CHAPTER XXI
PORTRAITS
Revelations were in order in these days. Another of a quite differentsort came to Roberta within the week. On a morning when she knew RichardKendrick to be in Eastman she consented to drive with Mrs. Stephen tomake a call upon Mr. Matthew Kendrick, now at home and recoveringsatisfactorily from his fall, but still confined to his room. With abasketful of splendid garden roses upon her arm she followed Rosamondinto the great stone pile.
They seemed to have left the sunlight and the summer day itself outsideas they sat waiting in the stiff and formal reception-room, which lookedas if no woman's hand or foot had touched it for a decade. As they wereconducted to Mr. Kendrick's room upon the floor above they noted withobservant eyes the cheerless character of every foot of the way--loftyhall, sombre staircase, gloomy corridor. Even Mr. Kendrick's own room,filled though it was with costly furniture, its walls hung withportraits and heavy oil paintings, after the fashion of the rich man whowants his home comfortable and attractive but does not know how to makeit so, was by no means homelike.
"This is good of you--this is good of you," the old man said happily, asthey approached his couch. He held out his hands to them, and whenRoberta presented her roses, exclaimed over them like a pleased child,and sent his man hurrying about to find receptacles for them. He laylooking from the flowers to the faces while he talked, as if he did notknow which were the more refreshing to his eyes, weary of thesurroundings to which they had been so long accustomed.
"These will be the first thing Dick will spy when he comes to-morrow,"he prophesied. "I never saw a fellow so fond of roses. The last time hewas down he found time to tell me about somebody's old garden up therein Eastman, where they have some kind of wonderful, old-fashioned rosewith the sweetest fragrance he ever knew. He had one in his coat; thesight of it took me back to my boyhood. But he wasn't all roses andgardens, not a bit of it! I never thought to see him so absorbed in sucha subject as the management of a business. But he's full of it--he'sfull of it! You can't imagine how it delights me."
He was full of it himself. Though he more than once apologized fortalking of his grandson and his pleasure in the way "the boy" wasthrowing himself into the real merits of the problems presented to thenew firm in Eastman, he kept returning to this fascinating subject. Itwas not of interest to himself alone, and though Roberta only listened,Mrs. Stephen led him on, asking questions which he answered with eagerreadiness. But all at once he pulled himself up short.
"Dick would be the first person to hush my garrulous old tongue," saidhe. "But I feel like father and mother and grandfather all combined, inthe matter of his success. I wouldn't have you think his making good--asthey say in these days--in the world I am used to is my only idea ofsuccess. No, no, he has a world of his own besides. I should like you tosee--there are several things I should like you to see. Last winter Dickbegged from me a portrait of his mother which I had done when he was ayear old; she lived only six months after that. He has it now over hisdesk. His father's portrait is on the opposite wall. Should you care tostep across the hall into my grandson's rooms? The portraits I speak ofare in the second room of the suite. Stop and examine anything else thatinterests you; I am sure he would be proud; and he has brought back manyinteresting things, principally pictures, from his travels. I shouldlike to go with you, but if you will be so kind--"
There was no refusing the enthusiastic old man. He sent his housekeeperto see that the rooms were open of window and ready for inspection, thenwaved his guests away. Mrs. Stephen went with alacrity; Roberta followedmore slowly, as if she somehow feared to go. Of all the oddhappenings!--that she should be walking into Richard Kendrick's ownhabitation, with all the intimate revelations it was bound to make toher. She wondered what he would say if he knew.
The first room was precisely what she might have expected, quiteobviously the apartment of a modern young man whose wishes lacked noopportunity to satisfy themselves. The room was not in bad taste; on thecontrary, its somewhat heavy furnishings had an air of dignity inharmony with an earlier day than that more ostentatious period in whichthe rest of the house had been fitted. Upon its walls was a choicecollection of pictures of various styles and schools of art, some ofthem unquestionably of much value. At one end of the room stood a closedgrand piano. But, like the grandfather's room, the place could not byany stretch of the imagination be called homelike, and to this factRosamond called her companion's attention.
