“I can’t explain it, Cara.” Phil turned to look at her. She was pale from her long confinement. Still, there was a half-hidden vibrancy in this woman that he had learned to admire. As he watched her now, he thought, If she could only get away and have some freedom, she could be a woman any man would be proud of. He struggled to find the words he needed, and finally only said, “I can’t explain it. It’s just that when I try to paint, I usually need to do something. I need to say something.” He looked at her and asked abruptly, “Have you ever wanted a man, Cara?”
Cara’s face suddenly grew pink, and her eyes flew open with astonishment. “Why . . . why, what a thing to ask!”
“Well, have you?” Phil persisted. “I’m not being nosy. It’s just obvious that the young woman in the painting needs that young man. There’s something in her eyes, in her body language, that says it, and I think artists have to have something inside that’s reaching out, needing to be expressed. Sort of swelling up, and then, somehow, through a God-given ability, they can put it on canvas.”
Cara was silent. She did not know what to say to such frankness. Have I ever wanted a man? she asked herself, and then as she looked up, almost timidly, she whispered, “I could never paint like that.”
“You don’t need to paint like that,” Phil said. “That’s the way this particular painter puts paint on canvas. It’s his vision. But you’ve got something in you, Cara Lanier. I knew it the first time I met you. You’ve got more talent in you than any five painters need, but you’ve kept your heart bottled up and refuse to let the things out.” Phil suddenly reached out and took her hands, ignoring the onlookers who were moving about. “There’s something in you, Cara,” he said quietly, “and someday you’re going to let it out.”
Intensely aware of his hands holding hers and of his eyes seeming to pierce her spirit, Cara could say nothing. Somehow she recognized the truth but could not respond to the things this tall, strong man was saying. She stood there for one moment, then pulled her hands back and turned away, leaving Phil shaking his head and wondering if anyone or anything could bring out the woman Cara Lanier had never let the world see.
Peter and Avis Warwick came to the exhibition that afternoon. Peter informed Phil they were on their way to a race. “Come on and go with us,” he said.
“I wish I could, but who knows? Somebody might stop by and buy a picture.”
Avis had been looking around at the paintings by herself. She walked back over to where Phil and Peter were talking about the race and said, “I’ll buy this one, Phil.” She pointed to a small oil nearby.
Phil was surprised. “Aren’t you going to ask how much it is?”
“All right. How much is it?”
Phil suddenly grinned. “How much have you got, Avis?”
Avis winked at him. “Come on, now. Name your price, then I’ll bargain with you.”
Peter went over to the picture and examined it. It was a crowded picture of New York stevedores, strong men straining to move heavy barrels and bales to and from oceangoing ships. There was an obvious poverty about them, yet they exuded life and excitement. “Why would you want this? Just go down to the docks,” he grinned, winking at Phil.
“Don’t pay any attention to that barbarian,” Phil said. “I was thinking of asking fifty dollars for it.”
Avis reached into her purse and pulled out several bills. “Sold,” she said. “Wrap it up. I’ll take it with me.”
“My first sale,” Phil said, “and probably the last.”
As Peter and Avis left the gallery and headed to the track, Avis spoke in her most charming manner. “Peter, I want to ask a favor.”
“Ask away.” Peter was driving Avis’s car, a powerful Maxwell, and enjoying the feel of the wind as it whipped around his goggles. He risked a quick glance at her, then said, “Wait a minute. Maybe I better modify that. No telling what you’d ask for.”
“It’s not much,” Avis wheedled. She pulled herself closer to him and reached up and tucked his hair under his cap. Her own hair was blowing in the wind, and she shook her head to free it still more. “I want you to let me ride with you in the race.”
Peter laughed outright. “You know I’m not going to do a crazy thing like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too dangerous, and you could get hurt.”
“You could get hurt, too!”
“Now, that’s different, Avis. It’s what I do. Goes with the territory.”
