VTHE HELPER“THE POWER BEHIND THE PEN”
“THE POWER BEHIND THE PEN”
Whenthe Reverend Maurice Hay died suddenly of heart failure, his parishioners were full of solicitude and sympathy for his orphan girls, Rose and Josephine, who, in spite of youth and good looks, were very popular in Dullditch and its neighbourhood. As it was understood that they had no fortune beyond their pretty faces, no investments, except certain paltry accomplishments, their affairs naturally furnished a subject of burning interest; the villagers laid their heads together, and wondered what on earth the Hay girls were to do! Lady helps, lady nurses, companions, typists, these attractive and genteel posts were urged upon them, but the Hays decided that they would go together to London, and endeavour to find work as artists. The community disapproved and remonstrated—singly, in couples, and by letter. When these good-natured efforts proved unavailing, it was remembered that the Vicar’s daughters had foreign blood in their veins; their mother’s father was an Italian, and an Italian painter—twofacts much to be deplored. His queer, roving, Bohemian ideas were manifesting themselves in his descendants; yet it was admitted that the Hay girls had some taste for drawing. Rose’s clever black-and-white sketches decorated most of her friends’ albums; Josephine painted quite recognisable miniatures—gratis. She had curly brown locks, a merry, round face, a pink-and-white complexion, and resembled one of Cosway’s masterpieces.
Rose, with her dark hair and eyes, and ivory skin, was like her own particular branch of art, a charming study in black and white.
The sisters had no near relatives, no one to advise, help, or control them; with regard to their future plans, they were not merely determined, but sanguine. It was their intention to settle in London, and with a few good introductions, and plenty of hard work, they expected to make their fortune, and by and by fly down to visit dear old Dullditch, in a splendid 45 h.p. motor-car!
Those who had interest through friends—or even friends’ friends—wrote letters, and did their utmost to give the orphans a start; and before very long, armed with introductions and fortified with advice, they departed full of hope and ambition. At first they dispatched glowing descriptions of their “upper part,” the cheapness of London, the numbers and quality of their invitations—and orders; but two years had now passed, correspondence had languished, letters had ceased to arrive at Dullditch, and there was no sign whatever of the 45 h.p. motor-car!
The truth was, the young amateurs had ceased to be a novelty—other more interesting strangers had arrived. London likes a change, the Hays had lost their hold on their little circle; their spirits and good looks were clouded, orders and invitations had become painfully rare, and in the pushing, hustlingworld the two pretty sisters were thrust aside, and forgotten.
It was a wet November evening, and Josephine Hay sat by a fire of cheap, bad coal, awaiting her sister’s return from an errand in the City. Their home was the upper part of a shabby little house in West Kensington; here they rented two rooms, back and front, as well as a den on the stairs, which served for cooking—when there was anything to cook. The front apartment was dining-, sitting-room, and studio combined; a deal table, covered with drawing materials, stood in either window, a decrepit horsehair sofa and a deformed cane chair were drawn up to the fire, and between them was placed a tray, with tea-things, as well as half a stale loaf and a pot of apple and blackberry jam.
By the capricious gleams of the smouldering coals, Josephine was counting the contents of her lean leather purse; count as she would, including coppers and one stamp, the grand total came to one pound, three shillings, and seven pence.
She hastily snapped the purse, and turned on the light, as the door opened to admit her sister, who was a wet and miserable spectacle.
“Oh, Rosie, you are drowned!” she cried.
“Not quite”—coming forward and putting down a flat parcel; “it is a dreadful night.” As she spoke, she peeled off her damp gloves with tender care, and then proceeded to remove her boots. Meanwhile Josephine prepared to make tea.
“There’s a boot for you!” Rose said, exhibiting a small dilapidated specimen; “it’s like a cullender—they both are; no charwoman would own them!”
“And your stockings are soaking!”
“Oh, they will dry on,” was the courageousanswer, and she held her well-darned hose to the fire.
“No luck, I suppose?” said Josephine after a moment’s silence.
“None—I’ll tell you all about it, as soon as I’ve had my tea. I’m so thirsty, and so hungry—and——” Here she reached for the loaf and began to cut it.
“And tired,” said her sister, concluding the sentence; “you walked home, Rose, and it’s five long miles.”
