The Hollow of Her Hand

  CHAPTER IX

  HAWKRIGHT's MODEL

  Brandon Booth took a small cottage on the upper road, half waybetween the village and the home of Sara Wrandall, and not far fromthe abhorred "back gate" that swung in the teeth of her connectionsby marriage. He set up his establishment in half a day and, beingsettled, betook himself off to dine with Sara and Hetty. All hishousehold cares, like the world, rested snugly on the shoulders ofan Atlas named Pat, than whom there was no more faithful servitor inall the earth, nor in the heavens, for that matter, if we are toaccept his own estimate of himself. In any event, he was a treasure.Booth's house was always in order. Try as he would, he couldn'tget it out of order. Pat's wife saw to that. She was the cook,housekeeper, steward, seamstress, nurse and everything else exceptthe laundress, and she would have been that if Booth hadn't puthis foot down on it. He was rather finicky about his bosoms, itseems--and his cuffs, as well.

  Pat and Mary had been in the Booth family since the flood, so tospeak. As far back as Brandon could remember, the quaint Irishmanhad been the same wrinkled, nut-brown, merry-eyed comedian that hewas to-day, and Mary the same serene, blarneying wife of the man.They were not a day older than they were in the beginning. Heused to wonder if Methuselah knew them. When he set up bachelorquarters for himself in New York, his mother bestowed these pricelessdomestic treasures upon him. They journeyed up from Philadelphiaand complacently took charge of his destinies; no matter whichway they led or how diversified they may have been in conception,Brandon's destinies always came safely around the circle to thestarting point with Pat and Mary atop of them, as chipper as youplease and none the worse for erosion.

  They stoutly maintained that one never gets too old to learn, aconclusion that Brandon sometimes resented.

  He had been obliged to discharge three chauffeurs because Pat didnot get on well with them, and he had found it quite impossibleto keep a dog for the simple reason that Mary insisted on keepinga cat--a most unamiable, belligerent cat at that. He would havemade home a hell for any well-connected dog.

  As he swung jauntily down the tree-lined road that led to Sara'sportals, Booth was full of the joy of living. Dusk was falling.A soft bronze glowed in the western sky. Over the earth lay thetranquil purple of spent refulgence, the after-glow of a red day,for the sun had shone hot since early morn through a queer, smokyscreen of haze. There was a deep stillness over everything. IndolentNature slept in the shadows, as if at rest after the weary day,with scarcely a leaf stirring. And yet there was a subtle coolnessin the air, the feel of a storm that was yet unborn--the imperceptibleshudder of a tempest that was drawing its first breath.

  Before the night was half gone, the storm would be upon them,to revel for a while and then pass on, leaving behind it the danksmell of a grateful earth.

  But Booth had no thought for the thing that was afar off. He wasthinking of the quarter-of-an-hour that came next in the wheel oftime, whose minutes were to check off the results of a fortnight'santicipation. He had not seen either of the ladies of Southlookin the past two weeks, but he had been under the spell of them sosharply that they were seldom out of his thoughts.

  Sara was at the bottom of the terrace, moving among the flowerbeds in the formal garden. He distinguished her from a distance: aslender, graceful figure in black. A black scarf edged with mariboucovered her shoulders, the line of a white neck separating it fromthe raven hue of her hair. He paused at the lower gate to look.Then his gaze was drawn to the gleaming white figure at the top ofthe terrace, outlined distinctly against the blue-black sky thathung over the Sound. Hetty stood there, straight and motionless,looking out over the water. So still was the evening wind that nota flutter of her soft gown was noticeable. She was like a statue.

  At the sound of his footsteps on the gravel, Sara looked up andinstantly smiled her welcome. When Sara smiled the heart of manresponded, long in advance of his lips. Hers was the inviting,mysterious smile of the Orient, with the eyes half shaded bydrooping, languorous lids: dusky, shadowy eyes that looked at youas through a veil, and yet were as clear as crystal once you lostthe illusion.

  "It is so nice to see you again," she said, giving him her hand.

  "'My heart's in the highlands,'" he quoted, waving a vague tributeto the heavens. "And it's nice of you to see me," he added gracefully.Then he pointed up the terrace. "Isn't she a picture? 'Gad, it'slovely--the whole effect. That picture against the sky--"

  He stopped short, and the sentence was never finished, althoughshe waited for him to complete it before remarking:

  "Her heart is not in the highlands."

  "You mean--something's gone wrong--"

  "Oh, no," she said, still smiling; "nothing like that. Her heartis in the lowlands. You would consider Washington Square to be inthe lowlands, wouldn't you?"

