Marie Belloc Lowndes - THE HEART OF PENELOPE (Murder Mystery)

'Her grandmother?' Downing interrupted almost roughly. 'Why, you showed me that print years ago, when I was a boy. I have never forgotten it.' Then, in a more natural tone, he added: 'I suppose it's really unique?'

'As far as I know, absolutely unique, but such odious surprises are nowadays sprung upon collectors! I believe this copy is the only one which has survived the many determined efforts to destroy the whole edition, which was never at any time a large one. I fancy such things were produced speculatively, you understand, doubtless with a view to the pack. These good people'—Mr. Gumberg pointed with his long, lean finger to the human-faced dogs—'were naturally quite ready to buy up all the available copies, and then, later, John Oglethorpe, after he had become the fair huntswoman's husband, also most naturally made it his business to get hold of the few which had found their way into collections. I've been told also that Lord Wantley during many years made a point of keeping his eye on one copy, which finally disappeared, no one knows how, just on the eve of its being safely stored in the British Museum! I got mine in Paris quite thirty years ago by an extraordinary bit of good fortune. And so I showed it you, did I? I wonder why. I so seldom show it, unless, of course, there's some special reason why I should do so.'

Mr. Gumberg stopped and thought for a few minutes. 'Let me see,' he added thoughtfully, 'the last person who saw it was old Mrs. Byng. It was the day of Penelope's marriage. It's a good way from Hanover Square, and the old lady never takes a cab—too stingy. I knew how a sight of this picture would revive her, poor old soul! One of my very few remaining contemporaries, George.' Mr. Gumberg sighed a little heavily; then, with a certain regret, 'So you know all about that strange creature, Rosina Bellamont?'

Again he took up the print between his lean fingers. He hated being done out of telling a story, and Downing, well aware of this peculiarity, smiled and said kindly enough: 'When you showed me this thing before, you told me more of the pack than of the lady. In fact, if I remember rightly, it was just after the death——'

Mr. Gumberg again interrupted with returning good-humour: 'Of course I remember: it was just after the death of poor Jack Storks. You came in as I was reading his obituary in the Times , and I showed you the print to prove that he had not always been the grave and reverend signior they made him out to have been!'

'And Lady Wantley's mother, what of her?' Downing feared once more that his venerable friend would start off on a reminiscent excursion of more general than particular interest.

'She was a very remarkable woman,' answered Mr. Gumberg, 'and I will tell you how and where I first made her acquaintance and that of her daughter.'

'When I was a lad of fifteen,' began the old man, with a marked change of tone and even of manner, 'my uncle, who was, as you are aware, a Russia merchant, the kindest and wisest man I have ever known, and the most delightful of companions, took me a walking tour through the Yorkshire dales. Now, those were the days when all inns were bad and all houses hospitable. We walked miles without meeting a living creature, being the more solitary that my uncle preferred the bridle-paths to the highroads, but he generally contrived that we should find a kind welcome and comfortable quarters at the end of each day.

'One afternoon, when climbing a stiff hillside not far from the place whence five dales can be seen stretching fanstickwise, we came on two figures standing against the skyline, a lady and a young girl, hand in hand, curiously dressed—for those were the days of the crinoline—in long, straight grey gowns and circular cloaks. Their faces, the one pale, the other fresh and rosy, were framed by unbecoming close bonnets, each lined with a frill of stiff white stuff. Even I, foolish boy that I was, and while considering the strange pair most inelegantly dressed, saw that they were in a sense distinguished, utterly unlike the often oddly-gowned country wives and maids we met now and again trudging past us.

'To my surprise, my uncle, when he had become aware of their presence, quickened his steps, and when we had reached the lonely stretch of grass on which they were standing—that is, when we were close to the singular couple, mother and daughter or grandmother and granddaughter; I could not help wondering what relationship existed between them—he bowed, saying: "Have I the honour of greeting Mrs. Oglethorpe?" The elder lady's cheek turned as rosy, but only for a moment, as that of the girl by her side, and as she answered, "Yes," the colour receding seemed to leave her cheek even paler than before. "That is my name," she said; and then looking, or so it seemed to me, very pleadingly at my uncle, she added quickly: "This is my young daughter. Adelaide, curtsey to the gentleman." "Your father and I, young lady," said my uncle, again bowing, "have had business dealings together for many years, and I am honoured to meet his daughter."

'Well, George, we followed them, retracing our steps down the dale, and there, hidden in a park surrounded by high walls, we came at last on a fine old house of grey stone. Our approach brought no sign of life or animation. The formal gardens lacked the grace and brilliancy afforded by flowers, and yet were in no sense neglected. Mrs. Oglethorpe turned the handle of the front-door, and we passed into a large hall, where we were greeted with great civility by an elderly man, whom I supposed, rightly, to be our host, though, to be sure, his dress differed in no way from that of those who passed silently backwards and forwards through the hall, and who were apparently his servants.

'Dear me, how strange everything seemed to my young eyes! In particular, I was amazed to notice that a row of what were apparently family portraits were all closely shrouded with some kind of white linen, while below them, painted on the oak panelling, was the following sentence'—Mr. Gumberg turned the print he still held in his hand, and peered closely at the writing with which the back of it was covered—'" Forsake all, and thou shall possess all. Relinquish desire, and thou shalt find rest. " The hall was overlooked by what had evidently been a music-gallery, and, glancing up there, I saw that the carved oak railing had been partly covered in with deal boards, on which was written in very large letters another strange saying: " Esteem and possess naught, and thou shalt enjoy all things. " I tried, I trust successfully, to imitate my uncle, the most courteous of men, in showing nothing of the astonishment that these things caused me, the more so that Mr. Oglethorpe treated us with the greatest consideration, himself fetching bread, cheese, and beer for our entertainment.

'After we had refreshed ourselves, a pretty young woman, dressed in what appeared to be a modified copy of the curious straight garments worn by our hostess and her daughter, led us to a bedchamber, the walls of which were hung, as I now judge, looking back, with some fine French tapestry. Across the surface of this ran the words, each letter cut out of white linen stitched on to the tapestry: " Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay His head. "'

Mr. Gumberg paused a moment, and then continued his story: 'The dining-room, to which we were bidden by the ringing of a bell, must have been once, from its appearance, the scene of many great banquets; but I noted that it only contained two long tables, composed of unpainted boards set on rough trestles, while the walls, hung with maroon Utrecht velvet, presented to my eyes an extraordinary appearance, each picture—and there were many—being hidden from sight, as were those in the hall, while on a long strip of white cloth, which ran right round the room above the wainscotting, was written: " Self-denial is the basis of spiritual perfection. He that truly denies himself is arrived at a state of great freedom and safety. "