The Hollow of Her Hand

by George Barr McCutcheon

  CHAPTER V

  DISCUSSING A SISTER-IN-LAW

  "You remember my sister-in-law, don't you, Brandy?" was the questionthat Leslie Wrandall put to a friend one afternoon, as they satdrearily in a window of one of the fashionable up-town clubs, alittle more than a year after the events described in the foregoingchapters. Drearily, I have said, for the reason that it was Sunday,and raining at that.

  "I met Mrs. Wrandall a few years ago in Rome," said his companion,renewing interest in a conversation that had died some time beforeof its own exhaustion. "She's most attractive. I saw her but once.I think it was at somebody's fete."

  "She's returning to New York the end of the month," said Leslie."Been abroad for over a year. She had a villa at Nice this winter."

  "I remember her quite well. I was of an age then to be particularlysensitive to female loveliness. If I'd been staying on in Rome, Ishould have screwed up the courage, I'm sure, to have asked her tosit for me."

  "Lord love you, man, she's posed for half the painters in the world,it seems to me. Like the duchesses that Romney and those old chapsused to paint. It occurs to me those grand old dames did nothing butsit for portraits, year in and year out, all their lives. I don'tsee where they found time to scratch up the love affairs they'rereported to have had. There always must have been some painter orother hanging around. I remember reading that the Duchess of--Ican't remember the name--posed a hundred and sixty-nine times, fornearly as many painters. Sara's not so bad as all that, of course,but I don't exaggerate when I say she's been painted a dozentimes--and hung in twice as many exhibits."

  "I know," said the other with a smile. "I've seen a few of them."

  "The best of them all is hanging in her place up in the country,old man. It's the one my brother liked. A Belgian fellow did it acouple of years ago. Never been exhibited, so of course you haven'tseen it. Challis wouldn't consent to its being revealed to thevulgar gaze, he loved it so much."

  "I like that," resented Brandon Booth, with a mild glare.

  "Lot of common, vulgar people do hang about picture galleries, youwill have to admit that, Brandy. They visit 'em in the winter timeto get in where it's warm, and in the summer time they go becauseit's nice and shady. That's the sort I mean."

  "What do you know about art or the people who--"

  "I know all there is to know about it, old chap. Haven't we gotGainsboroughs, and Turners, and Constables, and Corots hanging allover the place? And a lot of others, too. Reynolds, Romney andRaeburn,--the three R's. And didn't I tag along with mother topicture dealers' shops and auctions when every blessed one of 'emwas bought? I know ALL about it, let me tell you. I can tell you whatkind of an 'atmosphere' a painting's got, with my eyes closed; andas for 'quality' and 'luminosity' and 'broadness' and 'handling,'I know more this minute about such things than any auctioneer in theworld. I am a past master at it, believe me. One can't go aroundbuying paintings with his mother without getting a liberal educationin art. She began taking me when I was ten years old. Challiswouldn't go, so she MADE me do it. Then I always had to go backwith her when she wanted to exchange them for something else thedealer assured her she ought to have in our collection, and whichinvariably cost three times as much. No, my dear fellow, you arevery much mistaken when you say that I don't know anything aboutart. I am a walking price-list of all the art this side of theDresden gallery. You should not forget that we are a very old NewYork family. We've been collecting for over twenty years."

  Both laughed. He liked Wrandall best when he affected mockeryof this sort, although he was keenly alive to a certain breath ofself-glorification in his raillery. Leslie felt a delicious senseof security in railing at family limitations: he knew that no onewas likely to take him seriously.

  "Nevertheless, your mother has some really fine paintings in thecollection," proclaimed Booth amiably, also descending to snobbishnesswithout really meaning to do so. He considered Velasquez to be thesuperior of all those mentioned by Wrandall, and there was the endto it, so far as he was concerned. It was ever a source of wonderto him that Mrs. Wrandall didn't "trade in" everything else shepossessed for a single great Velasquez.