  "Oh, I see," he said slowly. "You mean she's thinking of Leslie."

  "Who knows? It was a venture on my part, that's all. She may bethinking of you, Mr. Booth."

  "Or some chap in old England, that's more like it," he retorted."She can't be thinking of me, you know. No one ever thinks of mewhen I'm out of view. Out of sight, out of mind. No; she's thinkingof something a long way off--or some one, if you choose to have itthat way."

  "In that case, it isn't good for her to be thinking of things soremote. Shall we shout 'halloa the house'?"

  He shot a glance at her and responded gallantly: "If she isn'tthinking of us, why should we be thinking of her? Is it too near thedinner hour for you to let me sit here and rest before attemptingto climb all those steps? And will you sit beside me, as the goodOmar might have said?" He was fanning himself with his straw hat.

  She searched his face for a second, a smiling but inscrutableexpression in her eyes, and then sat down on the rustic bench atthe foot of the terrace.

  "Why didn't you let me send the motor for you?" she asked, as hetook his place beside her.

  "I mean to have an appetite in the country," he said, taking adeep, full breath. "Motors don't aid the appetite. Aeroplanes arebetter. I had a flight with a friend up in Westchester last week.I was very hungry when I came down."

  Hetty stood there, straight and motionless, lookingout over the water]

  "We'll all be flying before we really know it," said she. "Hettytried it in France this spring. Have you seen Leslie this week?"

  "I've been in Philadelphia for a few days. Is he coming out onFriday?"

  "Oh, yes. He comes so often nowadays that we call him a commuter."

  "Attractive spot, this," said he, with a significant glance up theterrace.

  "So it would appear."

  "He's really keen about her?"

  She did not reply, but her smile meant more than words.

  "I am eager to get at the portrait," said he, after a moment.

  "Leslie tells me that you want to do me also," said she carelessly.

  He flushed. "Confound him! I suppose it annoys you, Mrs. Wrandall.He shouldn't carry tales."

  "But do you?"

  "I should say I do," he cried warmly. "For my own pleasure andsatisfaction, you understand. There's nothing I'd like better."

  "We'll see how successfully you flatter Hetty," said she. "If itis possible to make her prettier than she really is, you may paintme. I shall be the first to fall at your feet and implore you tomake me beautiful."

  His eyes gleamed. "If I fail in that," said he warmly, "it will bebecause I am without integrity."

  Again she smiled upon him with half-closed, shadowy eyes, and shookher head. Then she arose.

  "Let us go in. Hetty is eager to see you again."

  They started up the terrace. His face clouded.

  "I have had a feeling all along that she'd rather not have thisportrait painted, Mrs. Wrandall. A queer sort of feeling that shedoesn't just like the idea of being put on canvas."

  "Nonsense," she said, without looking at him.

  "Of course, I could understand her not caring to give up the timeto it. It's a nuisance, I know. But it isn
't that sort of feelingI have about her attitude. There's something else. Doesn't she likeme?"

  "Of course she does," she exclaimed. "How ridiculous. She will loveit, once the picture is under way. It is the beginning of it thatdisturbs her. Isn't that always the way?"

  "I am afraid you don't know women," said he banteringly.

  "By the way, have you been able to recall where you first saw her,or is your memory still a blank?" she asked suddenly.

  "I can't think where it was or when," said he, "but I am absolutelypositive I've seen her before. Her face is not the kind one forgets,you know."

  "It may come to you unexpectedly."

  "It's maddening, not to be able to remember."

  The dusk of night hid the look of relief that came into her eyes.

  Hetty met them at the top of the steps. The electric porch lightshad just been turned on by the butler. The girl stood in the pathof the light. Booth was never to forget the loveliness of her inthat moment. He carried the image with him on the long walk homethrough the black night. (He declined Sara's offer to send himover in the car for the very reason that he wanted the half-hour ofsolitude in which to concentrate all the impressions she had madeon his fancy.)

  The three of them stood there for a few minutes, awaiting thebutler's announcement. Sara's arm was about Hetty's shoulders. Hewas so taken up with the picture they presented that he scarcelyheard their light chatter. They were types of loveliness so full ofcontrast that he marvelled at the power of Nature to create womenin the same mould and yet to model so differently.

  They were as near alike in height, figure and carriage as twowomen could be, and yet there was a subtle distinction that lefthim conscious of the fact that two vastly different strains ofblood ran through their veins. Apart, he would not have perceivedthis marked difference in them. Hetty represented the violet, Sarathe pansy. The distinction may be subtile. However, it was theestimate he formed in that moment of comparison.

