Lord of the Far Island by Victoria Holt (romance book recommendations TXT) 📗

first to the shops, where I bought one or two little items, and then I paused before a window, for displayed there was a picture which caught my eye. It was a seascape—a clear summer's day with a sapphire-blue sea and waves edged with white frills rolling gently on a golden shore; but what was so arresting was a cloud of white sea gulls rising and swooping above the water. The contrast of white birds and blue sea was dazzling and I was fascinated. I thought I must have that picture. It was so evocative of Sanctuary Island and I knew that, wherever I was, when I looked at that picture I would be back there.

Then it occurred to me that it would be an ideal Christmas present for Jago, and no sooner had that thought occurred to me than I was even more delighted at the prospect of giving it to him than keeping it for myself.

I went into the shop and told the man behind the counter that I should like to have a closer look at the picture entitled "The Gulls." It was brought from the window and was, I thought, reasonably priced. The more I saw it, the more I liked it. I would have it, I said.

While this transaction was taking place a man came from the back of the shop. I knew him immediately. He was James Manton, the artist who lived on Blue Rock and whom I had met when I was with Jago on Sanctuary Island.

His eyes shone with pleasure and for a fleeting moment I thought he was expressing his delight at seeing me. Then I understood. "The Gulls" was his work and he was merely showing an artist's appreciation for someone who appreciated his work.

"Why, it's Miss Ellen Kellaway," he said.

"I remember you too," I told him.

"So you are buying 'The Gulls.'"

"I was completely fascinated by it when I was passing the window and I just felt I had to have it."

"What was it you liked about it so much?"

"The color of everything struck me most. And the birds . . . they're so alive. They seem as if they are going to fly right off the canvas. And the sea ... it's so calm and beautiful. I don't think I've ever seen such a perfect sea but I know I shall, and I shall wait for it."

"You have given me great pleasure," he said. "It is such a joy to talk with someone who sees what one is trying to express. Are you taking the picture with you?"

"I thought I would. Though I suppose I could have it sent."

"Did you come over alone?"

"Yes. I'm keeping an eye on the sea though. I don't want to get caught."

He laughed. "I have an idea," he said. "They can pack up the picture and you and I will go and drink a cup of tea at the inn. Then I shall carry the picture to your boat. How's that?"

"It's an excellent idea."

So that was how I came to be sitting at the Polcrag Inn opposite James Manton drinking Mrs. Pengelly's strong brew and eating scones with jam and clotted cream.

He asked me how I liked the island life and I replied that sometimes it didn't seem like being on an island, although it would when the sea made one a prisoner there.

"You're on a bigger one than Blue Rock," he commented. "It makes a difference, you know."

"You knew my father, I believe," I said, for I was determined to discover all I could and this seemed a heaven-sent opportunity.

His face hardened. "Yes, I knew him."

"I can see that you did not like him very much."

"I would prefer not to talk about him to you, Miss Kellaway."

"But I want to talk about him and nobody seems to want to."

"You could hardly hope to hear what you obviously want to from one whom he regarded as his enemy."

"He regarded you as such? I am sure he was wrong."

"Your father was a man who thought he was never wrong."

"I know his first wife died. . . ."

"He was cruel to her. Had he been different. . ."

"You're not suggesting that he killed her!"

"There are more ways of killing people than driving a knife through their hearts or dropping poison into their soup. You can kill with cruelty, and that's what he did. Her life was so wretched with him. He was a jealous and vindictive man."

I shrank from the vituperation in his voice; he had seemed so placid before, a mild middle-aged man mainly interested in his art. Now his hatred of my father seemed to endow him with new life, a greater vitality than he had shown before.

"So you knew her well," I went on.

"I knew her and I knew your mother, too. Your mother was an artist. She could have been a good one but he despised that. She and I had a good deal in common naturally."

"I see. And she too was unhappy with him."

"She was and finally left, taking you with her."

"Did he care very much?"

James Manton laughed ironically. "Care! He was probably glad."

"What did he feel about his daughters?"

"Poor Silva. He hated her. She might have been so different. . . . I wish . . ." He shrugged his shoulders. "Silva was never given a chance. That was why . . ."

"She disappeared," I put in, as he did not appear to want to continue. "Her life seems to have been a very sad one. She was unbalanced, I gathered."

"Who wouldn't have been in such an atmosphere? She wasn't very old when her mother died . . . and to be brought up in that place. . ."

"I remember so little, being only three years old when I left. Did he hate me too?"

"He wouldn't have had time for children."

"Do you know what happened after my mother went away with me?"

"He didn't try to find you. He would never forgive your mother for running away just as he never