The Shadow Portrait (34 page)

The service was not long, but it was powerful. As usual, Barney spoke well, not with eloquence, but with great fervor. He was thrilled and excited to be preaching the gospel here in New York, and it showed. When he began to relate the scenes of some of the remarkable answers to prayer God had wrought in the dark continent, the audience listened breathlessly. As he told how one of the best and most effective missionaries had died in his arms, there was scarcely a dry eye in the congregation.

Finally he brought the sermon to a close and issued a call for those who felt led to give their lives on the foreign mission field to come forward.

Phil was alert, and as he expected, Clinton stepped out and escorted the two “widows” outside. They had not gone far, however, when Phil caught up with them. They were just nearing the small carriage in which Clinton had brought them. “Hello, Clinton,” he said. “Great service, wasn’t it?”

“Why . . . yes it was,” Clinton said, looking nervously at his sisters.

“Hello, Mary Ann. Hello, Cara,” Phil said in a normal voice.

“You recognized us!” Mary Ann gasped.

“Why, certainly.” Phil attempted to show surprise. “Was I not supposed to?”

Cara suddenly laughed. “What a trio of idiots we are! Everybody knows you have two sisters, and we can veil our
faces, but we’ve been here often enough that Mary Ellen would certainly know who we are, and she was here.”

“I’ll speak to her and see that she doesn’t tell Father,” Clinton said.

“And you won’t tell, will you, Phil?” Cara said. She lifted her veil and smiled. There was more life in her face than usual, and she said, “It was a great service, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was,” Phil nodded. “I’ve never heard a preacher like Barney Winslow. He puts his whole heart in preaching the gospel. He cares for nothing else.”

“I wish I could invite you home,” Cara said, “but—”

“I know, but I do hear a kind heart speaking there. How’s the painting going?”

Cara dropped her eyes. “Not well,” she said.

“Maybe I could be of some help. Could we meet sometime and talk about painting?” He did not expect her to answer, and she did not. He could sense that she longed to escape the life of confinement she now endured and move into another realm of life, but she had not yet reached the point where she could break away from old ties.

“We’d better go,” Cara said. “Good-bye, Phil. I wish—” She halted abruptly, then shook her head, and Phil helped her into the carriage. When Mary Ann and Clinton had seated themselves, Cara looked out and said, “I’m trying, but all I can do is come up with a background. I can’t paint a soul yet, Phil.”

“You will, Cara,” Phil said reassuringly. He reached up and, to her shock, took her hand and kissed it before releasing it. She could not answer, and as the carriage moved away, she covered the spot his lips had touched. It seemed to be burning, and she did not speak on the way home.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Coming of Age

Sunlight poured down through the skylights in solid bars, almost as tangible as yellow bands of butter. Phil Winslow narrowed his eyes and applied fine brush strokes to the painting propped before him. His shoulders ached, the fingers of his right hand were stiff, and the strokes did not please him. With an impatient snort, he shook his head, turned around and almost collided with Bill Crumpler, who had come up quietly and stood watching him. Running into Crumpler was almost like running into a brick wall, for the burly art instructor was settled firmly on his feet. Reaching out, he repelled Phil, saying, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“Why don’t you go stand somewhere else, Crumpler?” Phil snapped back.

“Well, we have a temper today, I see.” Crumpler had startling blue eyes, which always struck people as strange. He had the body of a saloon bouncer, and his short-cropped black hair made him look like a pugilist, which, as a matter of fact, he had been for a time. His features showed some of the battering he had taken, and now he pulled at his thickened left ear as he studied the painting. “What’s the matter with you, Phil? You’ve forgotten everything I’ve taught you.”

“I don’t think so,” Phil answered curtly, for he was unhappy with his efforts. He had attempted to paint a picture of children playing ball in the streets, but nothing had seemed to work. “Just one of those things that didn’t come off, I guess,” he said lamely.

Crumpler was studying the painting carefully. He said nothing for a time, which made Phil rather nervous. “You know what I think?” he grunted. “I think you’ve got woman trouble.”

Phil’s jaw dropped and he blinked with surprise. “What are you talking about? I do a bad job on a picture and you think I’ve got troubles with women! What kind of art teacher are you, anyhow?”

