Part 12 (1/2)

In the late afternoon Sir Graham showed him an admirable study of the Skipper, standing with upraised arms as if ringing the church bells, his blue eyes fixed as if he scanned a distant horizon, or searched the endless plains of the sea for his lost companions.

”Forgive my abruptness this morning,” the painter said. ”I was afraid your presence would scare the Skipper.”

Uniacke murmured a word in admiration of the painting.

”And to-morrow,” he added.

”To-morrow I shall start on the picture,” Sir Graham replied.

After supper he drew aside the blind and looked forth.

”The moon is rising,” he said. ”I shall go out for a little while. I want to observe light effects, and to think over what I am going to do.

My mind is full of it, Uniacke; I think it should be a great picture.”

His eyes were s.h.i.+ning with excitement. He went out. He was away a long time. The clock in the rectory parlour struck eleven, half-past eleven, he did not return. Beginning to feel anxious, Uniacke went to the window and looked out. The night was quiet and clear, bathed in the radiance of the moon, which defined objects sharply. The dark figure of the painter was approaching the house from the church. Uniacke, who did not wish to be thought curious, drew hastily back from the window and dropped the blind. In a moment Sir Graham entered. He was extremely pale and looked scared. He shut the door very hastily, almost as if he wished to prevent some one from entering after him. Then he came up to the fire without a word.

”You are late,” Uniacke said, unpleasantly affected, but trying to speak indifferently.

”Late, am I? Why--what time is it?”

”Nearly midnight.”

”Indeed. I forgot the hour. I was engrossed. I--” He looked up hastily and looked down again. ”A most strange, most unaccountable, thing has happened.”

”What?” said Uniacke. ”Surely the Skipper hasn't--”

”No, no. It's nothing to do with him. I haven't seen him. No, no--but the most unaccountable--how long have I been out there?”

”You went out at nine. It's a quarter to twelve now.”

”Two hours and three-quarters! I should have said ten minutes. But then--how long was I with it?”

”With it?” repeated Uniacke, turning cold.

”Yes, yes--how long? It seemed no time--and yet an eternity, too.”

He got up and went to and fro uneasily about the room.

”Horrible!” he muttered, as if to himself. ”Horrible!”

He stopped suddenly in front of Uniacke.

”Do you believe,” he said, ”that when we think very steadily and intensely of a thing we may, perhaps, project--give life, as it were, for the moment to our thought?”

”Why do you ask me?” said Uniacke. ”It has never happened to me to do such a thing.”

”Why do I ask? Well, I'll--”

He hesitated, keeping his eyes fixed on Uniacke's face.

”Yes, I'll tell you what took place. I went out thinking of my picture, of its composition, of the light effect, of the faces of the drowned men, especially of the face of little Jack. I seemed to see him coming into that belfry tower--yes, to greet the Skipper, all dripping from the sea. But--but--no, Uniacke, I'll swear that, in my mind, I saw his face as it used to be. That was natural, wasn't it? I imagined it white, with wide, staring eyes, the skin wet and roughened with the salt water. But that was all. So it couldn't have been my thought projected, because I had never imagined.--”