Miss Brodiehad apologised for not having a spare bed.
"If it had been the morn's nicht, noo," she explained. "I've got ma sister frae Lunnon stoppin' wi' me, she's in the only vacant room, but she'll be awa' again the morn."
Of course, Evarne emphatically declared that she did not envy the sister the spare room one jot, and soon after this they composed themselves to rest.
But Evarne wooed sleep in vain. In silence and darkness and strangeness; the excitement of the evening, with its sustaining power all past; the company finally disbanded and deserted; everything chaos for the present—and for the morrow——? She had now a shilling and a halfpenny left in the world. Supposing she pawned some of her garments, and thus got back to Glasgow, wherein had she at all bettered her position? What could she do for the next night, let alone the nights to come? How long would it be now before she was both hungry and penniless? Would she then have to go into the workhouse—or what?
She shuddered in bed, and writhed her fingers as if suffering physical agony. The cruel horror of the immediate future seemed to crush her as she lay. For the sake of her bedfellow she forced herself to remain silent and motionless for what seemed an interminable period. But giving way to a sudden invincible panic induced by accumulatedreflections on many possibilities, she started up violently, and cried in a voice that scarcely sounded her own—
"Oh Heaven! What am I to do?" Then, burying her face in her hands, she wept unrestrainedly.
An arm crept round her waist, and she was gently drawn to the side of her companion.
"Puir lassie," said the kindly voice. "You're o'er-rocht. Dinna greet, but lie quiet and see what daylight brings. You've a' had a verra tryin' time here, but you'll sune be hame aince mair wi' your frien's, and mayhap a kind fayther or mither to welcome ye."
"Oh no, no!" sobbed the girl, "I've got no one—nothing—no parents, no home or friends or anything! Oh, what shall I do? what will become of me?"
Miss Brodie leaned out of bed and lit a candle.
"The dark is na cheerie," she declared.
Evarne managed to choke down her grief, and lay back upon the pillow once more.
"I'm so sorry to have awakened you. Please go to sleep again. I'm going to be quite still and quiet now."
"Dinna think o' me," said the kind-hearted Scots-woman. "What o' yoursel', puir bairn? It's a terrible thing for a lassie to be a' her lain i' the world."
Gradually Evarne was prevailed upon to confide the seriousness of her plight. Miss Brodie grew more and more pitying and sympathetic.
"I'll consult wi' ma sister," she said, at length. "Jean has got verra sharp wits frae being in Lunnon. She will advise ye. Anyway, ma lamb, dinna think that I'll turn ye oot a' at aince, though ye had naething in the whole world but a tongue to say 'thank ye' wi'."
Evarne kissed her again and again.
"I do meet kind friends, anyway," she whispered, and encircled by Miss Brodie's motherly arms, she at length fell asleep.
Notwithstanding the disturbances of the night, thethrifty Scotswoman rose as usual shortly after daybreak, and by the time Evarne had awoke, dressed and wandered out into the kitchen, she found that her difficulties and distresses had already been the subject of careful debate between Martha and Jean Brodie.
The latter, a tall, angular young woman, with a somewhat careworn expression, had justified her sister's confidence by almost instantly producing a suggestion anent the vexed question of earning a livelihood without a week's delay. Waiting only until Martha had ladled out a plateful of porridge and set it before Evarne, she opened the subject without any preliminary remarks.
"Are you at all a good needlewoman, Miss Stornway?"
"Only pretty fair," was the truthful response. "I've done a lot of embroidery, but scarcely any plain sewing. I made this blouse I've got on, though; but not without help."
"That will do. Now, if my sister didn't exaggerate, if you're really penniless and don't know which way to turn——"
Evarne cast down her eyes.
"That's right enough," she said; "go on."
"In that case I can give you a job myself—that is, if you're not too proud to work hard and live humbly."
Here was indeed a surprise.
"Only try me," declared the girl eagerly. "What is it?"
"Perhaps Martha told you I was a blousemaker by trade. I work for a wholesale house in the City. I haven't got a big business, but I live by it, and I always have a young girl under me as an apprentice to do certain parts of the word. Generally, my assistant lives and boards with me, I pay her half a crown a week and teach her the business. As soon as the girl is past the apprentice stage she leaves me and I get another beginner. My last one left me just before I came away for my holiday. My girls are generallyonly about fourteen or fifteen; but if you care to take the job for a time, it's open to you at once, and you'll get a better berth presently like the others, if you choose to continue in the needlework line. There's my offer."
"I daursay it seems a bit o' a come-doon i' the world to you," interposed Martha, "but when all's said and done it's a respectable, God-fearin' business that no woman need be ashamed o'."
"Think it over while you eat your breakfast," advised Jean.
Evarne was distinctly startled at an entirely fresh career being thus suddenly dangled before her gaze for inspection. The remuneration offered, two-and-six weekly, likewise proved amazing. Still, board and lodging were included in the bond, and, after the terrible pictures her imagination had painted in the blackness of the past night, the certain assurance of a sheltering roof, and of bread to ward off the pangs of hunger, was alone sufficient to form a bright constellation of stars in her dark sky. Not long did she stop to consider whether these newly-risen orbs were of a colour and design pleasing to her fancy. Between the fifth and sixth spoonfuls of porridge she had signified her willingness to become a blouse apprentice.
"Then pack up your things as soon as you've done eating. We must catch the half-past eleven train, because of my excursion ticket."
"How—I hadn't thought of that—how am I to get my fare?" faltered Evarne painfully.
"I'm going to lend it to ye, lassie, and sure, you can pay me back week by week," declared Martha.
Evarne endeavoured to express her gratitude, but the only answer she got was—
"It's naething at a'. Jist keep your breath to cool your porridge, and make haste too."
