The Shadow Portrait (40 page)

The pair sat there talking quietly, Maxim trying to encourage Phil, when suddenly a voice asked, “Who painted this?”

Phil looked up quickly and saw that the nondescript man had come to stand beside them. He was pointing at a picture, and Phil said at once, “I did.”

“Indeed?” The stranger did not give his name but put a pair of mild blue eyes on Phil. “Very interesting. Have you been painting long?”

“Not as long as I should have,” Phil said.

“Where have you studied?”

“I spent a few years in England, went to Spain, and to France. I’ve just come back recently. My name’s Phil Winslow.”

“My name’s Smith.”

“Glad to know you, Mr. Smith.” Phil stood up and said, “Are you interested in the painting?”

“Tell me about it.”

Rather put off by Smith’s curt manner, Phil shrugged. Maxim had already told him the man looked a lot and never bought anything. Nevertheless, he had nothing else to do. The painting Smith was looking at was one he had worked hard on. It was a simple enough scene. He had been in a Chinese restaurant, and as he ate his meal, he noticed a couple who had come in to dine. They were obviously of the upper class, and the woman was ornately dressed, with a great deal of white lace on the front of her dress and an enormous plume in her black hat. A mangy calico cat had somehow wandered into the restaurant and was now seated on the parquet floor. The woman was leaning over to give him a morsel of her food. At a table beside them, two men were looking over and smiling.

It was an ordinary scene, not earthshaking by any means, but the colors of the woman’s dress, the patterned wood floor, the calico cat, and the light streaming in through the two windows behind the couple had seemed extraordinary to Phil. It was mostly a dark painting with muted colors, but he was pleased with it, for he had caught the scene almost as if it were photographed—except better. Phil always thought paintings were better than photographs, and now as he explained how he had come to paint it, the man stared first at the painting and then at him.

Finally, when Phil finished, Smith said, “What about the rest of these?” He pointed quickly at Phil’s other paintings, and Phil was pleased to see that he had some taste.
At least he
knows which ones are mine and which ones aren’t.
Rising to his feet he walked around with the small man and explained the paintings. Soon he found himself giving his life story, which surprised him. Smith was not a man he would have chosen for a confidant, but now he was telling about his days as a cowboy, about his family, and finally he shook his head and gave a half laugh. “I never talked so much in all my life, Mr. Smith. Sorry to be such a blabbermouth.”

Smith had said nothing but continued to stare at the last painting. Then he turned and studied Phil carefully. Phil expected him to speak, but he only nodded curtly, turned, and left the studio.

Maxim, who had taken all this in, exploded. “Well, he not only wants to come and look for nothing, he wants a free lecture!”

“Funny sort of chap,” Phil said. He was disappointed, half expecting that the man would at least make an offer on a painting, but he was accustomed to curious people who could not understand what he was attempting to do with his painting. “I don’t blame him much.” He looked at the painting of the woman feeding the cat, and said, “I’d trade you right now for a good suit of clothes.”

“Who was it who said, ‘Don’t give up the ship’? Well, that’s what I’m telling you, my friend. Never give up.”

Phil reached over and clapped George Maxim on the shoulder. “If everybody in the world were as nice a guy as you, Max, it would be a good world,” he said softly, then turned and left the studio.

Phil’s shoulders, Maxim saw, were drooping, and the excitement that had always been part of his personality had gone. “Poor fellow. He’s not going to make it unless something happens pretty soon.”

As soon as Peter entered the library, Avis Warwick knew something was different. Usually he came in with the express
purpose of cheering her up. She knew that, and more than once had said, “You don’t have to entertain me, Peter.” Now, however, there was a determined look in his eye, and his chin was lifted high. He had the look of a man who had decided to perform a chore, no matter how difficult it was going to be.

“Hello, Peter. Sit down.” Avis waited until he was seated, then began to talk of the latest Dickens book they had been reading. She could tell that he was only waiting to tell her something, and finally she put the book aside and asked, “What’s the matter? Trouble with the car?”

“No. It’s not that. The car’s going very well.” Peter had been apprehensive when he had first told Avis that he had gotten another car and intended to race again soon. He was afraid that the mention of racing would bring back the bitterness that had overwhelmed Avis after the accident. He was fairly certain it had bothered her some when he had told her, but she handled it better than he expected, and then she had actually shown some interest. Right now, though, he could see that she was simply aware of his tension.

“Avis, I want to talk to you.”

Avis waited, and then when he hesitated, she said, “Well, if it’s not the car, what is it? Something’s wrong with you.”

“Avis, I want you to marry me.”

For a moment Avis could not believe she had heard correctly. She had put thoughts of a normal life out of her mind, and now as she stared at Peter, whose face was set and fixed, she could not for the life of her come up with a suitable reply.

Finally he said, “Did you hear me, Avis? I want you to marry me. I care for you very much.”

“Peter—” For a moment Avis could not frame the words, and then she said, “I could never marry you. You need a young woman who . . . one who can be a proper wife to you.”

“You’re a young woman,” Peter said. He had made a speech up in his mind and had risen with determination. He had wrecked her life, and now he felt it was essential to do all he could to make amends. He began to speak quickly. “In the
first place, I believe you’re going to be healed someday. You may not believe that, but I do and Jolie does.”

