ARTHUR
21

I was busy thinking about this idea when the woman herself came in. It's the same portrait I've been examining. He looked at me closely and strongly. He looked at the superscription of the letter I gave him, and immediately continued his examination of me. I was somewhat embarrassed by the proximity of his observations, and gave signs of this state of mind that did not escape observation. They seemed to instantly remind her that she behaved too little paying attention to modesty.

He recovered and began to peruse the letter. After doing this, his attention once again turned to me. He obviously wanted to engage in some conversation, but seemed confused what way to start. This situation is new to me and generates no small amount of embarrassment. I was preparing to leave as he spoke, though not without hesitation:

"This letter is from Mr. Welbeck, you're his friend I guess maybe a relationship?"

I am aware that I have no right to claim any of these titles, and that I am nothing more than his servant. My pride does not allow me to admit this, and I simply say, "I am living with him at the moment, Madam."

I imagine that this answer does not satisfy him perfectly; yet he accepts it with a certain attitude of approval. He was silent for a few minutes, and then, standing up, said, "Excuse me, sir, for a few minutes. I'll write a few words for Mr. Welbeck." Therefore, he withdrew.

I went back to the picture. However, from here, my attention was quickly diverted by the paper lying on the fireplace. Just a glance was enough to make my blood move. I started and put my hand on top of that famous package . That's what covered the Clavering portrait!

I opened and examined him excitedly. By what miracle did he come here? Found, along with my bundle, two nights earlier. I was desperate to see her again, yet this was the same portrait that was attached to the same paper ! I had forgotten to think of regret, as great as sorrow, with which I was affected as a result of the loss of this precious relic. My joy of getting back so quickly and unexpectedly was not easy to explain.

Now I heard her descending footsteps, and hurriedly changed the image on the shelf. He came in, and, giving me a letter, asked me to send it to Mr. Welbeck. I had no reason to delay my departure, but did not want to leave without getting the portrait. The interval of silence and doubt worked. I threw a significant glance at the place where the paper lay, and finally gathered the strength of my mind, and, pointing to the paper,— "Mistress," I said, " there's something I recognize as mine: I don't know how it became yours, but lately it's like yesterday it's mine. I lost it to a freak accident, and, since I found it priceless, I hope you don't mind returning it."

During this speech, the woman's face showed the most severe signs of the disorder. "Your pictures!" she cried; "You lost it! Hows it? Over where? Do you know that guy? What happened to him?"

"I know him well" I said. "The picture was made by him himself. He gave it to me with his own hands; and, until the time of my loss, it was my dear and eternal friend."

"Good heaven!" he exclaimed, with increased vigor; "Where did you meet him? What the hell happened to him? Is he dead, or alive?"

This appearance was enough to show me that Clavering and this woman were connected by some bonds of tenderness. I replied that she was dead; that my mother and myself were her attendants and nurses, and that this portrait was her legacy to me.

This intelligence made her cry, and it took a while before she was strong enough to continue the conversation. He then asked, "When and where did he die? How did you lose this portrait? It was found wrapped in rough clothes, lying in a stall in a market house, on Saturday night. Two nigger women, servants of one of my friends, strolled the market, found him and took him to their employer, who, recognizing the portrait, sent it to me. Who's that bundle? Is that yours?"