Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction by Robert J. Begiebing Page B

appropriate.
    â€œWould it not be possible to discover the whereabouts of the child, in some town on the frontier, as you said?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” she said with a grave face, “as it is not my place to make inquiries, and as doing so would only raise suspicions and even firmer secrecy.”
    â€œBut if you should come into such information, would you share it with me, Miss Norris? I would be most grateful.”
    She looked at him directly. He was sure, again, that she knew more than she spoke. But he detected a sympathetic attitude, despite her reticence and the formality of their relations. “To what purpose, Mr. Sanborn?”
    â€œI believe this child, whom I came to understand in some small capacity through our sittings, must suffer in her removal, whatever its nature. I have seen enough to know that. Moreover, I believe you share my sentiments concerning your former charge, Miss Norris. May we not inquire into her welfare on our own, out of compassion?”
    â€œHer parents feel compassion. And love.”
    â€œYet they are unsettled by her, they have removed her, and they have denied her exercise of her powers and her deepest delight.”
    â€œThey believe some discipline is called for, and that is their prerogative, as I have said. Perhaps she need spend more time in this world, rather than some other.”
    â€œYou are right, of course, in regard to the parents.” He believed she was merely mouthing her master’s argument, not her feelings. “Yet the heart speaks otherwise, to one outside the family. And as you have said yourself, she draws and paints only what she sees in this world. It is not some other, if you report her words correctly. Her sight will remain unchanged under any discipline. It is her seeing, and there is nothing to be done about it, is there?”
    â€œI cannot say, sir.” She made a motion to suggest it was time to leave.
    â€œThink on it, Miss Norris. I beg you.” He handed her his new card, in case her mind took a more agreeable turn.

Chapter 8
    R EBECCA HAD MADE HER MARK on Daniel Sanborn, portrait painter. Perhaps because of his anger at her effrontery, he renewed his efforts to learn the mysteries of painting faces and hands. He had seen what an Old World master could do; now he had seen what a gifted child could do as well.
    He found that he continually studied Rebecca’s painting of herself, as if by study he might unlock its secret. And how he came to be in possession of it was one of the most unexpected, yet straightforward, incidents of his early months in Portsmouth. He had been sitting in his painting room after a day of good work, enjoying his pipe and a glass of Madeira, looking out his window into the ruddy haze settling over the city of a September evening. There was a knock on his door; he rose at his leisure. Two more knocks before he reached the door suggested to him some urgency about the person who sought his attention.
    He was pleased to find Miss Norris wrapped in a hooded cape. Her eyes were fixed on the card he had attached to his door:
    D ANIEL S ANBORN —D RAWING MASTER P ORTRAITS IN O ILS
    She held in her hands a large object, well covered. Upon entering his rooms and exchanging greetings, she immediately uncovered it to reveal Rebecca’s self-portrait.
    â€œThey have burned the others,” she said. “I saved this one out. Surreptitiously, of course. I thought one product of her childhood should be salvaged. And seeing your particular interest in this one, your admiration, as well as my own, I chose it.”
    â€œHow’d you manage it, Miss Norris?” he said with a great encouraging smile, lit by tobacco and wine.
    â€œI placed it, well disguised, with some other last things as I was removing to my new residence and position.” She looked grave, as if the memory of the risk she had run was a sobering reflection. “You may borrow it if you like, for a