Speedily finishing her meal, the girl went upstairs to Mrs. Shiells's. There, in the kitchen, she found a heatedquarrel in progress. The "loot" of the disbanded "Caledonia's Bard" was the bone of contention. Archie had carefully packed the limes-box round with stage garments, enclosed the whole in a drop-scene, tied it all up with gas-tubing, and then calmly announced that this was his "little share." Since there was not much left of any description, all the other members of the late company, headed by Douglas, were vigorously protesting.
Already Archie had been discovered trying to palm off upon his landlady, in lieu of money, a couple of long cylinders containing gas—dangerous, explosive, useless objects to which no one would willingly even give house-room. General indignation had been provoked by this attempt at returning evil for good, and amid the general uproar it was some time before Evarne could persuade the excited party to turn their attention to her, and realise that she had come to bid them farewell.
The regrets expressed at this parting were perfectly sincere on both sides. Evarne was being swooped off, leaving many mysteries unsolved. Where was Madame Cheape? What would befall the piano that day? Would Mr. Punter try to reclaim any of his stage belongings? Moreover, it appeared that that gentleman's whereabouts were being eagerly inquired after by a number of the leading tradesmen of the district, who had been persuaded to pay cash down for advertisement spaces on the back of the company's programmes, misled by the assurance of a prolonged local tour for "Caledonia's Bard"—a fact that went a long way toward explaining the whole strange business. Jess and Mont both undertook to write and tell Evarne all the news, but ere she well knew how it had come to pass, she found herself in the train being whirled back to London.
Another act in the "Drama of Reality" had commenced.
Thehouse in which Miss Jean Brodie rented a single room stood in a by-street in the heart of Camberwell. Despite the knowledge that any feelings of fastidiousness were now entirely unseemly and out of place, Evarne could not avoid a certain dismay at the prospect of actually residing amid such abject poverty, disorder and squalor. Threading their way between the swarming dirty children, who shouted and played and disputed on every side, numerous as rabbits in a warren, they entered a dark, narrow passage and proceeded to mount the uncarpeted stairs.
"My room is on the top floor," explained Miss Brodie, as the first landing was gained. "Rents are very high in London. There are seven separate lots of people living in this house."
At this juncture a voice came from one of the half-open doors they were passing—
"What did I do? Why, I says quite perlite-like, ''Ave a drop o' gin, ol' dear,' but she ups and says to me, she says——"
But what "she" had responded to this invitation was lost in a peal of laughter from several throats. Miss Brodie looked supercilious.
"That's Mrs. Harbert. You won't need to talk to her at all. She's not a very respectable old woman. I'm sure I wonder the landlord has her in the house; but there, hedoesn't heed anything so long as he gets his rent punctually."
Evarne glanced back over her shoulder, and surveyed this wicked personage! She saw a cleanly, neatly-clad, comfortable-looking old dame of about sixty, who still retained traces of unusual good looks. She seemed so good-natured and happy that Evarne inquired with some interest into the character of her misdemeanours. She was more entertained than appalled by the information. The culprit had been an artist's model, and the walls of her room were now absolutely covered with innumerable paintings and drawings depicting herself in the days of her youth, "but with not a decent stitch of clothing among the whole lot, my dear."
Miss Brodie's own apartment, though poor in the extreme, was certainly respectability itself. As was most suitable in a room principally designed for needlework, the floor was uncarpeted, while the bed, with the narrow rug by its side, the washing-stand and the few clothes-pegs, were all huddled as much out of the way as possible. The place of honour in the centre of the room was given to the substantial table necessary for cutting out, while by the light of the window stood the sewing-machine. On the mantelpiece were china ornaments in couples, a pair of pink vases, and some cheap frames holding family photographs. On the walls were coloured texts and several gloomy memorial cards.
And within these precincts Evarne started upon a life the conditions of which she had hitherto never dreamed of, far less realised. Work commencing at eight in the morning, the stretch of hours until eight at night was unbroken save by a brief time for meals. Day in and day out—except for the blessed Sabbath—week following week in slow procession, still found her bent over her needle, stitch, stitch, stitching as fast as her skill allowed.
At first, while yet unbroken to the yoke, she many atime seriously feared that the day then passing would be the very last of its kind that she could possibly manage to endure. The nerve-pangs of irritability and impatience, of well-nigh uncontrollable rebellion and revolt—all concealed with difficulty, but not thereby conquered—seared her spirit far more deeply than her left forefinger was pricked and torn by the needle driven at unaccustomed speed. Sometimes she would stop working for a minute, straighten her back, let her hands, together with the material, drop loosely upon her lap, while she would glance over at Jean with an expression that said plainly, "Is itreallypossible to endure this?"
But Miss Brodie during work-hours was as a part of her machine—she never ceased, never looked either to the right or to the left—so that after a minute or two nothing remained for the as yet unresigned apprentice but to stifle a sigh—or maybe even a groan—and again take up the labour at which her whole nature was vigorously protesting.
She wondered if she was naturally idle, or if all other needlewomen had had to get the mastery over similar feelings to those that ramped in her breast, when the monotonous occupation had to be continued for long weary hours after it had become thoroughly uncongenial? Did Miss Brodie, for instance, not know what it was to feel every pulse of her body aching and crying for movement—change—liberty? Was she never conscious that her brain was frantically protesting against the maddening monotony—the unvarying sameness—the crushing tedium of pushing that needle in, then pulling that needle out, again and again and again, as steadily as her pulses beat or her heart throbbed? Did Jean never have to fight against an almost uncontrollable impulse to scream, shout, wave her arms, stamp, swear, play ball with her work, tear down "God Bless our Home," and throw it out of the window; do something—anything—wild, mad and unseemly, to relieve thetedium and assuage the awful tumult of overwrought nerves?
