The Shadow Portrait (37 page)

“I . . . I don’t know. I can’t think right now. This is all so sudden.”

The trip home was a blur to Jolie, and when Peter finally let her out of the cab, she walked into the house without even saying good-bye to him, she was so stunned. She entered the house and went at once to the study, where she found Avis sitting and reading a book. “Avis,” she said, “I’ve just come back from the doctor, but—”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to refuse me? I think that’s pride, isn’t it? Aren’t you Christians supposed to be against that?”

Immediately Jolie knew exactly what she must do. She walked over to Avis and put her arms around her. She felt tears coming to her eyes, and she said, “I can never thank you enough, Avis.”

Avis felt the trembling of the young woman’s body. It was a new experience for her, to be a giver instead of a taker, and she found her own eyes filling with tears. She held Jolie tightly and could not say a word. Finally when Jolie drew back, both women were dabbing at their eyes, and it was Jolie who saw something in Avis Warwick she had never seen before. And she knew that whatever the surgery was going to mean to Jolie, it was, for Avis Warwick, the first time she had ever shown love and concern for another.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A Matter of Faith

The large dining room of the Lanier home was filled as, one by one, the members of the family came down to dinner. Oliver Lanier sat at the head of the table, his massive form solid and strong, and his eyes moving over the room in which he had eaten so many meals. It was a dining room fit for a wealthy family, and he saw it as a tribute to the achievements he had forged over the years. The opulence of the room pleased Oliver, and now his eyes moved around the table as the servants put the food down. Alice, at his right hand, was wearing an attractive olive-colored dress that set off her smooth brown hair. As he gazed at her, as he had done in times past, Oliver was pleased at his choice of a wife. She was completely dedicated to him, he knew, and not given to strange fancies like so many wives. At the age of fifty-one, she still had traces of the beauty that had been hers when he had first seen her at eighteen. Her mild blue eyes were clear, her complexion was good, and her figure was still trim, despite bearing six children.

On his left Benjamin Lanier sat talking to Cara. Oliver was proud of Benjamin. His rich auburn hair and startlingly blue eyes gave him a more handsome appearance than he really had. He had pleasing features and a clear voice that could fill a room with song when the occasion warranted. As he studied Benjamin, Oliver thought,
It’s well enough for him to want to serve the Lord, but as for being a minister, there are
plenty of others who can do that! He can go far as a lawyer. Perhaps even into politics.

Across from Benjamin, Cara turned just now to speak to Mary Ann, who was on her right. Mary Ann always dressed well, although she did not think as much about clothes as many young women did, which pleased Oliver. He admired her slender figure, smooth blond hair, and attractive light blue eyes. She looked tired, and he wondered what could have brought that on. As she suddenly turned to look at him, he was somewhat disconcerted to see a look of fear in her eyes. Oliver knew he was a strict man, but now as he saw the expression on his daughter’s face, he felt disturbed and remembered Clinton’s strong words.

He did not hold her glance long but turned to look at Bess, who had on a bright blue dress that highlighted her red hair and dark blue eyes. She was an emotional child, he knew, and just now was passing from adolescence into young womanhood. Unfortunately, she was having difficulty making that transition. Oliver could not remember his other daughters having this problem, and he resolved to be more patient with her.

Bobby, sitting next to Bess, was already putting away mashed potatoes at an alarming rate. He suddenly gouged Bess with his elbow, which caused her to cry out, and then he grinned broadly at her. “Pass the potatoes, please,” he said, a light dancing in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t treat your sister like that, Bobby,” Oliver said.

“Like what?” Bobby said. “I just asked her to pass the potatoes.”

Oliver met the gaze of his youngest son, who was daring him to mention the elbow in the ribs. But Cara spoke up at that instant, saying, “You must be more gentle with ladies, Bobby.”

Bobby stared at Cara. “She ain’t no lady! She’s my sister!”

“And don’t say
ain’t!
” Cara scolded him.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with it. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Bobby grinned at her broadly. “As long as you know what I’m saying, what difference does it make?”