“No, I took a penn’orth of bus—instead of a bun—and now I’ll take it out of the loaf, O housekeeper. Ah!” raising a cup of tea to her lips, “this is delicious. I was thinking of this happy moment, as I paddled along in the rain.—What have you done, Joe?”
“I went to Queen’s Gate with the miniatures, and saw Miss Wiggin. She wassodisagreeable, and cross and dissatisfied. She said it was not the least like her—or if it is, she had no idea she was so plain.”
“I could have told her that,” declared Rose.
“And—she supposed, as it was an order—and she muttered something about charity, which I could not afford to hear—that she must take it—when it was altered to her satisfaction. She insists on a better complexion, and a new nose; so I have brought it home instead of the three guineas—and I know I shall never please her. How did you fare?”
“Much the same! It has been a bad day altogether. I took my illustrations of ‘A Drowned Girl’s Diary’ to Puffit & Smack, and the Art Editor, a superior young man, with a pince-nez and a high-pitched nose, received the sketches between two disdainful fingers, and then examined them through his glasses, and said:
“‘Dear me, Miss Hay! These will never do. You have no idea of anatomy; this girl has twoelbows in her arm—and the man is a freak! The editor has complained of your work, and—er—I’m really afraid we cannot—er—accept any more of it; you might try the comic papers.’”
“Oh dear!” ejaculated the housekeeper.
“Fancy his attempting to be funny, whilst he took the bread out of my mouth. TheWeek Endis my only employer, since theKestreldropped me—and died.”
“And Miss Wiggin assuredmethat I need not expect any further orders from her friends; she was in earnest, and a temper, so what are we to do?”
“Ask old Mrs. Mote to lend us five pounds—or go out and sell matches?”
“Oh, Joe, I’d rather sell matches. I should hate to borrow, though she is a dear old thing. Our affairs would be all over Dullditch.”
“If we are found in a garret starved to death, and the fact is printed in scare lines in theDaily Mail, our affairs will also be the talk of the village; however, never say die! I’ve brought back the sketches, and I’ll have another try—it means twenty-five shillings.”
“And the rent,” said Josephine. “I cannot understand how we do so badly—we got on swimmingly at first; visitors, orders, promises, payment, theatre tickets, invitations—andnow!”
“People were kind. We were new, unsophisticated, fresh and green from the country; but only a pair of clever, self-confident amateurs. We have done our best; it is not in us to do more—to excel.”
“Unless we could go over to Paris, and work there.”
“Might as well talk of going to heaven.”
“Goodness knows I work hard,” continued Josephine, with a catch in her breath; “I study all the pictures I can, I run into the National Gallery onfree days, and stare, and ponder, and wish, and wonder; but it’s all something so far above me—Genius—Genius—Genius!”
Her sister nodded a grave assent.
“I hear girls talking of effect, and atmosphere, and technique, but there is something spiritual in Art, and in the work of great masters; it seems such a waste of a precious gift, when they die, and their marvellous power is lost to the world for ever. Oh, if they could only bequeath their faculties as they bequeath their riches! How grateful I should be for a tiny legacy—even for a crumb.”
“And so should I,” agreed Rose, “the smallest contribution thankfully received; unfortunately there is no use in wishing. We are just a dull, plodding, stupid couple, who have exhausted our resources, and the patience of our—friends. I begin to see myself returning to ‘the Ditch,’ as mother’s help to Mrs. Gull, the baker’s wife; there I shall at least be sure of a roof and bread. Well, there is no use in looking at the worst side of a picture. To-morrow I intend to make a fresh start; I shall copy your figure, and if you like you may borrow my nose, for the miniature. It is nice and straight—my best feature.”
“Really, Rose, you are wonderful!” exclaimed her sister. “What spirits you have!—no matter what happens, they never seem to sink.”
“I hope we shall bothswim—some day,” she answered, rising as she spoke. “And now that my petticoats and stockings are dry, I am going to bed.”
“’Pon my word—eh—it’s really—er—yes, quite good!” exclaimed the Art Editor. “Comes all right this time, Miss Hay; it only wanted a little pains, you see! You were getting slack. This is one ofyour best drawings—so much life in it—the anatomy correct—excellent. Did anyone help you?” and he gave her a sharp glance over his glasses.