They sailed down the highway and Avis continued to beg him, but Peter said, “Not a chance, Avis. I’ll do a lot for you, but not that.”
Avis almost responded angrily. She was accustomed to having her own way, but there was a set about Peter Winslow’s lips that told her she would be wasting her time. She thought, There are more ways than one for a woman to get her own way. She smiled and said sweetly, “I’m glad to see you’re thinking of me—of my safety, I mean.” She pulled his head around and kissed him, and the car swerved wildly.
“Hey! Save your kisses until we get stopped!”
“I’ll remember that,” Avis said. She smiled, and a look of determination formed on her face. Sooner or later, she vowed, I’ll be riding beside him in one of those races!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Calling
Jolie could not help but let the miserable feelings churning inside her show on her face as she stood backstage at the theater where she worked. Several times Maude Adams, the star of the play, gave Jolie an odd look. After the final curtain had fallen, she came over and asked quietly, “Jolie, what’s the matter?”
“Matter, Miss Adams?” Jolie looked up startled and saw a quizzical expression in the beautiful eyes of the actress. “Why . . . why, nothing. Have I done something wrong?”
“No, it isn’t that, but I suppose in this business one learns very quickly to read people. When you first came here you were so happy, and for the past week you’ve been walking around as if you’ve lost your best friend. Your mind’s not on your work.”
Jolie bit her lip in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to neglect my work, Miss Adams. I’ll do better in the future.”
“I didn’t say that you did.” Maude Adams was not only a lovely woman, but she was probably the best actress on the New York stage. She was also a very compassionate and sympathetic one. Now she said quickly, “Sometimes it helps to talk. I’d be glad to listen.”
For one moment Jolie was tempted to pour her heart out, but the story was too long and complicated. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Adams, but really, I’ll be all right.”
“I’m always available if you change your mind.”
Jolie watched the actress turn and walk away to her dressing room. For one moment she felt compelled to go after her, to tell her of the problems that had come to complicate her life. Then she sighed and shook her head. “No sense telling it to Miss Adams. She couldn’t help anyway.”
An hour later Jolie left the theater and made her way to the boardinghouse. All she could think of was that Peter was making a fool of himself over Avis Warwick. As she walked along, the streetlights threw their reflection over the faces of those who passed by, and from time to time someone would turn to look at the young girl who had the scar on her face, but Jolie did not notice. She had not eaten all day, and now as she trudged along, oblivious to the clattering of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone and the talk of people that passed her occasionally, her mind was fluttering like a bird in a cage that could find no way out. Her lips tightened with anger, and she thought, She’s no good for him! Why can’t he see that? All he has to do is open his eyes and see that she doesn’t have any interest in him. She’s an older woman. She’s a very worldly woman, and Peter is a Christian. What’s the matter with him?
She finally reached the boardinghouse. When she entered she was startled to see Peter coming out of Easy’s room with a grim face. “Peter, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Easy,” Peter replied, shaking his head. “He
had an accident.”
“You mean . . . a car wreck?”
“Oh no, nothing like that!” Peter assured her. He ran his hand through his hair in obvious frustration. “Of all times for this to happen!”
“Well, what was it?”
“Oh, he was starting the car, turning the crank. It got away from him, spun around, and broke his arm. His right arm, too. He won’t be working on any car now for a while.”
“But he’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes. It just has to heal up.”
“Is he in the hospital?”
“No, he’s in his room. Come on in and see him, won’t you? He’s feeling pretty low.”
Jolie nodded. “Of course.” Easy was lying in his bed, his eyes half closed, but he opened them as Jolie bent over him.
“Hello, Jolie,” he whispered. “What a dumb thing to do! I should have had better sense.”
Putting her hand on Easy’s forehead, she brushed his hair back and said, “It’s not your fault. It could happen to anyone.”
“As many cars as I’ve started, I should have remembered to stay out of the way of that crank! Look what a mess I’ve gotten us into. Who’s going to work on the car? Who’s going to ride with Peter in the race?”