Almost everyone had given up trying to argue with Bobby, and now it was Benjamin who said, “Don’t argue with him, Cara. You won’t win. He’d argue with a signpost. He ought to make a good lawyer someday.”

“I’m not going to be a lawyer. I’m going to be a fireman,” Bobby announced.

“You can’t be a fireman. You’re too little,” Bess said.

“Well, I’m not through growing yet. When I get through I’ll be as big as Papa, won’t I, Papa?”

“I hope not quite as heavy as I am. You couldn’t climb a fire ladder if you were as big around as I am, son.”

“But I’ll be as tall one day. I’ll be as tall as you, won’t I, Benji?”

“There’s more to being a fireman than being tall. They lead dangerous lives,” Benjamin replied. He lifted the crystal goblet and drank the iced tea thirstily, and then inadvertently, his eyes went to the empty place at the other end of the table. This had always been Clinton’s chair, and his absence created a certain awkwardness for this gathering.

Cara caught Benjamin’s glance and knew exactly what he was thinking. All of them were careful not to speak of Clinton in their father’s presence, but now the irrepressible Bobby looked straight at his father and piped up, “When is Clinton coming home, Papa?”

“I . . . couldn’t say, son.”

“Why did he have to leave anyhow? Are you mad at him?”

“What makes you ask that?” Oliver said. “You’re always asking questions! Now, eat your food and be quiet!”

The rebuke seemed to fall upon the entire party, and it was Cara who, as always, tried to be the peacemaker. “Tell us about things at college, Benji.”

“Same old thing. Books, books, books,” Benjamin said moodily. “I’ll be glad when I get out of that place.”

“You ought to be enjoying it,” Alice spoke up. She was proud of her son who was doing so well at college, and now she smiled fondly. “I’ll be glad, though, when the term’s over. We miss you here at home.”

“Yes, we do,” Bess piped up. “Now that Clinton’s gone it gets—” She stopped suddenly, realizing she had broken an unspoken rule and looked fearfully at her father.

Once again Oliver saw the apprehension in Bess’s eyes. He was very fond of his youngest daughter and did not like to see her bothered any more than he did Mary Ann, who found this awkward moment very uncomfortable and hurriedly began talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s affairs. Oliver had met the president on three occasions and admired him tremendously.

“I hate to think what’ll happen to the country after he’s gone,” Mary Ann said.

“Well, I suppose Taft will be President,” Benjamin remarked idly.

“Yes, and he’s a nobody. We’ll never have a president like Theodore Roosevelt.”

“Oh, I think we might,” Cara said. She was not active in politics, but she followed political affairs in the papers. “It’s my guess that he’ll run again after Taft has a term. He loves being President and in the thick of things.”

For some time the talk centered on Roosevelt, and then Cara excused herself and went back to her room. She was very tired, for she had not been sleeping well lately. Going into her room, she took off her good dress and put on an old one. Slipping into a smock, she picked up her palette and brush and threw herself into the painting that had become so important to her. For over an hour she worked and then stood back with dissatisfaction. “I just
can’t
get it right!” she exclaimed. She stood there, irritated and frustrated with herself.

For some strange reason, she also felt angry toward Phil Winslow. She thought how easy her life had been before he had entered the scene. She had painted flowers and sold them quite successfully, and had received adulation from her family
for her artistic gift. Now she seemed to be caught in a miasma of disturbing emotions she could not even define. The vague unhappiness that had gripped her when Phil had first spoken of living life and painting life as it was had grown until now it occupied her mind almost constantly. She could not seem to master the brush strokes to carry out what she wanted to do, and the resulting turmoil in her heart and mind made it even worse. For years she had kept her emotions under strict control, but now she felt as though they were slipping. There were times when a sense of futility would come over her and she would cry, usually in the silence of the night.

A knock at the door startled her, and she lifted her head, saying, “Come in,” and then stepped away from the painting as her father came in. She reached down to get a cloth to cover it, but before she could, he was by her side, and she saw shock run across his face as he studied the painting.

“So this is what you’ve been doing,” he murmured.

