The Shadow Portrait (45 page)

“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you!”

Phil looked with surprise at George Maxim. The bearded man’s blue eyes were electrified, and he grabbed Phil and almost shook him. “I could have choked you! Why did you run off so long?”

“Why, I didn’t think there was any need to hurry back. My train doesn’t leave until six.”

“You’re not catching any train! Come in here!”

Mystified, Phil allowed himself to be dragged inside. He felt Maxim’s excitement, but he could not imagine what had caused it.

“Mr. Devoe, here he is. He’s back.”

Phil noted that there was only one customer in the shop, a small man plainly dressed, and when he turned, there was a familiar look on his face. Phil had seen him before, but he couldn’t remember where, nor did he remember the name.

The man called Devoe came forward and stood before Phil, a slight smile on his plain face. He said, “I’m glad you came back, Mr. Winslow.”

Phil took the hand Devoe offered, and said, “I guess you have the advantage of me, Mr. Devoe. I remember your face, but I can’t seem to remember where we met.”

“Right here in my shop,” Maxim said. “Only he called himself Mr. Smith then.”

Suddenly Phil remembered the man. He had seen him twice and remembered what Maxim had said both times.
“All he does is come and look. Never buys anything.”
Now he looked with interest at the older man and said, “Oh yes, I remember now.”

“He’s interested in your paintings, Phil. He wants to buy some.”

Maxim’s announcement caught Phil off guard. He had lost
hope of ever selling his work, and now suddenly it seemed impossible that anything like this could happen. He stared at Devoe speechless, then said, “Well . . . that’s good news.”

“Good news!” Maxim exclaimed. “Good news? Phil, you don’t understand. This is Horatio Devoe.”

The name meant nothing to Phil, and he looked helplessly at Maxim, who shook his head in disgust. “I never saw such ignorance! Mr. Devoe is the owner of several railroads, but more important for you, he’s a collector of paintings.”

“I take more pleasure out of the paintings I purchase than I do out of my railroads, I’m afraid,” Devoe said. He had a low-pitched voice and seemed not to emphasize anything. Interest, however, sparked his dark eyes as he studied Phil. “I’m not really interested in the old masters. What I like to do is find new talent.”

“I should say he does. Why, he was the one who discovered Robert Monroe’s work.” Robert Monroe was one of the premier artists of the country, a young man whose work had taken the art world by storm.

“Well, you picked a winner in Robert Monroe. He’s a fine artist. Perhaps the best,” Phil said.

“Perhaps, but I keep looking for others.”

Maxim could not stand still. “He got a corner on Monroe’s early paintings. He found them and bought every one of them, and now he’s got them all. Every painting Robert Monroe paints now is worth thousands of dollars, but the old ones, who can say what they’re worth?” He turned to Devoe, saying, “I’d love to see your collection, Mr. Devoe.”

“Why, I think that could be arranged, but first let’s do some trading with this young man. I’d like to buy your complete works, Mr. Winslow.”

“Well, I guess you can call me Phil if you’re going to buy my paintings.” Phil’s mind was reeling as he stared at the small man. “You mean . . .
all
of them?”

“Yes, I’m convinced that you’re going to be as famous as
Robert Monroe, and I want to have first call on all of your work.”

Maxim suddenly gouged at Phil with his elbow. “I forgot to mention, Mr. Devoe, I’m Phil’s agent.”

An amused smile came to Devoe’s thin lips. “I see. Rather a recent decision, I suppose?”

Phil laughed. “Not really. I know nothing about the commercial side of painting. I would appreciate it if you would deal with Max here for my work.”

“Of course. Most painters prefer that,” Devoe nodded. He studied the young man, then said, “I may lose money on your work. I have on several.” He shook his head. “It’s a gamble. I’d be better off, my wife tells me, betting on horses. It’s far more stable than the world of art.”

Phil laughed and suddenly the excitement began to build in him. “Let me get out of the way and you can talk to Max about money.”

Phil stepped outside the shop. He did not know whether to yell or run. It all seemed like a fairy tale to him, and he couldn’t quell the excitement. He took off his soft cloth hat, threw it in the air, and let out a loud yell, just as if he were on the back of a wild bronco. A uniformed policeman, who had been just behind him, came up at once and said, “Look, fella. I’m going to have to run you in. You’re creating a disturbance. Are you drunk?”

Phil grinned merrily and said, “No, officer, except drunk with joy.”

The policeman’s broad Irish face creased with a grin. “Well, there’s no law against that. Just keep it down, will you?”

“Sure,” Phil agreed. He could not keep still and for over an hour he managed to stay away. When he finally went back, Devoe was gone and Maxim was sitting in a chair, a pale look on his face.

“He bought them all.” Maxim was staring at a slip of paper, and he could not seem to take his eyes off of it. “Here’s the check.”

Phil took the small slip of paper, stared at the amount, and suddenly felt lightheaded. He could not speak for a moment, then he looked at Maxim and said in an unsteady voice, “This . . . this has to be of God, Max.”

“Yes, it does. You’ve been faithful to Him. I know how you’ve always given to the church, and to those in need, and now God’s going to reward you.”

Phil went over and pulled the older man up and gave him a hug. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Max. You really deserve all this.”

“Just my usual fee. Ten percent. That’s all I’ll take.” His eyes were misty and he wiped them with a handkerchief, saying, “It always makes me feel good to see a good person come out on top. What are you going to do with all that money?”