“Don’t worry about that. You just get some rest. Everything will be all right.” She stood there the few moments it took for Easy to drop off to sleep, then left the room with Peter.
“That was pretty strong dope the doctor gave him, I guess. It just knocked him out, didn’t it?”
“Poor Easy. But it could have been worse, I suppose.”
Nodding, Peter said, “Yes, of course, but it puts me in a bind.” He stood there silently for a minute, then said abruptly, “I’m going to let Avis ride with me in the race.”
Stunned momentarily, Jolie stared at him. “Why, you can’t do that!”
“I know. I’ve given all the arguments against it, but it’ll be safe enough, and she’s driving me crazy. That woman is as stubborn as can be. I’ll let her ride with me this one time and she’ll get enough of it.”
“Peter, you mustn’t do it. It’s too dangerous!”
Peter shook his head and tried to summon a grin. “Someone’s got to ride with me, and it’ll get it out of her system.”
That was not the end of the argument, but no matter what Jolie said for the next two days, Peter could not be dissuaded from letting Avis ride with him in the Jolie Blonde. He had already promised Avis and said he couldn’t go back on his word. Jolie was furious. She wanted to say, If anyone’s going to ride with you, why not me? I’ve been with you from the beginning.
Peter was oblivious to Jolie’s anger. He had his mind on the race, and now that Easy was out of it, he had to do all of the mechanic work himself. He was also caught up with Avis Warwick, so he did not even notice the hurt that he had brought to Jolie Devorak.
George Camrose had a pleased expression on his face when he saw Mary Ann Lanier enter the church. The small storefront room was packed, not a seat left, but he went down at once to greet her. Smiling, he said, “Mary Ann, I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I almost didn’t come. Father’s gone out of town, and I just made up my mind I had to hear Barney Winslow.”
“Come on. I want you to meet him before the service. Then I’ll find you a good seat right up front.”
“Oh no! Everyone will see me!”
“Well then, I’ll find you a seat over at the side. You’re looking so pretty I’d like for everyone to see you.”
Mary Ann smiled. She had dressed for this occasion in a chocolate brown skirt and jacket, and a soft white blouse with a lacy jabot hanging down from its high neck. The jacket was a favorite of hers, with large lapels, sleeves narrow at the bottom but very full at the shoulder and trimmed with four rows of dainty ribbon around each wrist.
Her face was rather pale, for it had taken considerable courage for her to leave the house, knowing she was going against her father’s wishes. She had said nothing to anyone, but after George had told her of the special service with Barney Winslow, the missionary from Africa who had become more or less an idol to George Camrose, she had finally thrown caution to the winds and come directly to the church. As she walked up the aisle with George, a tall, well-built man stepped forward to meet her.
“Reverend Winslow, this is Miss Mary Ann Lanier.”
“Well, I’ve heard a great deal about you, Miss Lanier.” Something about Barney Winslow appealed to Mary Ann. His hand was large and strong, but his grasp was gentle. “You’ve got this young preacher quite distracted.” He smiled at Camrose, saying, “I think we’ve discussed Miss Lanier at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All I hear every moment of the day is how lovely Miss Lanier is.” He laughed, then seeing Mary Ann’s discomfort said, “Don’t let me embarrass you. I’m just a rough preacher, Miss Lanier, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, too, Reverend Winslow. Phil has talked so much about you and your work in Africa, and I’m anxious to hear your sermon tonight.”
Barney Winslow smiled even more broadly. “A lady told me once, ‘Reverend Winslow, every sermon you preach is better than the next one.’ ” He laughed shortly, saying, “If you unravel that, it means ‘your sermons are getting worse all the time.’ But I’m glad to have you.” He looked at George Camrose and said, “I’m claiming this man for God and His service. God’s call is on him, and he’ll be in Africa very soon.” He looked at Mary Ann and said nothing, but there was a strange light in his steady gaze. He said no more but turned and went back to sit on the platform.
