The Portrait
THE atmosphere had become oppressive. Nobody had anything to say.
Katherine was at the end of her ideas; Doris remained in the
background; Jane was still subdued. Mrs. Brutt felt that it rested
with her to keep the ball going. She walked across to the mantelpiece.
"What a remarkable picture! Quite realistic, isn't it, Miss Stirling?"
Katherine went near. "Was that painted by yourself, Mrs. Morris? No?—
oh, I see—" as she made out a scrawled "P. Morris" in one corner.
"I see—her husband!" in a whisper to Katherine. "What wooden rollers!"
Then aloud: "How interesting for you to have this. So touching! Was
your poor dear husband a sailor?"
"No."
"He must have had a gift—quite a gift! An artist, I suppose."
"No."
"Not an artist! Then he occupied his leisure hours with painting.
How nice! So good for a man to have some pursuit, apart from his
regular work. It keeps him away from the public-house. It makes him
love his home. And I suppose your younger daughter is like her
father."
"No."
"Indeed. She does not take after you either."
"That's as may be."
Mrs. Brutt was at a loss how to meet this.
"I'm said to be like what mother was," Winnie observed timidly.
"Indeed." The notion was preposterous. Mrs. Brutt turned to a framed
photograph. "Ah, this no doubt is Mr. Morris. Such a fine-looking
young man! And was it in India that you lost him?"
"That's my uncle."
"You don't say so! Your uncle, Mr. Paine? But I ought to have guessed—
quite the young farmer, leggings and all. And now I see—so like Farmer
Paine! A perfectly charming old man!"
Mrs. Morris was silent.
"Now here is another, which I am sure must have been a triumph of
skill. Do look, Miss Stirling. A painted photo, and really well done.
Such a pretty creature—hair and complexion quite bewitching, and the
sweetest roguish smile. The sort of face a man would fall in love with
on the spot. Not a daughter of your own, Mrs. Morris! Though I see
just a look of Winnie. A cousin, perhaps."
"That's me."
Mrs. Brutt looked from the picture to her, from her to the picture.
"Really!" she said. The information came as a shock. "Dear me!
Really!" It was all she could bring herself to utter, with the utmost
stretch of politeness. "Dear me—how very—how extremely—"
"People alter as they get older," jerked out Mrs. Morris.
Mrs. Brutt made no effort to combat a truth so self-evident; but the
present application of it went beyond bounds. She took up a small
closed frame of leather, not realising in her confusion that the act
might be counted a liberty, and opened it with a—"May I?" Leave did
not come, neither did she wait for it.
"Is this—oh, I see!" as again she read "Phil Morris" written below.
"Ah, so this is your husband. Poor thing!"—with a sympathy which
called forth no gratitude. "A painting, I see,—not a photo. Done by
an amateur." To Katherine she whispered: "Do look! How awful!" Then
aloud: "Quite a speaking likeness; and how you must value it!" She put
her head on one side, studying the narrow low brow, the common
illiterate face, the insipid simper.
Doris for the first time made a move, and had a clear view of the
portrait, which impressed itself vividly on her mind. Little did she
dream when, and under what circumstances, memory would one day haul
it up for her startled inspection.
Mrs. Brutt flowed easily on. "But I see quite a resemblance to your
elder daughter; a kind of expression, not features. And he died—how
many years ago?" She was treating Mrs. Morris as she treated the women
in her district, showing what she intended for a kindly interest. They
liked to be asked questions, or she imagined that they did; and why
should not this woman like it too?
Mrs. Morris muttered something which sounded rather like "Twenty."
"Twenty years do you say? Ah, a long time. But years mean nothing
where the heart is concerned. Twenty years may be only as twenty days.
And he was—how did it happen?"
Mrs. Morris jerked out one word—"Drowned."
"Really. But how sad! So sudden! So unexpected!"
A pause.
"I wonder how soon the fly will be here." Mrs. Brutt was conscious
again of exhaustion. She put down the defunct husband, and tried a new
notion.
"Wouldn't it be a capital plan, if we might see over the house? I love
old farms. So full of curiosities, you know, and steps up and down.
And farm-kitchens are too delightful for anything—the chimney-corners,
and flitches of bacon, and saucepans that one can see one's face in.
So idyllic! And I adore old beams. Such a history of the past written
in them."
Mrs. Morris offered no objection. Perhaps she hoped thus to escape
further questioning; a hope not destined to find fulfilment. The two
ladies vanished, led by Mrs. Morris, and followed by Jane. Doris made
a move towards Winnie.
"Are you ill? I think you ought to lie down." She had seen Winnie's
start from the sofa when they arrived.
"By-and-by—" with a smile.