But whatever storms might rage within the recesses of her own mind, Miss Brodie was ever outwardly calm—but then Evarne was to all appearances equally passive, equally resigned. She never once complained. While pitying herself as frankly as she sorrowed over a squirrel upon the wheel; a wood-bird shut in a tiny cage; a young dog fastened to its kennel in a walled-in yard, strangling itself frantically against its collar; she suffered all in total silence.
However, Jean had an outside interest—a hope that beyond a doubt served to lighten and brighten the tedium of these days of toil. She was engaged to be married to a dashing red-coated soldier, and many of the ends of her evenings were spent in his inspiriting society.
Evarne's spare hours were passed in absolute loneliness and solitude. After supper she would wander out, generally along the Embankment, but if she had sufficient energy she would persevere as far as Hyde Park. At all events she would walk about somewhere until she was wearied, not returning home until it was time to go to bed. It was a grey, soul-crushing existence, and she grew depressed and spiritless beneath its burden.
She made no effort to change it for anything better. Miss Brodie was satisfied with her, and was always kind. One thing was as good as another, and incompetence was a drug in the labour market. Everyone, too, by whom she was now surrounded laboured more or less incessantly; work made up their lives. She was no miserable exception, no victim, no martyr. Her fate seemed but the common fate of all.
"It's a real pity you can't get a young man, Miss Stornway," said Miss Brodie, worried by her apprentice's unconcealable pallor and listlessness. "It certainly does seem to make everything so much easier."
The girl smiled and shook her head. Indeed, Camberwellwas as likely to produce a "young man" for Evarne as was a desert island. Not that she was overlooked by the male sex; on the contrary, in common with every girl who is at once poor and beautiful, practically every man who had any sort of opportunity commenced, sooner or later, to make love to her. Quite often strange men turned and walked by her side in the parks, seeking to engage her in conversation. But not for one instant was the proud purity of the beautiful face disturbed. Evarne had loved Morris Kenyon as truly and purely as ever any young girl loved. By the shameful arts of the streetrouéshe was profoundly repelled. So as far as masculine society went, she lived the life of a young nun.
She seemed to have nothing left save memories, and these were all tainted with cruel bitterness. As the weary weeks lengthened into months the acuteness of all past emotions—joys and anguish alike—became dimmed, and then faded away. What had been once her life seemed now only a story she had read long ago. That brilliant room at "Mon Bijou"; the lovely garden with its winding mosaic walks; the blueness of the Naples Bay; the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland; her dainty flat and her carriage here in London; the vivid sun of Egypt—none of this was real, surely? Reality was scanty fare in a top garret—incessant stitching—loneliness—and nothing else!
And her love for Morris that she would once have sworn could have survived all blows, all passing of time, was as much a thing of the past as were all these other memories. Morris had slain it himself once and for ever. For some time she had cherished the corpse, not knowing it to be lifeless; but gradually the deceptive outward tokens of vitality faded away. A little longer and the dead thing fell to dust and was no more. The glamour of Morris's presence removed enabled her to see more clearly, not only the unforgivable nature of the insults with which he had cast her off, but the great wrong he had done her inthe first place, and which had directly led down to these dregs wherein she was now drowning.
If she had any feeling for him other than indifference, it was hatred. She felt no gratitude—not one jot—for the money or the care and attention he had once lavished upon her. It had been nothing to him. And since she was merely one of many women who in turn occupied those rooms at "Mon Bijou," she had no more call to be grateful for any of the accompanying accessories of the position than had the horses that passed through his stables.
She was utterly discontented and unhappy in her present existence. True, she had safe shelter, sufficient to wear, and enough to eat to keep life within her—but, merciful Heaven, what a price she paid for that doubtful boon! Morning after morning she regained consciousness with reluctance, shrinking from the joyless, unbroken monotony of the day that stretched its weary length before her—anxious only to get it done and added to those that were already lived through. She never read now, for her eyes ached painfully long ere work was ended.
Tortured at first by her unemployed powers of heart and brain and soul fighting for expression, all too soon she became bitterly conscious that they were yielding to disuse—becoming crushed and deadened. It did seem hard to have to put all her strength, all her active energies of mind and body—all herself—into the making of cheap blouses. She felt she was being wasted, but that it was inevitable. What was being killed in her would not make money.
It was some time before she could realise that she had found her true level in life's struggle, and that needlework was her doom. At first she was always waiting for something to "turn up," for the unexpected to happen.
"'And is this all of life?' she said;'This daily toil for daily bread?'"
"'And is this all of life?' she said;'This daily toil for daily bread?'"
And as the conviction grew that this cruel question must be answered in the affirmative—that all heretofore hadbeen but prelude, unstable and fleeting, that this was life now upon her in grim serious earnest—her heart grew bitter, and her once sweet, bright expression gave way to a settled look of sad discontent.
But through all this her resolution to lead evermore a "good" life never faltered. She would not even contemplate endeavouring to bring sparks of brightness into her cheerless existence by setting aflame any man's affection, legally or otherwise. Come what might, she had done with that sort of thing once and for all.
Mrs. Burling she visited once or twice, but her correspondence with both Margaret and Jess slackened and ceased. Separated and so unhappy, she found it difficult to know what to say to them, while they both could produce but heavy and laboured epistles. She liked Jean Brodie fairly well, but they were very opposed in character, and for the greater portion of each day the silence of the workroom was unbroken save for the clipping of the scissors or the whirring of the machine.
Butalthough Evarne would not have deemed it possible, worse still remained for her upon the knees of the gods.
Jean Brodie returned home one Sunday in a state of unconcealed excitement.
"Miss Stornway, I'm going to be married. The banns are to be called for the first time next Sabbath. My young man's regiment is going out to India in six weeks, and he's just got leave to marry 'on the strength,' so he can take me with him."
After suitable congratulations, and so on, the conversation veered round to Evarne.
