Part 33 (1/2)

Mrs Fitz Herbert glanced at the portrait once or twice as she held the letter, and began her remarks upon the writer; but I had no reason to suppose that the glance was other than casual and accidental.

She gave, however, a very remarkably accurate description (as it turned out) of Mrs Lyon's unknown friend, both as to his character and the special and rather unique conditions of his life.

I was feeling naturally gratified that my ”pupil” should have acquitted herself so well, when she suddenly uttered a little expression of pain and complained of severe headache.

I knew that she suffered from these headaches at times, and was therefore not surprised by her asking leave to ring for the pony carriage at once, and we were soon on our way home.

Mrs Fitz Herbert was driving the pony, and as we turned out of the long elm avenue she murmured in a tone of relief:

”How thankful I am to have got away from that old man! I knew he was telling me what to say about that letter, but afterwards he wanted to give me some message himself, and I could not understand it, and that is what made my head so bad.” Then she explained, seeing my bewilderment, that she was referring to the old gentleman whose portrait hung over the door I have mentioned.

I suggested that we had better try to find out what the old man wanted to say, and we arranged to do so that evening after dinner; but as Mr Fitz Herbert (who had a very charming tenor voice) elected to come in and sing to us, the old gentleman's communication had to be postponed until the morning.

Mrs Fitz Herbert and I sat down in the drawing-room the next day, armed with pencils and paper, so soon as her domestic duties were over. She was most anxious that _I_ should take the message, but this seemed to me absurd, considering that I had received no sort of impression about the picture and could not even recall the face. So she took up the pencil very unwillingly, and after some difficulty the name of _Richard Lyon_ was given, with the information that he had owned Greba, and had pa.s.sed over to the next sphere about one hundred and thirty years previously.

But when it came to trying to find out what he wanted to say, she professed herself quite unable to grasp it, and pa.s.sed the pencil determinedly over to me.

Much to my surprise (for I had seemed to have no link with the old man at all), he was able to write through my hand with great ease.

He explained to me that he had been much devoted to the property, had lived only to improve it in every possible way, and that through his concentration of interest on this one subject his life had been a very limited one, and that now he could not get away from the remembrance of his earth life and his beloved Greba.

”I suppose he is trying to explain that he is earth-bound,” suggested Mrs Fitz Herbert.

”Yes; that is just the truth,” was the eager response through my hand, ”and it is so sad to think that my own descendants are the ones to keep me imprisoned in this way. I am told that I could progress, as they call it here, and be much happier if I could only forget Greba, even for a time. And it worries me to see things done so differently and not to be able to do anything myself for the old place. There is no happiness for me here. Do ask them to set me free,” he continued rather pathetically.

”But they don't _want_ to hold you down,” I answered. ”Tell me how they do it and what you wish them to do.”

The old man then explained the position very carefully and sensibly. He admitted that his own deep love for his old property and surroundings and his failure in life to develop any other very deep affection, was chiefly in fault, but he added, that his portrait being hung there, in the hall of his descendants, was also very unfortunate for him.

”It drags me down--I don't know why--but I am sure I could get away more easily if they would not keep that picture in the old hall.”

A few more practical questions elicited the following instructions:--He said the picture might remain in the _county_, so long as it was not in any house owned by a _Lyon_ (there were several members of the family in Warwicks.h.i.+re); or it might be sent to London or elsewhere, and kept by members of the Lyon family, so long as they were not in the direct descent, and _did not live in his old county_.

We drove over to Greba that afternoon, and took the ”message” with us, knowing there was no fear of encountering the gibes of my fox-hunting friend at three P.M. on any week day in the hunting season.

Mrs Lyon was extremely interested; she not only endorsed the _Richard Lyon_ and his dates, but told us that he had done an immense deal for the property, as her husband had often impressed upon her, and that at his death, about one hundred and thirty years before, he had lain in state for three days in the very hall where we had taken our tea, and where his picture now hung. This was great encouragement, so we put our heads together, wondering _how_ the poor old man's entreaty might be complied with.

Mrs Lyon remembered that several of the old portraits were shortly to be sent to a picture dealer in the neighbouring town (some ten miles away) to be cleaned, but this special picture was not in need of restoration, unfortunately.

”Still, I could put it with the others, and let it go to Warwick, and then tell the man not to do anything with it--but what would Edward say?

Can you _imagine_ his allowing the picture to be taken down upon this evidence?”

From an acquaintance with ”Edward” extending over large tracts of years, I was forced to admit that even my robust imagination could not reach so far. ”_Skittles!_” or ”_Confounded cheek!_” would be his mildest reply to such a request, even from the friend of his youth! I did not care to think how much further his indignation might carry him!

But I felt so strongly that something outside myself had inspired the message, with its accurate instructions, that at last I prevailed upon Mrs Lyon to promise she would mention the matter to her husband, and thus leave the responsibility of refusal with _him_.

She did so, and the refusal was all my fancy had painted--and more!

Several months pa.s.sed, and the following spring I was once more in the neighbourhood, staying with my own relations this time, who were related also to the Squire and his wife.