“I think most of the time when men fail they’ve got troubles with women, one way or another.” He grinned abruptly and his eyes almost disappeared in a crinkling expression. “That’s why I’m not a great artist. Too much woman trouble, or at least I had it when I was a young man.”

“You’re not old now, Bill. Still plenty of time for lots of woman trouble.”

“Deliver me from that.” Crumpler slumped down on a cane-bottomed chair and ignored the alarming creaking it made. “Tell me about it. Doctor Bill Crumpler, woman trouble specialist. We never close.”

Phil stared at the stocky man and started to deny it, then he bit his lip and shook his head. “You know, Bill, you may be right in a way.”

“I knew it. Well, tell me about it. Is she some floozy that’s taken you for all you’ve got?”

“She wouldn’t get much,” Phil said. He scratched his temple with the wooden tip of the brush he was holding, then said, “No, nothing like that.”

Crumpler waited for him to say more, but when Winslow remained silent, he shrugged, saying, “I sometimes think a man can’t be an artist and a husband at the same time. Don’t know why that is.”

Phil stared at the instructor as Crumpler wandered off, and slowly began to clean his brushes. As he thought about what Crumpler said, he began to see the truth in it. Phil realized that he was disturbed about Cara Lanier. Ever since he had met Cara, he found she came into his thoughts at odd times,
sometimes at night as he lay restless on the bed, sometimes as he was walking along the waterfront studying the ships that lined the harbor. When he was trying to find a new aspect for painting the bridges that spanned the East River, thoughts of her would come that were both pleasant and provoking.

With an unusual abruptness he cleaned his brushes, tossed them carelessly into a drawer, then left the institute. The sun was going down now, and a spectacular gold and pink sky was visible over the buildings to the west. He paid little attention to that, however, for he was thinking of how Cara Lanier’s plight had come to plague him. He was furious with her father and wanted to knock the man down and hold him while he shouted the truth at him. He had passed beyond that to irritation with Cara for permitting herself to be manipulated; but lately he had become more compassionate, trying to understand, and succeeding in a way to see how a gentle, gracious woman who had suffered poor health could look to a strong male figure for guidance and help. Now as he walked along slowly, his eyes automatically taking in the vendors and the cab drivers, businessmen on their way home from their offices, and all the thronging multitude that inhabited the great city, he thought of Cara’s face. It came before him as clearly as if it were on a canvas. To him there was something about her that no other woman possessed. Even in her weakness there was an attraction. He was totally convinced that she was stronger than she knew, and somehow he longed to see her cheeks glowing with health and her eyes bright with energy and life.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, he suddenly asked himself the question that had been flirting around the edges of his consciousness.
Am I in love with Cara Lanier?

The question came to him with something of a shock. He had known he was interested in her as an artist whose talent was being wasted, but this was not the same thing.
If she were free from her father’s tyranny and were just another young woman, I’d know what to do. But to tear her away from him
now, I don’t know what it would do to her. I just don’t know if she’s strong enough, or if she thinks she’s strong enough.

As he continued along the street a resolution formed itself, and he picked up his pace. He knew that he could not go on forever with this sort of division within his own heart and mind. It was dark now, and Phil Winslow suddenly laughed aloud. “After all, I’m going to see Cara, and if Oliver Lanier catches me, he can shoot me if he wants to!”

Usually Phil Winslow was a more deliberate sort of man, but the indecision that had come to plague him concerning Cara had gone as far as he could stand. He made his way to the Lanier house and stood looking at it for a moment. It appeared especially massive in the darkness, with its form revealed only by the soft yellow glow of the streetlights outside. The windows shone by this hour, and looking up, he saw what he knew to be Cara’s window. The drapes were closed, but through them he could see the soft glow of her reading lamp.

A porte-cochere extended from the front corner of the house, and when he saw its roof connected with that of a small protective overhang in front, an idea came to him. Quickly he approached the house, scaled to the roof of the porte-cochere, and edged along the house wall toward Cara’s window. Putting his ear against the glass, he listened hard but heard nothing; then he tapped with his fingernails. Still nothing. Again he tapped, this time louder, and called out, “Cara! Cara!”