The instant displeasure in the tone of his voice made Cara dread to enter into a conversation with him. He was tremendously proud of her gift as an artist, and she knew that he would not like her new choice of subject, as most did not like the new school of painting.

“What is this, Cara?”

“Oh, it’s just a young woman and her child that I saw once when I was down on the East Side.”

“Not a very attractive subject.”

“Well, I haven’t done well with it.”

“I should think not. It’s not something I would think anyone wants to remember. It reminds me,” he said, “of those pictures of the slums by that fellow. What’s his name—Riis? Ugly things, and I don’t know why anyone pays any attention to them.”

“I think Mr. Riis took the pictures because he wanted to wake up the city to some of the evils of poverty.”

“That’s up to the politicians,” Oliver said.

“And look what the politicians have done with it. The
tenement houses are horrid, squalid places to live, and diseases are mounting all over, and nobody seems to care. People shouldn’t have to live like that!”

“Oh, come now, Cara! That’s putting it too strongly. Many people care.”

“Well, Mr. Riis doesn’t think so, and his photographs have done more to get legislation passed than all of the politicians put together.”

Oliver was unaccustomed to having Cara stand up to him in matters about which they disagreed. He felt uncomfortable as she stood watching him and shifted his position, saying carefully, “I think you’re wasting your time on things like this. You do so well with flowers.”

“There are more things than flowers in the world, Father.”

Startled, Oliver looked at her and saw that there was a lift to her chin and that her back was straight. “You feel very strongly about this, but, Cara, you’ve done so well with your career. Of course there are more things than flowers, but I always thought it was the job of the artist to present beautiful things to make people happy.”

“So did I, but I’ve begun to change my mind.”

Instantly Oliver knew where the trouble lay. “It’s that fellow Winslow, isn’t it? He’s put these ideas into your head!”

Cara turned away from him and moved across the room to stand beside the window. It was dark outside now, and she could see only a few stars overhead. The streetlights were on, but their light was feeble and pale in the immense darkness. She did not answer her father as he came over and stood beside her. Turning, she said, “That woman and her child are part of God’s world, Father. Did you imagine that they were not?”

“Why, Cara, what a thing to say!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cara said and shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m so snappy tonight.”

“Well, I just came up to say good night.” He hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Clinton?”

“Of course I have. He writes almost every other day.”

“He never writes to me.”

Cara did not miss the petulant tone in her father’s voice and was amazed. “Well, Father, why would he write to you? You made it clear enough you didn’t want to hear from him again.”

“Oh, come now, Cara. It wasn’t that bad!”

“Yes it was, Father. You told him to get out and to stay out until he was ready to do everything you said.”

Oliver Lanier had grown tough in the world of business, and that toughness had carried over into his family life. He was a hard man to hurt, but Cara’s strong words did. He had treated his son as he would a competitor, intending to bring him to his senses, but to hear Cara speak so frankly was more painful than anything he had endured. “I just mean well for him, Cara. You certainly know I love my own son.”

Cara hesitated, then put her hand on her father’s arm. “I’m sure you do, but you need to learn to show it more.”

“Does love have to be demonstrated? If it’s there, it’s there.”

“I think it does need to be demonstrated. Even God wants to see it demonstrated.”

“Why, what do you mean by that?” he asked, startled again at her boldness.

“I mean, God wants us to show our love for Him. That’s what praise and worship is. It’s saying that we love God, that we honor Him, that we are devoted to Him. It’s not enough for Him that we do love Him. He wants it
said.
”

“But that’s a different thing altogether.”

“No, it isn’t. I can’t say about men, but I know that women like to be told that they’re admired, that they’re loved. Mother would like to be told, I’m sure.”

“Are you saying I’ve neglected your mother?”

“Why, you’ve given her everything she wants as far as a house, fashionable clothes, and the things that you can put your hands on. But a woman wants more than that,” Cara said. She had not intended to get into such a personal discussion with her father, but it had suddenly exploded. Now she
found herself saying things she had been thinking over the years but had never had the courage to say. “Mother’s like every other woman. She needs those things for her spirit as much as her body needs food. I don’t know why it is—it’s just the way women are made. Men are different.”