  "Getting back to Sara,--my sister-in-law,--why don't you ask her tosit for you this summer? She's not going out, you know, and timewill hang so heavily on her hands that she will even welcome anotherportrait agony."

  "I can't ask her to--"

  "I'll do the asking, if you say the word."

  "Don't be an ass."

  "I'm quite willing to be one, if it will help you out, old man,"said Leslie cheerfully.

  "And make one of me as well, I suppose. She'd think me a frightfulcub after all those other fellows. After Sargent, ME! Ho, ho! She'dlaugh in my face."

  "If you could paint that smile of hers, Brandy, you'd make Romneylook like an amateur. Most wonderful smile. It's a splendid idea.Let her laugh in your face, as you say; then paint like the devilwhile she's doing it, and your reputation is made for--"

  "Will you have another drink?"

  "No, thanks. I can change the subject without it. What time is it?"

  Both looked at their watches, and put them back again withoutremark to resume the interrupted contemplation of Fifth Avenue inthe waning light of a drab, drizzly day. A man in a shiny "slicker"was pushing a sweep and shovel in the centre of the thoroughfare.They wondered how long it would be before a motor struck him.

  Brandon Booth was of an old Philadelphia family: an old and wealthyfamily. Both views considered, he was qualified to walk hand inglove with the fastidious Wrandalls. Leslie's mother was charmedwith him because she was also the mother of Vivian. The fact thathe went in for portrait painting and seemed averse to subsisting onthe generosity of his father, preferring to live by his talent, inno way operated against him, so far as Mrs. Wrandall was concerned.That was HIS lookout, not hers; if he elected to that sort ofthing, all well and good. He could afford to be eccentric; thereremained, in the perspective he scorned, the bulk of a huge fortuneto offset whatever idiosyncrasies he might choose to cultivate.Some day, in spite of himself, she contended serenely, he wouldbe very, very rich. What could be more desirable than fame, familyand fortune all heaped together and thrust upon one exceedinglyinteresting and handsome young man? For he would be famous, she wassure of it. Every one said that of him, even the critics, althoughshe didn't have much use for critics, retaining opinions of herown that seldom agreed with theirs. It was enough for her that hewas a Booth, and knew how to behave in a drawing-room, because hebelonged there and was not lugged in by the scruff of an ill-fittingdress-suit to pose as a Bohemian celebrity. Moreover, he was alevel-headed, well-balanced fellow in spite of his calling; whichwas saying a great deal, proclaimed the mother of Vivian in oppositionto her own argument that painters never made satisfactory or evensatisfying husbands: the artistic temperament and all that sort ofthing getting in the way of compatibility.

  He had been the pupil of celebrated draughtsmen and painters inEurope, and had exhibited a sincerity of purpose that was surprising,all things considered. The mere fact that he was not obliged topaint in order to obtain a living, was sufficient cause for wonderamong the artists he met and studied with or under. At first theyregarded him as a youth with a fancy that soon would pass, leavinghim high and dry and safe on something steadier than Art. Theycouldn't understand a rich man's son really having aspirations,although they granted him temperament and ability. But he wentabout it so earnestly, so systematically, that they were compelledto alter the time-honoured tune and to sing praises instead ofwhistling their insulting "I-told-you-sos." To the disgust of many,he had a real purpose supported by talent, and that was what theycouldn't understand in a rich man's son. They hated to see theirtraditions spoiled. The only way in which they could account forit all was that he was an American, and Americans are always doingthe things one doesn't expect them to do, especially along groovesthat ought to be kept closed by tradition.

  When he said good-bye to his European friends and masters, and se
this face toward home, they took off their hats to him, so to speak,and agreed that he had a brilliant future, without a thought ofthe legacy that one day would be his.

