The Hollow of Her Hand

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"Gee, I wish to goodness he'd come back," was the soulful cry of
another.

"I don't like them pictures he paints, though, do you?" observed
another, more critical than avaricious.

"Naw!" was the scornful reply, also in unison.

From which it may he gathered that Mr. Brandon Booth was not
cherished for art's sake alone, but for its relation to Mammon.

The object of their comments was making himself agreeable to
the lady who was to be his hostess for the next few days. Leslie,
perhaps in the desire to be alone with his reflections, sat forward
with the chauffeur, and paid little or no heed to that unhappy person's
comments on the vile condition of ALL village thorough-fares, New
York City included.

"By the way, Sara," he said, suddenly breaking in on the conversation
that went on at his back, and thereby betraying a secret wish that
was taking shape in his mind, "what have you done with the little
red runabout you had a year or two ago?"

She started. "You mean--"

As she hesitated, he went on. "It would come in very handy for
twosome tours."

"I disposed of it some time ago, Leslie," said she. "I thought
you'd remember."

"Oh,--er--by Jove!" he stammered in confusion.

He remembered that she had GIVEN it away a day or two after that
awful night in March, and he recalled her reason for doing so. He
twisted the tiny end of his moustache with unnecessary vigour--I
might say fury. It was a most unhappy FAUX PAS.

"Softening of the brain," he muttered, in dismal apology to himself.

"And you painted those wretched little boys instead of the beautiful
things that Nature provides for us out here, Mr. Booth?" Sara was
saying to the artist beside her.

"Of course, I managed to get in a bit of Nature, even at that,"
said he, with a smile. "Boys are pretty close to earth, you know.
To be perfectly honest, I did it in order to get away from the
eminently beautiful but unnatural things I'm required to paint at
home."

"Your subjects wouldn't care for that," she warned him, in some
amusement.

"Oh, as to that, the comments of the boys on the things I did up
here weren't altogether flattering to me, so I'm chastened. They
were more than frank about them. We live to learn."

"Where are the canvases?"

"I immortalised them, one and all, by destroying them by fire and
sword, only the sword happened to be a penknife. They made a most
excellent bonfire."

"And so, you've nothing to show for your fortnight?"

"Oh, yes. A most desirable invitation to forget my failures at your
expense."

"Poof!"

"I don't blame you. It WAS inane. Still, I can't help saying, Mrs.
Wrandall, that it is a desirable invitation. You won't say 'poof'
to that, because I won't listen to it."

"On the other hand, it's very good of you to come."

"It seems to me I'm always in debt to Leslie, with slim prospect
of ever squaring accounts," said he whimsically. "But for him, I
couldn't have come."

"I suppose we will see you at the Wrandall place this summer."

"I'm coming out to paint Leslie's sister in June, I believe. And
that reminds me, I came upon an uncommonly pretty girl not far from
your place the other day--and yesterday, as well--some one I've
met before, unless I'm vastly mistaken. I wonder if you know your
neighbours well enough--by sight, at least--to venture a good guess
as to who I mean."

She appeared thoughtful.

"Oh, there are dozens of pretty girls in the neighbourhood. Can't
you remember where you met--" She stopped suddenly, a swift look
of apprehension in her eyes.

He failed to note the look or the broken sentence. He was searching
in his coat pocket for something. Selecting a letter from the middle
of a small pocket, he held it out to her.

"I sketched this from memory. She posed all too briefly for me,"
he said.

On the back of the envelope was a remarkably good likeness of Hetty
Castleton, done broadly, sketchily with a crayon point, evidently
drawn with haste while the impression was fresh, but long after
she had passed out of range of his vision.

"I know her," said Sara quietly. "It's very clever, Mr. Booth."

"There is something hauntingly familiar about it," he went on,
looking at the sketch with a frown of perplexity. "I've seen her
somewhere, but for the life of me I can't place her. Perhaps in a
crowded street, or the theatre, or a railway train--just a fleeting
glimpse, you know. But in any event, I got a lasting impression.
Queer things like that happen, don't you think so?"

Mrs. Wrandall leaned forward and spoke to Leslie. As he turned,
she handed him the envelope, without comment.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed.

"Mr. Booth is a mind reader," she explained. "He has been reading
your thoughts, dear boy."

Booth understood, and grinned.

"You don't mean to say--" began the dumfounded Leslie, still staring
at the sketch. "Upon my word, it's a wonderful likeness, old chap.
I didn't know you'd ever met her."

"Met her?" cried Booth, an amiable conspirator. "I've never met
her."