A thought came to him of how ridiculous he must look, but he had ceased to care. He called again and tapped with his knuckles. “Cara, open the window!”

Suddenly the drapes opened and Cara’s face appeared. He saw her eyes fly open with astonishment, and her hand covered her lips as if to seal them. Then she reached down and opened the window. “Phil, what are you doing here?”

“I’ve got to talk to you.” Phil put his hand on the sill, lifted himself up, and swung one leg over, ignoring Cara’s protests.
He put both feet inside, then reached back and closed the drapes. A reckless smile was on his lips, and he said, “I’d like to be able to use the front door.”

“My father would provide the reception,” Cara said. Fear shone in her eyes, and the yellow lamplight reflected in them as she stared up at him. “You can’t stay here!”

“Yes, I can.” Phil suddenly realized how much he cared for her. He was aware of her loveliness and vulnerability in a way he had not been before.

Cara flushed as he gazed at her. Clutching her robe together at her throat, she whispered, “Phil, have you lost your mind?”

“I’m going to if I don’t settle something.” Reaching out, he pulled her closer. She gasped, but he gave her no opportunity to protest. Drawing her into his embrace, his hands went behind her back, and then he kissed her. He half expected her to push him away, but her lips were soft and yielding under his, and she allowed him to pull her closer. As her arms lifted and went around his neck, he knew the longings in his own heart were matched by her own. She was innocent, and yet there was a passionate crying out for something that he felt in the eagerness of her lips and the warmth of her embrace as she leaned against him.

For the moment, Cara was completely unable to think. As Phil’s strong arms tightened around her, she suddenly realized that something in her had been released. It was as if a dam had broken, and she returned his caress as eagerly as he gave it. Now she knew how much this man loved her. His interest was no longer a matter of art. And for Cara Lanier there was no question but that she cared deeply for Phil Winslow.

Finally Cara gasped and put her hands against his chest. “Let me go, Phil.”

Phil raised his head but did not release her. “I don’t want to ever let you go, Cara,” he whispered. He paused and saw the pleasure that softened her lips and was reflected in her eyes at his words. He understood she was a woman who
needed to be told that she was wanted and needed, that she was beautiful and desirable. “I love you, Cara.”

“Don’t . . . don’t say that, Phil.” Cara pulled away, suddenly filled with confusion. She knew the truth of his declaration, but hearing him speak it aloud caused the reality of their situation to come to her fully.

“Why not? It’s true enough. Maybe I didn’t know it myself until I kissed you, but now I know.”

“No, it’s not that way. You don’t want me.”

“Why would you say a thing like that?”

“You need a strong young woman, Phil. I’m not able to give you what you need.”

Phil shook his head. “That’s foolishness, Cara. You’ve been ill, but there’s strength in you. If you’ll let me, I can bring it back. Why, I can already see the beginnings of something wonderful, of what we can have together.”

Cara listened and her heart leaped at his words, but there was uncertainty and fear and doubt. She had been ill too long to let go of the fears that had built up slowly within her. “No, I could never do it.”

“Do you love me, Cara?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you love me?” he insisted, and he held her tightly as she tried to pull away. “Tell me. I know you do.”

He kissed her again, and this time more gently. When he lifted his lips, her heart was beating so loudly she thought she could hear it. “Let me go, Phil, and please go.”

“Come away with me, Cara.”

For one moment Cara thought she had misunderstood him, and then she knew she had not. “Come away with you? Why, Phil, I can’t do that!”

“Come with me to England.” He saw a strange expression leap into her eyes, and knew he had touched the heart of one of her deepest desires. “We won’t have much money, but we’ll make it. We’ll have each other. We’ll learn to paint. It’ll be spring, and you’ll see flowers such as you’ve never seen in this
country.” He spoke passionately and finally ended by saying, “Come away with me.”

Cara, for one instant, knew that there was nothing in the world she desired more than to give herself into the keeping of this tall man. She had the sudden feeling that if she could just put her hands on his strong neck, the health that she felt there would flow into her. She did so now, and yet at the same time she shook her head, whispering in an agonizing whisper, “I can’t, Phil. I just can’t run away with you!”