She smiled demurely and replied, “I loved it! You’ve done a wonderful job with the Jolie Blonde II.”
“I didn’t do much really. Peter and Easy did all the real work.”
“I know how much you’ve helped by what Jolie has told me,” Avis insisted. “This victory is yours, too.”
Clinton found her compliments very pleasing and suddenly seemed at a loss for words. He could only mutter, “Thank you.”
Avis then said, “Do you think you could show me some of the additions you made to the Jolie Blonde II?”
“Why . . . why sure,” Clinton said, then pushed Avis toward the automobile. As he talked excitedly about the car and all they had done to it, Avis listened attentively.
As Peter and Jolie watched the two move away, Peter whispered, “Looks like there might be another wedding in the future.”
Jolie could only smile as she watched her two friends simply enjoying being together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I’ll Go Anywhere With You . . . !”
For nearly an hour Phil Winslow had sat on the side of his bed staring at the wall. It was not that the wallpaper was so enticing, for it merely consisted of a series of rather faded roses. He was as unaware of the faint sounds that came from Mrs. Brown’s housecleaning activities as he was of the traffic outside on the streets. He had pulled on a pair of clean brown trousers and slipped on his socks and was tying one shoe when suddenly a sense of futility swept over him. He sat holding the other shoe for a long time, staring at it blankly, as the events of his life seemed to swarm before his eyes. Finally he dropped the shoe and simply sat there staring, his eyes blank and unaware of anything in the room.
A loud screeching noise outside brought him out of his reverie with a start. Loud voices, one of them cursing, floated through the open window in the small adjoining sitting room. Then engines roared and moved on down the street. Phil picked up the shoe he had dropped, slipped his foot into it, and carefully tied the laces. Straightening up, he sat for a moment, almost paralyzed by indecision. Then he shook his head and muttered, “I’ve got to stop kidding myself. This is no good!”
Standing quickly, he walked over to the chest, opened a drawer, and pulled out a clean white shirt. He slipped into it, buttoned it, and stuffed it into his trousers, then pulled his suspenders up with a decisive tug. “Time to move on,” he murmured. His lips drew thin, for it was a decision that had been pressing at him for days now. He had not sold a single painting yet and was as depressed as he had ever been in his life. He made a convulsive movement with his shoulders, as if shrugging off a burden, stepped over to the bed, and bent down. Pulling out his suitcase, he put it on the bed, opened it, and then began to move back and forth between the bed and the chest of drawers, packing his clothing and finally his shaving kit. By the time he finished, he had emptied the chest of drawers and the suitcase was stuffed. For a moment he stood there; then he fastened the suitcase. Picking it up, he took a last look around the room and a wave of regret swept over him. I hate to leave here, he thought, but there’s nothing else to do.
Resolutely, he stepped outside and moved down the hall. He found Mrs. Brown sweeping the hallway and came over to her. “Mrs. Brown, I’ll be leaving and I wanted to say good-bye.”
A startled look leaped into her eyes, and she exclaimed, “Why, Phil, what brought this on?”
“Business failure.” Phil made himself grin. “I’ve given it the best shot I had. Now it’s time to go back and punch cows in Montana. I guess that’s what I was supposed to do all the time.” He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “You’ve been more than a landlady. You’ve been like a second mother to me. I’ll miss you.”
Phil received her hug, then shook off her protests that it was too early to quit and left the rooming house. As he made his way down the street he calculated how much money he had left. It came to enough for a train ticket back to the ranch. I’ve got to go by and tell Peter and the others good-bye, but I’ll miss them something fierce, he thought. A heaviness settled on him as he walked slowly toward Maxim’s Gallery. When he entered, he found Maxim with a white apron on rearranging the paintings.
“Hello, Phil. Come to give me a hand? I’m redoing the whole thing.”
“I guess so,” Phil said.
Suddenly Maxim saw the suitcase in Phil’s hand. “What’s this?” He frowned. “You find another room?”
“I’m going back to my old room on the ranch. I’m cashing in my chips, Max.” Maxim was more shocked than Phil had imagined he might be. His eyes filled with concern, and he rushed over and shook Phil’s arm.
“No, you can’t do that! You’ve got to hang on a while longer. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I’ve been through all that, Max. I’ve been a drain on my family long enough. I’ll do what painting I can back home. What I wanted to ask you to do is to maybe keep a few of these, and I’d like to ship the rest of them. I think I’ve got enough money for that.”
Maxim was truly grieved. For some time he stood there arguing, but it was useless, for Phil was adamant. Finally Phil said, “I’m going over and say good-bye to Peter and Easy and Jolie. I’ll be back for my suitcase. The train leaves at six tonight.”
Leaving the gallery, Phil went at once to his friends’ rooming house, where he found Peter, Jolie, and Easy outside in the backyard, as usual, working on the Jolie Blonde II. They greeted him warmly, but when he told them he was returning to Montana, all of them began to argue with him. Phil listened to them, then grinned, saying, “Never was a hoss couldn’t be rode. Never was a cowboy couldn’t be throwed. So I guess I’ve been throwed this time, but I want to tell you three how much it has meant having you for friends.”
“Phil, it’s too soon to give up,” Jolie said. “You haven’t given it a fair chance.”
As she looked up at him he noticed how the scar on her face was so faint now that you had to be close to see it. He shook his head, then gave her a hug. “I’ve said all that to myself, Jolie, but I’ve got to go. Good-bye.” He reached over and shook hands with Peter and grinned. “I’d like to be at the wedding, but you’ll have to have it without me. So long, Easy.”
It was hard to say good-bye to these three. He promised to write, as did they, but as he made his way back to Maxim’s, he knew such things never worked out very well. He was thinking, Well, at least I’ve had a good run for my money. I’ve met some fine people. Some of my kin. I would never have met them if I had stayed on the ranch.
He went by George Camrose’s church long enough to bid him good-bye and promised to keep in touch when he got to Africa. “You take care of that young woman. She’s a winner.”
“You’re making a mistake, I think, Phil.” Camrose’s eyes were troubled, and he said, “What about Cara?”
“Why, I wish her well. She has a great talent but a difficult way to go.”
“Mary Ann says Cara is in love with you.”
“Oh, there’s nothing to that.”
“How do you feel?”
Camrose’s direct question troubled Phil, but he was honest. “She’s like no woman I’ve ever met. If things were different—” He broke off and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t have anything to offer her, George. She’s always had everything.”
“That won’t mean anything to her if she loves you. Go tell her.”
“No, I can’t do that. It would be asking too much. Good-bye, George. God bless you. I’ll think of you in Africa, and you might say a prayer for me now and then.”
“You can believe I’ll do that!”
It was too early for the train, and for most of the day Phil simply wandered around saying good-bye to his old friends. He stopped by to bid farewell to Robert Henri and some of the other painters he had learned to admire. They were sad to see him go, and as Phil left them he felt his heart wrench, thinking, I’ll never be around fellows like this. Not out on a cattle ranch.
As he walked the streets of the city, he came
upon the Brooklyn Bridge and stopped for a moment. He remembered the times he had spent hours painting the image of the magnificent structure. “Won’t be any Brooklyn Bridges out on the range,” he murmured. Then weary of his own thoughts, he turned and headed back to the art gallery.
“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!”
The Shadow Portrait Page 33