The Castle of the Shadows | Page 6

door, and the three visitors obeyed her gesture of
invitation; but suddenly the girl's face changed. The blood streamed up
to her forehead, then ebbed again, leaving her marble-pale. She gave a
slight start, as if she would have changed her mind and kept the
strangers from entering; yet she made no motion to arrest them.
"She has just remembered something in this room that she doesn't wish
us to see," thought Virginia; but it was too late to retreat, without
drawing attention to an act which she could not explain. They all went
in, the others apparently suspecting nothing; but in a second Virginia
instinctively guessed the reason of her hostess's sudden constraint, and
the sympathetic thrill that ran through her own veins surprised her. In a
panel of the darkly wainscotted and curiously gilded wall was placed a
life-size portrait of a man. It was an oil-painting, defective in technique,

perhaps, but so spirited, so extraordinarily lifelike as to give an effect,
at first glance in the twilight, as if a handsome young man were just
stepping in through an open door. Virginia seemed to meet the brilliant,
audacious eyes; the frank, almost boyish smile was for her;
and--whether because of the half-told story of this strange house, or
because of the brave young splendour of the figure in the portrait--her
heart gave a bound such as it had never yet given for a man.
She did not need to be told that this was the counterfeit presentment of
him who, in some mysterious way, had brought ruin upon those who
loved him; and suddenly she understood the full meaning of Loria's
words when he had said, "The relatives all believed in his guilt, so his
sister would have nothing to do with them."
Virginia Beverly, headstrong, wilful, passionate, was only superficially
spoilt by the flattery which had been her daily diet as a great beauty and
a great heiress. She was impulsive, but her impulses were true and
often unselfish. Now her warm heart went out to meet the loyal heart of
the pale, sad girl in black, whom an hour ago she had never seen,
whose very name she had not known. "She is right to believe in him,"
Virginia said to herself. "Loyalty is the finest virtue of all. I believe in
him too. Whatever crime they say he committed, I'm sure he was
innocent. What--a criminal, with that face? It's not possible, and I wish
I could tell her so."
She could scarcely tear her eyes from the portrait, though she feared to
let her interest be observed, lest it should unjustly be put down to
vulgar curiosity. And when the old man who conducted them, having
met and answered a quick glance from his mistress, invited the visitors
to continue their tour of inspection, Virginia left her thoughts behind in
the room of the portrait, walking as in a dream through the series of
lofty, half-dismantled apartments which still remained to be visited.
She hoped that, when they should see their hostess again for the
promised leave-taking, it would be in the same room as before. But she
was doomed to disappointment. Mademoiselle met the party in the
great hall, and, hearing from George Trent that his sister thought
seriously of buying the château, gave them the address of an estate

agent in Mentone.
Virginia was not a self-centred girl, and at any other time she would
have been surprised at the encouragement given to this new whim of
hers by her half-brother; she would have sought some underlying cause,
for George Trent--who was her mother's son by a first marriage--was
nearly five years older than she, and rather piqued himself upon
influencing her to ways of wisdom. But now, though he extolled the
charms of the Château de la Roche, and made light of the expenses of
restoration, as they rode down the avenue under the olive trees,
Virginia was too much occupied with the mystery of the house and the
portrait's original to observe the young man's manner. It did not escape
Lady Gardiner's observation, however, and her thoughts were troubled.
She was thirty-six and George Trent was ten years younger; but she
confessed to twenty-nine, and really did not look more, except when
certain worries, which she usually kept in the background, pressed
heavily upon her. For a year, ever since Virginia had left America for
England and the Continent, she had lived with the sister and brother,
and had been reaping a harvest almost literally of gold and diamonds.
She did not want Virginia to marry and free herself from chaperonage;
and if she could not marry George Trent herself, since he was neither
old enough nor rich enough, she could not bear the thought that he
might forget his passing