Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
What with one thing and another the atmosphere became too tense to be borne. Philip and Adeline accepted an invitation to pay a short visit to Corrigan Court, a cousin who lived ten miles away. They rode over there one spring morning, leaving Augusta, her ayah, and Bonaparte, in the care of Lady Honoria. Renny Court accompanied them on a skittish grey mare who danced her way over the muddy roads and did her best to induce misbehaviour in the other horses.
A long drive flanked by a double row of linden trees led to the cousin’s house, rather an imposing place with an ivy-covered turret at either end. Its many windows glittered in the spring sunshine. Corrigan Court and his wife were waiting on the terrace to greet them. The pair were cousins but bore no resemblance to each other, he being dark with arched brows and a languid supercilious air; she ruddy, fair, and full of energy. They had been married some years but were still childless. They hoped for a son. Bridget Court embraced Adeline warmly when she alighted from her horse.
“Bless you, dear Adeline, how glad I am to see you!” she exclaimed. “And your husband! What a perfectly matched pair you are! Welcome — many times welcome.”
“Ah, Biddy Court, ’tis good to see you.” Adeline warmly returned the embrace but Philip had a feeling that no love was lost between them.
A thousand questions were asked about their voyage and their plans for Canada. Renny Court took the opportunity to disparage the enterprise.
At dinner that night another guest appeared — old Lord Killiekeggan, Adeline’s grandfather. He was a handsome old man and it amused Philip to see Adeline standing between him and her father, bearing a likeness to each, but she had chosen all their best points. How lovely she was, Philip thought, in her yellow satin dinner gown. No other woman could compare to her.
The conversation hinged on steeplechasing, on which subject the old Marquis and his son-in-law were in perfect accord. Neither of them took any interest in the Army, nor did Corrigan Court, who held himself somewhat aloof, as though he existed on a more intellectual plane. The gentlemen remained in the dining room and drank a good deal, for the port was excellent. On the way to the drawing-room with her hostess, Adeline stopped in amazement before a picture that hung against the dark paneling of the hall. The other paintings were of men in hunting clothes, velvet court dress, or in armor. But this portrait was of a little girl of eight, her flower-like face set off by a wreath of auburn hair. Adeline exclaimed, in a loud voice: —
“Why, it’s me! And what am I doing here, I should like to know, Biddy Court!”
Biddy Court hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Then she said: —
“It’s Corry’s. Your father owed him money and he gave him the portrait in payment. Not that it covered the debt — far from it! Come along, Adeline, do! It’s dreadfully draughty here.”
But Adeline stood transfixed. She snatched up a lighted candle that stood on the top of a chest and held it so that its beams lighted the little face.
“How beautiful I was!” she cried. “Oh, the beautiful face of me! Oh, the shame to my father that he should have given such a treasure to Corry Court! It’s enough to make me cry my eyes out!” She turned furiously to her cousin. “What was the debt?”
“I don’t know,” returned Bridget, “except that it was double what the portrait is worth.”
“Then it must be a fortune, indeed, for the portrait was painted by one of the greatest artists living!”
“You are welcome to the picture,” said Bridget, “if only you will pay the debt.”
“I’ll pay no debts but my own! But, oh, I do so want this picture. ’T will be a lovely thing to take out to Canada and hang beside my new portrait — the one I’ve told you of.”
“I suppose you’ll go on having portraits of yourself till you’re a hundred! Ah, I wish I could see the
last
one! It’s a raving beauty you’ll be
then
, Adeline.”
“I shall be on the face of the earth, which is more than you will be!”
Still carrying the lighted candle, she flew back along the hall and flung open the door of the dining room. The four men were talking in quiet tones, the firelight throwing a peaceful glow upon them, the candles burning low. The decanter of port in the hand of Lord Killiekeggan trembled a little, as he replenished his glass.
“Oh, but it’s a queer father you are!” cried Adeline, fixing her eyes on Renny Court. “To give away the portrait of your own child for a paltry debt, not worth the gilt frame on it! There I was, walking down the hall in my innocence, when suddenly I spied it hanging on the wall and it all but cried out in shame at being there. The candle all but fell out of my hand in my shame. Oh, well do I remember when my mother took me to Dublin to have it painted and the way the great artist gave me flowers and sweets to amuse me and the sweet little necklace on me that my grandmother gave me! Oh, Grandpapa, did you know that my father had done such a thing?”
