“Father, I say he had the face of a frog!”
Philip put in — “Adeline and I are bound for the New World, sir, and no argument will talk us out of it. As you know, my uncle left me a very nice property in Quebec. I must go out there and look after it and, if what he said was true, there is a very respectable society in the town. And, in the country about, the finest shooting and fishing you can imagine.”
“You will be back within the year,” declared Renny Court.
“We shall see,” answered Philip stubbornly. His blue eyes became more prominent as he flashed a somewhat truculent look at his father-in-law.
The two boys, Conway and Sholto, were fired by a desire to accompany the Whiteoaks to Canada. The thought of a wild life in a new country, far from parental authority, elated them. They could talk of little else. They would cling to Adeline on her either side and beg her to let them throw in their lot with hers. On her part she liked the idea. Canada would not seem so remote if she had two of her brothers with her. Their mother surprisingly did not oppose the idea. She had borne so much dissension because of these two that the thought of parting with them did not distress her greatly. They promised to return home within the year. Renny Court was willing enough to be rid of the nuisance of them. Philip did not relish the idea of such a responsibility but to please Adeline he agreed. He felt himself capable of controlling Conway and Sholto much more efficiently than their parents could. He thought, with a certain grim pleasure, of the discipline that would make men of them.
Even little Timothy talked of immigrating to the New World but this could not be considered. Timothy spoke with a strong Irish accent, from being so much with his old nurse who had brought him up from delicate babyhood. He had a beautiful yet strange face and was demonstratively affectionate to an extent that embarrassed Philip. A stern word from his father would apparently terrify him, yet the very next moment he would be laughing. His hair was sandy — he was freckled and had beautiful hands which Philip discovered were decidedly light-fingered. He missed his gold studs, he missed his best silk cravats, his pistols inlaid with mother-of-pearl, his gold penknife. Each of these articles was in turn retrieved from Timothy’s bedroom by Adeline. She made light of it. She declared that Tim could not help it but it made Philip angry and uncomfortable.
In truth the longer he stayed with Adeline’s family the less congenial they were to him, with the one exception of Lady
Honoria. He felt that Renny Court, for all his devotion to his land and his tenantry, mismanaged them both. Far too much money and time were spent on steeplechasing. As for politics, they hardly dared broach the subject, so violently were their views opposed. But Renny Court would encourage Mr. O’Regan to hold forth on the theme of British injustice to Ireland. Philip was unable to defend his country because the old gentleman was too arrogant and also too deaf to listen to any views but his own. He would sit close to the blazing fire, his florid face rising above his high black stock like an angry sun above a thundercloud, while words poured forth in a torrent.
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.