"If you follow my advice, Miss Stornway, you'll carry on my business. You've done a lot of good work for me, my dear, so in memory of that I'll give you all—well, nearly all—the furniture of the room. I must take a few things with me, and I can't let you have my sewing-machine, but you can procure a nice one on the hire system. Then get a young girl as an apprentice. I'll introduce you to the City firm I work for, and you'll be comfortably settled. What do you say?"
Evarne naturally thanked her, whereupon Miss Brodie set forth the expenditure of the establishment.
"The work brings in above seventeen shillings weekly. Two shillings is enough to pay the apprentice, a young girl, you know. There's three-and-six for rent, add to which you must allow three-and-six for your machine, that's nineshillings. That leaves you with eight shillings for food for the two of you, candles, a bit of firing, the goose club, the church collection, twopence for a hot bath—everything else, in fact. It seems very little somehow! I know, it's the hiring of the machine takes your money. I've managed to save some every week, and so will you in time."
Thus the matter was settled. Evarne was present at Jean's marriage, and a few days later waved her farewell from the station as the good Scotswoman departed with the other soldiers' wives. Then the girl walked back to her now empty room with a fresh sense of depression. After all, Jean had been a friend in need, and had remained her only intimate acquaintance in London.
As she wended her way upstairs a sudden stumble was heard on the upper flight, and immediately after half a dozen rosy apples came bounding down. At the same time the disreputable Mrs. Harbert's voice was heard calling shrilly—
"'Ere, Smithkins! Come to the rescue! Buck up! Everything's a-goin'."
Thus abjured, Mrs. Smithkins hurried out from her room and lent her aid. Evarne, having gathered up the apples, joining the group.
"Here's something of yours," she said.
"Good retriever! 'Ave one," was the response.
Somewhat objecting to be thus described, the girl declined the gift, and was continuing her way upstairs.
"Wait a bit. I must give yer somethin' for yer trouble, me dear. I'll learn yer some cookin'. Best and quickest way to make a sausage roll. D'you know it?"
"No."
"Take a sausage to the top of the stairs and chuck it down—like them apples rolled. See? Ha, ha! Shakespeare! No, not 'im this time. That was the clown at the pantomime last year."
Evarne certainly thought the old dame was slightly incoherent, and smiling indulgently took another step upstairs.
"Done it!" declared Mrs. Harbert triumphantly.
"What 'ave yer done now?" inquired Mrs. Smithkins.
"Made 'er laugh! Said I would. I fair 'ate to see a glum look on a pretty face. You've lost yer friend, Miss Stornway. Now, won't yer come in an' 'ave a cosy cup o' tea along o' me?"
"An' see 'er wunnerful pictures," sniggered Mrs. Smithkins.
"Jist be off with yer. To the pure all things is white as wool. Shakespeare! Miss Stornway's a real laidy. She knows Shakespeare, I bet. You ask 'er."
All this certainly succeeded in distracting Evarne's mind.
"Thank you," she said. "I shall very much like to come."
The visit turned out very successful, though it was perforce but brief, as the girl had to be back at her labours again. Only by uninterrupted industry could the requisite number of blouses be finished, and Evarne, with only a few weeks' practice at machining, was far less rapid than had been Miss Brodie with her ten years' experience. Milly, the new fourteen-year-old apprentice, was clumsy and somewhat idle, so that there was now less time than ever in Evarne's life for protracted afternoon calls.
Day after day she worked with a will, and though at first her uttermost endeavours only brought in about fourteen-and-sixpence each week, she rapidly grew more skilful. Milly, too, became quicker and more useful, and things were thus promising to become decidedly easier when an unforeseen accident occurred. It was just one of those foolish little mishaps that nobody can always succeed in guarding against. This one was very unromantic in its origin. Evarne was seated on the side of one of the publicbaths, polishing and paring and generally attending to her pretty pink feet and nails, when somehow she lost her balance and fell. In saving herself from splashing half-dressed into the water, she contrived to drive the point of the scissors into her finger, right down to the bone.
It only left a little wound, which Mrs. Harbert tied up with a piece of rag, and although it was the right hand, the girl continued her work next day as if nothing had happened. But in the night the pain grew so bad that it awoke her and prevented her sleeping again, while the daylight showed the wounded finger to be ominously blue and swollen. This spread with terrible rapidity and ere long her hand was totally useless. Full of alarm she hurried off to the hospital, and had her suspicions of blood-poisoning confirmed. The poor hand was carefully bandaged up and put into a sling, and, almost overwhelmed by this new anxiety, the girl returned home to see what could be done about her work.
Everything now devolved upon Milly. Evarne contrived to cut out the blouses with her left hand, and to do a little tacking, but all else had to be left to the apprentice. Evarne could but encourage and supervise, and wearying work that proved. Even in these new circumstances Milly was still slow and idle, and if she was pressed to work faster, she ceased sewing altogether and whimpered.
Thus a miserable three shillings was all that could be earned in the first week, and the next six days showed an increase of but ninepence. Evarne had about half a sovereign laid by, and out of this she paid Milly's wages and the hire of the all-precious machine. But in the second week, when the landlord made his usual Monday rent-collecting visit, she was forced to beg his indulgence, showing her blue and bandaged hand as an excuse and explanation. At first he told her roughly enough that he did not run his houses as a philanthropic undertaking, and that if his tenants could not pay they just had to go. Butfinally he grew more sympathetic, and at last quite kind. He actually promised to take no steps whatsoever for a month, and if she stayed on after that she could make it up at the rate of a shilling a week.
She recovered the partial use of her hand in less than the stipulated time, and resumed her place at the machine. But she had now got thoroughly backward with money matters. Only by pawning everything in the room that was not absolutely essential could she pay both rent and machine hire, and the eight to ten shillings that was all her still crippled hand was able to earn seemed to be swallowed up immediately she received it. Only about eighteen-pence at the outside could she manage to retain to buy food for herself and her apprentice.
