At the fourth sitting, Sir Henry returning perhaps to some bygone performance, broke the silence by speaking without warning the lines she had many times read:
“Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood…”
He startled Troy so much that her hand jerked and she waited motionless until he had finished the speech, resenting the genuine twist of apprehension that had shaken her. She could find nothing to say in response to this unexpected and oddly impersonal performance, but she had the feeling that the old man knew very well how much it had moved her.
After a moment she returned to her work and still it went well. Troy was a deliberate painter, but the head grew with almost frightening rapidity. In an hour she knew that she must not touch it again. She was suddenly exhausted. “I think we’ll stop for today,” she said, and again felt that he was not surprised.
Instead of going away, he came down into the front of the theatre and looked at what she had done. She had that feeling of gratitude to her subject that sometimes follows a sitting that has gone well, but she did not want him to speak of the portrait and began hurriedly to talk of Panty.
“She’s doing a most spirited painting of red cows and a green aeroplane.”
“T’uh!” said Sir Henry on a melancholy note.
“She wants to show it to you herself.”
“I have been deeply hurt,” said Sir Henry, “by Patricia. Deeply hurt.”
“Do you mean,” said Troy uncomfortably, “because of something she’s supposed to have written on — on your looking-glass?”
“Supposed! The thing was flagrant. Not only that, but she opened the drawers of my dressing-table and pulled out my papers. I may tell you, that if she were capable of reading the two documents that she found there, she would perhaps feel some misgivings. I may tell you that they closely concerned herself, and that if there are any more of these damnable tricks—” He paused and scowled portentously. “Well, we shall see. We shall see. Let her mother realize that I cannot endure for ever. And my cat!” he exclaimed. “She has made a fool of my cat. There are still marks of grease-paint in his whiskers,” said Sir Henry angrily. “Butter has not altogether removed them. As for the insult to me—
“But I’m sure she didn’t. I was here when they scolded her about it. Honestly, I’m sure she knew nothing whatever about it.”
“T’uh!”
“No, but really—” Should she say anything about the dark red stain under Cedric’s finger-nail? No, she’d meddled enough. She went on quickly: “Panty brags about her naughtiness. She’s told me about all her practical jokes. She never calls you grandfather and I happen to know she spells it ‘farther,’ because she showed me a story she had written, and the word occurs frequently. I’m sure Panty’s too fond of you,” Troy continued, wondering if she spoke the truth, “to do anything so silly and unkind.”
“I’ve loved that child,” said Sir Henry with the appallingly rich display of sentiment so readily commanded by the Ancreds, “as if she was my own. My little Best-Beloved, I’ve always called her. I’ve never made any secret of my preference. After I’m Gone,” he went on to Troy’s embarrassment, “she would have known— however.” He sighed windily. Troy could think of nothing to say and cleaned her palette. The light from the single uncovered window had faded. Sir Henry had switched off the stage lamps and the little theatre was now filled with shadows. A draught somewhere in the borders caused them to move uneasily and a rope-end tapped against the canvas backcloth.
“Do you know anything about embalming?” Sir Henry asked in his deepest voice. Troy jumped.
“No, indeed,” she said.
“I have studied the subject,” said Sir Henry, “deeply.”
“Oddly enough,” said Troy after a pause, “I did look at that queer little book in the drawing-room. The one in the glass case.”
“Ah, yes. It belonged to my ancestor who rebuilt Ancreton. He himself was embalmed and his fathers before him. It has been the custom with the Ancreds. The family vault,” he rambled on depressingly, “is remarkable for that reason. If I lie there — the Nation may have other wishes: it is not for me to speculate — but if I lie there, it will be after their fashion. I have given explicit directions.”
“I do wish,” Troy thought, “how I do wish he wouldn’t go on like this.” She made a small ambiguous murmuring.
“Ah, well!” said Sir Henry heavily and began to move away. He paused before mounting the steps up to the stage. Troy thought that he was on the edge of some further confidence, and hoped that it would be of a more cheerful character.
“What,” said Sir Henry, “is your view on the matter of marriage between first cousins?”
“I — really, I don’t know,” Troy replied, furiously collecting her wits. “I fancy I’ve heard that modern medical opinion doesn’t condemn it. But I really haven’t the smallest knowledge—”
“I am against it,” he said loudly. “I cannot approve. Look at the Hapsburgs! The House of Spain! The Romanoffs!” His voice died away in an inarticulate rumble.
Hoping to divert his attention Troy began: “Panty—”
“Hah!” said Sir Henry. “These doctors don’t know anything. Patricia’s scalp! A common childish ailment, and Withers, having pottered about with it for weeks without doing any good, is now going to dose the child with a depilatory. Disgusting! I have spoken to the child’s mother, but I’d have done better to hold my tongue. Who,” Sir Henry demanded, “pays any attention to the old man? Nobody. Ours is an Ancient House, Mrs. Alleyn. We have borne arms since my ancestor, the Sieur d’Ancred, fought beside the Conqueror. And before that. Before that. A proud house. Perhaps in my own humble way I have not disgraced it. But what will happen when I am Gone? I look for my Heir and what do I find? A Thing! An emasculated Popinjay!”
He evidently expected some reply to this pronouncement on Cedric, but Troy was quite unable to think of one.
“The last of the Ancreds!” he said, glaring at her. “A family that came in with the Conqueror to go out with a—”
“But,” said Troy, “he may marry and…”
“And have kittens! P’shaw!”
“Perhaps Mr. Thomas Ancred…”
“Old Tommy! No! I’ve talked to old Tommy. He doesn’t see it. He’ll die a bachelor. And Claude’s wife is past it. Well, it was my hope to know the line was secure before I went. I shan’t.”
“But, bless my soul,” said Troy, “you’re taking far too gloomy a view of all this. There’s not much wrong with a man who can pose for an hour with a helmet weighing half a hundredweight on his head. You may see all sorts of exciting things happen.”
It was astonishing, it was almost alarming, to see how promptly he squared his shoulders, how quickly gallantry made its reappearance. “Do you think so?” he said, and Troy noticed how his hand went to his cloak, giving it an adroit hitch. “Well, perhaps, after all, you’re right. Clever lady! Yes, yes. I may see something exciting and what’s more—” he paused and gave a very queer little giggle—“what’s more, my dear, so may other people.”
Troy was never to know if Sir Henry would have elaborated on this strange prophecy, as at that moment a side door in the auditorium was flung open and Miss Orrincourt burst into the little theatre.