“You’ve done very well. Why, I didn’t know you’d ever been in that part of town.”
“It was just once a long time ago,” Cara murmured. She remembered the time and added, “James was bringing me home from the doctor. Mother was with me. There was some sort of accident and we stopped. I looked out and saw this woman and her little girl. They were poorly dressed, and they were standing in front of this old, dilapidated building with garbage cans piled in front and a mangy alley cat sunning on the stoop. You see?”
“You got all that so well. Look at that cat!” Mary Ann exclaimed. “Why, you can almost see the fleas on him!”
“Oh yes, that part’s easy,” Cara said wearily. She sat down in the canvas chair and tossed the brush down in a gesture of futility, which was unusual for her. “I can’t get their faces, Mary Ann. I see them, but I can’t make it come out on the canvas.”
“You’ll get it. Just keep working.”
“I don’t think so. All I’ll ever have is a shadow portrait.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Flowers are so easy. They don’t have any souls, but when someone paints a portrait, the soul of that person ought somehow to come out. You saw that picture by George Luks of the laughing boy. Why, you could see so vividly what was in his heart. He had a dirty face and his right hand was all scratched up by something. An old man’s coat hung on him, but the joy in him came out despite the poverty that was so obvious. How does the artist do that? I’ve asked Phil, but he says it has to be inside before it can get outside. He always says you can’t get something out that’s not in.”
“I don’t understand that,” Mary Ann remarked.
“I do. The Bible talks about how things are perceived from out of the heart—good things and bad things. If good things are in your heart, why, you know good things will come out. And, of course, the opposite is true.” She stopped speaking and stared at the portrait with great dissatisfaction. Shaking her head, she rose to get a cloth to put over it, but as she did the door burst open and Clinton stepped inside. “Why, Clinton! What’s wrong?”
Moving across the room, Clinton stood before his two sisters. He ignored Cara to face Mary Ann, saying, “Did you know that Reverend Barney Winslow is speaking at Calvary Baptist Church tonight?”
“Of course I know it. George wants me to come, but I can’t.” A look of bitterness filled her beautiful eyes then. Though they were blue as the sky and innocent and virtuous, they were now marred by growing anger. “Father will never let me go to that church again.”
“Well, I think you ought to go.”
Both of the women stared at Clinton. He was holding his head in an abnormal position, and there was something different in his visage—a stubbornness they had seen previously only on a few rare occasions.
“Why, you can’t mean that, Clinton!” Cara said. “She can’t deliberately disobey Father.”
“Mary Ann, I strongly feel that you ought to go.”
Mary Ann suddenly blinked with surprise, but something of Clinton’s adamant determination communicated itself. “I would go, but you know what Father would do.”
“Don’t tell him. Just go,” Clinton said.
“How could we do that? Someone would be sure to report that we were there. Why, Mary Ellen attends the services there. We can’t tell her not to speak about our going,” Mary Ann said. Mary Ellen was one of the family’s maids and a devout Christian, but she was quite a gossip around the house. “Father would be sure to hear of it.”
“Not if you do what I tell you.” Clinton suddenly smiled freely for the first time. “Let the blame fall on me, but I think you ought to go. How are you going to go to Africa if you can’t even go to a church service?”
“What’s wrong with you, Clinton?” Cara said, stepping closer to her brother. “Why are you saying this?”
“You heard about the woman that got her children to do what she wanted by telling them not to do it? Like, ‘Don’t you wash the dishes,’ and then they’d go wash them. Well, I feel about the same way. Father instructed me not to encourage you to go to the meeting. In fact, he asked me to do all I could to dissuade you. Therefore, I’ve got to do it. Here’s what we’re going to do if you’re willing.”
Mary Ann and Cara listened almost breathlessly as Clinton outlined his plan, and when he was through, he asked, “Well, will you do it, Mary Ann?”
“Yes,” Mary Ann said. “I will!”
“And I will, too!” Cara said. She saw the surprise in Clinton’s face and said, “You’ll have to take us both, Clinton.”
“All right, I will. I’ll have the carriage here at six-thirty. The service starts at seven. Be ready.”
After Clinton left the room, Cara said with some hesitation, “Are you sure we should do this, Mary Ann? We know we are directly disobeying Father.”
“I’ve given up wondering about it, Cara,” Mary Ann said. There was sadness in her tone, but a sudden burst of determination showed itself as she bit her lip. “I need to hear all I can about Africa. I wish that I could go with Father’s blessing. But if I can’t, I must go without it.”
As usual, Phil Winslow came in a few minutes before the service started. He had formed the habit of coming to pray with George Camrose before the service, and this time he found Camrose and Barney Winslow in the small study. They greeted him warmly, and George said, “Just time for a quick prayer.”
“Right you are, and I expect to see great things happening.”
“Have you ever thought God might call you to a foreign field, Phil?” Barney inquired.
“No, I never felt that way. I don’t think I got the call. I believe in it, though.”
Barney nodded, saying, “It’s not wise to go unless God sends you.” He smiled and uttered a short, rueful laugh. “ ‘Some got called and sent. Others just up and went.’ That’s what they say about the mission volunteers. A lot of them don’t even make it through the first few months, but if God is in it they make it.”
The three men prayed, then stepped out of the pastor’s study into the large room that served as the church meeting hall. Phil always sat near the back, and now he took his seat. He was surprised to look up and see Clinton Lanier come in through the door, escorting two women wearing black veils over their faces. “What in the world is he doing?” Phil muttered. He recognized the figures of Cara and Mary Ann, though their faces were so heavily veiled he could not make out their features. He watched as they took a seat as far back as possible. Clinton turned suddenly, and caught Phil’s eye and winked at him, an unexpectedly merry smile on his lips.
He looks like the cat that’s eaten the canary, Phil thought. He had the impulse to go and join him, but obviously Clinton had brought the two women disguised to keep their identity a secret. It did not require a great deal of discernment for Phil to figure out that their father had forbidden them to come. He knew of Oliver Lanier’s adamant stance against his daughter’s serving in Africa, and something about Clinton’s rebellion pleased him. “About time he broke the cord, but I hope he doesn’t get caught. I’m afraid if he does, he’ll pay dearly.”
The service began as usual with rousing praise and singing of hymns. Phil could not concentrate as fully as he might have liked, for his eyes kept going back to Cara. I’m not surprised about Mary Ann, but I am surprised about Cara. He changed his seat then so that he could get a better view of her profile, but he could not see beneath the veil. He determined, however, to intercept her after the service.
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 fo
r 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 laug
hed 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!”
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