The old man then explained the position very carefully and sensibly. He admitted that his own deep love for his old property and surroundings and his failure in life to develop any other very deep affection, was chiefly in fault, but he added, that his portrait being hung there, in the hall of his descendants, was also very unfortunate for him.
"It drags me down—I don't know why—but I am sure I could get away more easily if they would not keep that picture in the old hall."
A few more practical questions elicited the following instructions:—He said the picture might remain in the county, so long as it was not in any house owned by a Lyon (there were several members of the family in Warwickshire); or it might be sent to London or elsewhere, and kept by members of the Lyon family, so long as they were not in the direct descent, and did not live in his old county.
We drove over to Greba that afternoon, and took the "message" with us, knowing there was no fear of encountering the gibes of my fox-hunting friend at three p.m. on any week day in the hunting season.
Mrs Lyon was extremely interested; she not only endorsed the Richard Lyon and his dates, but told us that he had done an immense deal for the property, as her husband had often impressed upon her, and that at his death, about one hundred and thirty years before, he had lain in state for three days in the very hall where we had taken our tea, and where his picture now hung. This was great encouragement, so we put our heads together, wondering how the poor old man's entreaty might be complied with.
Mrs Lyon remembered that several of the old portraits were shortly to be sent to a picture dealer in the neighbouring town (some ten miles away) to be cleaned, but this special picture was not in need of restoration, unfortunately.
"Still, I could put it with the others, and let it go to Warwick, and then tell the man not to do anything with it—but what would Edward say? Can you imagine his allowing the picture to be taken down upon this evidence?"
From an acquaintance with "Edward" extending over large tracts of years, I was forced to admit that even my robust imagination could not reach so far. "Skittles!" or "Confounded cheek!" would be his mildest reply to such a request, even from the friend of his youth! I did not care to think how much further his indignation might carry him!
But I felt so strongly that something outside myself had inspired the message, with its accurate instructions, that at last I prevailed upon Mrs Lyon to promise she would mention the matter to her husband, and thus leave the responsibility of refusal with him.
She did so, and the refusal was all my fancy had painted—and more!