by Mike Ashley
Just then Durham touched me on the shoulder.
“What do you think of it?” He asked, pointing to the picture.
“I congratulate you most heartily,” I responded.
“I owe any success which I may have achieved to this lady,” he continued. “She has done me the honour to sit as Ellen Douglas. Mr. Head, may I introduce Lady Faulkner?”
I bowed an acknowledgment, to which Lady Faulkner gravely responded. She stepped a little aside, and seemed to invite me to follow her.
“I am also glad you like the picture,” she said eagerly. “For years I have longed to have that special subject painted. I asked Mr. Durham to do it for me on condition that I should be the model for Ellen Douglas. The picture is meant as a present for my husband.”
“Has he seen it yet?” I asked.
“No, he is in India; it is to greet him as a surprise on his return. It has always been one of his longings to have a really great picture painted on that magnificent subject, and it was also one of his fancies that I should take the part of Ellen Douglas. Thanks to Mr. Durham’s genius, I have succeeded, and am much pleased.”
A new arrival came up to speak to her. I turned aside, but her face continued to attract me, and I glanced at her from time to time. Suddenly, I noticed that she held up her hand as if to arrest attention, and then flew to the door of the studio. Outside was distinctly audible the patter of small feet, and also the sound of a woman’s voice raised in expostulation. This was followed by the satisfied half coo, half cry, of a young child, and the next instant Lady Faulkner reappeared, carrying Durham’s baby boy in her arms.
He was a splendid little fellow, and handsome enough in himself to evoke unlimited admiration. A mass of thick, golden curls shadowed his brow; his eyes were large, and of a deep and heavenly blue. He had the round limbs and perfect proportions of a happy, healthy baby. The child had clasped his arms round Lady Faulkner’s neck. Seeing a great many visitors in the room, he started in some slight trepidation, but, turning again to Lady Faulkner, smiled in her face.
“Ah! There you are, Robin,” said Durham, glancing at the child with a lighting-up of his own somewhat sombre face. “But, Lady Faulkner, please don’t let the little chap worry you — you are too good to him. The fact is, you spoil him dreadfully.”
“That is a libel, for no one could spoil you, could they, Robin?” Said Lady Faulkner, kissing the boy on his brow. She seated herself on the window-sill. I went up and took a place beside her. She was so altogether absorbed by the boy that she did not at first see me. She bent over him and allowed him to clasp and unclasp a heavy gold chain of antique pattern which she wore round her neck. From time to time she kissed him. Suddenly glancing up, her eyes met mine.
“Is he not a splendid little fellow?” She said. “I don’t know how I could have lived through the last few months but for this little one. I have been kept in London on necessary business, and consequently away from my own child; but little Robin has comforted me. We are great friends, are we not, Robin?”
“The child certainly seems to take to you,” I said.
“Take to me!” She cried. “He adores me; don’t you, baby?”
The boy looked up as she addressed him, opened his lips, as if to utter some baby word, then, with a coy, sweet smile, hid his face against her breast.
“You have a child of your own?” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Head, a boy. Now, I am going to confide in you. My boy is the image of this little one. He is the same age as Robin, and Robin and he are so alike in every feature that the resemblance is both uncommon and extraordinary. But, stay, you shall see for yourself.”
She produced a locket, touched a spring, and showed me a painted photograph of a young child. It might have been taken from little Robin Durham. The likeness was certainly beyond dispute.
Dufrayer came near, and I pointed it out to him.
“Is it not remarkable?” I said. “This locket contains a picture of Lady Faulkner’s own little boy. You would not know it from little Robin Durham, would you?”
Dufrayer glanced from the picture to the child, then to the face of Lady Faulkner. To my surprise she coloured under his gaze, which was so fixed and staring as to seem almost rude.
Remarking that the picture might assuredly be taken from Durham’s boy, he gravely handed back the locket to Lady Faulkner, and immediately afterwards, without waiting for me, took his leave.
Lady Faulkner looked after his retreating form and I noticed that a new expression came into her eyes — a defiant, hard, even desperate, look. It came and quickly went. She clasped her arms more tightly round the boy, kissing him again. I took my own leave soon afterwards, but during the days which immediately followed I often thought with some perplexity of Lady Faulkner, and also of Durham’s boy.
I had received a card for the private view of the Academy, and remembering Durham’s picture, determined to go there on the afternoon of the great day. I strolled through the rooms, which were crowded, so much so indeed that it was almost impossible to get a good view of the pictures; but by-and-by I caught a sight of Durham’s masterpiece. It occupied a place of honour on the line. Beyond doubt, therefore, his success was assured. I had taken a fancy to him, and was glad of this, and now pushed my way into the midst of a knot of admirers, who, arrested by the striking scene which the picture portrayed, and the rare grace and beauty of the central figure, were making audible and flattering remarks. Presently, just behind me, two voices, which I could not fail to recognize, fell on my ears. I started, and then remained motionless. The voices belonged to Lady Faulkner and to Mme. Koluchy. They were together, and were talking eagerly. They could not have seen me, for I heard Lady Faulkner’s voice, high and eager. The following words fell on my ears:
“I shall do it tomorrow or next day. My husband returns sooner than I thought, and there is no time to lose. You have arranged about the nurse, have you not?”
