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knew what had happened。
〃I wish I could say something； I can't。〃 Lady Caroline spoke in a
harsh； grunting voice that few people had ever heard her use。
Francesca crossed the Mall and the carriage drove on。
〃Heaven help that poor woman；〃 said Lady Caroline； which was； for
her； startlingly like a prayer。
As Francesca entered the hall she gave a quick look at the table；
several packages； evidently an early batch of Christmas presents；
were there； and two or three letters。 On a salver by itself was
the cablegram for which she had waited。 A maid； who had evidently
been on the lookout for her； brought her the salver。 The servants
were well aware of the dreadful thing that was happening； and there
was pity on the girl's face and in her voice。
〃This came for you ten minutes ago； ma'am； and Mr。 Greech has been
here； ma'am； with another gentleman； and was sorry you weren't at
home。 Mr。 Greech said he would call again in about half…an…hour。〃
Francesca carried the cablegram unopened into the drawing…room and
sat down for a moment to think。 There was no need to read it yet；
for she knew what she would find written there。 For a few pitiful
moments Comus would seem less hopelessly lost to her if she put off
the reading of that last terrible message。 She rose and crossed
over to the windows and pulled down the blinds； shutting out the
waning December day； and then reseated herself。 Perhaps in the
shadowy half…light her boy would come and sit with her again for
awhile and let her look her last upon his loved face； she could
never touch him again or hear his laughing； petulant voice； but
surely she might look on her dead。 And her starving eyes saw only
the hateful soulless things of bronze and silver and porcelain that
she had set up and worshipped as gods； look where she would they
were there around her； the cold ruling deities of the home that
held no place for her dead boy。 He had moved in and out among
them； the warm； living； breathing thing that had been hers to love；
and she had turned her eyes from that youthful comely figure to
adore a few feet of painted canvas； a musty relic of a long
departed craftsman。 And now he was gone from her sight； from her
touch； from her hearing for ever； without even a thought to flash
between them for all the dreary years that she should live； and
these things of canvas and pigment and wrought metal would stay
with her。 They were her soul。 And what shall it profit a man if
he save his soul and slay his heart in torment？
On a small table by her side was Mervyn Quentock's portrait of her
… the prophetic symbol of her tragedy； the rich dead harvest of
unreal things that had never known life； and the bleak thrall of
black unending Winter； a Winter in which things died and knew no
re…awakening。
Francesca turned to the small envelope lying in her lap； very
slowly she opened it and read the short message。 Then she sat numb
and silent for a long； long time； or perhaps only for minutes。 The
voice of Henry Greech in the hall； enquiring for her； called her to
herself。 Hurriedly she crushed the piece of paper out of sight； he
would have to be told； of course； but just yet her pain seemed too
dreadful to be laid bare。 〃Comus is dead〃 was a sentence beyond
her power to speak。
〃I have bad news for you； Francesca； I'm sorry to say；〃 Henry
announced。 Had he heard； too？
〃Henneberg has been here and looked at the picture；〃 he continued；
seating himself by her side； 〃and though he admired it immensely as
a work of art he gave me a disagreeable surprise by assuring me
that it's not a genuine Van der Meulen。 It's a splendid copy； but
still； unfortunately； only a copy。〃
Henry paused and glanced at his sister to see how she had taken the
unwelcome announcement。 Even in the dim light he caught some of
the anguish in her eyes。
〃My dear Francesca；〃 he said soothingly； laying his hand
affectionately on her arm； 〃I know that this must be a great
disappointment to you； you've always set such store by this
picture； but you mustn't take it too much to heart。 These
disagreeable discoveries come at times to most picture fanciers and
owners。 Why； about twenty per cent。 of the alleged Old Masters in
the Louvre are supposed to be wrongly attributed。 And there are
heaps of similar cases in this country。 Lady Dovecourt was telling
me the other day that they simply daren't have an expert in to
examine the Van Dykes at Columbey for fear of unwelcome
disclosures。 And besides； your picture is such an excellent copy
that it's by no means without a value of its own。 You must get
over the disappointment you naturally feel； and take a
philosophical view of the matter。 。 。 〃
Francesca sat in stricken silence； crushing the folded morsel of
paper tightly in her hand and wondering if the thin； cheerful voice
with its pitiless； ghastly mockery of consolation would never stop。
End