"It's really very interesting," said she, "and quite impressive, but Idon't wonder in the least at his saying that he had no home. This mightbe a room in a fine hotel; there's nothing to make you feel as ifanybody really lives here, in spite of the beautiful paintings. But Mr.Kendrick said the portraits were in the second room."
On her way into the second room, however, Rosamond's attention wasattracted by a picture beside the door opening thereto, and with anexclamation, "Oh, this looks like Gordon! Where did he get it?" shepaused. Roberta glanced that way, but a quite different object in theinner room had caught her eye, and leaving Rosamond to her wonder over arather remarkable resemblance to her own little son in the rarelyexquisite colour-drawing of a child of similar age, she went on, tostand still in the doorway, surprised out of all restraint as to the useof her interested eyes.
For this, contrary to all possible expectations, was either the room ofa man of literary tastes, and of one who also preferred simplicity andutility to display of any sort, or it was an extremely clever imitationof such a room. And there were certain rather trustworthy evidences ofthe former.
The room, although smaller than the outer one, was a place of good size,with several large windows. Its walls to a height of several feet werelined with bookshelves filled to overflowing, the whole representing noless than three or four thousand books; Roberta could hardly guess attheir number. Several comfortable easy-chairs and a massive desk werealmost the only other furnishings, unless one included a few framedforeign photographs and the two portraits which hung on opposite walls.These presently called for study.
Rosamond came in and stood beside her sister, regarding the portraitswith curiosity. "The father has a remarkably fine face, hasn't he?" sheobserved, turning from one to the other. "Unusually fine; and I thinkhis son resembles him. But he is more like his mother. Isn't shebeautiful? And he never knew her; she died when he was such a littlefellow. Isn't it touching to see how he has her there above his desk asif he wanted to know her? How many books! I didn't know he cared forbooks, did you? Perhaps they were his father's; though his father was abusiness man. Yet I don't know why we never credit business men with anyinterest in books. Perhaps they study them more than we imagine; theymust study something. Rob, did you see the picture in the other roomthat looks so like Gordon? It seems almost as if it must have beenpainted from him."
She flitted back into the outer room. Roberta stood still before thedesk, above which hung the portrait of the lovely young woman who hadbeen Richard's mother. Younger than Roberta herself she looked; such agirl to pass away and leave her baby, her first-born! And he had herhere in the place of honour above his desk, where he sat to write andread. For he did read, she grew sure of it as she looked about her.Though the room was obviously looked after by a servant, it was probablethat there were orders not to touch the contents of the desk-top itself,for this was as if it had been lately used. Books, a foreign review ortwo, a pile of letters, various desk furnishings in a curious design ofwrought copper, and--what was this?--a little photograph in a frame!Horses, three of them, saddled and tied to a fence; at one side, in anattitude of arrested attention, a girl's figure in riding dress.
A wave of colour surged over Roberta's face as she picked up the pictureto examine it. She had never thought again of the shot he had snapped;he had never brought it to her. Instead he had put it into thisframe--she noted the frame, of carved ivory and choice beyondquestion--and had placed it upon his desk. There were no otherphotograph's of people in the room, not one. If she had found herselfone
among many she might have had more--or less--reason for displeasure;it was hard to say which. But to be the only one! Yet doubtless--in hisbedroom, the most intimate place of all, which she was not to see, wouldbe found his real treasures--photographs of beauties he had known,married women, girls, actresses--She caught herself up!
Rosamond, eager over the colour-drawing, had taken it from its place onthe wall and gone with it across the hall to discuss its extraordinarylikeness with the old man, who had sent for little Gordon several timesduring his stay at the Gray home and would be sure to appreciate theresemblance. Roberta, again engaged with the portrait above the desk,had not noticed her sister's departure. There was something peculiarlyfascinating about this pictured face of Richard Kendrick's mother.Whether it was the illusive likeness to the son, showing first in theeyes, then in the mouth, which was one of extraordinary sweetness, itwas hard to tell. But the attempt to _analyze_ it was absorbing.