Now, Miss Milly was not particular, and had made few complaints at being reduced to a diet of potatoes and bread and scrape; tea made of leaves used a second time; rice boiled in water and sweetened by a little condensed milk, and so on. When, however, the quantity came to be also unpleasantly restricted her hearty appetite, unappeased, rendered her decidedly fractious.
Her honorarium had been reduced by Miss Stornway to a shilling weekly, on the promise that it should be more than made up later, but now she was apparently expected to spend even this miserable half-pay on sustaining life. True, Miss Stornway always took far the smaller portion of every meagre meal, but unfortunately even that fact did not fill the cavity in Milly's stomach. So the day came when that damsel, being entrusted with a penny and sent out to purchase an ounce of tea, returned no more. In the evening came a note:
"Dere Miss,"i've gorn ome to my mother Because i wants more to eat. it aint your forlt miss nor it aint mine and mother Says its rite if you works ard you ort to ave Enufto eat two shillings you Ows me dont trubble about miss Eat it."Yours respeckful,"Milly."
"Dere Miss,
"i've gorn ome to my mother Because i wants more to eat. it aint your forlt miss nor it aint mine and mother Says its rite if you works ard you ort to ave Enufto eat two shillings you Ows me dont trubble about miss Eat it.
"Yours respeckful,
"Milly."
Whether a sting or a kindness lay in the closing sentence, Evarne knew not, but all the statements in the letter were as clearly undeniable as was the fact that Milly had deserted her. She felt both ashamed and strangely forsaken, and crushing the scrap of paper in her hand, rested her pale cheek on the bare boards of the table, while tears of feebleness and helplessness rolled from her weary eyes and slowly soaked their way into the wood.
Hampered as she was by her still awkwardly swollen and painful hand, with those terrible debts clinging like leeches, and with the imperative need there had been for every penny that she and her assistant had earned by their united efforts, she could not conceive how she was possibly to manage without any help whatsoever. Milly might have stood by her a little longer, she thought sadly.
There was no chance of economising on anything save food, and to such lengths was she now forced to carry this disastrous self-denial, that the uninitiated might have supposed she was trying to solve the problem of how to live without eating. Naturally dainty, she had, in Jean's day, often left untouched much of the indifferent food provided. Now she consumed far rougher and more unpalatable meals to the last crumb with avidity, and once or twice even ignobly consumed what should have been her supper at the same time as her dinner.
She bravely persevered with her work, cutting-out and machining and stitching from early morning until darkness descended. Even then she continued her weary labours with the work held close up to the light of a guttering candle, until practical inability to see longer forced her to cease, to throw herself upon her bed and sleep.
But the night time brought very imperfect rest. Constantly she was awakened by the vividness of dreams of banquets; well-stored provision shops; food lying in the very gutter while people held her back from reaching it; boards lavishly spread, whence every dish faded immediately she thrust forth her hand to grasp its contents.
Scarcely ever did she leave the four bare walls of her room, save for necessary business. Not only had she neither time nor strength, but now the soles of her shoes were worn into great holes and her stockings were no longer mendable, so that her bare feet trod the pavement, and became bruised and blistered.
And every effort, additional to the day's routine, was to be avoided. Scarcely could she drag herself up of a morning, repeatedly would she find that the treadle of the machine was being worked slower and yet more slowly, as a dull stupor and inertness crept like a fog over her mind. Once she wasted a whole afternoon by fainting, and came to herself to find that nightfall had set in while she was lying unconscious upon the floor.
"I wonder if I'm going to die? Perhaps I ought to warn somebody or—or do something. I wonder?" She asked herself this question one late afternoon as she finished tying up the parcel of completed blouses, and found that she could not walk across the room with them without staggering and reeling.
She recalled a ghastly account she had read in the paper, of a man who had died in a locked-up flat, and was never discovered until his corpse decomposed and soaked through the floor to the ceiling below.
"Mrs. Harbert is just underneath me. I wonder if she would move if that happened?" Evarne grimly and wretchedly pondered as she commenced to descend the stairs.
Ere she was half-way down she suddenly stood still. What was happening? Why was there that vast yawningpit below? It wasn't real—no, she knew it—but all the same it made her dizzy. She grew blind, and her brain seemed to heave madly. Dropping her parcel, she pressed both hands over her eyes. Was she swaying to and fro, or were the stairs rocking beneath her feet? She made a wild clutch at the banisters, but her fingers closed only upon the air. She was falling—falling—yet could not save herself, and a scream of terror rang through the house ere unconsciousness closed in upon her, and she fell with a dull thud down to the landing below.
WhenEvarne next opened her eyes she was lying cosily enough in bed. What a strange troubled sleep she had had, so full of confused dreams! Instantly came a fear of oversleeping, and she made an effort to rise. But the attempt was vain; even her half-opened lids were insupportably heavy. Languidly she let them droop, and then knew nothing more until a spoon was placed to her lips, and she felt some warm liquid meandering down her throat. At this the heavy lids were lifted widely in astonishment.
"Bravo! My pretty dolly is made to open its eyes!" cried a cheery voice, and there by her side was old Mrs. Harbert, gazing at her smilingly.
Evarne looked slowly around. This was not her own room—no—all those artist's studies—where was it? Then she remembered. She must surely be in Mrs. Harbert's own domain.
Her lips shaped the words, "What am I doing here?"
"Ah, ha! My dolly talks," was the only answer she received.
The girl tried to arouse herself further, but enthralled by a heavy lethargy, she abandoned the attempt, and gradually fell asleep once more.
When next she awoke the sharp sound of a falling cup had aroused her more thoroughly. She lifted her head slightly from the pillow. There stood Mrs. Smithkins, looking at her with much concern.
"Lor' now, I do 'ope I 'aven't done no 'arm by wakin' yer up!"
"Am I ill?" whispered Evarne.
