Keith moved again, wandering to the further end of the room.

And Phyllys asked in an undertone, "Why should Mr. Dugdale want to prove that you are like that picture?"

"I don't know." Colin spoke wearily, as if the discussion tried him. "Having once made the assertion, he sticks to it."

"You don't care whether you are or not!"

"Not a fig! Anybody may be like anybody." She could not rival his indifference, and waited in suspense till the two came back, Mr. Dugdale saying triumphantly—"Just as I told you! Vanished!"

"The picture gone! You really mean to say that it is not there!" Mrs. Keith drew near with amazed looks. "My dear Giles! You must be dreaming. Not there!"

"It is not in the gallery."

"But where 'can' it be?"

"That is the question. We have to find out."

"Certainly you must find out," broke in Mr. Dugdale. "A valuable painting can't be allowed to disappear."

Mrs. Keith gave an odd laugh. "But, Giles, it is impossible. The thing can't have walked off of itself."

"No. To-morrow morning I must question the servants."

"The servants would not dare! And they could have no object in moving it."

"They might know its value. Not that I suspect them. It is rather a question whether any one has been in and walked off with it."

Her face lighted up. "Giles! I remember now! That evening, when we heard steps about the house—you can't have forgotten! When we thought a thief might have got in."

"I found no signs of one."

"So you said; but one does not know. The picture was in its place before. I am sure, because that was the day Colin came home. Mr. Dugdale said something of the same sort about Colin's face, and before going to bed, I took a look at the portrait—out of curiosity. The likeness I found to be purely imaginary!"

Mr. Dugdale grunted dissent.

"Purely imaginary," she repeated. "Still, the painting was safe then. An hour or two later we heard sounds about—footsteps—what I always shall believe to have been a thief. Now we know what he carried off."

Giles seemed half convinced.

"I've never noticed the painting since that day—and it seems that you have not either," she added.

"I have not looked for it."

"It was in its place before. It is not in its place now. What other explanation is possible?"

"If it was taken then, I can't understand its not being missed sooner," objected Mr. Dugdale.

"Why should it be? Nobody has given it a thought."

Giles was silent. His glance had wandered to Colin, who seemed trying to decipher Phyllys. She looked up, met his eyes, and blushed. Giles' sombreness increased.

"Great mistake its ever having been removed from this room," Mr. Dugdale declared.

"A mistake possibly, but a natural one," protested Mrs. Keith. "The picture was out of its place. Well enough in a study or a gallery; but not in a drawing-room. Mr. Penrhyn did not mind."

"Mr. Penrhyn never minded anything."

"At all events, I acted for the best. One can't do more. Of course I never dreamt of thieves."

"I shall not rest till it is found," said Giles.

In Phyllys' mind a thought suggested itself. Could Mrs. Keith be a trifle "peculiar" mentally—a degree "touched in the upper story?" Did she suffer from delusions? Had she herself hidden the lost picture, honestly believing it to be, as she had stated, the portrait of her own brother? Or were there two portraits: the one of Giles' ancestor stolen by a thief; the other of Mrs. Keith's brother, its existence unknown? It would be odd that Colin should resemble both portraits; yet less odd than might appear at first sight, since one of the two was a likeness of his own uncle. Whichever might be the explanation, Mrs. Keith showed eccentricity.

"Poor thing!" mused Phyllys. "I dare say that is why Giles hardly ever contradicts what she says. Perhaps it is why Colin sometimes has to get the upper hand—not to give in too much."

The butler brought in a telegram addressed to herself, and she opened it in trepidation, telegrams at Midfell being rare.

"'Grandmother ill, come home to-morrow by early train,'" she read.

Her face changed, and she saw those around change also.

That of Mrs. Keith might have expressed relief. Giles had the look of one who has received a blow. Colin—was it her fancy that his pale face grew paler?

Then she knew that Mrs. Keith was talking—was exclaiming, inquiring, advising. Perhaps there was some mistake. Would Phyllys like to telegraph inquiries? It seemed such a pity to cut short her visit. She had intended dear Phyllys to stay at least another six weeks. One never could tell what telegrams meant—they were so curtly worded; still it might not be anything serious.

"Grannie must be very ill, or Barbara would not send for me," Phyllys said. "Could some one tell me the first train?"

"The 7.10," Colin observed gently.

"Is that too early? Thanks—then I will go by it. I had better put up my things to-night." She glanced from one to another. "I am so sorry. It has been a very happy time; and you have all been so good to me! But of course. I must leave."

She went upstairs, and Mrs. Keith followed immediately.

"Giles is looking out particulars," she said. "He will go with you to the Junction, and will put you into a through carriage for the north. Your packing shall be done for you, my dear. It is early still, and you can come down for another hour, perhaps—but of course you must get to bed in good time. We are all so sorry. I had written to Mrs. Wyverne to beg for a longer stay. No—I did not tell you. But you must come to us again, some day."

Phyllys tried to listen. She felt numbed; whether more at her grandmother's probable danger, or at the abrupt need to leave Castle Hill, she hardly knew. The former she did not yet grasp. The latter was a pressing pain. She wondered why the pain should be so acute.

Mrs. Keith moved about the room, restless still.

"About that picture," she said. "Odd—isn't it?" She broke into a laugh.

"I could not help remembering," murmured Phyllys. "Of course I said nothing, as I had promised."

Mrs. Keith wore a look of astonishment.

"You could not help remembering—what?"

"The portrait I saw in your cabinet—the one so like Colin! Don't you know?"—as Mrs. Keith seemed puzzled. "When I went to look for the piece of silk."

"My dear, how droll!" Mrs. Keith laughed again, rather loudly. "That you should think of the two together, I mean. It is quite comic. I am glad you did not say what you thought—though of course you could not, because you had promised."

"No—I remembered."

"Besides—that is my own concern—the likeness of my brother. Dear harum-scarum old Jock—how long it is since I saw him! But, as I told you, nobody knows of that picture, and it is worth nothing to anybody. This disappearance is another matter. The picture we cannot find is a family heirloom, by a famous artist, and is of great value. Mr. Dugdale's notion of its being like Colin is ridiculous. There is no resemblance." Her cheeks had red spots, as if she were angry. "He is such a fanciful man—always imagining things. The likeness that you saw is real enough—only what one might expect! But this notion of Mr. Dugdale's—if it were less absurd, one might be annoyed."

She stopped for a moment.

"The loss of that picture is a real misfortune. Giles will never rest till he has found it. He has all the persistency of the Randolph nature. Not much chance of his succeeding, I am afraid, for the thief has had plenty of time—most likely has sent the picture to America. But if you should be questioned, my dear—which is not likely, as you do not even know the painting—if you should be, please remember that there is no connection between the two things. You must guard yourself, in talking about the family heirloom, not to allude to my little affair—not to break your word."

Then she moved towards the door. "Now we will go down, and have a last chat."