The sound of a quick step in the outer room, as it struck a bit of barefloor between the costly rugs which lay thickly upon it, arrested herattention. That was not Rosy's step! Roberta turned, a sudden fear uponher, and saw the owner of the room standing, as if surprised out ofpower to proceed, in the doorway.
Now, it was manifestly impossible for Roberta to know just how shelooked, standing there, as he had seen her for the instant before sheturned. From her head to her feet she was dressed in white, thereforeagainst the dull background of books and heavy, plain panelling above,her figure stood out with the effect of a cameo. Her dusky hair underher white hat-brim was the only shadowing in a picture which was to hisgaze all light and radiance. He stood staring at it, his own faceglowing. Then:
"Oh--_Roberta_!" he exclaimed, under his breath. Then he came forward,both hands outstretched. She let him have one of hers for an instant,but drew it away again--with some difficulty.
"You must be surprised to find me here." Roberta strove for her usualcool control. "Rosy and I came to see your grandfather. He sent us inhere to look at these portraits. Rosy has gone back to him with apicture she thought looked like Gordon. I--was staying a minute to seethis; it is very beautiful."
He laughed happily. "You have explained it all away. I wish you had letme go on thinking I was dreaming. To find you--_here_!" He smothered anexultant breath and went on hastily:--"I'm glad you find my motherbeautiful. I never knew how beautiful she was till I brought her up hereand put her where I could look at her. Such a little, girlish mother forsuch a strapping son! But she has the look--somehow she has the look!Don't you think she has? I was a year old when that was painted--just intime, for she died six months afterward. But she had had time to get thelook, hadn't she?"
"Indeed she had. I can imagine her holding her little son. Is there nopicture of her with you?"
"None at all that I can find. I don't know why. There's one of me on myfather's knee, four years old--just before he went, too. I am lucky tohave it. I can just remember him, but not my mother at all. Do you mindmy telling you that it was after I saw your mother I brought thisportrait of mine up from the drawing-room and put it here? It seemed tome I must have one somehow, if only the picture of one." His voicelowered. "I can't tell you what it has done for me, the having herhere."
"I can guess," said Roberta softly, studying the young, gently smiling,picture face. Somehow her former manner with this young man hadtemporarily deserted her. The appeal of the portrait seemed to haveextended to its owner. "You--don't want to disappoint her," she addedthoughtfully.
"That's it--that's just it," he agreed eagerly. "How did you know?"
"Because that's the way I feel about mine. They care so much, you know."She moved slowly toward the door. "I must go back to your grandfather."
"Why? He has Mrs. Stephen, you say. And I--like to see you here. Thereare a lot of things I want to show you." His eager gaze dropped to thedesk-top and fell upon the ivory-framed photograph. He looked quickly ather. Her cheeks were of a rich rose hue, her eyes--he could not tellwhat her eyes were like. But she moved on toward the door. He followedher into the other room.
"Won't you stay a minute here, then? I don't care for it as I do theother, but--it's a place to talk in. And I haven't talked to youfor--four months. It's the middle of June.... Let me show you thispicture over here."
He succeeded in detaining her for a few minutes, which raced by on wingsfor him. He did it only by keeping his speech strictly upon the subjectof art, and presently, in spite of his endeavours, she was off acrossthe room and out of the door, through the hall and in the company ofMrs. Stephen and Mr. Matthew Kendrick. The pair, the old man and thegirlish young mother, looked up from a collection of miniatures, broughtout in continuance of the discussion over child faces begun byRosamond's interest in the colour-drawing found upon Richard's walls.They saw a flushed and heart-disturbing face under a drooping whitehat-brim, and eyes which looked anywhere but at them, though Roberta'svoice said quite steadily: "Rosy, do you know how long we are staying?"