"You've bin at death's door," impressively replied Mrs. Smithkins, with obvious satisfaction.
"I remember. I was going downstairs. Did I fall? Tell me everything."
"The doctor says yer ain't to speak."
"You talk; I'll listen."
Nothing loath, Mrs. Smithkins set to and related the story. It appeared that everybody in the house had run from their rooms at the sound of Evarne's terrible tumble, and, lifting up her unconscious form, had laid her upon Mrs. Harbert's bed—the nearest at hand. Her forehead, which was cut and bleeding, had been promptly tied up. But neither lavish sprinkling of water, draughts of undiluted gin, the burning of feathers nor the tickling of her palms, had sufficed to bring her to her senses, so the parish doctor had been called in. He had said a lot of things none of the hearers had been able to properly understand, but finally had said clearly enough that it would be weeks ere she was well again.
Mrs. Harbert had undertaken to nurse her, and, according to Mrs. Smithkins, had fulfilled this promise like an angel of light. Sometimes she had been forced to be absent for the best part of the day about her work, but she had always prepared the invalid's diet beforehand, and Mrs. Smithkins had administered it. The doctor had been ever so many times! Once he even came twice in one day! As to Evarne's room upstairs, it was let to somebody else. A man from the firm had come and taken away the sewing machine, her bed was here—Mrs. Harbert now slept on it—her chair and table and other belongings were on the landing upstairs.
Left alone, Evarne lay awake for hours pondering. She half regretted that she had not died; that would sohave simplified matters. Now she had the future to worry about once more; and she felt positively overwhelmed by the knowledge of her poor old neighbour's extraordinary charity. When evening fell, and Mrs. Harbert entered very softly on tiptoe, Evarne greeted her, feeling quite embarrassed by the extent of this debt of gratitude.
"Why, my dolly is quite well agin, the Lord be praised," declared the old woman, beaming all over her face.
Placing on a chair the packed market-basket she carried, she proceeded to lay its contents one by one on the table.
"I've got something for yer," she declared, triumphantly holding up a couple of volumes. "I bought 'em from an old bookstall. 'Rose Leaves or Strawberry Leaves? A Romance of Society.' That sounds real exciting, and will amuse 'er, thinks I, and then 'Gull—Gully somebody's Travels.' That will be instructive, and will educate 'er mind."
"Mrs. Harbert, you are far, far too good to me. I shall never be able to thank you properly."
"Yer can't do nothin' properly till yer gits well, and the doctor—nice old chap 'e is too—says yer ain't to talk."
"Doctors always say that. Why are you so kind to me?"
"'Cause I likes it. My gosh, 'ere am I, a lonely old woman, and when 'Eaven drops a nice-spoken pretty gal, bang splosh at my very front door, d'you think I was goin' to just git out my broom and sweep 'er away? That ain't Philadelphia 'Arbert."
"I'll get well quickly now, not to cause you any more trouble."
"''E goes quickest who takes time by the nose,' as Shakespeare says."
Evarne smiled.
"How did you come to study Shakespeare?"
"It was this way. Yer know, my dear, I'm a hartist's model. All these pictures on the wall are me. I showed 'em to yer once before, didn't I? My gosh, when I was a gal—a young woman—I was real lovely. But yer can see that for yourself, though these 'ere pictures is only students' work, and don't do me real credit. Still, jist notice my shapely legs in this one. Nice bust too, eh! See my back 'ere—there's a fine straight back for yer. Every great hartist painted me in them days. I was a regular queen among 'em—'eaps more work offered me than I could manage. There was one gentleman—oh, a real nice gentleman 'e was too, pore dear, 'e's dead now—and 'e used to 'ave Shakespeare read out to 'im all the time 'e worked. I often posed for 'im, and as I've got a good memory I picked it up, and bits of it is always comin' into my mind. My gosh, Miss Stornway, I tell yer it do make the other old gals in this 'ouse that jealous! I'm always sittin' on 'em with my quotes, and they can't do nothin' but keep their hignorant old tongues still and look silly."
Thus she rattled on, meantime proceeding to prepare the evening meal for herself and her charge.
Days passed, and having once started upon her convalescence, Evarne gained strength rapidly. At the end of a week she was able to leave her bed. The colour and contour gradually returned to her pale, thin cheeks, the brightness to her eye, all her marvellous beauty blossomed forth afresh. At the end of a fortnight she was strong enough to take her first outing in the form of a short ride on the top of a 'bus.
On returning from this expedition she lay down while Mrs. Harbert made tea, and over the genial beverage the old woman for the first time consented to discuss future plans. Evarne had two or three various suggestions to bring forward, but Mrs. Harbert would not even listen.
"There's only one sensible thing for yer to do, Evarne, my gal, and that's to follow in my footsteps. Needleworkand sich-like may be all right for some, but for you—why, it's jist a wicked waste of Gawd's gifts. Now, I'll tell yer, when yer was ill and me and Smithkins was givin' my dolly a bath, I says to 'er, I says, 'My gosh, what a lovely gal!' and Smithkins she says——Now, whatever are yer blushin' for, my dear? You are a real lovely gal, and I speaks as one who knows what's what. I never seemed to notice it when yer was bundled up in clothes; that's the way with the best of us, we never appears to advantage in togs. It's the skinny women with waists the size of their ankles, what no hartist would so much as look at; or them females as is bundles of fat what wouldn't look human if they wasn't packed up tidy into corsets—they're the sort what looks best in their clothes. Beautiful women like you and me looks better and better as we undresses more and more. You'll make a fortune as a model, and you'll be a bigger fool than I take yer for if yer chucks away that fortune."
Evarne remained silent, pondering over this suggestion. Instant objections sprang to her mind, but at the same time came the conviction that here indeed was a means of earning a livelihood for which she was undeniably well qualified. Her own experience as an artist had taught her both the value and the rarity of a figure, beautiful from an artistic point of view. At the same time....
