By ‘getting the place straight
again,’ his widow, of course, meant forgetting the glamour of fear and
foreboding his depressing.creed had temporarily forced upon her; and
Frances, delicately-minded being, did not speak of it because it was
the influence of the man her friend had loved. I felt lighter; a load
was lifted from me. ‘To trace the unfamiliar to the familiar,’ came
back a sentence I had read somewhere, ‘is to understand.’ It was a
real relief. I could talk with Frances now, even with my hostess, no
danger of treading clumsily. For the key was in my hands. I might even
help to dissipate the Shadow, ‘to get it straight again.’ It seemed,
perhaps, our long invitation was explained!
I went into the house laughing—at myself a little. ‘Perhaps after
all the artist’s outlook, with no hard and fast dogmas, is as narrow
as the others! How small humanity is! And why is there no possible and
true combination of all outlooks?’
The feeling of ‘unsettling’ was very strong in me just then, in
spite of my big discovery which was to clear everything up. And at the
moment I ran into Frances on the stairs, with a portfolio of sketches
under her arm.
It came across me then abruptly that, although she had worked a
great deal since we came, she had shown me nothing. It struck me
suddenly as odd, unnatural. The way she tried to pass me now confirmed
my new-born suspicion that—well, that her results were hardly what
they ought to be.
‘Stand and deliver!’ I laughed, stepping in front of her. ‘I’ve
seen nothing you’ve done since you’ve been here, and as a rule you
show me all your things. I believe they are atrocious and degrading!’
Then my laughter froze.
She made a sly gesture to slip past me, and I almost decided to let
her go, for the expression that flashed across her face shocked me.
She looked uncomfortable and ashamed; the colour came and went a
moment in he cheeks, making me think of a child detected in some secret
naughtiness. It was almost fear.
‘It’s because they’re not finished then?’ I said, dropping the tone
of banter, ‘or because they’re too good for me to understand?’ For my
criticism of painting, she told me, was crude and ignorant sometimes.
‘But you’ll let me see them later, won’t you?’
Frances, however, did not take the way of escape I offered. She
changed her mind. She drew the portfolio from beneath her arm instead.
‘You can see them if you really want to, Bill,’ she said quietly, and
her tone reminded me of a nurse who says to a boy just grown out of
childhood, ‘you are old enough now to look upon horror and
ugliness—only I don’t advise it.’
‘I do want to,’ I said, and made to go downstairs with her. But,
instead, she said in the same low voice as before, ‘Come up to my
room, we shall be undisturbed there.’ So I guessed that she had been
on her way to show the paintings to our hostess, but did not care for
us all three to see them together. My mind worked furiously.
‘Mabel asked me to do them,’ she explained in a tone of submissive
horror, once the door was shut, ‘in fact, she begged it of me. You
know how persistent she is in her quiet way. I—er—had to.’
She flushed and opened the portfolio on the little table by the
window, standing behind me as I turned the sketches over-sketches of
the grounds and trees and garden. In the first moment of ‘inspection,
however, I did not take in clearly why my sister’s sense of modesty had
been offended. For my attention flashed a second elsewhere. Another
bit of the puzzle had dropped into place, defining still further the
nature of what I called ‘the Shadow’.
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