The Shadow Portrait (18 page)

“Miss Cara, you got a caller—a
gentleman
caller!”

Cara Lanier looked up from her book, startled. She was sitting in a wicker chair bolstered up by enormous crimson pillows, and Charley began barking with excitement as he danced around Ruth, one of the maids.

“A gentleman caller? What are you talking about?”

“It’s that young man, Mr. Winslow. The painter you talked about so much. He’s come to see you.”

Instantly confusion swept across Cara’s face. She had thought a great deal about Phil Winslow but had not dreamed he would come back after all that had happened. She gasped, “I can’t see him! Tell him to go away, Ruth!”

“Oh, Miss Cara, I can’t tell him that!” Ruth did not add that Winslow had flirted with her audaciously, and that Clinton had warned her he might be coming and had slipped her a dollar to be sure she brought him to see Cara—and kept her mouth shut as far as Oliver Lanier was concerned. Now Ruth came over and patted Cara’s shoulder. A young girl of eighteen, she was very fond of Cara. “Please, ma’am. Just let him come up for a while. He’s the nicest young man. Any young woman would be glad to see
him!
”

For a moment Cara hesitated. Two impulses struggled within her. One was to let Phil come up, for she had missed his company and his conversation, though her feelings had been bruised by his rather harsh comments about her art. Nevertheless, she had a deep admiration for his work, even though she considered some of the subjects he painted rather peculiar. On the other hand, she knew her father would be furious if he found out she had seen Phil. A small streak of rebelliousness suddenly surfaced in Cara. Though it had been hidden there for a long time, she had carefully subdued it. But now she was bored with herself, bored with her work, and she said abruptly, “All right, Ruth, but help me change clothes.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Ruth helped Cara put on a dark blue day dress with a high collar, long narrow sleeves, and a closely fitted skirt trimmed in black velvet ribbon. Ruth pushed Cara down in a chair and quickly and expertly smoothed her hair and pinned it with an ivory comb, then said, “Now you pretty up your face while I go get Mr. Winslow.”

Cara found her hands were trembling, but she pinched her cheeks and bit at her lips to bring out a little pink. Then rising, she discovered her knees were weak and moved only slowly across the room. She could not understand why her heart was racing, but when the door opened and Phil came in, she put her hand out at once, saying, “Phil, I’m so glad you came.” His hand closed around hers and his smile was
genuine. “Won’t you sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing?”

“You’re looking well, Cara,” Phil said. He held her hand a moment, squeezed it, and saw the pleasure in her eyes. He knew how lonely she must get, from not only what Clinton had told him, but from his own surmises. Now he moved over and sat down, saying, “That’s a pretty dress. Is it new?”

“Why, not very.” Cara did not add that it was over a year old and that she had never found occasion to wear it. Cara sat down across from Phil and leaned forward. “I’m a little surprised to see you, Phil.”

“Surprised? Why should you be surprised?”

“Well, we came fairly close to a quarrel.”

“You call that a quarrel? Let me tell you, when you get in a quarrel with Phil Winslow, you’ll know it! My quarrels leave dead bodies in the streets!”

“Oh, don’t be foolish!” Cara laughed, but it was like a gust of fresh air had blown open the windows of her stuffy world and filled her room. His face was ruddy with the cold, and he had taken off his outer coat. Beneath the lightweight ivory-colored shirt, she could see the long, lean muscles of his arms and his sturdy neck. Glancing down, she looked at his hands—painter’s hands, but his years in the saddle and with rope had left them lean and muscular and sinewy. “Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she said.

Phil leaned back and began to speak. He was surprised at the healthy flush in Cara’s cheeks, for always before she had been poised but weak. She seemed stronger now, and this pleased him. He began by telling her about the race that Peter had won. Then he launched into a description of Avis Warwick and related how she had suddenly come into Peter’s world and tried to sweep him off his feet.

“She’s a pretty fast one, Cara,” he shrugged. “I don’t know much about her, except she’s got enough money to buy the mint, and she’s after Peter.”

Cara had already heard about Avis’s coquettish behavior,
some of it from Clinton. “What would she do with him if she got him? Does she want to marry him?”

“I don’t think she’s the marrying kind. She’s the merry widow, Cara. From what I hear, she’s kind of like a praying mantis.”