“I know. She’s always telling me that God’s promised her I’m going to be healed—but I can’t quite believe that.”

“Well, I believe it and she believes it.”

“That’s not all there is to it, Peter, even if I
were
able to walk again. If God were to do this miracle—which I can’t quite make myself accept—I still couldn’t be a proper wife to you. We’re too different.”

“I don’t think that’s always bad. Two people that are just alike, Avis, would make a very boring marriage.” He reached over, took her hand, and said, “I know we’re different. I think you need God in your life, and I think I could help you with that.”

For a long time Avis struggled against Peter’s request for marriage. In truth she knew he did not love her as a man should love a wife. And she did not feel that, as a paralytic, she could give him the love a husband needed. Still, he continued to plead his case ardently, until she finally said, “Peter, it would be good for me and bad for you.”

He suddenly leaned over and took her in his arms. Kneeling beside the wheelchair, he kissed her and said, “We’ll have a good life.”

Avis was more moved than she had ever been in her life. She had been aware that Peter felt responsible for her accident. She also knew he was asking her this out of a sense of guilt, but still, with his arms around her, she felt a security she had never expected to have. She put her arms around him and held him tightly, and in her heart she was saying,
He doesn’t love me and I don’t love him as a woman should love a man, but I have money. He could have anything he wants. He could buy any race car he wants. I’ll help him.
She pushed him back gently and said, “Is this what you truly want, Peter?”

“Yes, it’s what I want.”

“Then let’s begin honestly. You don’t really love me, and I don’t think I’ve ever been able to love a man as a woman
should, but we do have something. And I promise you this. I have more money than I could ever spend. You can go to the very top in your profession. You won’t have to try to put a junk car together. You can have the very best, and I’ll help you do it, Peter.”

Peter knew exactly what he was doing. He had weighed all these things in the balance, and he knew what Avis said was true. They did not love each other with a grand passion. Nevertheless, the accident had made him responsible for her, and he could only fulfill that responsibility if they were married. What she said about money meant nothing to him, but he did not say this to her. It was all she had to give, and he whispered, “We’ll make a great team, Avis,” and he kissed her again.

“Look at all those stars, Peter. Aren’t they glorious?”

Jolie waved her hand up toward the sky at the brilliance of the night’s display. Against the black curtain above, millions of tiny diamond-hard points of light glittered. It was as if the sky were alive, and the stars seemed close enough to reach up and touch.

Glancing up, Peter answered, “Yes, I read the Scripture the other night that God named all the stars—or did I read that in some book?”

Peter had come to have supper with Avis, and afterward they had talked for a long time. Avis had gone to bed early, and Jolie had been surprised to find Peter still there. He had asked her out for a walk, and now, as they strolled along Seventeenth Street, the air felt pleasantly cool after the July heat that had blanketed New York all day.

Jolie noticed that Peter was more thoughtful than usual. She knew him very well, and when such silences came on him, she was sure he was trying to frame some important thought in the right words before he spoke. She did not rush him but walked quietly along beside him until he was ready.

“Jolie . . .” He hesitated, then stopped and turned her around. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“What is it, Peter?”

“I’ve asked Avis to marry me.”

A shock ran through Jolie, for although she had considered this a possibility, it had been far from her mind tonight. She could only say, “Have you, Peter?”

“Yes.” He began to speak quickly, telling her of how it would be, and when he was through he said almost in desperation, “I’ve got to do it. I owe it to her.”

Jolie Devorak put away her dreams. “All right, Peter,” she said, “if that’s what you must do, then you must do it.” The two turned and walked back, and both felt they had lost something important—something that could never be found again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Choice

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lanier.”

“Good day, Edward. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Oliver Lanier took his hat off of the shelf, settled it firmly on his head, then picked up his walking stick. He had been having some sort of knee trouble, which his wife called rheumatism and which he called nonsense. Nevertheless, it had grown so severe that he had bought the walking stick and now leaned on it heavily. As he left the building and waved over a passing hansom cab, he was thinking of how age crept up on a man. Giving his home address, he settled himself into the cab and gave a disdainful look at the automobiles that were beginning to replace many of the horse-drawn vehicles. He hated them, but being an astute man, he knew now that the future lay with them and not with the horse.

Something soothing in the sound of the horses’ hooves as the hansom moved along the street caused him to take off his hat and place it on the seat beside him. Leaning back, he clasped his hands together and tried to put the pain of his knee out of his mind.
It’s no fun growing old,
he thought.
Nothing but aches and pains, and nothing to look forward to.
Such a thought was new to Oliver Lanier, for he had been a man of such driving ambition that he had no time to think of old age. In recent months he suddenly had become aware that those days were now upon him. This realization had come to him with a rush one morning when he was shaving. He had stared at his white hair and streaked beard in the mirror,
startled, yet knowing they had not grown white overnight. Since that morning he had been thinking about his life.

Now he thought of the office he had just left and felt distressed. Until Clinton had walked out, he had not realized how much he depended on him. He also had not realized how much life his son put into the business and what an integral part he played in its day-to-day operations. It was not a humorous sort of business at best, and Clinton, despite the fact that he did not care greatly for it, had brought some humor and youthful vigor into everyday affairs. Oliver had sniffed at this, but the employees had said more than once in his hearing, “The place isn’t the same since Clinton left. No fun at all anymore.”