Section 8

Miss Martin Leeds arrived punctually, but the doctor was well ahead of his time and ready to receive her.  She was ushered into the drawing room where he awaited her.  As she came forward the doctor first perceived that she had a very sad and handsome face, the face of a sensitive youth rather than the face of a woman.  She had fine grey eyes under very fine brows; they were eyes that at other times might have laughed very agreeably, but which were now full of an unrestrained sadness.  Her brown hair was very untidy and parted at the side like a man’s.  Then he noted that she seemed to be very untidily dressed as if she was that rare and, to him, very offensive thing, a woman careless of her beauty.  She was short in proportion to her broad figure and her broad forehead.

“You are Dr. Martineau?” she said.  “He talked of you.”  As she spoke her glance went from him to the pictures that stood about the room.  She walked up to the painting and stood in front of it with her distressed gaze wandering about her.  “Horrible!” she said.  “Absolutely horrible!...  Did she do this?”

Her question disconcerted the doctor very much.  “You mean Lady Hardy?” he asked.  “She doesn’t paint.”

“No, no.  I mean, did she get all these things together?”

“Naturally,” said Dr. Martineau.

“None of them are a bit like him.  They are like blows aimed at his memory.  Not one has his life in it.  How could she do it?  Look at that idiot statuette!...  He was extraordinarily difficult to get.  I have burnt every photograph I had of him.  For fear that this would happen; that he would go stiff and formal—­just as you have got him here.  I have been trying to sketch him almost all the time since he died.  But I can’t get him back.  He’s gone.”

She turned to the doctor again.  She spoke to him, not as if she expected him to understand her, but because she had to say these things which burthened her mind to someone.  “I have done hundreds of sketches.  My room is littered with them.  When you turn them over he seems to be lurking among them.  But not one of them is like him.”

She was trying to express something beyond her power.  “It is as if someone had suddenly turned out the light.”

She followed the doctor upstairs.  “This was his study,” the doctor explained.

“I know it.  I came here once,” she said.

They entered the big bedroom in which the coffined body lay.  Dr. Martineau, struck by a sudden memory, glanced nervously at the desk, but someone had made it quite tidy and the portrait of Aliss Grammont had disappeared.  Miss Leeds walked straight across to the coffin and stood looking down on the waxen inexpressive dignity of the dead.  Sir Richmond’s brows and nose had become sharper and more clear-cut than they had ever been in life and his lips had set into a faint inane smile.  She stood quite still for a long time.  At length she sighed deeply.