  His studio in New York was not a fashionable resting place. It wasa work-shop. You could have tea there, of course, and you were sureto meet people you knew and liked, but it was quite as much of awork-shop as any you could mention. He was not a dabbler in art,not a mere dauber of pigments: he was an ARTIST. People argued thatbecause he was a thoroughbred and doomed to be rich, his consciousegotism would show itself at once in the demand for ridiculously highprices. In that they happily were fooled, not to say disappointed.He began by painting the portrait of a well-known society woman ofgreat wealth, who sat to him because she wanted to "take him up,"and who was absolutely disconsolate when he announced, at the endof the sittings, that his price was five hundred dollars. She wouldnot believe her ears.

  "Why, my dear Brandon, you will be ruined--utterly ruined--if itbecomes known that you ask less than five thousand," she had cried,almost in tears. "No one will come to you."

  He had smiled. "A master's price is for a master, not for a tyro.If they want to pay five thousand dollars for a portrait, I canrecommend a dozen or more gentlemen whose work is worth it. Mineisn't. Some day I hope to be able to say five thousand with a greatdeal more assurance than I now say five hundred, Mrs. Wheeler, butit won't be until I have courage, not nerve."

  "But NOBODY will sit for a five hundred dollar portrait," sheexpostulated. "Really, Brandon, I prefer to pay five thousand. Ican't--I simply cannot tell people that I paid only five--"

  "Will you give six hundred?" he asked, his smile broadening.

  "Absurd!"

  "Seven hundred?"

  "Why, it sounds as if you were jewing me up, not I trying to jewyou down," she cried, dismayed.

  "That's the point," he said, with mock gravity. "If my price isn'twhat it ought to be in your opinion, it is only fair that I shouldmake concessions. My picture is worth five hundred dollars, but Iam willing to do a little better than that by you. I will make itseven-fifty to you, but not a cent more."

  "Can't I jew you up any higher, dear boy?"

  "No," with a smile; "but if you will consent to sit to me ten yearsfrom now, I promise faithfully to ask five thousand of you withouta blush."

  "Ah, but ten years from now I should blush to even think of havingmy portrait painted."

  "Ten years will make no change in you," said he gallantly, "but Iexpect them to make quite another artist of me."

  And so his price was established for the time being. He offsetthe chilling effect of the low figure by deliberately decliningcommissions to paint women who fell below a rather severe standardof personal attractiveness. Gross women were not allowed to crowdhis canvases; ugly ones who succeeded in tempting him were surprisedto find how ugly they really were when the portrait was finished.He made it a point never to lie about a woman, not even on canvas.It made him very unpopular with certain ladies who wanted to belied about--on canvas.

  As the result of his rather independent attitude, he had morecommissions than he could fill. When it got about that he cared topaint only attractive women, his studio was besieged by ladies ofa curious turn of mind. If they discovered that he was willing topaint them, they blissfully dropped the matter and went happily ontheir way. If they found that his time was so fully occupied thathe could not paint them they urged him to reconsider--even offeringto quadruple his price if he would only "do" them. One exceedinglyplain woman, who couldn't be reconciled to Nature, offered himtwenty thousand dollars if he would paint her for the MetropolitanMuseum. Another asked him if he was a pupil of Gainsborough. Findingthat he was not, she asked WHY not, with all the money he had athis command.

  He had been in New York for the better part of two years at thetime he is introduced into this narrative. Years of his life hadbeen spent abroad, yet he was not a stranger in a strange landwhen he took up his residence in Gotham. Society opened its armsto him. It was like a home-coming. Had he been a bridge player,his coronation might have been complete.

  Booth was thirty,--perhaps a year or two older; tall, dark andgood-looking. The air of the thoroughbred marked him. He did notaffect loose flowing cravats and baggy trousers, nor was he carelessabout his finger-nails. He was simply the ordinary, everyday sortof chap you would meet in Fifth Avenue during parade hours, andyou would take a second look at him because of his face and mannerbut not on account of his dress. Some of his ancestors came overahead of the Mayflower, but he did not gloat.

  Leslie Wrandall was his closest friend and harshest critic. Itdidn't really matter to Booth what Leslie said of his paintings:he quite understood that he didn't know anything about them.

