Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits might shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard was still knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands above the brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip of needle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seen her engaged.
Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the interval, and learned that they had thought of returning to England, but had somehow never done so.
"I am sorry not to see my aunts again," Mrs. Lombard said resignedly; "but Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go this year.""Next year, perhaps," murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which seemed to suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill.
She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her hairenveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose color of her cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some pigment which has darkened in drying.
"And Professor Clyde--is he well?" Mrs. Lombard asked affably; continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: "Surely, Sybilla, Mr. Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor Clyde to see the Leonardo?"Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder lady of his friend's well-being.
"Ah--perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena," she said, sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and there ensued a pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss Lombard: "And you still have the picture?"She raised her eyes and looked at him. "Should you like to see it?" she asked.
On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from the same secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They walked down the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a grave gesture, making Wyant pass before her into the room. Then she crossed over and drew the curtain back from the picture.
The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface appeared to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors had lost none of their warmth, the outlines none of their pure precision; it seemed to Wyant like some magical flower which had burst suddenly from the mould of darkness and oblivion.
He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension. "Ah, I understand--you couldn't part with it, after all!" he cried. "No--I couldn't part with it," she answered.
"It's too beautiful,--too beautiful,"--he assented.
"Too beautiful?" She turned on him with a curious stare. "I have never thought it beautiful, you know."He gave back the stare. "You have never--"She shook her head. "It's not that. I hate it; I've always hated it. But he wouldn't let me--he will never let me now."Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look surprised him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in her innocuous eye. Was it possible that she was laboring under some delusion? Or did the pronoun not refer to her father?
"You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the picture?""No--he prevented me; he will always prevent me."There was another pause. "You promised him, then, before his death--" "No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me." Her voice sank to a whisper. "I was free--perfectly free--or I thought I was till Itried."
"Till you tried?"
"To disobey him--to sell the picture. Then I found it was impossible. I tried again and again; but he was always in the room with me."She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and to Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third presence.
"And you can't"--he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to the pitch of hers.
She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. "I can't lock him out; I can never lock him out now. I told you I should never have another chance."Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair. "Oh"--he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture.
"It is too late," she said; "but you ought to have helped me that day."