"See here, don't try anything like that on me. How could you do
this if you've never seen--"

"He IS a mind reader," cried Sara.

"Haven't you been thinking of her steadily for--well, we'll say
ten minutes?" demanded Booth.

Leslie reddened. "Nonsense!"

"That's a mental telepathy sketch," said the artist, complacently.

"When did you do it?"

"This instant, you might say. See! Here is the crayon point. I
always carry one around with me for just such--"

"All right," said Leslie blandly, at the same time putting the
envelope in his own pocket; "we'll let it go at that. If you're so
clever at mind pictures, you can go to work and make another for
yourself. I mean to keep this one."

"I say," began Booth, dismayed.

"One's thoughts are his own," said the happy possessor of the
sketch. He turned his back on them.

Sara was contrite. "He will never give it up," she lamented.

"Is he really hard hit?" asked Booth in surprise.

"I wonder," mused Sara.

"Of course, he's welcome to the sketch, confound him."

"Would you like to paint her?"

"Is this a commission?"

"Hardly. I know her, that's all. She is a very dear friend."

"My heart is set on painting some one else, Mrs. Wrandall."

"Oh!"

"When I know you better, I'll tell you who she is."

"Could you make a sketch of this other one from memory?" she asked
lightly.

"I think so. I'll show you one this evening. I have my trusty crayon
about me always, as I said before."

Later in the afternoon Booth came face to face with Hetty. He was
descending the stairs and met her coming up. The sun streamed in
through the tall windows at the turn in the stairs, shining full
in her uplifted face as she approached him from below. He could
not repress the start of amazement. She was carrying a box of roses
in her arms--red roses whose stems protruded far beyond the end of
the pasteboard box and reeked of a fragrant dampness.

She gave him a shy, startled smile as she passed. He had stopped
to make room for her on the turn. Somewhat dazed he continued on
his way down the steps, to suddenly remember with a twinge of dismay
that he had not returned her polite smile, but had stared at her
with most unblinking fervour. In no little shame and embarrassment,
he sent a swift glance over his shoulder. She was walking close to
the banister rail on the floor above. As he glanced up their eyes
met, for she too had turned to peer.

Leslie Wrandall was standing near the foot of the stairs. There
was an eager, exalted look in his face that slowly gave way to
well-assumed unconcern as his friend came upon him and grasped his
arm.

"I say, Leslie, is--is she staying here?" cried Booth, lowering
his voice to an excited half-whisper.

"Who?" demanded Wrandall vacantly. His mind appeared to be elsewhere.

"Why, that's the girl I saw on the road--Wake up! The one on the
envelope, you ass. Is she the one you were telling me about in the
club--the Miss What's-Her-Name who--"

"Oh, you mean Miss Castleton. She's just gone upstairs. You must
have met her on the steps."

"You know I did. So THAT is Miss Castleton."

"Ripping, isn't she? Didn't I tell you so?"

"She's beautiful. She IS a type, just as you said, old man,--a
really wonderful type. I saw her yesterday--and the day before."

"I've been wondering how you managed to get a likeness of her on
the back of an envelope," said Leslie sarcastically. "Must have had
a good long look at her, my boy. It isn't a snap-shot, you know."

Booth flushed. "It is an impression, that's all. I drew it from
memory, 'pon my soul."

"She'll be immensely gratified, I'm sure."

"For heaven's sake, Les, don't be such a fool as to show her the
thing," cried Booth in consternation. "She'd never understand."

"Oh, you needn't worry. She has a fine sense of humour."

Booth didn't know whether to laugh or scowl. He compromised with
himself by slipping his arm through that of his friend and saying
heartily:

"I wish you the best of luck, old boy."

"Thanks," said Leslie drily.

CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH HETTY IS WEIGHED

Booth and Leslie returned to the city on Tuesday. The artist left
behind him a "memory sketch" of Sara Wrandall, done in the solitude
of his room long after the rest of the house was wrapped in slumber
on the first night of his stay at Southlook. It was as sketchily
drawn as the one he had made of Hetty, and quite as wonderful in
the matter of faithfulness, but utterly without the subtle something
that made the other notable. The craftiness of the artist was there,
but the touch of inspiration was lacking.

Sara was delighted. She was flattered, and made no pretence of
disguising the fact.

The discussion which followed the exhibition of the sketch at
luncheon, was very animated. It served to excite Leslie to such a
degree that he brought forth from his pocket the treasured sketch
of Hetty, for the purpose of comparison.

