“My great-grandmother—on my mother’s side.”
“She is extraordinarily like you. Is there a portrait of her when she was your age?”
“No, I’m afraid not. That was done some time after her marriage. She was about twenty-six, I believe.”
The subject of the portrait looked younger. She had Margaret’s wide-set grey eyes, her dark hair, her clear skin, to which colour flowed richly only in emotion. And the resemblance went further than the physical, for John saw above him that expression, so remarkable for its vitality and yet so comforting in its repose, with which, when he turned his head, he found Margaret regarding him. In her eyes, though, was the brightness of laughter, and her great-grandmother had been a grave sitter.
“Is it so astonishing?”
“It is a wonderful portrait. You are sound evidence for the artist.”
“I had her hung there,” Margaret said, the light of laughter flickering out—“I had her hung there, at the foot of the stairs, so that I might see her whenever I came down to a dance or a dinner, and each morning before the day began. She looks so extraordinarily alive—so interested in all the world. And now—well, now, so far as the world is concerned, she’s a picture on the wall and a name in a genealogical table.”
“And so you use her as a text?”
“Not that. I don’t attempt to weave philosophies around her. I suppose it’s an odd form of superstition—at any rate, you can call it that, if you like. She seems to keep a certain balance——” Margaret paused suddenly.
“Isn’t that morbid?” Not till the question was out did he realize that he had spoken to test her.