  The English girl's soft white gown was cut low in the neck, hershapely arms were bare. Sara's black covered her arms and shoulders,even to the slender throat. The hair of both was black and richand alive with the gloss of health. The eyes of one were blue andvelvety, even in the glare of light that fell from above; those ofthe other were black, Oriental, mysterious.

  As they entered the vestibule, a servant came up with the word thatMiss Castleton was wanted at the telephone, "long distance fromNew York."

  The girl stopped in her tracks. Booth looked at her in mild surprise,a condition which gave way an instant later to perplexity. Thelook of annoyance in her eyes could not be disguised or mistaken.

  "Ask him to call me up later, Watson," she said quietly.

  "This is the third time he has called, Miss Castleton," said theman. "You were dressing, if you please, ma'am, the first time--"

  "I will come," she interrupted sharply, with a curious glance atSara, who for some reason avoided meeting Booth's gaze.

  "Tell him we shall expect him on Friday," said Mrs. Wrandall.

  "By George!" thought Booth, as she left them. "I wonder if it canbe Leslie. If it IS--well, he wouldn't be flattered if he couldhave seen the look in her eyes."

  Later on, he had no trouble in gathering that it WAS Leslie Wrandallwho called, but he was very much in the dark as to the meaning ofthat expressive look. He only knew that she was in the telephoneroom for ten minutes or longer, and that all trace of emotion wasgone from her face when she rejoined them with a brief apology forkeeping them waiting.

  He left at ten-thirty, saying good-night to them on the terrace.Sara walked to the steps with him.

  "Don't you think her voice is lovely?" she asked. Hetty had sungfor them.

  "I dare say," he responded absently. "Give you my word, though, Iwasn't thinking of her voice. SHE is lovely."

  He walked home as if in a dream. The spell was on him.

  Far in the night, he started up from the easy chair in which hehad been smoking and dreaming and racking his brain by turns.

  "By Jove!" he exclaimed aloud. "I remember! I've got it! Andto-morrow I'll prove it."

  Then he went to bed, with the storm from the sea pounding aboutthe house, and slept serenely until Pat and Mary wondered whetherhe meant to get up at all.

  "Pat," said he at breakfast, "I want you to go to the city thismorning and fetch out all of the STUDIOS you can find about theplace. The old ones are in that Italian hall seat and the late onesare in the studio. Bring all of them."

  "There's a divvil of a bunch of thim," said Pat ruefully.

  He was not to begin sketching the figure until the following day.After luncheon, however, he had an appointment to inspect Hetty'swardrobe, ostensibly for the purpose of picking out a gown for thepicture. As a matter of fact, he had decided the point to his ownsatisfaction the night before. She should pose for him in the daintywhite dress she had worn on that occasion.

  While they were going over the extensive assortment of gowns,with Sara as the judge from whom there seemed to be no appeal, hecasually inquired if she had ever posed before.

  Two ladies' maids were engaged in flinging the costly garmentsabout as if they represented so much rubbish. The floor was litteredwith silks and satins and laces. He was accustomed to this ruthlesshandling of exquisite fabrics by eager ladies of wealth: it wasone way these pampered women had of showing their contempt forpossession. Gowns came from everywhere by the armload; from closets,presses and trunks, ultimately landing in a conglomerate heap onthe floor when cast aside as undesirable by the artist, the modeland the censor.

  He watched her closely as he put the question. She was holding upa beautiful point lace creation for his inspection, and there wasa pleading smile on her lips. It must have been her favourite gown.The smile faded away. The hand that dangled the garment beforehis eyes suddenly became motionless, as if paralysed. In the nextinstant, she recovered herself, and, giving the lace a quick fillipthat sent its odour of sachet leaping to his nostrils, respondedwith perfect composure.

  "Isn't there a distinction between posing for an artist, and sittingfor one's portrait?" she asked.

  He was silent. The fact that he did not respond seemed to disturbher after a moment or two. She made the common mistake of pressingthe question.

  "Why do you ask?" was her inquiry. When it was too late she wishedshe had not uttered the words. He had caught the somewhat anxiousnote in her voice.

  "We always ask that, I think," he said. "It's a habit."

  "Oh," she said doubtfully.

  "And by the way, you haven't answered."

  She was busy with the gown for a time. At last she looked him fullin the face.

  "That's true," she agreed; "I haven't answered, have I? No, Mr.Booth, I've never posed for a portrait. It is a new experience forme. You will have to contend with a great deal of stupidity on mypart. But I shall try to be plastic."

  He uttered a polite protest, and pursued the question no farther.Her answer had been so palpably evasive that it struck him as bald,even awkward.

