one winter afternoon some weeks after the discovery of the coral necklace and the pearl ring, mary was in the library alone, reading “hamlet.” it was the last play on the list which aunt nan had suggested, and mary liked it best of all. nothing further of a “mysterious” nature had happened in the library; but mary had almost forgotten to think about anything of the kind. she was reading now for the pleasure of it.
she had kindled a little fire in the fireplace, and the library was very cozy, full of flickering shadows and dancing lights, that played about the old volumes, and seemed every minute to change the expression on the bust of shakespeare and on aunt nan’s picture above it.
but mary, cuddled up in the big armchair with caliban in her lap and the little red book in her hand, was too much interested in the fate of poor ophelia and the unlucky prince to notice lights or shadows. she had come to the scene where hamlet is talking sorrowfully[85] to his mother in her chamber, and every word was wonderful. suddenly she came upon a line underscored; the last part doubly underscored:—
“look here upon this picture, then on this.”
hamlet was pointing out to his mother the portraits of two kings, the good one who had been murdered, and his wicked brother who had killed him. the underscored line made mary’s heart beat faster. she had learned to connect some pleasant surprise with aunt nan’s choice of quotations. in the margin opposite this line was penned an exclamation point—just that and nothing more. eager as she was to go on with the story, and to find out what hamlet had to say next, mary knew that it was time to turn to the notes at the back of the book, to see if aunt nan meant anything in particular by that exclamation. she could not help feeling as if aunt nan herself had called out, “stop! look! listen!”—just as the signs at the railway crossings do to absorbed travelers.
yes; there was something written in the notes, in a blank space at the end of a paragraph: “look at my portrait! then turn to the play of othello.—”
“oh, dear!” said mary to herself. “i believe[86] we are coming to another secret!” and she felt her heart give a little jump of excitement. “‘my portrait.’ there is only one portrait of aunt nan.” and she glanced up at the picture over the fireplace. then, indeed, she noticed how the firelight was making aunt nan’s queer eyes dance and glitter, and how her mouth seemed to be smiling in the most knowing way. “look here upon this picture, then on this.” what did the last part of this line, doubly underscored, mean to aunt nan? mary studied the picture long and earnestly. there was something about it that she did not quite understand. it was as if aunt nan were trying to tell her something, but could not make the words plain. mary felt that she almost had the clue to something—but not quite. caliban did not seem to help her. if john were only here; john was so good at guessing riddles!
mary put down caliban, who promptly jumped up onto the desk. then she ran out into the hall and called, “john! john!” for she knew that he was in the house, probably, as usual, ravenous for tea. “come to the library, john!” she called again, in answer to his “hello! what?”—“i think it’s another secret. quick!” she added, to bring him the sooner.
[87]down came clattering boots, and john dashed into the room all excitement. “what’s up?” he asked eagerly. and mary showed him the line. “h’m!” commented john, looking at the portrait curiously. “she does look sly, doesn’t she, mary? but you haven’t looked up the other thing yet. i say, hurry! let’s see what your old ‘othello’ has to tell about it.”
sure enough! mary had forgotten the reference to “othello.” hurriedly she got out the proper volume, and turned to the right page and line.
“a fixéd figure for the time of scorn
to point his slow unmoving finger at.”
she read slowly. “what in the world does that mean? i’m sure i don’t know.”
john had been all this time studying the portrait with its queer expression. when mary read the quotation he clapped his hands. “oh, i say!” he cried. “it talks about a finger, pointing. that’s it! she means the hand of the portrait is pointing to something. it has been pointing all the time, and we’ve only got to find out what at! look, mary. don’t you see she is pointing, just as plainly as can be?”
mary dropped “othello” and ran to look at the picture. the queer eyes of aunt nan seemed[88] to meet hers, and yes! she certainly seemed to be pointing with the long forefinger of her right hand which rested on her breast.
mary followed the direction of the pointing finger, as john was trying to do in the fading light. it seemed to point to a corner of the wall on which the portrait itself hung; to a shelf in the left-hand alcove by the fireplace. both mary and john ran eagerly to the corner and began to sight from finger to shelf and back again, to get a straight line from the pointing finger.
“i think it falls here” said john, touching a fat brown book labeled “concordance,” on the fourth shelf from the bottom. “but i have looked behind all the books on this shelf. i know i have!”
“no, it doesn’t fall there,” said mary. “i am sure she is pointing about here.” and she laid her hand on a row of green-and-gold volumes, whose titles she could hardly read in the dim light.
“‘gems from the poets,’” spelled john with difficulty. “do you suppose she means these? and what does she want us to do, anyway? let’s try this one.” he took down volume i, which turned out to be “gems from marlowe,” a poet[89] of whom neither of them had even heard. john looked under the book, and examined the wall behind where it had stood, and began to look through the book itself, as carefully as possible. but mary was searching farther. “i don’t think it is that one,” she said. “i think she is pointing farther along in the row.”
“let’s try them all,” suggested john, seizing another volume,—“‘gems from beaumont and fletcher’—whoever they are!” he flapped the leaves and looked in the space at the back where the cover was loose. but there was nothing unusual about that book. meanwhile mary was still drawing an imaginary line from the point of the portrait’s finger to the shelf in the corner.
“i am sure she is pointing here,” she said, laying her hand on the last volume in the row, which looked exactly like the others. “‘gems from shakespeare,’” she read the label on the back. “yes, of course this ought to be the right one. she liked him best of all the poets, john. i believe this is it!”
mary pulled the volume from the shelf eagerly. but when she held it in her hands she uttered a cry of surprise that made john drop the book he was flapping strenuously, and turn to her.
[90]“what is it, mary?” he asked. “have you found something?”
“oh, john!” she whispered in the greatest excitement, “it isn’t a book at all! it is—something else! i think it is the secret!”