“Is the girl mad?” asked Killiekeggan, turning to his son-in-law.
“No, no — just in a temper.” He spoke sternly to Adeline. “Come now — enough of this! The picture is not worth this to-do.”
“Not worth it!” she cried. “’Tis little you know of its value! Why, when I told the London artist the name of the great man who had painted me in childhood, he said he would gladly journey all the way to County Meath to gaze on the portrait!”
Corrigan Court asked abruptly — “And what was the name of the great artist, Adeline?”
Her lips fell apart. She stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. She pressed her fingers to her brow and thought and then said sadly — “You’ve knocked it right out of my head, Corry. It was there just a moment ago.” Her face lighted and she turned to Philip. “I’ve said his name to you many a time, haven’t I, Philip?”
“You have,” said Philip, stoutly, “many a time.”
“And you’ve forgotten it too?” said Corrigan.
“Yes. It has just slipped my memory.” He had been drinking a good deal. His fair face was flushed.
“One glance at the portrait,” said Adeline, “even from a distance, and the name will come to me.” She turned back into the hall. The four men rose and followed her, the old Marquis carrying his glass in his hand. At about ten paces from the picture she halted and strained her eyes toward its lower corner. She had wonderful eyesight. “I could not possibly read the name from here, could I?” she asked.
“No,” returned Corrigan. “And if you put your very nose against the picture you won’t see any signature, for either the artist did not consider it worth the trouble of signing or he was ashamed of his name.”
She all but threw the candlestick at his head. “You’ve painted the name out yourself, Corry Court,” she cried, “you’ve painted it out so as to conceal its great worth! You knew that if some connoisseur saw it he would tell my father of the evil bargain you made!”
Renny Court threw a suspicious look at his cousin Corrigan. He then took the candle from Adeline’s hand and, holding it close to the portrait, scrutinized the two lower corners. “It’s a queer little blob there is here,” he said.
“Yes,” cried Adeline, “that’s just where the signature was! It was signed with a sweet little flourish. Oh, the name will come back to me in a moment.”
“It was never signed,” said Corry Court. “And you know it was never signed. It’s a pretty picture and I’ve always liked it and, when your father offered it to me, I took it. I well knew it was all I was likely to get for the debt.”
“Oh, Father, how could you?” said Adeline, tears shining in her eyes. “There’s nothing I want so much as this picture. And I was going to beg it from you as another wee wedding present for you acknowledged yourself, in a letter you wrote me to India, that it was not much you’d been able to give me in the way of a present.”
“Not much!” cried Renny Court. “Why, I’m still in debt for your trousseau! If you want this picture so badly — you have the money your great-aunt left you — buy it!”
“I’ll not part with it,” said Corry.
Adeline turned to him with a charming smile.
“You still love me, Corry dear, don’t you?”
They exchanged a look. Corrigan flushed red. Adeline gazed at him with affectionate pity.
“You may keep the picture, Corry dear,” she said. “I love to think of it here — reminding you and Biddy of me.”
“I am not likely to forget you,” said Bridget grimly. “Wherever you are, you make trouble.”
“Tut, tut, girls,” put in Lord Killiekeggan. “Don’t quarrel. Don’t spoil your pretty faces with frowns.”
Bridget knew she was not pretty but his words pleased her. She arched her neck and looked challengingly at Adeline. “Well,” she said, “shall we go into the drawing-room?”
Adeline caught her grandfather by the arm.
“Don’t leave me alone with Bridget!” she implored. “I’m afraid of her.”
“Behave yourself,” he said, and gave her hand a little slap, but he allowed himself to be led into the drawing-room.
Corry was not loath to save his old port, of which quite enough had been already drunk. He was a little downcast at the prospect of the quarrel which he knew he would have later with his wife.
Philip was in a state of bland serenity. He seated himself in a comfortable chair and accepted a pinch of snuff from the jewelled box which the old Marquis proffered him. Adeline spread out the glimmering flounces of her crinoline and eyed her grandfather beguilingly.
“What a sweet box!” she said.
Well, she was his loveliest granddaughter and she was going far away. He put the snuffbox in her hand.