“A praying mantis? You mean the insect?”

“Yes. I read a book by a Frenchman called Fabre. Don’t know what I was doing reading a book about bugs. I think it was in a line cabin I stayed in one winter. I guess somebody had left it there, though I don’t know what kind of a cowboy would read a book about bugs.” He grinned at the memory and thought of the fearsome blizzard that had nearly buried the cabin and isolated him in a white and silent world. “I read that book ten times. I think I can quote it from memory.”

“What did it say about the praying mantis?”

“Well, the female’s a pretty rough customer. She’s about twice the size, or more, of the male, and she has the unfortunate habit of eating her husband when she has no more use for him.”

“I can’t believe that!”

“Well, it does sound unsociable, doesn’t it? Anyway, I always think of Avis sort of like that—devouring her men friends. At least so I’ve heard.”

“Have you told Peter this?”

“Well, not in so many words. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway. He’s decided to make a fool of himself, and when a man makes that decision, he has to go ahead and learn the hard way.”

“No, that’s not so!” Cara argued. She felt rather strongly about young Peter Winslow, although she had never met him. Now she said, “The Bible says that we are to warn those who are hurting themselves.”

“It also says not to rebuke a heretic lest you become like him.” Phil was interested in Cara’s fascination with Peter and Avis. “It goes on all the time, Cara. That’s the way life is.” He was instantly sorry, for he saw her drop her head at
his remark. He hastened to say, “Oh, he’ll be all right! Nothing like a young man getting jilted by a woman to toughen him up!”

Carefully Phil steered the conversation to other things, finally mentioning an article he had read in the paper. “Do you know this fellow, Bradley Martin?”

“I’ve met him. His wife’s very nice.”

“What sort of fellow is he?”

“What do you mean?”

“He must be foolish. The article said he spent three hundred and sixty-nine thousand dollars to give a ball at the Waldorf.”

“I read about that. It does sound extravagant.”

“Extravagant? Can you imagine what could’ve been done with that money? People are starving to death all over New York, and here he had to transform that grand ballroom into the Palace of Versailles. The story said he had tailors brought in from Paris who worked for weeks on all kinds of costumes made with silks and lace and pearls. Everybody dressed like in the Court of Louis XV. Apparently some fellow even came dressed in a full suit of armor inlaid with gold that cost a fortune. Foolishness, if you ask me!”

“Yes it is. I agree.”

“I wish some of that money could go to Mary Ann’s friend, George Camrose. He could use it in that little church he’s with.”

“Mary said you’ve been going to the church.”

“Yes. I go every Sunday. George is a fine minister,” Phil nodded, his tone shaded with admiration. “He comes straight at you with the truth. Preaches the gospel red hot and served up with plenty of hot peppers.”

Cara laughed aloud. “It sounds like a supper you would have out west.”

“Well, he’s pretty fiery, but at the same time you know he cares about people, and that makes a difference. I’m willing to
take straightforward stuff as long as I know the man preaching it has a real love in his heart for people.”

“Mary Ann’s very fond of him.”

“Yes, I know. I suppose your father has still forbidden her to go to the church. I never see her.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What does he have against Camrose? He’s a young man who would make a fine son-in-law.”

“He’s going to Africa. Father knows he’d lose Mary Ann.” Phil wanted to say,
A woman of her age is able to make her own decision, and if God’s calling her, she ought to go.
However, it was not time for that, and he knew it would hurt Cara. Instead, he said, “Let me see some of your new paintings.”

“Oh no. Not today.”

Instantly Phil knew something was wrong. “What’s wrong?”

“I haven’t been painting lately.”

Phil leaned forward, his eyes intent, and asked, “What’s the matter, Cara? Are you disturbed about something?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Cara could not put into words why she had ceased to paint. A few times she had gotten out her oils and her canvas and had started in on a new picture. But every time she tried to put paint on the canvas, Phil’s words kept ringing in her ears.
Art should be like life, not just pretty flowers.
It had angered her at first, and she had struggled through producing one rather miserable example of a still life, then had put her paints away. Now she said, “I don’t know, Phil. I just don’t feel like it.”

“I think you ought to force yourself. I don’t believe in inspiration.”

Startled, Cara looked at him. “You don’t? You don’t think artists have to be inspired?”

