The Stranger Came (6 page)

But,
of
course,
it hung
on
a
wall
always
in
the
same
place any
painting
ceased
to
be
seen.
Not
for
years
had
she
consciously
examined
it
or
thought
of
the
girl
and
her
joy
in
being
young,
in
the
miracle
of
her
talent,
all
the
uncertain
future
ahead
of
her
and
the
wonder
of
a
stranger's
reassurance.
He
could
make
that
kind
of
promise
and
be
believed.
He
was
Maitland
even
then
…

She
could
not
recall
the
girl's
name.
When
she
came close
to
the
canvas,
she
could
make
out
the
word
Beth,
but
that
did
not
jog
her
memory,
and
the
name
which
followed
was
no
more
than
a
squiggle
of
the
brush.
But
three
years
later,
or
it
might
have
been
four,
after
their
marriage
anyway,
Maitland
had
unexpectedly
made
up
his
mind
to
discover
what
had
become
of
the
artist.
‘
She's
going
to
be
a
success,’
he
had
said,
‘
just
like
I
told
her –
this
little
canvas
could
be
the
cornerstone
of
our
fortune.’
‘Married
?’
he
had
been
angry
when
she
suggested
that.
‘
What are you talking about? No, she had dedication that girl, she'll be in an attic somewhere painting, and the word will just be beginning to get out.’

He
had
asked
questions
in
galleries,
looked
through catalogues
and
journals,
at
first
almost
casually.
As
he
found
no
one
to
admit
having
heard
of
the
girl,
however,
his
will
took
on
a
sharper
edge
until
she
would
have
hesitated
to
raise
again
the
possibility
that
the
girl
might
be
married
and
have
lost
interest
in
being
an
artist.
Yet
it
did
not
seem
to
her
impossible;
the
impulse
to
create
touched
many
people
but
for
most
of
them –
and
not
least for
women
when
marriage
came
–
it
was
no
more
than
a
part
of
being
young.
She
imagined
the
girl
by
a
fire,
holding
a
baby;
why
would
she
not
be
content?

And
at
the
thought
that
Maitland,
so
exuberantly
more
gifted
than
anyone
else
in
their
circle,
might
be
wrong,
just
for
this
once,
there
was
the
faintest
shameful
touch
of
satisfaction;
but
even
that
had
changed
to
an
unfamiliar
concern
as
he
persisted
in
his
search,
writing
to
friends
from
his
own
student
days
and
following
up
every
connection
with
the
world
of
art.
About
then,
if
she
had
been
driven
to
put
into
words
the
vague
burden
of
her
anxiety,
it
would
have
been
an
apprehension
that
Maitland
had
identified
the
promise
he
had
made
not
simply
with
the
girl's
future
but
with
his
own,
perhaps
he
too
had
never
forgotten
the
look
on
the
girl's
face
as
if
it
were
a
mirror
in
which
he
had
seen
the
image
of
the
man
he
was
going
to
be.
Whatever
was
the
truth,
she
never
had
to
bring
that
perception
to
the
surface,
for
finally
it
had
been
a
friend
of
the
girl
who
had
written
to
him.
Beth
is
dead,
the
letter
said;
she
died
that
summer
of
the
exhibition
in
the
park.
Maitland
had
never
spoken
of
the
painting
again
or
paid
it
any
attention.
If
she
had
not
asked
him,
he
would
not
even
have
told
her
about
the
letter.
If it hadn't been for me,
she
thought,
the painting would be lost now or lying in an attic. It was after all just the same picture whether the girl was dead or alive; just the same picture as the one he had fallen in love with that day in the park. It wasn't the picture's fault that the girl had died
.

Going
from
one
room
to
another,
she
could
name
the
price
of
everything,
the
shop,
the
auction,
by
whose
gift
–
and
wasn't
that
natural?
Home
was
the
place
where
what
you
saw
told
a
story.
If
all
these
stories
were
added
together,
was
that
to
be
the
sum
of
her
life?
Would
there
be
nothing
left
over?
The trouble with you is that you're too contented
,
she
told
herself.
It's not good for anyone to be too much ... too much ...
Her
hold
of
the
fancy
slackened
and
it
drifted
away.
Where
normally
everything
pleased
her,
nothing
did.
All
her
familiar
possessions
.
.
.

Like
a jail,
she
thought,
standing
by
the
front
door
with
her
hands
hanging
by
her
sides,
like a prison. A prison without any guards or bars. I guard myself. I turn the key.

And
with
that
she
came
to
her
senses
in
fright.
I've wakened in a strange mood,
she
decided,
and
felt
better
as
if
she
had
diagnosed
and
prescribed
the
cure
all
at
once.
She
was
not
properly
awake.
She
needed
breakfast;
with
the
thought,
she
was
ravenous.
With
somewhere
to
go,
she
hurried.
So
energetically
did
she
thrust
open
the
kitchen
door
that
it
sprang
back
and
struck
her
on
the
wrist.
Fluffing
up
eggs
yellow
in
a
pan,
she
felt
the
burn
and
nip
of
the
knock
and
wiped
tears
from
her
eyes.
Seated
at
the
divider
between
kitchen
and
dining
area,
she
ate
so
greedily
that
pieces
of
the
scrambled
egg
sprayed
in
crumbs
from
her
lips.
She
was
bent
forward,
dabbing
them
up
so
that
nothing
would
escape
her
hunger,
when
she
glanced
to
the
side
and
saw
a
figure
on
the
other
side
of
the
glass
door.