“Yes; you can confidently leave the matter in my hands,” was Madame’s reply.
“And I am safe? There is not the slightest danger of — ”
They were pushed on by the increasing crowd, and I could not catch the end of the last sentence, but I had heard enough. The pictures no longer attracted me. I made my way hurriedly from the room. As I descended the stairs my heart beat fast. What had Lady Faulkner to do with Mme. Koluchy? Were the words which unwittingly had fallen on my ears full of sinister meaning? Madame seldom attached herself to any one without a strong reason. Beyond doubt, the beautiful young Scotch woman was an acquaintance of more than ordinary standing. She was in trouble, and Madame was helping her. Once more I was certain that in a new and startling manner Madame was about to make a fresh move in her extraordinary game.
I went straight off to Dufrayer’s office, found him in, and told him what had occurred.
“Beyond doubt, Lady Faulkner’s manner was that of a woman in trouble,” I continued. “From her tone she knows Madame well. There was that in her voice which might dare anything, however desperate. What do you think of it, Dufrayer? Is Durham, by any possible chance in danger?”
“That is more than I can tell you,” replied Dufrayer. “Mme. Koluchy’s machinations are beyond my powers to cope with. But as you ask me, I should say that it is quite possible that there is some new witchery brewing in her cauldron. By the way, Head, I saw that you were attracted by Lady Faulkner when you met her at Durham’s studio.”
“Were not you?” I asked.
“To a certain extent, yes, but I was also repelled. I did not like her expression as she sat with the child in her arms.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can scarcely explain myself, but my belief is, that she has been subjected by Madame to a queer temptation. What, of course, it is impossible to guess. When you noticed the likeness between Durham’s child and her own, I saw a look in her eyes which told me that she was capable of almost any crime to achieve her object.”
“I hope you are mistaken,
” I answered, rising as I spoke. “At least, Durham has made a great success with that picture, and he largely owes it to Lady Faulkner. I must call round to see him, in order to congratulate him.
I did so a few days later. I found the artist busy in his studio working at a portrait of a City magnate.
“Here you are, Head. I am delighted to welcome you,” he said, when I arrived. “Pray, take that chair. You will forgive me if I go on working? My big picture having sold so well, I am overpowered with orders. It has taken on; you have seen the reviews, have you not?”
“I have, and I also witnessed the crowds who collected round it on the opening day,” I replied. “It is a magnificent work of art, Durham. You will be one of our foremost historical painters from this day out.”
He smiled, and, brush in hand, continued to paint in rapidly the background of his picture.
“By the way,” I said abruptly, “I am much interested in that beautiful Scotch model who sat for your Ellen Douglas. I have seldom seen a more lovely face.”
Durham glanced up at me, and then resumed his work.
“It is a curious story altogether,” he said. “Lady Faulkner came to see me in the November of last year. She said that she had met my little boy in Regent’s Park, was struck by the likeness between her child and mine; on account of this asked the name of the child, discovered that I was his father (it seems that my fame as a portrait painter had already reached her ears), and she ventured to visit me to know if I would care to undertake an historical picture. I had done nothing so ambitious before, and I hesitated. She pressed the matter, volunteered to sit for the central figure, and offered me £2,000 for the picture when completed.
“I am not too well off, and could not afford to refuse such a sum. I begged of her to employ other and better-known men, but she would not hear of it — she wanted my work, and mine alone. She was convinced that the picture would be a great success. In the end her enthusiasm prevailed. I consented to paint the picture, and set to work at once. For such a large canvas the time was short, and Lady Faulkner came to sit to me three or four times a week. She made one proviso — the child was to be allowed to come freely in and out of the room. She attracted little Robin from the first, and was more than good to him. The boy became fond of her, and she never looked better, nor more at her ease, than when she held him in her arms. She has certainly done me a good service, and for her sake alone I cannot be too pleased that the picture is appreciated.
“Is Lady Faulkner still in town?” I asked.
“No, she left for Scotland only this morning. Her husband’s place, Bram Castle, in Inverness, is a splendid old historical estate dating from the Middle Ages.”
“How is your boy?” I asked. “You keep him in town, I see; but you have good air in this part of London.”
“Yes, capital; he spends most of his time in Regent’s Park. The little chap is quite well, thank you. By the way, he ought to be in now. He generally joins me at tea. Would it worry you if he came in as usual, Head?”
“Not at all: on the contrary, I should like to see him,” I said.
Durham rang the bell. A servant entered.
“You can get tea, Collier,” said his master. “By the way, is baby home yet?”
“No, sir,” was the reply. “I cannot understand it,” added the man; “Jane is generally back long before now.”
Durham made no answer. He returned to his interrupted work. The servant withdrew. Tea was brought in, but there was no sign of the child. Durham handed me a cup, then stood abstracted for a moment, looking straight before him. Suddenly he went to the bell and rang it.
“Tell nurse to bring Master Robin in,” he said.