  Pat, disgruntled and irritable to the point of profanity,--he wasa privileged character and might have sworn if he felt like itwithout receiving notice,--came shambling up the cottage walk latethat afternoon, bearing two large, shoulder-sagging bundles. Hehad walked from the station,--a matter of half-a-mile,--and it washot. His employer sat in the shady porch, viewing his approach.

  "Have you got them?" he inquired.

  Pat dropped the bundles on the lower step and stared, speechless.Then he mopped his drenched, turkey-red face with his handkerchief.He got his breath after a spell of contemptuous snorting.

  "Have I got what?" he demanded sarcastically. "The measles?"

  "The STUDIOS, Patrick," said Booth reprovingly.

  "No, sor," said Pat; "I came absolutely empty-handed, as you mayhave seen, sor."

  "I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I was confident I saw nothing inyour hands."

  "I kept thim closed, sor, so's you couldn't see what was r'allyin
thim. I've been wid you long enough, sor, to know how you hatethe sight av blisthers."

  "They must be quite a novelty to you, Patrick. I should think you'dbe proud of them."

  "Where am I to put them, sor?"

  "The blisters?"

  "Yis, sor."

  "On this table, if you please. And you might cut the strings whileyou're about it."

  Pat put the bundles on the wicker table and cut the heavy twinein dignified silence. Carefully rolling it up in a neat ball, hestuck it in his pocket. Then he faced his employer.

  "Is there annyt'ing else, sor?"

  "I think not, at present."

  "Not aven a cup av tea, sor?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Thin, if you will excuse me, I'll go about me work. I've had apleasant day off, sor, thanks to ye. It's hard to go back to workafther such a splindid spell of idleness. Heigho! I'd like to bea gintleman av leisure all the time, that I would, sor. The touchI've had av it to-day may be the sp'iling av me. If you're a smartman, Mr. Brandon Booth, ye'll not be letting me off for a holidaylike this again very soon."

  Booth laughed outright. Pat's face wrinkled into a slow, forgivinggrin.

  "I love you, Pat," cried the painter, "in spite of the way you barkat me."

  "It's a poor dog that don't know his own master," said Patmagnanimously. "Whin you're t'rough wid the magazines, I'll carrythim down to the cellar, sor."

  "What's the matter with the attic?"

  "Nothing at all, at all. I was only finking they'd be handierfor you to get at in the cellar. And it's a dom sight cooler downthere."

  With that he departed, blinking slyly.

  The young man drew a chair up to the table and began the taskof working out the puzzle that now seemed more or less near tosolution. He had a pretty clear idea as to the period he wanted toinvestigate. To the best of his recollection, the Studios publishedthree or four years back held the key. He selected the numbers andbegan to run through them. One after another they were cast asidewithout result. In any other cause he would have tired of the quest,but in this his curiosity was so commanding that he stuck to thetask without complaint. He was positive in his mind that what hedesired was to be found inside the covers of one of these magazines.He was searching for a vaguely remembered article on one of thelesser-known English painters who had given great promise at thetime it was published but who dropped completely out of notice soonafterward because of a mistaken notion of his own importance. IfBooth's memory served him right, the fellow came a cropper, so tospeak, in trying to ride rough shod over public opinion, and wentto the dogs. He had been painting sensibly up to that time, butsuddenly went in for the most violent style of impressionism. Thatwas the end of him.

  There had been reproductions of his principal canvases, with sketchesand studies in charcoal. One of these pictures had made a lastingimpression on Booth: the figure of a young woman in deep meditationstanding in the shadow of a window casement from which she lookedout upon the world apparently without a thought of it. A slender youngwoman in vague reds and browns, whose shadowy face was positivelyilluminated by a pair of wonderful blue eyes.

  He came upon it at last. For a long time he sat there gazing atthe face of Hetty Castleton, a look of half-wonder, half-triumphin his eyes. There could be no doubt as to the identity of thesubject. The face was hers, the lovely eyes were hers: the velvety,dreamy, soulful eyes that had haunted him for years, as he nowbelieved. In no sense could the picture be described as a portrait.It was a study, deliberately arranged and deliberately posed for inthe artist's studio. He was mystified. Why should she, the daughterof Colonel Castleton, the grand-niece of an earl, be engaged inposing for what evidently was meant to be a commercial product ofthis whilom artist?

  He remembered the painting itself as he had seen it in theexhibition at the National Academy when this fellow--Hawkright washis name--was at the top of his promise as a painter. He rememberedgoing back to it again and again and marvelling at the subtle,delicate beauty of the thing. Now he knew that it was the face,and not the art of the painter that had affected him so enduringly.The fellow had shown other paintings, but he recalled that noneof them struck him save this one. After all, it WAS the face thatmade the picture memorable.

