The Ghost Writer by John Harwood Read Free Book Online

more boisterous parts of town where gold could buy the service of any man—or woman. He stood mute, incapable either of advance or retreat, unmanned by darkness and silence.
    How long he remained thus he could not tell, but a light began to glow dimly at the far end of the passage, or tunnel, as he perceived in the brightening gleam, for the aperture was not only framed but roofed over by the heaped furniture. Like a man under mesmeric compulsion, Lord Edmund found himself drawn into and along the passageway, which extended a surprising distance, given the mean proportions of shopfront and alley. As he emerged from the confinement of the tunnel, he was at first dazzled by the light of a single lantern held aloft by a motionless figure a few paces off to his left.
    "Pray step forward, sir," said a grave, unexpectedly cultivated voice, "and let me know how I may be of service to you."
    The figure resolved itself into a man of indeterminate age, somewhat below Lord Edmund's height, and slighter of figure, clean shaven, clothed in a plain dark suit like a manservant's. The lamplight fell upon a long, pale, melancholy face, indefinably wasted as if by prolonged illness or suffering, the eyes shadowed beneath a high forehead, the nose thin and aquiline, the lips almost bloodless. It was evident, despite the encircling gloom, that the man posed no threat to his lordship, who was about to inquire after hansom cabs and refreshments when his attention was caught by a large rectangular structure, a little to his right and taller than himself. As if anticipating a request, the proprietor—for who else could he be?—bore the lantern towards it, making, as he went, some adjustment which caused the light to brighten further. Lord Edmund, following, saw that the object was in fact a canvas, resting upon a frame; indeed a picture at least six feet in height. As the light came full upon it he caught his breath.
    It was not like any picture he had ever seen, for the illusion of seeing
through
the frame, exactly as one looks through an open window to the view beyond, was, in the lamplight, absolute. He was staring at, or rather into, a woodland pool surrounded by dense foliage, and from this pool, with arms outstretched towards him, was emerging a marvellous naked woman of that preternatural beauty he had long despaired of encountering. Still more marvellously, her hair, though damp from recent immersion in the translucent waters that swirled about her waist, and thus falling dense about her shoulders rather than floating like flame upon the air, was of the exact, miraculous shade he had but lately pursued and lost. Whether this was the very same woman he could not tell; that she was
the
woman he had so long sought he had not the shadow of a doubt. Her expression seemed, at first glance, solemn and spiritual; but subtly endowed with the faintest of smiles, a hint of tender mockery, almost of invitation. He felt that he could gaze for ever into the fathomless depths of those dark eyes, upon the light caught in the minute droplets of water clinging to her lustrous flesh—but surely she breathed? Was that not a faint pulse in the delicate blue vein at her throat? Aroused, entranced, and altogether forgetful of his situation, even of the silent presence bearing the lamp, he stepped forward to claim his prize—and found himself confronted by unintelligible swirls and textures of pigment. He stepped back, and the miracle repeated itself; approached once more, and again the vision dissolved before his eyes.
    "Who is she?" he inquired in a tone of wonder, more of himself than of his companion.
    "Seraphina," replied the sombre voice at his back. The lamp silently approached and descended, illuminating a small bronze plate set into the base of the frame and engraved with that name in plain italic lettering.
    "And—in life?" asked his lordship, still unable to take his eyes from the picture.
    "There I cannot help you, sir."
    "But surely she must...who