Beryl's triumph

by Eglanton Thorne

"It is lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell. "I never saw a prettier picture. The children must have sat for it."

"I believe they did," returned Mr. Hollys, "for I remember now that Beryl told me that Gilbank painted them whilst he was at Egloshayle; but I did not think of anything so good as this. I must secure this picture."

So, asking the ladies to excuse him for a few minutes, he went away to make arrangements for purchasing the painting. But he quickly returned, his face wearing a look of vexation.

"Is it not annoying?" he said. "The picture has already found a purchaser. It was sold not half an hour ago."

"How very tiresome!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell. "But perhaps you can come to terms with the purchaser."

"I fear not," said Mr. Hollys; "it is no dealer who has bought it, but a gentleman who has taken a fancy to the picture. Robert Harvey is his name. I do not know him, though I seem to have some strange association with the name that I cannot define."

"A very ordinary name!" remarked Mrs. Campbell. "Yes, certainly. Well, I wish Robert Harvey, whoever he is, had not bought that picture."

As he spoke the Robert Harvey who had forestalled him in the purchase of the picture was standing within a few yards of Mr. Hollys. He was a tall, somewhat stern-looking man, with greyish-brown hair and a long sweeping beard of the same mixed hues. His face was deeply coloured, as if from constant exposure to the elements, and had, moreover, a withered, wrinkled appearance, which made him seem older than he was. An expression of melancholy was on his countenance, and, as he moved through the crowd, his shy, awkward bearing betrayed a sense of isolation even in the midst of his fellows.

He paused before the picture which he had made haste to purchase, and looked at it with a long and earnest gaze. It had a strange fascination for him, and the secret of the charm lurked in the grave, sweet face of little Coral. He could not have explained how it was that that childish face exerted such an influence over him.

It seemed to bring to life again his boyish days, so long, long buried in the past. He saw himself a rough, strong lad leading with gentle hand his tiny, dark-eyed sister along a pebbly shore by just such a sunlit sea as shone in the picture. She had been very like that little girl, only prettier; yes, he was sure that his sister was prettier. How he had loved her, his darling, only sister! Yet he had tyrannised over her; he had always made her will bend to his, till a time came when her woman's will, growing strong under the stimulus of love, had dared to rebel against his authority. She had taken her own way in defiance of him, and he had vowed that he would trouble himself no more about her. Now, he knew not if she were dead or alive.