The girl who had been genuinely enthusiastic over the picture of
Sara, and who had not been by way of knowing that the first sketch
existed, was covered with confusion. Embarrassment and a shy sense
of gratification were succeeded almost at once by a feeling of keen
annoyance. The fact that the sketch was in Leslie's possession--and
evidently a thing to be cherished--took away all the pleasure she
may have experienced during the first few moments of interest.

Booth caught the angry flash in her eyes, preceding the flush and
unaccountable pallor that followed almost immediately. He felt
guilty, and at the same time deeply annoyed with Leslie. Later on
he tried to explain, but the attempt was a lamentable failure. She
laughed, not unkindly, in his face.

Leslie had refused to allow the sketch to leave his hand. If she
could have gained possession of it, even for an instant, the thing
would have been torn to bits. But it went back into his commodious
pocket-book, and she was too proud to demand it of him.

She became oddly sensitive to Booth's persistent though inoffensive
scrutiny as time wore on. More than once she had caught him looking
at her with a fixedness that betrayed perplexity so plainly that
she could not fail to recognise an underlying motive. He was vainly
striving to refresh his memory: that was clear to her. There is no
mistaking that look in a person's eyes. It cannot be disguised.

He was as deeply perplexed as ever when the time came for him to
depart with Leslie. He asked her point blank on the last evening
of his stay if they had ever met before, and she frankly confessed
to a short memory for faces. It was not unlikely, she said, that
he had seen her in London or in Paris, but she had not the faintest
recollection of having seen him before their meeting in the road.

Urged by Sara, she had reluctantly consented to sit to him for a
portrait during the month of June. He put the request in such terms
that it did not sound like a proposition. It was not surprising
that he should want her for a subject; in fact, he put it in such
a way that she could not but feel that she would be doing him
a great and enduring favour. She imposed but one condition: the
picture was never to be exhibited. He met that, with bland magnanimity,
by proffering the canvas to Mrs. Wrandall, as the subject's "next
best friend," to "have and to hold so long as she might live," "free
gratis," "with the artist's compliments," and so on and so forth,
in airy good humour.

Leslie's aid had been solicited by both Sara and the painter in
the final effort to overcome the girl's objections. He was rather
bored about it, but added his voice to the general clamour. With
half an eye one could see that he did not relish the idea of Hetty
posing for days to the handsome, agreeable painter. Moreover, it
meant that Booth, who could afford to gratify his own whims, would
be obliged to spend a month or more in the neighbourhood, so that
he could devote himself almost entirely to the consummation of this
particular undertaking. Moreover, it meant that Vivian's portrait
was to be temporarily disregarded.

Sara Wrandall was quick to recognise the first symptoms of jealousy
on the part of her brother-in-law. She had known him for years.
In that time she had been witness to a dozen of his encounters in
the lists of love, or what he chose to designate as love, and had
seen him emerge from each with an unscarred heart and a smiling
visage. Never before had he shown the slightest sign of jealousy,
even when the affair was at its rosiest. The excellent ego which
mastered him would not permit him to forget himself so far as to
consider any one else worthy of a feeling of jealousy. But now he
was flying an alien flag. He was turning against himself and his
smug convictions. He was at least annoyed, if not jealous. Doubtless
he was surprised at himself; perhaps he wondered what had come over
him.

Sara noted these signs of self-abasement (it could be nothing else
where a Wrandall was concerned), and smiled inwardly. The new idol
of the Wrandalls was in love, selfishly, insufferably in love as
things went with all the Wrandalls. They hated selfishly, and so
they loved. Her husband had been their king. But their king was
dead, long live the king! Leslie had put on the family crown,--a
little jauntily, perhaps,--cocked over the eye a bit, so to speak--but
it was there just the same, annoyingly plain to view.

Sara had tried to like him. He had been her friend, the only one she
could claim among them all. And yet, beneath his genial allegiance,
she could detect the air of condescension, the bland attitude of a
superior who defends another's cause for the reason that it gratifies
Nero. She experienced a thrill of malicious joy in contemplating
the fall of Nero. He would bring down his house about his head,
and there would be no Rome to pay the fiddler.

In the train that Tuesday morning, Booth elected to chaff his
friend on the progress of his campaign. They were seated opposite
to each other in the almost empty parlour car.

"Buck up, old chap," he counselled scoffingly. "Don't look so
disconsolate. You're coming out again at the end of the week."

Leslie had been singularly reticent for a matter of ten miles or
more after leaving the little station behind. His attention seemed to
be engaged strictly in the study of objects beyond the car window.