Phil stared at the check and said, “I’m going to invest it wisely. Come along. We’re going to the bank, and I’m going to give you your percentage, and then I’ve got a call to make!”

Cara was startled at the knock on her door. She started to respond when suddenly the door flew open—and there stood Phil Winslow. She got a brief glimpse of the maid, Ruth, who was protesting, and then Phil stepped in and shut the door. The look on his face caused her to exclaim, “Why, Phil, what is it?”

She was standing in front of the portrait she had come to call the
Shadow Portrait.
Phil walked over and took one look at it, then blinked with surprise. “It’s finished!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” Cara said. She looked at the painting and asked anxiously, “Do you like it, Phil?”

Examining the portrait closely, Phil paid careful attention to the faces of the subjects—a woman and a young girl. The woman’s face showed all the lines of hard living. Her eyes were shadowed and her forehead was creased. She still had traces of early beauty, but it was obvious from the expression and the lines on her face that she had endured difficult
times. Now his eyes went to the young girl, where he saw the resemblance to that of the woman. She was very young and had not been scarred by time and circumstance as her mother had. There was hope in her wide open eyes, and she held her mother’s hand with confidence. Her clothing was poor and ragged, but it was the expression on her face that moved Phil. She had that innocent look of one who had hope for the future, despite a miserable existence.

Phil did not take his eyes off the painting for a time, then he whispered, “You’ve done it, Cara! You’ve caught the struggle for life. Look at that woman’s face. It’s got everything! She’s lost her youth and her beauty, but she has a child. You’ve got her holding on to her, and just by looking at it, you can tell she’s put all of the hopes and dreams that she had for herself in the girl,” he murmured. “What a beautiful child. Dirt and rags and all the rest of it, but still a beautiful soul.”

Phil turned and saw tears in Cara’s eyes. At once he said, “Why, there’s no need to cry.”

“I can’t help it,” Cara sobbed. “Somehow it took everything I had out of me. I’ve been working on it for weeks and it wouldn’t come. It was only a shadow.”

“Well, the shadow’s gone and now we have the reality. You’re a fine artist, Cara, and now I want to take back what I said. You know about life—perhaps more than I do.” He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve had a harder blow than I ever had. I’ve thought about how I came in here making all sorts of proclamations about not being afraid of life.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “You’re the strongest woman I know, Cara Lanier.”

“Oh, Phil—!” Cara could not speak, her heart was so full, and then he pulled her forward, and she rested her face against his chest. He held her gently as she wept silently, stroking her hair and not caring if anyone came in.

Finally he took her chin and moved her face upward. Taking his handkerchief out, he wiped her tears. “Cara, I want you to come away with me.”

Cara stared at Phil. She was still shaken by the scene, but now she could not seem to understand his words. “Come where, Phil?”

“Away from this house—out in the sunshine, under the trees, in the fields, in the streets.” Phil did not release her but indicated the room with a quick gesture of his head. “You’ve got to get out of this place. It’s nothing but a prison for you.” He looked steadily in her eyes. “I don’t know how to say this very originally, but I love you, Cara.”

The words to Cara Lanier were sweet and precious beyond belief. For years she had put all thoughts of such love out of her mind, but now as she felt Phil Winslow’s arms around her and looked into his eyes, she let his words of love sink down into her spirit. They were like soft rain on a parched desert, and she could not speak for a moment. All of the impossibilities of what he was asking rose before her and tried to crowd their way into her mind, but she put them all aside. Looking up at him, she whispered, “I’ll go anywhere with you, Phil, anywhere in the world!”

For Phil, this was all the answer he needed, and he made no immediate reply. He had carried in his mind a picture of some woman. It had been shaped and imaged and rounded and given life by the dreaming that comes to a man in his private thoughts. Now as he looked into Cara Lanier’s face, he knew there would never be another one like her for him.

As for Cara, she had imagined love as something that would come upon a woman suddenly. She had thought it would be absolutely clear and complete, with no uncertainty to it. And now she knew that was right, for she realized she loved Phil Winslow. Shyly she reached up and touched his cheek, whispering, “My dear, I do love you so much!”

And then when he bent and kissed her, her heart filled with a love so strong she knew that whatever happened in the future, they would face it together. One thought came to her, and she said, “I’m not sure what will happen if we go away.”

“I’m not either. We never are sure of these things, but of
one thing I’m absolutely certain,” Phil said softly, his voice gentle. “I love you as a woman needs to be loved, and I’ll care for you as best I can.”

“That’s all I ask. Just love me,” Cara whispered, and then she kissed him again.

As Oliver entered the room and took one look at Alice’s face, he knew something was going on. He had actually been feeling better. His knee had improved greatly since he had followed Dr. McKenzie’s instructions. He had been excited by his two excursions with Clinton and had hopes that his son would return to the office, at least on a part-time basis. He himself had grown interested in auto racing and had actually gone over to watch as Clinton, Peter, and Easy worked on the car, preparing it for the next race.

Now, however, Alice’s face was stiff with anxiety, and all of the buoyancy Oliver felt suddenly faded away. “What is it, Alice?” he asked. He moved across with only a slight limp and stood beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Cara,” Alice said with difficulty. She kept her eyes fixed upon him and could not seem to go on.

Fear grabbed his heart, and he demanded, “Is she worse?”

Alice could not seem to answer the question, which seemed strange. Finally she said in a tight voice, “I don’t know what you’d say to that. Physically, she’s not.” Taking a deep breath, Alice said, “She’s gone, Oliver.”