  "When does Mrs. Wrandall return?" asked the painter, after a longperiod of silence spent in contemplation of the gleaming pavementbeyond the club's window.

  "That's queer," said Leslie, looking up. "I was thinking of Saramyself. She sails next week. I've had a letter asking me to open herhouse in the country. Her place is about two miles from father's.It hasn't been opened in two years. Her father built it fifteen ortwenty years ago, and left it to her when he died. She and Challisspent several summers there."

  "Vivian took me through it one afternoon last summer."

  "It must have been quite as much of a novelty to her as it was toyou, old chap," said Leslie gloomily.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Vivian's a bit of a snob. She never liked the place because oldman Gooch built it out of worsteds. She never went there."

  "But the old man's been dead for years."

  "That doesn't matter. The fact is, Vivian didn't quite take to Sarauntil after--well, until after Challis died. We're dreadful snobs,Brandy, the whole lot of us. Sara was quite good enough for a muchbetter man than my brother. She really couldn't help the worsteds,you know. I'm very fond of her, and always have been. We're pals.'Gad, it was a fearful slap at the home folks when Challis justifiedSara by getting snuffed out the way he did."

  Booth made an attempt to change the subject, but Wrandall got backto it.

  "Since then we've all been exceedingly sweet on Sara. Not becausewe want to be, mind you, but because we're afraid she'll marry somechap who wouldn't be acceptable to us."

  "I should consider that a very neat way out of it," said Boothcoldly.

  "Not at all. You see, Challis was fond of Sara, in spite of everything.He left a will and under it she came in for all he had. As thatincludes a third interest in our extremely refined and irreproachablebusiness, it would be a deuce of a trick on us if she married oneof the common people and set him up amongst us, willy-nilly. Wedon't want strange bed-fellows. We're too snug--and, I might say,too smug. Down in her heart, mother is saying to herself it wouldbe just like Sara to get even with us by doing just that sort ofa trick. Of course, Sara is rich enough without accepting a souunder the will, but she's a canny person. She hasn't handed it backto us on a silver platter, with thanks; still, on the other hand,she refuses to meddle. She makes us feel pretty small. She won'tsell out to us. She just sits tight. That's what gets under theskin with mother."

  "I wouldn't say that, Les, if I were in your place."

  "It is a rather priggish thing to say, isn't it?"

  "Rather."

  "You see, I'm the only one who really took sides with Sara. I forgetmyself sometimes. She was such a brick, all those years."

  Booth was silent for a moment, noting the reflective look in hiscompanion's eyes.

  "I suppose the police haven't given up the hope that sooner orlater the--er--the woman will do something to give herself away,"said he.

  "They don't take any stock in my theory that she made way withherself the same night. I was talking with the chief yesterday. Hesays that any one who had wit to cover up her tracks as she did,is not the kind to make way with herself. Perhaps he's right. Itsounds reasonable. 'Gad, I felt sorry for the poor girl they hadup last spring. She went through the third degree, if ever any onedid,
but, by Jove, she came out of it all right. The Ashtley girl,you remember. I've dreamed about that girl, Brandy, and what theyput her through. It's a sort of nightmare to me, even when I'mawake. Oh, they've questioned others as well, but she was the onlyone to have the screws twisted in just that way."

  "Where is she now?"

  "She's comfortable enough now. When I wrote to Sara about what she'dbeen through, she settled a neat bit of money on her, and she'llnever want for anything. She's out West somewhere, with her motherand sisters. I tell you, Sara's a wonder. She's got a heart ofgold."

  "I look forward to meeting her, old man."

  "I was with her for a few weeks this winter. In Nice, you know.Vivian stayed on for a week, but mother had to get to the baths.'Gad, I believe she hated to go. Sara's got a most adorablegirl staying with her. A daughter of Colonel Castleton, and she'sconnected in some way with the Murgatroyds--old Lord Murgatroyd,you know. I think her mother was a niece of the old boy. Anyhow,mother and Vivian have taken a great fancy to her. That's proof ofthe pudding."