"What's that?" he demanded curtly.

"I say you're lucky enough to be asked again for the end of the--"

"I've got a standing invitation, if that's what you mean. Sara gives
me a meal ticket, as it were. Nothing extraordinary in my going
out whenever I like, is there?" His manner was a trifle offish.

Booth laughed. "In spite of your disagreeable remark, I wish you
good luck, old man."

"What the devil are you driving at, Brandy?"

"I only meant to cheer you up a bit, that's all."

"Thanks!"

There was another interval of silence. Leslie furtively studied
the face of his friend, who had resumed his dreamy contemplation
of the roof of the car, his hands clasped behind his head, his legs
outstretched.

"I say, Brandy," he ventured at last, a trace of embarrassment in
his manner, "if you've nothing better to do, come down and dine
with us to-night--en famille. Viv said over the 'phone this morning
that we are dining alone in state. Come along, old chap, and wake
us up. What say?"

A clever mind-reader could have laid bare the motive in this cordial,
even eager invitation. He was seeking to play Vivian against Hetty
in the game, which seemed to have taken on a new turn.

Booth was not a mind-reader, although in jest he had posed as one.
"I'm quite sure I've nothing better to do," he said. "I'd suggest,
however, that you let the invitation come from some one in authority.
Your mother, for instance."

"Nonsense," cried the other blithely. "You know you've got a meal
ticket at our house, good for a million punches. Still I'll have
Vivian call you up this afternoon."

"If she wants me, I'll come," said Booth in the most matter-of-fact
way.

Leslie settled down with a secret sigh of relief. He regained his
usual loquaciousness. The points of his little moustache resumed
their uprightness.

"How do you like Sara?" he asked. It was a casual question, with
no real meaning behind it as it was uttered. No sooner had it left
his lips, however, than a new and rather staggering idea entered
his mind,--a small thing at first but one that grew with amazing
swiftness.

"She is splendid," said Booth warmly.

"I thought you'd like her," said Leslie, the idea growing apace:
It did not occur to him that he might be nurturing disloyalty to
the interests of his own sister. Things of that sort never bothered
Leslie. When all was said and done, Vivian had but a slim chance
at best, so why champion a faint hope? "Why don't you do a portrait
of her? It would be a wonderful thing, old chap."

He sat up a trifle straighter in his chair.

"She hasn't asked me to, which is the best reason in the world.

"Oh, I can fix that." His lively imagination was full of it now.

"Thanks. Don't bother."

"And there's this to be said for a portrait of Sara," went on Leslie,
rather too eagerly: "she wouldn't object to having it exhibited in
the galleries. 'Gad, it would do you a world of good, Brandy."

The other's eyes narrowed. "I suppose I am to infer that Mrs.
Wrandall courts publicity."

"Not at all," cried the other impatiently. "What I mean is this:
she's taken a fancy to you, and if her portrait could be the means
of helping you--"

"Oh, cut that out, Les,--cut it out," growled Booth coldly.

"Well, in any event, if you want to paint her, I can fix it for
you," announced his companion.

"If you don't mind, old chap, I'll tackle Miss Castleton first,"
said Booth, dismissing the matter with a yawn.

"I hate the word tackle," said Leslie.

On a bright, sunny afternoon two weeks later, Mrs. Redmond Wrandall
received her most intimate friend in her boudoir. They were both
in ample black. Mrs. Rowe-Martin, it seems, had suffered a recent
bereavement--with an aspect of permanency,--in the loss of a four
thousand dollar Airdale who had stopped traffic in Fifth Avenue for
twenty minutes while a sympathetic crowd viewed his gory remains,
and an unhappy but garrulous taxi-cab driver tried to account for
his crime. He never even thought of the insanity dodge. The Airdale
was given a most impressive funeral and was buried in pomp with
all his medals, ribbons, tags, collars and platinum leashes, but
minus a few of the uncollected parts of his anatomy. While it had
been a complete catastrophe, he was by no means a complete carcass.

Be that as it may, his mistress went into mourning, denying herself
so many diversions that not a few of her friends became alarmed
and advised her husband to put her in a sanitarium. He was willing,
poor chap, but not she. She couldn't see the sense of confining
her grief to the four walls of a sanitarium while the four winds
of heaven were at her disposal.

