Chapter XI: 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.