Mrs. Harbert broke in upon her reflections.
"Perhaps yer was thinkin' it ain't proper."
But the girl shook her head immediately.
"No," she declared. "I studied Art myself, and painted from the nude, when I was better off, so I should have got rid of any ideas of that sort, even if I had ever had them; but I never had. I was just thinking that it really was a brilliant notion of yours, but that I didn't quite like it somehow. Still, I believe that if you hadn't spoken just then, I should have gone on to reflect that beggars can't be choosers."
"Ah, Shakespeare! But why don't yer like it, if yer ain't shocked? It's the nicest profession in the world. Takes yer among sich 'igh-class people—real ladies and gentlemen—and into sich nice warm rooms. And what's more, yer can go on till yer are as old as old—as a costume model anyway. Of course, while you're young, the sun shines, and yer bucks up and makes yer 'ay accordin'. Yer can earn pounds a week sometimes, quite easy. Look at me—I'm a middle-aged one now, yet I makes a pretty fair livin' by it, and don't overwork myself neither."
"How would I start to get work? Is it difficult to get up a connection?" inquired the girl dubiously.
"Not for the likes of you. You'd only 'ave to show yerself. But yer still looks ill, and you're ever so weak. You've got to be strong to 'stand,' I can tell yer. 'Tain't no use beginnin' yet. I wish we could git yer away to the seaside.
"I'll get well quickly in London now—I will really. I'll go out into the parks every day for fresh air, and be as strong as ever I was in no time. You shall see."
She duly followed this prescription, with the result prophesied. It had been inexpressibly painful to feel that she was being maintained by this hard-working old woman, upon whom she had not the slightest claim, and at the same time to doubt her power of ever making due recompense. Now, with a mind at ease once more as to the future, the open air, the rest, and the ample though simple diet were free to fulfil their good work. In less than a fortnight Mrs. Harbert was able to declare herprotégéeto be blooming as a rose, and a picture unpainted.
Accordingly she set about finding an engagement for the girl, and one morning, a week or two later, she watched Evarne set off for an advanced and important Art school, armed with good courage, a packet of sandwiches and some sage advice.
"Nobody guesses it's yer first sittin', me dear, andnobody won't take no notice of yer if yer don't tell 'em. Walk out of the dressin'-room as bold as brass, and grumble under yer breath at the pose the master chooses, no matter what it is. If you won't come when 'e calls, or run back agin, or act the fool in any way what ain't usual with models, they'll all remember you're a human bein', and stare at yer, anxious to know what's the matter. Then, likely enough, you would feel rather put out of countenance."
"I'm not going to be silly at all," Evarne had declared with conviction; and sure enough, when she returned in the evening she was able to state that the entire day had gone off satisfactorily.
She had not expected to be much troubled by inopportune bashfulness, and when she found herself again in a studio, beheld the easels and drawing-boards, canvases and palettes, smelt the characteristic odours and heard the familiar artistic jargon of the students, she had felt herself to be an acolyte in a temple wherein was worshipped the perpetuation of the beautiful. The influence of modern thought and custom had fallen from her with her garments, and she had adored her own fairness.
"I'm sorry if it sounds immodest," she confessed, "but indeed I only felt happy to be in the atmosphere of Art once more. I knew that those young men, who all seemed so much in earnest, would learn much from painting me—for it was a very charming pose—and somehow I felt interested in everyone, and as if I wanted them all to get on, and was glad to be able to help them to progress a little. Oh, Mrs. Harbert! Somehow I feel that if only I came across a real artist—a grand man, you know, but young, who hadn't found himself yet, so to speak—I could inspire him to do such wonderful work, to paint pictures he had never dreamed of before. I don't fancy I should ever have been much of an artist myself, even if I'd been able to keep on—perhaps I should though! Anyhow,I know I have got something in my heart or mind, or something vague of that sort, that I could give out to another if he could receive it, and had some of the impulse I'm talking about of his own, and then he would be able to do what otherwise he would never be able to do.... I am getting dreadfully incoherent, but I know what I mean myself. Did you ever feel anything like what I've been describing?"
The old woman would not commit herself to a direct answer.
"It's a blessing yer looks at it in that light," she commented.
But nothing could possibly have surpassed Mrs. Harbert's real opinion of the importance of the part played by the model in the production of any picture of worth, so she was fully sympathetic, no matter to what heights the girl might soar on the topic.
And now Evarne found that she had indeed alighted upon a profession in which she had little to fear for competition, neither did she require much more aid from Mrs. Harbert. Before her fortnight at the Art school was completed, she had already obtained another engagement.
"It's the elder sister of one of the young men," she explained gleefully. "The youth seems to have waxed somewhat enthusiastic about me; so much so that his sister, who is an artist, came down to the school to see the wonder with her own eyes. She wants me to start sitting for her next Monday. Am I not fortunate? She seemed such a nice woman, and her brother says she paints beautifully. I am so pleased about it."
And this success was only the beginning. Ere long Evarne found herself the proud recipient of more offers than she could possibly accept. Allowing herself to be guided by the experienced Mrs. Harbert, she discriminated among them, and also gradually raised her terms. Nevertheless, work continued to flow in unceasingly; very rarelywas there even half a week day that she could regard as a holiday.
As time passed she became quite well known in the artistic world, and sometimes even fulfilled particularly well-paid engagements out of London. Not only was the girl absolutely delightful to the eye, both in face and form, but many an artist found her presence in his studio to be strangely valuable. It was her sympathy with any aspiring worker—the keen interest she took in the picture on hand—quite as much as her quick understanding, her almost intuitive divination of its creator's ideas, unexpressed thoughts and half-conceived fancies, that gave her a unique power that the painters themselves were quick to feel. Her own artistic instincts and her studio training had given her the gift of falling easily and instinctively into poses full of grace and expression. Quite frequently too, studying the half-completed work, ideas would come to her which, with a gentle diffidence, she would suggest—usually to find her thought taken advantage of to the vast benefit of the picture. Unquestionably Evarne had found her vocation at last.