"You are shivering. Don't wait till by-and-by. I'll tell them I made
you." With a pretty air of command she insisted, covering the girl
well up. "What makes you feel so bad?"
"It's only rheumatism. I mustn't mind."
"Are you in pain now?"
Winnie whispered a "Yes," and lay as if worn out. The half-hour
of sitting up had tried her severely. Doris examined the pale face,
and felt a wish to know more of what lay beneath that serene white
brow, with its clustering hair, its sweet patience. Winnie Morris,
though perhaps not much older than herself, seemed to have lived a
good deal longer.
"Where is the pain, Winnie,—if I may call you so?"
"Almost everywhere. But I mustn't mind," the girl repeated. "People
often have worse things to bear than rheumatism."
"I should think that was quite bad enough. How long ago did it begin?"
"Oh, some years. I seem to have been in pain—almost always."
The words struck home. Doris saw the contrast between her own health
and vigour, her powers of enjoyment, her free active life,—and this
restrained suffering existence. The gentle pretty face filled her
with pity.
"Always in pain! Every day. No end to it. That is frightfully hard
to bear. Can't anything be done? At your age—"
"I'm twenty-five. People often take me for less. Only one year younger
than Jane, and two younger than Raye."
"I shouldn't have guessed you to be more than eighteen. Don't you get
desperately tired of being always ill—not able to go about and amuse
yourself? Don't you feel cross sometimes?" Doris recalled her own late
mood of discontent, her impatience under little home-worries,
her half-imaginary grievances. What did they matter, compared with
what Winnie had to bear?
"I try not—" very low. "It is what—what God chooses for me—so it is
all right."
"Does that really help you, Winnie?"
"Yes; often. It ought—always." Doris's gaze drew her on. "Don't you
know those lines by Trench—
"'Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;
It is the very place God meant for thee!'"
"And if He meant it—chose it—arranged it all—don't you see?—it must be
right, because He loves me."
"The place—perhaps. But the pain—"
"That's part of it all—part of what He gives me to bear. It is all
from Him—and through it all He loves. He couldn't give me more to bear
than it's right for me to have—because He loves me."
Doris laid her gloved hand on Winnie's.
"I like to hear you. Some day you must say more." She had often
herself spoken some such words to a sufferer in a cottage, because she
supposed that she ought. It was a different matter to hear them
uttered out of a girl's own experience. But she was shy of pursuing
the subject just then. "Can you ever get out for walks?" she asked.
"When it is warm enough I sit in the garden."
"And—church?"
"It is too far off, and I can't sit up for so long. Last time I tried,
the pain got so bad that I fainted."
"Have you no friends to come and see you?"
"Oh, yes—there's—" and she hesitated. "We left most of our friends
in Norfolk."
"Did you like coming?"
"Uncle wanted mother; and she thought we ought. He was alone—and this
had been her home when she was a girl—till she went to be trained as a
nurse."
"And she nursed Miss Stirling—when was that?"
"When Miss Stirling was quite a little child. And then mother married.
I think uncle didn't much like mother's marriage. She saw nothing
of him, or he of her, for years and years after."
"I should like to come and see you, sometimes, Winnie. I might cycle
over, now and then." Winnie's face brightened. "And I shall speak
to Mr. Stirling about you. He always likes to know when people are
in trouble."
This brought a flush. "He does come—"
"I suppose he calls to see Mr. Paine on business."
"He comes to see us too. He gives me presents. He is—so kind. He has
done such a lot for us. I shouldn't like him to be asked to do
anything more."
Doris had not thought of money-help. "I only meant that he might
advise your mother to make you see a doctor."
"He would say, if he thought she ought." Winnie plainly deprecated
interference. "Next time he is here he will say if it is right. Mother
always does what he advises."
Doris noted the form of expression. "Then you have seen him a good
many times."
"Only twice since we moved here. He is so busy. But—he has always been
our friend—our very best and kindest friend. I don't know what we
should have done without him."
Doris was rather astonished. Even in Winnie's soft tones, this sounded
to her like taking a liberty.
"I suppose he is everybody's friend, in a way," she remarked. "I know
he has property in Norfolk.".
"Yes; and we lived in one of his houses. And he sent Raye to college—
my brother, I mean. Raye is so very, very clever. Mr. Stirling said
that, with his talents, it was right he should go. So he helped
mother. Raye is such a dear brother."
Winnie stopped, and a shadow crept over her face.
"I ought not to have told you that—about Raye at college. It was wrong
of me. We never talk about it, because Mr. Stirling doesn't like it to
be known. I can't think how I came to say what I did. Please, please,
never tell it again to anybody."
"But why should he mind? It is only telling how generous he is."
"I know! But please promise."
Doris assured her of secrecy.