In explanation of this sudden haste another face appeared, seen overRoberta's shoulder. This face was also of a somewhat warm colouring, butthese eyes did not hide; they looked as if they were seeing visions andnoted nothing earthly.
"Why, Dick!" exclaimed Mr. Kendrick. "I didn't expect you tillto-morrow." Gladness was in his voice. He held out welcoming hands, andhis grandson came to him and took the hands and held them while heexplained the errand which had brought him and upon which he mustimmediately depart. But he would come again upon the morrow, hepromised. It was clear that the closest relations existed between thetwo; it was a pleasant thing to see. And when Richard turned out againtoward the visitors he had his face in order.
Some imperceptible signalling had been exchanged between Roberta andRosamond, and the call came shortly to an end, in spite of the old man'surgent invitation to them to remain.
"Do you see the roses they brought me, Dick?" He indicated the bowls andvases which stood about the room. "I told them you would notice themdirectly you came in. Where are your eyes, boy?"
"Do you really blame me for not seeing them, grandfather?" retorted hisgrandson audaciously. "But I recognize them now; they are wonderful. Isuppose they have thorns?" His eyes met Roberta's for one daringinstant.
"You wouldn't like them if they didn't," said she.
"Shouldn't I? I'd like to find one with the thorns off; I'd wear it--ifI might. May I have one, grandfather?"
"Of course, Dick. They're mine now to give away, Miss Roberta? Perhapsyou'll put it on for him."
Since the suggestion was made by an old man, who might or might not havebeen wholly innocent of taking sides in a game in which his boy wasplaying for high stakes, Roberta could do no less than hurriedly toselect a splendid crimson bud without regard to thorns--she was aware ofmore than one as she handled it--and fasten it upon a gray coat,intensely conscious of the momentary nearness of a personality whoseinfluence upon her was the strangest, most perturbing thing she had everexperienced.
The flower in place, she could not get away too fast. Rosamond,understanding now that the air was electric and that her sister wantednothing so much as to escape to a safer atmosphere, aided her by takingthe lead and engaging Richard Kendrick in conversation all the waydownstairs to the door and out to the waiting carriage. As they droveaway Rosamond looked back at the figure leaping up the steps, with thecrimson rose showing brilliantly in the June sunshine.
"Rob, he's splendid, simply splendid," she whispered, so that the oldfamily coachman in front, driving the old family horses, could not hear."I don't wonder his grandfather is so proud of him. One can see thathe's going to go right on now and make himself a man worth anybody'swhile. He's that now, but he's going to be more."
"I don't see how you can tell so much from hearing him make a fewfoolish remarks about some roses!" Roberta's face was carefully averted.
"Oh, it wasn't what he said, it's what he is! It shows in his face. Inever saw purpose come out so in a face as it has in his in the timethat we've
known him. Besides, we began by taking him for nothing but asociety man, and we were mistaken in that from the beginning. Stephenhas been telling me some things Louis told him."
"I know. About the hospital and the children."
"Yes. Isn't it interesting? And that's been going on for years; it's nota new pose for our benefit. I've no doubt there are lots of otherthings, if we knew them. But--oh, Rob, his grandfather says he boughtthe little head in colour because he thought it looked like Gordon. I'mgoing to send him the last photograph right away. Rob, there's ForbesWestcott!"
"Where?"
"Right ahead. Shall we stop and take him in? Of course he's on his wayto see you, as usual. How he does anything in his own office--"
"James!" Roberta leaned forward and spoke to the coachman. "Turn downthis street--quickly, please. Don't look, Rosy--don't! Let's not gostraight home; let's drive a while. It--it's such a lovely day!"
"Why, Rob! I thought--"
"Please don't think anything. I'm trying not to."
Rosamond impulsively put her white-gloved hand on Roberta's. "I don'tbelieve you are succeeding," she whispered daringly. "Particularlysince--this morning!"