“Take it,” he said, “and when an Indian chief offers you the pipe of peace you can give him a pinch of snuff in exchange.”
No one could have been more charming and self-forgetful than Adeline during the rest of the visit. But there was tension between her and Bridget. They were quite ready to part when the last morning came. The wagonette waited at the door for Adeline’s trunks, for she went nowhere without a quantity of luggage. She stood in the hall, tall and slender, in a dark green riding habit, her hair plaited neatly beneath the small hat from which a dark feather drooped against the creamy whiteness of her cheek. Her red lips were parted in a blandishing smile.
“Ah, the beautiful visit I’ve had!” she cried, embracing Bridget. “Ah, thank you, dear cousin, for all you’ve done! When Philip and I are settled in our new home you and Corry must come and spend a year with us, for indeed ’t would take a year to repay you for all you’ve done for us!”
Bridget was shorter than Adeline. Her eyes could barely look over the top of Adeline’s shoulder as they embraced. Her eyes, protruding a little because of the fervent embrace she was receiving, stared at the paneling on which a vacant space by degrees claimed her attention. Her eyes widened still more as her brain took in the fact that the childish portrait of Adeline was missing from the wall. It seemed too bad to be true! With a cry that was almost a scream, Bridget struggled in that strong embrace. Adeline held her close. In fact, feeling the tempest that was surging through Bridget, Adeline held her closer.
“Let me go,” screamed Bridget in a fury. “Let me go!”
The men stared at the two in consternation. With Bridget’s great crinoline vibrating about them, their bosoms pressed together, their arms clutching each other, they were a troubling sight.
“What in God’s name is the matter?” demanded Renny Court.
“He has given her the picture!” cried Bridget.
“What picture?”
“The portrait of Adeline! Corry has given it to her. It’s gone!”
Everyone now looked at the wall. Corrigan turned pale. “I have done no such thing,” he declared. “If it’s gone, she took it.”
Adeline was driven to release Bridget, who now faced her in fierce accusation.
“You have taken it,” she said. “It is in one of your boxes. Peter!” she called out to a manservant. “Unload the boxes from the wagonette.”
“Let them be,” said Adeline. She turned calmly on her cousins. “I did not take the picture,” she said, “but I only took what was my own, so let’s have no more fuss about it.”
Peter stood, holding a trunk in his arms, not knowing whether to put it down or put it up. His sandy side-whiskers bristled in excitement.
“Now, look here,” said Philip, “I’m willing to buy the picture if Adeline wants it so badly.”
“And I’m willing to sell,” said Corrigan.
“But I am not!” cried the wife. “I demand to have those boxes unpacked and the picture back on the wall!” She ran down the steps and took one end of the trunk which Peter was still holding, and tugged at the strap that bound it.
Adeline flew after her. They struggled over the trunk. Adeline was the stronger but Bridget was in an abandon of rage. She stretched out her hand and, taking hold of one of Adeline’s smooth plaits, pulled it loose.
“Now, now, don’t do that!” exclaimed Philip, in his turn running down the steps. “I won’t have it.” Never in his life had he been involved in such a scene as this. He caught Bridget’s wrist and held it a while, with the other hand, he tried to make Adeline let go of the trunk.
Renny Court looked on, laughing.
“Kindly restrain your wife,” said Philip to Corrigan.
“Don’t you lay a finger on me, Corry Court!” cried Bridget. He moved warily between her and Adeline.
Philip spoke sternly to Adeline. “We’ll have no more of this. Tell me which box the picture is in.”
With a trembling finger she pointed to the box which Peter held.
“Put it down,” said Philip to the man. He did so. Philip opened it and there on the top lay the picture! He took it out and handed it to Corrigan. The child face looked out of the frame in innocent surprise. Corrigan looked from it to Adeline and back again. His expression was one of profound gloom.
Renny Court directed a piercing glance into the trunk.
“Did you ever see such extravagance!” he exclaimed. “Is it any wonder she left me bankrupt? Look at the gold toilet articles — the sable cloak! And there is my father-in-law’s snuffbox! By the Lord Harry, she’s got that too!”
“He gave it her,” said Philip tersely. With a set face he put down the lid of the trunk and buckled the strap. He turned to Adeline who stood like a statue looking on, one hand grasping her riding crop.