“Oh no, indeed,” she replied eagerly, “it is entirely my own work.”
“Is that so?” he answered dubiously. “I must confess that people would hardly credit that this lifeless performance,” drawing out a former sketch, “and this,” tapping her latest production, “were the work of the same hand. One is the well-meant attempt of an amateur, the other is the—ah, I will not flatter you to your face—it is capital.”
“I am so glad you are pleased,” said Rose, with a tinge of colour in her pale face—praise and encouragement were indeed rare. “Am I to do the remainder?” she added timidly.
“Oh yes, but in your later style; you may always depend upon commissions if you stick to that. I expect you would like a little cheque,” and he sat down and scribbled one for twenty-five shillings; then, as he handed it to her, he cleared his throat, and said, “To be quite frank, this was intended to have been your last payment—but now that you have shown what you can accomplish, when youtry, I hope we shall continue to do business together. It,” and he smiled, “was rather a narrow squeak. I cannot think why you have hitherto hid your light under a bushel. This sketch,” once more examining it, “is—er—really quite good.”
Here, as the telephone rang passionately, he offered his hand with an air of graceful dismissal, and bowed her to the door.
“Twenty-five shillings and compliments,” announced Rose, as she handed the little cheque to her sister.
“Three guineas—and gush!” rejoined Josephine, with a delighted laugh. “Miss Wiggin is enchantedwith your nose—highly flattered, and said it was so admirably truthful to life! She took the miniature away to the drawing-room, and exhibited it to some friends—then she called me in. A man who was an artist talked of ‘fine technical achievement,’ ‘a subtle interpretation of a personality,’ and other grand terms. The main thing was, helikedit; and I received two orders. Miss Wiggin was so fascinated with her picture, she kept looking, and looking at it, and could not bear to put it down. She has ordered another copy, and she asked me such an odd question.”
“Your age?—your dressmaker’s address?”
“No, you silly, silly girl, but if I had painted it myself?”
“And you replied, ‘Of course—who else?’”
“Yes, but she said, ‘The reason I ask is, that it is soverysuperior to your general work—such dash—and yet such finish.’
“I can see that myself. When I was working on it I felt as if I were inspired, and influenced; I was in a sort of raging fever—my brush flew here and there, and instead of making a hideous muddle, every stroke told!”
“Imagine drawing inspiration from the face of a Miss Wiggin!” exclaimed Rose.
“Imagine it, indeed! The miniature is to be exhibited. It may make my fortune. Itisgood—I feel it in my bones.”
“Poor dear Joe—your bones are prominent enough!”
“At any rate, I believe we have turned the corner. We have four pounds five in hand, and the rent—how shall we spend it?”
“A good lunch, and a matinée?” suggested Rose.
“Certainly not. We spend it—but on boots, real boots, not brown paper—and gloves, the signs ofgentlefolk. Perhaps hats—I know a very cheap place, and appearances are so important.”
“So is food,” broke in her sister; “let us celebrate our good luck with something for supper—sausages on toast, strawberry jam, and sponge-cakes? A feast for the gods!”
The artists continued to prosper; their tide of success flowed steadily—fortune increased with fame. Miniatures by J. Hay were much sought for; Josephine had more orders than she could execute—her reputation was firmly established. As for Rose—the name of “R. Hay” on a black-and-white sketch was a guarantee of excellence; she illustrated important books, and where once she was thankful for shillings, she now received sovereigns. Former acquaintances recalled the sisters—and their own active benevolence to a couple of struggling strangers—and prided themselves on their perspicuity. They looked up the Hays, deluged them with invitations, and enquired “where they had been hiding for the last twelve months?”
“Nothing succeeds like success.” The portraits of the sister artists appeared in popular papers and magazines, their names in paragraphs, and in lists of guests at various famous houses.
They no longer rented an “upper part,” but a smart and commodious flat in a fashionable locality, and employed two servants, and a Court dressmaker. Their strides in their art were amazing, even to themselves. Once, as Rose completed a spirited sketch, she exclaimed:
“Now this reallyisgood! So good, that I can hardly believe I have drawn it myself, but that I am a mere automaton, worked by—a—a—certain—something—a hidden power!”