  "I think Vivian mentioned a companion of some sort."

  "You wouldn't exactly call her a companion," said Leslie. "She'sgot money to burn, I take it. Quite keeps up with Sara in making itfly, and that's saying a good deal for her resources. I think it'sa pose on her part, this calling herself a companion. An Englishjoke, eh? As a matter of fact, she's an old friend of Sara'sand my brother's too. Knew them in England. Most delightful girl.Oh, I say, old man, she's the one for you to paint." Leslie waxedenthusiastic. "A type, a positive type. Never saw such eyes in allmy life. Dammit, they haunt you. You dream about 'em."

  "You seem to be hard hit," said Booth indifferently. He was watchingthe man in the "slicker" through moody eyes.

  "Oh, nothing like that," disclaimed Leslie, with unnecessary promptness."But if I were given to that sort of thing, I'd be bowled over ina minute. Positively adorable face. If I thought you had it in youto paint a thing as it really is, I'd commission you myself to doa miniature for me, just to have it around where I could pick itup when I liked and hold it between my hands, just as I've oftenwanted to hold the real thing."

  "Come, come! You're dotty about her."

  "Get Vivian to tell you about her," said Leslie sweepingly. "Comedown and have dinner with me to-night. She'll bear out--"

  "I'll take your word for it. Thanks for the bid, but I can't come.Dining at the Ritz with Joey and Linda. I think I'll be off."

  He stretched himself, took the final, reluctant look of the artistat the "slicker" man, and moved away. Leslie called after him:

  "Wait till you see her."

  "All right. I'll wait."

  Sara Wrandall returned to New York at the end of the month,and Leslie met her at the dock, as he did on an occasion fourteenmonths earlier. Then she came in on a fierce gale from the wintryAtlantic; this time the air was soft and balmy and sweet with thekindness of spring. It was May and the sea was blue, the land wasgreen.

  Again she went to the small, exclusive hotel near the Park. Herapartment was closed, the butler and his wife and all of theirhastily recruited company being in the country, awaiting her arrivalfrom town. Leslie attended to everything. He lent his resourcefulman-servant and his motor to his lovely sister-in-law, and saw toit that his mother and Vivian sent flowers to the ship. RedmondWrandall called at the hotel immediately after banking hours,kissed his daughter-in-law, and delivered an ultimatum second-handfrom the power at home: she was to come to dinner and bring MissCastleton. A little quiet family dinner, you know, because theywere all in mourning, he said in conclusion, vaguely realising allthe while that it really wasn't necessary to supply the information,but, for the life of him, unable to think of anything else to sayunder the circumstances. Somehow it seemed to him that while Sarawas in black she was not in mourning in the same sense that therest of them were. It seemed only right to acquaint her with theconditions in his household. And he knew that he deserved the scowlthat Leslie bestowed upon him.

  Sara accepted, much to his surprise and gratification. He had beenrather dubious about it. It would not have surprised him in theleast if she had declined the invitation, feeling, as he did, thathe had in a way come to her with a white flag or an olive branchor whatever it is that a combative force utilises when it wants tosurrender in the cause of humanity.

  Leslie was a very observing person. It might have been said of himthat he was always on the lookout for the things that most peoplewere unlikely to notice: the trivial things that really wereimportant. He not only took in his father's amiable blunder, butcaught the curious expression in Hetty's dark blue eyes, and thesharp almost inaudible catch of her breath. The gleam was gonein an instant, but it made an impression on him. He found himselfwondering if the girl was a snob as well as the rest of them.The look in her eyes betrayed unmistakable surprise and--yes, hewas quite sure of it--dismay when Sara accepted the invitation todine. Was it possible that the lovely Miss Castleton consideredherself--but no! Of course it couldn't be that. The Wrandalls weregood enough for dukes and duchesses. Still he could not get beyondthe fact that he HAD seen the look of disapproval. 'Gad, thoughthe, it was almost a look of appeal. He made up his mind, as hestood there chatting with her, that he would find out from Vivianwhat his mother had done to create an unpleasant estimate ofthe family in the eyes of this gentle, refined cousin of old LordMurgatroyd.

