Part 84 (2/2)
”I don't believe it!” she said. ”I don't believe it!”
”Like the man when he saw a giraffe for the first time? But he was wrong, my girl, for nature does turn out giraffes.”
”No, d.i.c.k! It's too bad!”
Her cheeks were flaming with red.
”Too bad! Don't you think it's well painted?”
”Well painted? Of course it's well--it's magnificently painted!”
He chuckled contentedly behind her.
”Then what's the matter? What's the trouble?”
”You know what's the matter. You know quite well.”
She turned sharply round on the sofa and faced him with angry eyes.
”There was a great actor once whose portrait was painted by a great artist, an artist as great as you are. It was exhibited and then handed over to the actor. From that moment it disappeared. No one ever saw it.
The actor never mentioned it. And yet it was a masterpiece. When the actor died a search was made for the portrait, and it was found hidden in an attic of his house. It had been slashed almost to pieces with a knife. Till to-day I could not understand such a deed as that--the killing of a masterpiece. But now I can understand it.”
”He shall have it and put a knife through it if he likes. But”--he snapped out the word with sudden fierce emphasis--”_but_ I'll exhibit it first.”
”He'll never let you!” Miss Van Tuyn almost cried out.
”Won't he? That was the bargain!”
”He didn't promise. I remember quite well all that was said. He didn't promise.”
”It was understood. I told him I should exhibit the picture and that afterwards I'd hand it over to him.”
”When is he going to see it?”
”Why do you ask? Do you want to be here when he does?”
She did not answer. She was staring at the portrait, and now the hot colour had faded from her face.
”If you do you can be here. I don't mind.”
”I don't believe it,” she repeated slowly.
All that she had sometimes fancied, almost dimly, and feared about Arabian was expressed in Garstin's portrait of him. The man was magnificent on the canvas, but he was horrible. Evil seemed to be subtly expressed all over him. That was what she felt. It looked out of his large brown eyes. But that was not all. Somehow, in some curious and terrible way, Garstin had saturated his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, even his bare neck and shoulders with the hideous thing. Danger was everywhere, the warning that the living man surely did not give, or only gave now and then for a fleeting instant.
In Garstin's picture Arabian was unmistakably a being of the underworld, a being of the darkness, of secret places and hidden deeds, a being of unspeakable craft, of hideous knowledge, of ferocious cynicism. And yet he was marvellously handsome and full of force, even of power. It could not be said that great intellect was stamped on his face, but a fiercely vital mentality was there, a mentality that could frighten and subdue, that could command and be sure of obedience. In the eyes of a tiger there is a terrific mentality. Miss Van Tuyn thought of that as she gazed at the portrait.
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