“I believe more in
perspiration
than inspiration. Sometimes I start on a painting and it just comes from nowhere. The paint,” he said, with an intense look in his fine eyes, “just
seems to lay itself on the canvas. That’s good, and I like it. But there are other times when I can’t do anything right. I can’t think, my fingers won’t work right, and the paint won’t go on right. Nothing seems to work right. What am I supposed to do then?”

“Wait until you feel it.”

Phil suddenly leaned over, stood up, and paced the floor, finally coming to sit down beside her on the chaise lounge. “Did you ever hear of a plumber saying, ‘I don’t
feel
like unstopping that drain.’ ” He made a posture, putting his hand over his heart and looking up to heaven. “I just don’t
feel
it,” he moaned as if he were in pain.

Cara laughed. “That’s ridiculous, Phil!”

“Why’s that? A man knows the plumbing’s got to be fixed. He doesn’t wait until he feels like fixing it. He just gets down and finds out what’s the matter, and he keeps working until it’s fixed. So, when I start painting, no matter how hard it gets, I just keep on going. You know, some of the best things I’ve ever done have come when I didn’t
feel
it. I struggled, but I kept going until I finished.”

Cara sat entranced as Phil Winslow spoke of his art. She realized that he had a great talent and had put his talent to better use than she had. She had no one to talk to about art, and she longed for a friend who shared her love for painting. She had read books about art, but they became dry and dull. But this man before her was exciting and vibrant and alive with a passion for capturing real life in his paintings. His eyes sparkled, and from time to time he got up and paced the floor, throwing his arms about with abandon. It was extremely exciting to her, and her eyes glowed as she sat and listened avidly.

Phil suddenly broke his words off and gave a sharp laugh. “The end of my lecture on inspiration,” he said. “You get the idea.” He came over and sat down beside her. “I don’t mean to overwhelm you with my half-baked ideas, Cara.”

“They’re not half-baked at all. I see exactly what you
mean,” Cara said earnestly. “You’re saying that most artists use inspiration, or the lack of it, to justify their laziness.”

“Why, that’s exactly right! You’re a smart woman. You think exactly as I do.” Phil reached over and picked up her hand and held it. “I’m glad there’s at least two of us that feel like that. Most people don’t, you know.”

Cara was tremendously conscious of the warmth and strength of his hand on hers. He was unconscious of his strength and held her hand so tightly that it ached, but she did not try to withdraw it. Instead, she smiled and said, “Tell me some more about your theories on art.”

Phil gladly obliged, and it was only when he looked at the clock on her mantel an hour later that he started, saying, “My word, look at the time! I’ve been prattling here for over an hour, Cara! Why didn’t you shut me up?”

“Please go on, Phil. I find it all so interesting.”

“No, I’ll come again another time, if I may.”

Phil stood to his feet and Cara rose with him. Her eyes were bright, and she said, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your visit.”

“Have you really? I wasn’t sure whether I ought to come. Our ideas are a little bit different—not about inspiration, perhaps, but about other things.”

“I know. I thought a lot about what you said, Phil.” She wanted to say more, but at that moment the clock began to chime, and they both glanced at it. “Promise you’ll come back,” she said.

“All right, I will.” He hesitated, then said, “I had Clinton bribe the servants not to tell your father I’ve been here.”

To Phil’s surprise, Cara laughed. “I was going to do the same thing myself,” she said. “I will anyhow. A double bribe never hurt anything.”

Phil was pleased with her levity. “That sounds good to me.” He put his hand out, and when she put her hand in his, he held it gently, then bent over and kissed it. It was something he had never done, but the fragility and the obvious difficulty
of her circumstances moved him. He looked up to see color spread into her cheeks and said, “I enjoy being with you, Cara. I’ll see you again soon.”

When the door closed behind Phil, Cara stood absolutely still for a moment. Charley came over and looked up at her quizzically, turning his head to one side. He barked once to get her attention, and leaning over, she scooped him up and buried her face in his fur. “Be still, Charley,” she said as he wiggled around and began licking her chin. She carried him over to the lounge and sat down. She remained still for a long time, abstractedly stroking Charley’s silky coat. She knew she would remember every word that Phil had said and would go over the scene again and again.