“Do you know,Ihave often felt that too,” said Josephine, “as if some masterful personality helped me—a peculiar inspiration directed my hand, guided it rapidly, and resolutely, to unerring achievement and success!”
Her sister looked at her with an air of grave surprise. “I wonder if this could be so?” she murmured.
The pen in Josephine’s fingers suddenly wrote on the margin of her work the words:
“Yes, it is so.”
She stared at the sentence in fascinated silence, then turning hastily about, said:
“Oh, Rose, do come and see what the pen has just written of itself! What can it mean? I declare on my honour I did not originate this.”
“I see.... I believe it is what is called automatic writing,” said Rose, after a significant pause. “I have heard of it. Do try if it will write more. See, here is a sheet of clean paper—now write a question.”
“Do you help my sister?” Josephine wrote obediently.
“Yes, and yourself,” came the reply.
“We are most grateful to you. Were you a great artist?”
“I am—a great artist,” wrote the power behind the pen.
“May we know your name?”
“No.”
“What may we call you?”
“Helper.”
“Can we do anything for you?”
“Pray.”
“Will you continue to help us?”
“Yes. Good-bye.”
“Is it not uncanny?” said Josephine. “Do youthink I wrote this?—or the artist?—or is it one of the modern discoveries—my subconscious self coming to the surface?”
“Perhaps,” replied Rose, “but it explains all my success, and yours. The help arrived precisely when we were at our wits’ end. Don’t you remember, that wet November night—how we talked of lost gifts, and inspiration? I believe he came then.”
“Yes, I remember that night well.”
“We were two wretched little painstaking amateurs, without one spark, or glimmer, of genius. Now we are ‘true artists’; even the wickedest critic admits this. The Helper has been our master, has taught us, and set his own work once more before the public, drawn by our feeble fingers; it is the hand of the dead reincarnated in ours—we are in tune with some unknown mystery.”
“Yes, and we had better keep the mystery to ourselves,” said Rose the practical, and she stood up, and put the sheet of paper in the fire.
“Do you think it wrong, Rosie?—are we what is called ‘possessed’?”
“No—did he not ask us to pray? And we will. Why should not a departed spirit show kindness, and give charity to others? You and I are the objects of his benevolence—but for him, God knows what would have become of us!”
After this experience, it became an everyday matter to carry on a little correspondence with the Helper, who proved to be the Hays’ mainstay for many months; but at last he gave notice of his departure, in these words:
“You can now walk, and work alone—and another sorely needs assistance.”
“For a picture?” wrote Josephine.
“Yes, an important picture, which may make his fortune. A picture like this,” and with a few tellingstrokes the pen rapidly sketched a desert scene, a sunset, and a great caravan, with many kneeling figures; in the foreground two horses and two men; in the far distance, a passing sandstorm. Under this sketch the pen wrote, ‘Good-bye.’
“How we shall miss him,” said Rose, with a sigh; “though it is true that we are able to walk alone,—especially since we have had those lessons in Paris.”
“I shall always treasure the sketch,” said her sister, “our Helper’s last writing, and message. I shall lock it away in my desk.”
Two years elapsed, and ‘R. and J. Hay’ continued to prosper; they visited Dullditch—but not by motor—and during a holiday on the Continent happened by chance to enter a fine exhibition of modern paintings.
As she moved along slowly and conscientiously, catalogue in hand, Rose was accosted by Josephine, who looked so agitated and pale, that she was justly alarmed.
“Are you ill?” she asked. “What is it?”
“The picture is here,” she whispered excitedly. “Come, it is in the next room—the Helper’s picture of the desert. Oh, it is a masterpiece!—I could scarcely get near it for the crowd.”
Then, when at last an opening was obtained, Rose beheld the finished result of the sketch in her sister’s desk—correct in every particular.
There was the vast desert, the passing of a great sandstorm, the setting of a red sun, and a halted caravan. It was the hour of prayer and thanksgiving; a multitude of the faithful had prostrated themselves towards Mecca; in the foreground, two Europeans, dismounted, held their Arab horses, as they stood bare-headed, gazing towards the east.
On referring to the catalogue, the sisters read:
“409.—After the Sirocco. Anon.”