“Come on, Mary Ann, I’ll find you a seat.”
Mary Ann followed George, and he managed to move some people over so she could have a seat with a good view of the speaker. “Don’t you run away after the service,” he whispered. “I’m sure there’ll be some people coming forward to the altar call, but I’ll take you home afterward.”
“All right, George.”
Mary Ann sat quietly, wondering if she had done the right thing in coming. Something in her said that it was wrong to disobey her parents, and she knew how much it would displease her father. Nevertheless, she felt a certain excitement as she sat there. Something about Barney Winslow and his total commitment to God intrigued her. He was weathered by his years in Africa, but there was a kindness and a steadiness in him that she admired.
The service began when George Camrose went to stand before the pulpit. “We’re going to praise God with our voices,” he declared. “Some of you, like me, may not have the best voices in the world, but God wants to hear our praises anyway. Let’s stand together and let God know that we love Him.”
The song service was spirited, and when they sang “The Old Rugged Cross,” it seemed as though the Spirit of God swept across the congregation. Mary Ann’s heart was moved by the solemnity of the moment. She had always loved the song, and now as she tried to sing it, tears suddenly sprang to her eyes. In a strange way she knew that God was not only in this auditorium in the midst of this congregation, but close in a different way, too. It was rather frightening to her. Such a thing did not happen as a rule. She loved God, but this was so personal, so intense, and awe overcame her at the thought that she was standing in the very presence of God.
Finally the song service ended and Barney Winslow, after being introduced by Reverend Camrose, stood up and began to speak. He was not a thundering preacher calling down fire and brimstone upon sinners—at least not this evening. He simply related his testimony, which was indeed thrilling. He told how he had gone astray as a young man and had become a prizefighter, a pug, as he called it. And then he told of when he had gone to Sing Sing Penitentiary and how during his time there God had convicted him of his sins. He related how he had been released by a miracle of God and then had gone on to serve the Lord in Africa.
It was a simple testimony, but Mary Ann was so moved that her handkerchief was soaked from the tears that freely flowed. She was twist
ing it as Barney continued to speak.
“This is a big world, and the Scripture says, ‘The grace of God that bringeth salvation hath appeared to all men.’ It is our responsibility as believers to see that every person hears of the grace of God. Not everyone is called to go to Africa, or to China, or even to leave this country. Some of you are called to be the witnesses of Jesus in the neighborhood where you live, in the shop where you work. Wherever you are, your call is to declare the abundant mercy and salvation in our Lord Jesus Christ.”
He went on speaking quietly about what it meant to be a witness, and finally his eyes grew bright, and he lifted his hand with a gesture of excitement. “But some God calls to leave their home. Some to cross the seas. Some to go to foreign fields. I strongly feel,” he said abruptly and his eyes swept the congregation with his searching gaze, “that some of you sitting out there are being touched by God right now. Some are being invited to become part of the greatest task in all the world, to spread this glorious Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ wherever men and women and young people are hungering to hear it. . . .”
Mary Ann Lanier suddenly could not keep her head up. Sobs rose to her throat, and she dropped her head and fought to control the turmoil stirring within her. She knew abruptly and without a doubt that she was one of those God was touching. Her first impulse was to whisper within her spirit, Oh, God, not me! But as Barney spoke on about proclaiming the riches of Christ, something in her, almost like a whisper, said, Will you not bear witness for your Savior in Africa?
Suddenly Mary Ann was aware that people around her were standing, and she heard Barney say, “If you will give your life on the foreign field, come forward and let me pray for you.”
The congregation began to sing, and Mary Ann was trembling so much that she could hardly stand. She grasped the chair in front of her, her knuckles grew white, and she was shaking all over. And still the voice came again, and yet not a voice, but more of a whisper in her spirit, Will you not bear witness for the Lord Jesus in Africa?
The Shadow Portrait Page 18
