“Rather fat and—clubby,” I confessed; “but you are really like my childhood’s vague dream-knight,” I laughed, as Martha reappeared with cordial, in infinitesimal glasses. Inside the door she lingered.
“What of the old Deacon, Mr. Cary? He died, of course, poor creature! A body couldn’t help bein’ fond of him, for all his ways.”
“The Deacon, of course”—he looked absently in his glass. “Well, his habits killed him, after a while. He drank too much, you know.”
“Then it wasn’t hydrophobia, sir? That was a blessing! I never seen a dog more devoted than the Deacon was to you, Mr. Cary!” Martha closed the door, and my guest stood on the hearth rug, smiling gravely, but with an expression best described as a listening face. Glancing from ivory Buddha to winged Mercury, his look returned to me, and lingered, as in indecision.
“You are looking for the Fierienti,” I smiled back; “I am immune to the wiles of collectors.”
“Guilty!” he said, with the same shy aloofness.
“But you must see grandma’s last portrait first. Brookchase remains primitive enough for candles.” I held one under the picture above the mirror. “The Chevalier de Russy sketched her in oils, to preserve what he called the expression ‘angelique,’ and afterwards sent me this from France. The eyes always follow one with understanding. See how they smile upon you, Cary! As though she knew that you had fulfilled her pride and faith, and had become the honorable man she had aimed to make you in spite—” I stopped. His eyes were upon mine, in the glass, with profound questioning. “In spite of all,” I ended.
“In spite of all!” he repeated, drawn to grandma’s look, and although aware that when a skeleton is safely locked in its closet, it is wise to lose the key, I felt the moment to be surcharged with unspoken confidence.
“You remember that she would not admit inheritance to be a menace to you, and held that a man’s character lay in his own hands.”