The Ghost Writer by John Harwood Read Free Book Online Page B

should damage the picture. He was near fainting as he drew away the last of the wrappings and stepped away from the canvas.
    He was not disappointed. Indeed, though he would have thought it impossible until that moment, the enchantment was stronger than before. All consciousness of his surroundings faded as his senses were once more ravished by Seraphina. Once more the sensation of gazing upon a living, breathing woman grew upon him; he could swear that the water rippling about her slender waist was actually moving; once again his senses impelled him forward; once again she vanished as completely as if a curtain had fallen swiftly and silently between them. He moved closer still, bewildered by the inscrutability of those ripples and swirls of pigment. On minute inspection, the surface of the picture was really quite uneven; in some places the weave of the canvas was plainly visible; in others the paint seemed to be thickly and crudely spattered in parti-coloured daubs, betraying no trace of the extraordinary, nay, the unprecedented skill that must have directed the artist's hand. How on earth was it done? He fixed his eye upon a dab of colour and moved slowly backwards. One pace ... two ... three, and the surface remained opaque; four, and the canvas seemed to dissolve seamlessly into rippling water, a verdant depth of forest, and lustrous Seraphina stretching out her arms as if to entreat him into her embrace with that faint but irresistible smile of invitation; Lord Edmund forced himself to take another pace back, and then another, but she did not vanish; the illusion of seeing beyond the frame as if a window had been let into the gallery wall remained as strong as ever, no matter how far, or at what angle, he retreated.
    It was not until he stumbled and almost fell against a plinth, upon which stood a diminutive Aphrodite he had always thought especially pleasing, even by the exalted standard of his collection, that he was able to take his eyes from Seraphina and regain some awareness of his surroundings. One thing was instantly plain: she outshone everything else in the room as the full moon outshines the faintest stars. The canvases he had once admired were now revealed as drab and tawdry; beside the perfection of her flesh, his most delicate pieces of statuary, such as the Aphrodite he had nearly toppled, seemed coarse as sandstone. On the instant he knew what must be done. The gallery must be cleared, and forthwith. He would not look again upon Seraphina until it was done, until the last trace of her least rival (though even to speak of rivalry was absurd; as well ask whether a gas-lamp could rival the sun) had been effaced, and then, perhaps ... he knew not quite what ... He shook his head in an effort to clear it. To shroud her again in those coarse wrappings was not to be thought of. He would call for a length of the finest velvet, drape her as reverently and securely as he might, then set his entire staff to work to clear the gallery with the utmost possible speed. But where should he instruct them to store the contents? Well, it hardly mattered; the ballroom would do for the present; he would not be giving any more dances now that ... again his head seemed to blur and spin. Perhaps, after such excitement, he needed a little air; as soon as the picture was suitably draped, he would give his instructions, and take a turn along the river while they were carried out.
    The cool evening air did, at first, clear his head wonderfully, and he was swept along on a tide of self-congratulation. But the prospect of the Embankment, and the tranquil river beyond, brought him back to the afternoons pursuit with the full force of recall. That flaming hair and sinuous grace; the uncanny speed with which she had eluded him..."she" must, surely, be the model for Seraphina, for how else could she have led him to the very place where the picture awaited him? Though he could not, on reflection, claim with any certainty to have been led;