“But nurse and baby have not returned home yet, sir.”
Durham glanced at the clock.
“It is just six,” he exclaimed. “Can anything be wrong? I had better go out and look for them.”
“Let me go with you,” I said. “If you are going into Regent’s Park, it is on my way home.”
“Nurse generally takes the child to the Broad Walk,” said Durham; “we will go in that direction.”
We entered the park. No sign of nurse or child could we see, though we made several inquiries of the park-keepers, who could tell us nothing.
“I have no right to worry you with all this,” said Durham suddenly.
I glanced at him. He had expressed no alarm in words, but I saw now that he was troubled and anxious, and his face wore a stern expression. A nameless suspicion suddenly visited my heart. Try as I would, I could not shake it off.
“We had better go back,” I said; “in all probability you will find the little fellow safe at home.”
I used cheerful words which I did not feel. Durham looked at me again.
“The child is not to me as an ordinary child,” he said, dropping his voice. “You know the tragedy through which I have lived?”
“Dufrayer has told me,” I replied.
“My whole life is wrapped up in the little fellow,” he continued. “Well, I hope we shall find him all right on our return. Are you really coming back with me?”
“Certainly, if you will have me. I shall not rest easy myself until I know that the boy is safe.”
We turned in the direction of Durham’s house. We ran up the steps.
“Have you seen them, sir?” Asked the butler, as he opened the door.
“No. Are they not back yet?” Asked Durham.
“No, sir; we have heard nor seen nothing of either of them.”
“This is quite unprecedented,” said the artist. “Jane knows well that I never allow the boy to be out after five o’clock. It is nearly seven now. You are quite certain,” he added, turning to the man, “that no message has come to account for tile child’s delay?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“What do you think of it, Head?” He looked at me inquiringly.
“It is impossible to tell you,” I replied; “a thousand things may keep the nurse out. Let us wait for another hour. If the child has not returned by then, we ought certainly to take some action.”
I avoided looking at Durham as I spoke, for Lady Faulkner’s words to Mme. Koluchy returned unpleasantly to my memory:
“I shall do it tomorrow or next day — you have arranged about the nurse?”
We went into the studio, and Durham offered me a cigarette. As he did so I suddenly heard a commotion in a distant part of the house; there was the sound of hurrying feet and the noise of more than one voice raised in agitation and alarm. Durham’s face turned ghastly.
“There has been an accident,” he said. “I felt that there was something wrong. God help me!”
He rushed to the door. I followed him. Just as he reached it, it was flung open, and the nurse, a comely-looking woman, of between thirty and forty years of age, ran in and flung herself at Durham’s feet.
“You’ll never forgive me, sir,” she gasped. “I feel fit to kill myself.”
“Get up, Jane, at once, and tell me what has happened. Speak! Is anything wrong with the child?”
“Oh, sir, he is gone — he is lost! I don’t know where he is. Oh, I know you’ll never forgive me. I could scarcely bring myself to come home to tell you.”
“That was folly. Speak now. Tell the whole story at once.”
Durham’s manner had changed. Now that the blow had really fallen, he was himself once again — a man of keen action, resolute, resolved.
The woman stared at him, then she staggered to her feet, a good deal of her own self-control restored by his manner.
“It was this way, sir,” she began. “Baby and I went out as usual early this afternoon. You know how fond baby has always been of Lady Faulkner?”
“Lady Faulkner has nothing to do with this matter,” interrupted Durham. “Proceed with your story.”
“Her ladyship is in Scotland; at least, it is supposed so, sir,” continued the woman. “She came here late last night, and bade us all good-bye. I was undressing baby w
hen she entered the nursery. She took him in her arms and kissed him many times. Baby loves her very much. He always called her ‘Pitty lady.’ He began to cry when she left the room.”
“Go on! Go on!” Said Durham.
“Well, sir, baby and I went into the park. You know how active the child is, as merry as a lark, and always anxious to be down on his legs. It was a beautiful day, and I sat on one of the seats and baby ran about. He was very fond of playing hide-and-seek round the shrubs, and I used to humour him. He asked for his usual game. Suddenly I heard him cry out, ‘Pitty lady! Pitty lady,’ and run as fast as ever he could round to the other side of a big clump of rhododendrons. He was within a few feet of me, and I was just about to follow him — for half the game, sir, was for me to peep round the opposite side of the trees and try to catch him — when a gentleman whose acquaintance I had made during the last two days came up and began to speak to me. He was a Mr. Ivanhoe, and a very gentlemanly person, sir. We talked for a minute or two, and I’ll own I forgot baby. The moment I remembered him I ran round the rhododendrons to look for him, but from that hour to now, sir, I have seen nothing of the child. I don’t know where he is — I don’t know what has happened to him. Some one must have stolen him, but who, the Lord only knows. He must have fancied that he saw a likeness to Lady Faulkner in somebody else in the park, for he did cry out, ‘Pitty lady,’ just as if his whole heart was going out to some one, and away he trotted as fast as his feet could carry him. That is the whole story, sir. I’d have come back sooner, but I have been searching the place, like one distracted.”