  He was quite as quick to detect the satirical smile in Sara's frank,amused eyes as she graciously accepted the invitation to the homewhose doors had only been half-open to her in the past. It scratchedhis pride a bit to think of the opinion she must have of the family,and he was inexpressibly glad that she could not consistently classhim with the others. He found himself feeling a bit sorry for theold gentleman, and hoped that he missed the touch of irony in Sara'svoice.

  Old Mr. Wrandall floundered from one invitation to another.

  "Of course, Sara, my dear, you will want to go out to the cemeteryto-morrow, I shall be only too ready to accompany you. We haveerected a splendid--"

  "No, thank you, Mr. Wrandall," she interrupted gently. "I shallnot go to the cemetery."

  Leslie intervened. "You understand, don't you, father?" he said,rather out of patience.

  The old gentleman lowered his head. "Yes, yes," he hastened tosay. "Quite so, quite so. Then we may expect you at eight, Sara,and you, Miss Castleton. Mrs. Wrandall is looking forward to seeingyou again. It isn't often she takes a liking to--ahem! I beg yourpardon, Leslie?"

  "I was just going to suggest that we move along, dad. I fancy youwant to get at your trunks, Sara. Smuggled a few things through,eh? Women never miss a chance to get a couple of dozen dressesthrough, as you'll discover if you become a real American, MissCastleton. It's in the blood."

  Mr. Wrandall fell into another trap. "Now please remember that weare to dine very informally," he hastened to say, his mind on thesmuggled gowns. It was his experience that gowns that escaped dutyinvariably were "creations."

  Leslie got him away.

  As soon as they were alone, Hetty turned to her friend.

  "Oh, Sara, can't you go without me? Tell them that I am ill--suddenlyill. I--I don't think it right or honourable of me to accept--"

  Sara shook her head, and the words died on the girl's lips.

  "You must play the game, Hetty."

  "It's--very hard," murmured the other, her face very white andbleak.

  "I know, my dear," said Sara gently.

  "If they should ever find out," gasped the girl, suddenly givingway to the dread that had been lying dormant all these months.

  "They will never know the truth unless you choose to enlightenthem," said Sara, putting her arm about the girl's shoulders anddrawing her close.

  "You never cease to be wonderful, Sara,--so very wonderful," criedthe girl, with a look of worship in her eyes.

  Sara regarded her in silence for a moment, reflecting. Then, witha swift rush of tears to her eyes, she cried fiercely:

  "You must n
ever, never tell me all that happened, Hetty! You mustnot speak it with your own lips."

  Hetty's eyes grew dark with pain and wonder.

  "That is the thing I can't understand in you, Sara," she saidslowly.

  "We must not speak of it!"

  Hetty's bosom heaved. "Speak of it!" she cried, absolute agony inher voice. "Have I not kept it locked in my heart since that awfulday--"

  "Hush!"

  "I shall go mad if I cannot talk with you about--"

  "No, no! It is the forbidden subject! I know all that I shouldknow--all that I care to know. We have not said so much as thisin months--in ages, it seems. Let sleeping dogs lie. We are betteroff, my dear. I could not touch your lips again."

  "I--I can't bear the thought of that!"

  "Kiss me now, Hetty."

  "I could die for you, Sara," cried Hetty, as she impulsively obeyedthe command.

  "I mean that you shall live for me," said Sara, smiling throughher tears. "How silly of me to cry. It must be the room we are in.These are the same rooms, dear, that you came to on the night wemet. Ah, how old I feel!"

  "Old? You say that to me? I am ages and ages older than you," criedHetty, the colour coming back to her soft cheeks.

  "You are twenty-three."

  "And you are twenty-eight."

  Sara had a far away look in her eyes. "About your size and figure,"said she, and Hetty did not comprehend.