The most distressing feature of the great Airdale's taking-off
lay in the fact that his descendants--he had several sets of
great-grandchildren--appeared to be uncommonly ordinary brutes,
without a symptom of good breeding in the lot of them. They were
so undeviatingly gauche and middle-class, that already the spiteful
tongues of envy had begun to question his right to the medals and
ribbons acquired at the bench shows, where Mrs. Rowe-Martin was
considered one of the immortals. She could have got a blue ribbon
on a yellow dog any time. Of course, in defence of her exotic Airdale,
she unblinkingly fell back on the paraphrase: "It's a wise father
that knows his own son"; or the other way round, just as you please.

Mrs. Rowe-Martin professedly was middle-aged--that is to say, just
rounding fifty. As a woman is always fifty until she is sixty, just
as it is nine o'clock until the stroke of ten, there may be some
question as to which end of the middle-aged period she was rounding,
but as that isn't material to the development of this story, we
will give her the benefit of the doubt and merely say that sensibly
she dressed in black.

She was Mrs. Wrandall's closest friend and confidante. It was Mrs.
Rowe-Martin who rushed over and gave the smelling salts to Mrs.
Wrandall when that excellent lady collapsed on hearing that her son
Challis was going to marry the daughter of old Sebastian Gooch. It
was she who acted as spokeswoman for the distressed mother and told
the world--that is to say, THEIR world--that Sara was a scheming,
designing creature, whose sole aim in life was to get into the smart
set by the easiest way. It was she who comforted Mrs. Wrandall, after
the lamentable deed was done, by proclaiming from the house-tops
that old man Gooch's daughter should never enter society if she
could prevent it, and went so far as to invite Challis to all of
her affairs without asking his wife to accompany him, quite as if
she didn't know that he had a wife. (In speaking of her to Challis,
she invariably alluded to Sara as Miss Gooch, for something over
a year after the wedding--and might have gone on for ever had not
Mrs. Wrandall, senior, upset everything by giving a reception in
honour of her daughter-in-law: a bolt from a clear sky, you may
be sure, that left Mrs. Rowe-Martin stunned and bleeding on the
battlefield of a mistaken cause.) She never quite got over that
bit of treachery on the part of her very best friend, although she
made the best of it by slyly confiding to other stupefied persons
that Challis's father had taken the bit in his mouth,--God knows
why!--and that Mrs. Wrandall thought best to humour him for the
time being, at least. And it was she who came to Mrs. Wrandall in
her greatest trial and performed the gentlest deeds that one woman
can do for another when all the world has gone black and hateful
to her. When you put her to the real test, a woman will always rise
above herself, no matter how lofty she may have considered herself
beforehand.

They were drinking tea, with the lemon left out.

"My dear," said Mrs. Rowe-Martin, "I quite agree with you. Leslie
should be thinking of it."

"It means so much to me, Harriet, his getting the right sort of girl.
I feel confident that he is interested--very deeply interested in
Miss Castleton."

"I am so glad you like her."

"She is a dear."

"My sister has met her in London, and at one or two of the country
places. I was inquiring only yesterday. When I mentioned that she
is related to Lord Murgatroyd, Frances remembered her quite well.
She sees a lot of them, you know, during the season," explained
Mrs. Rowe-Martin affably.

Mrs. Wrandall concealed her curiosity. In the most casual way she
remarked:

"I must ask Miss Castleton if she remembers Mrs. Roodleigh."

"Oh, I fancy she won't recall her," her friend made haste to say.
"Young girls are not likely to remember elderly persons whom they
meet--Oh, you might say in passing, for that's what it really is,
you know."

"Still, if Frances knows the Murgatroyds so intimately it isn't
likely--"

"Did I say she knew them intimately?" protested the other, somewhat
plaintively. "How like me! So stupid! As a matter of fact, my dear,
I don't believe Frances knows them at all--except as one knows people
in a general sort of way. Drawing-rooms, you know, and all that
sort of thing. Of course, every one knows Lord and Lady Murgatroyd.
Just as they might know the Duke of--well any one of the great
dukes, for that matter."

"Or King George," added Mrs. Wrandall softly, without a perceptible
trace of spite.

"She has met them, of course," said Mrs. Rowe-Martin defensively.
Somehow, a defence was called for; she couldn't sit there and say
nothing.

Mrs. Wrandall changed the subject, or at least divided it. She put
the chaff aside, for that was what Mrs. Rowe-Martin's revelations
amounted to.

"Leslie is such a steady, unimpressionable boy, you see," she said,
apropos of nothing.

"And so good looking," added her friend beamingly.

"It wouldn't be like him to make a mistake where his own happiness
and welfare are concerned," said the subject's mother, speaking
more truth than she knew, but not more than Mrs. Rowe-Martin knew.
That lady knew Leslie like a book.

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