  Turning from this skilfully coloured full page reproduction,he glanced at first casually over the dozen or more sketches andstudies on the succeeding pages. Many of them represented studiesof women's heads and figures, with little or no attempt to obtaina likeness. Some were half-draped, showing in a sketchy way thelong graceful lines of the half-nude figure, of bare shoulders andbreasts, of gauze-like fabrics that but illy concealed impressivecharms. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and a sharp exclamation fellfrom his lips. He bent closer to the pages and studied the drawingswith redoubled interest.

  Then he whistled softly to himself, a token of simple amazement.The head of each of these remarkable studies suggested in outlinethe head and features of Hetty Castleton! She had been Hawkright'smodel!

  The next morning at ten he was at Southlook, arranging his easeland canvas in the north end of the long living-room, where the lightfrom the tall French windows afforded abundant and well-distributedlight for the enterprise in hand. Hetty had not yet appeared. Sara,attired in a loose morning gown, was watching him from a comfortablechair in the corner, one shapely bare arm behind her head; thefree hand was gracefully employed in managing a cigarette. He wasconscious of the fact that her lazy, half-alert gaze was upon himall the time, although she pretended to be entirely indifferent tothe preparations. Dimly he could see the faint smile of intereston her lips.

  "By Jove," he exclaimed with sudden fervour, "I wish I could getyou just as you are, Mrs. Wrandall. Do you mind if I sketch youin--just to preserve the pose for the future--"

  "Never!" she cried and forthwith changed her position. She laughedat the look of disappointment in his face.

  "You've no idea how--er--attractive--" he began confusedly, butbroke off with a laugh. "I beg your pardon. I couldn't help it."

  "The potent appeal of a cigarette," she surmised shrewdly.

  "Not at all," he said promptly. He was a bit red in the face as heturned to busy himself with the tubes and brushes. When he glancedat her again, he found that she had resumed her former attitude.

  Hetty came in at that moment, calm, serene and lovelier than everin the clear morning light. She was wearing the simple white gownhe had chosen the day before. If she was conscious of the ratherintense scrutiny he bestowed upon her as she gave him her hand ingreeting, she did not appear to be in the least disturbed.

  "You may go away, Sara," she said firmly. "I shall be too dreadfullyself-conscious if you are looking on."

  Booth looked at her rather sharply. Sara indolently abandoned hercomfortable chair and left them alone in the room.

  "Shall we try a few effects, Miss Castleton?" he inquired, aftera period of constraint that had its effect on both of them.

  "I am in your hands," she said simply.

  He made suggestions. She fell into the positions so easily, sonaturally, so effectively, that he put aside all previous doubtsand blurted out:

  "You have posed before, Miss Castleton."

  She smiled frankly. "But not for a really truly portrait," shesaid. "Such as this is to be."

  He hesitated an instant. "I think I recall a canvas by MauriceHawkright," he said, and at once experienced a curious sense ofperturbation. It was not unlike fear.

  Instead of betraying the confusion or surprise he expected, MissCastleton merely raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

  "What has that to do with me, Mr. Booth?" she asked.

  He laughed awkwardly.

  "Don't you know his work?" he inquired, with a slight twist of hislip.

  "I may have seen his pictures," she replied, puckering her brow asif in reflection.

  He stared for a second.

  "Why do you look at me in that way, Mr. Booth?" she cried, with anervous little laugh.

  "Do you mean to sa
y you--er--that is, you don't know Hawkright'swork?"

  "Is that so very strange?" she inquired plaintively.

  "By Jove," he muttered, quite taken aback. "I don't understand.I'm flabbergasted."

  "Please explain yourself," she said stiffly.

  "You must have a double somewhere, Miss Castleton," said he, stillstaring. "Some one who looks enough like you to be--"

  "Oh," she cried, with a bright smile of understanding. "I see! Yes,I have a double--a really remarkable double. Have you never seenHetty Glynn, the actress?"

  "I am sure I have not," he said, taking a long breath. It was oneof relief, he remembered afterward. "If she is so like you as allthat, I COULDN'T have forgotten her."

  "She is quite unknown, I believe," she went on, ignoring the impliedcompliment. "A chorus-girl, or something like that. They say sheis wonderfully like me--or was, at least, a few years ago."

  He was silent for a few minutes, studying her face and figure withthe critical eye of the artist. As he turned to the canvas with hiscrayon point, he remarked, with an unmistakable note of relief inhis voice:

  "That explains everything. It must have been Hetty Glynn who posedfor all those things of Hawkright's."

  "I dare say," said she indifferently.