Had she been plunged into the career of a model immediately upon leaving her petted, luxurious life with Morris Kenyon, she would probably have considered it as a truly miserable lot—and herself as a victim of cruel fate. But her descent in the social scale had been so gradual, and had led to such an abyss of abject poverty and humiliation before she had almost groped her way into the next world by the gateway of starvation, that this new existence shone brightly by comparison.
Occasionally she would smile just a little bitterly on comparing her early dreams of artistic fame with the reality of settling down contentedly enough to serving as a mere accessory in the production of pictures. But she had never been genuinely ambitious, and the pang was not severe. Besides, the counsels of Socrates could step in atsuch moments, and bring contentment and resignation. Poverty she feared and hated, but now that came not near her. True, sweet luxury was also but a memory of the past, but she was well able to live in perfect comfort.
The five years that followed her adoption of this new profession were successful, prosperous, and, in their way, happy. Her beauty was not of the type that wanes with girlhood—each year brought added graces. Her path through life was encompassed with affection, good-will, regard. She made a circle of acquaintances for herself—bohemian, but bright, kindly and amusing. In every studio she entered she was admired instantly and respected ere long. Both men and women artists were considerate and friendly towards the stately young model, and this was all that she desired.
In those five years more than a few men fell captive beneath her subtle charm, but never a one could gain her love, and she ruthlessly made it clear that she regarded unwanted masculine devotion as the most useless and undesirable thing on earth. Neither did the wealth and good position of at least one of her honourable suitors affect her. Evarne was true to her heart, as she had ever been.
She was unfailing in friendship and gratitude towards the old woman to whom she owed so much of her present calm contentment. Very speedily she had discharged her monetary debts to Philia—for so she affectionately abbreviated Mrs. Philadelphia Harbert's somewhat ponderous first name—but that was not all.
Her first upward step had been to move into a couple of rooms in a neighbouring house, furnishing them gradually in a manner pleasing to her taste. After a year or so she grew ambitious, and inviting Philia to join forces with her, migrated to Chelsea. There she took a little house in a poor yet eminently respectable street. Her new domain had a tiny garden in front, a yet tinier grass plot behind, and contained four rooms and a kitchen. True, there was noroom for the proverbial swinging of a cat, but Evarne was touchingly proud of her little home, and spent money upon its furnishing with truly extravagant abandon.
Old Philia's engagements as a model had for years past been somewhat difficult to obtain, and as Evarne waxed wealthier, so Philia had fallen into low water. It was accordingly arranged between them, on their first deciding to live together, that when the elder woman was actually earning money she should pay somewhat towards the expenses of their joint establishment. At other times it was to be regarded as fully equivalent if she undertook to prepare breakfast and supper for Evarne, the principal breadwinner and rent-payer; to superintend the labour of the occasional charwoman, and generally to see to the little home being kept neat and clean and cosy.
As time passed, Philia almost entirely abandoned posing, and devoted herself to domestic labours. Evarne delighted in being looked after, tended and made much of, so she was well content with this state of affairs. As to Philia, she found herself absolutely happy in her old age, and was given to quoting imaginary passages from Shakespeare largely, to show that her first disinterested kindness towards her poor young upstairs neighbour had been as bread cast on the waters, which was now returning itself in the form of cake.
Onewinter morning the monotony of the studio in which Evarne was posing was broken by the unannounced entrance of a young man.
Mr. Towning, the owner of the domain, threw down his palette, and greeted the newcomer heartily.
"Why, it's Hardy! Haven't seen you for ages, old chap."
"Up to my eyes in work. And I see you're hard at it too. Don't let me interrupt business."
Thus adjured, Towning recommenced his interrupted occupation, while his visitor stood by and scrutinised his labours.
"You're making a fine thing of that," was the verdict. "The colour scheme is delightful—absolutely. That touch of blue just there—splendid! I say, what a splendid model you've got."
Towning lowered his voice a trifle.
"Yes, and that touch of blue was her suggestion, if you please. What do you think of that? Have you not seen her before—Evarne Stornway?"
"Oh, is that who it is? Of course I've heard of her. Only last week some chap was in to see Geoff, and he fairly raved over her. By Jove, he wasn't far wrong either."
"She's quite uncommon, isn't she? It's not often one finds a glorious shape like that, more's the pity. By the way, what's Geoff Danvers working at now?"
"He's off to Venice at the end of March. He's going to paint abroad till next winter."
"Lucky dog. It's all right to have plenty of money, isn't it?"
"But there are not many who use it as Geoff does. Heaven knows what I should do without him, and now he is not going alone to Venice."
"No?"
"He's taking two young chaps, Melcarp and Thorpe, with him. It will be the time of their lives. They haven't got a spare penny piece between them, and could as easily have taken themselves to study in the moon as in Italy. Geoff is paying all their expenses, and making out that it's a favour on their part that they're coming. Vows he would die of dulness without company. Melcarp and Thorpe are half off their heads with excitement."
"Lucky beggars. What will you do when he's gone?"
"Oh, plod along in the studio as usual. I have got a fine idea for a picture, and I am hunting for a model. The subject is a couple of lines of Keates's 'Belle Dame sans Merci,' and I want a girl with reddish-golden hair and a palish face; gleaming eyes, deep set; and cruel red lips—all curves. Not a fine bouncing wench at all, but one of those weird, fascinating, fragile sort of women—you know what I mean."
"But you surely don't expect to find exactly what you want?"
"Scarcely. But if I could only get the right coloured hair with the pale face it would be something. To tell the truth, Towning," the young artist avowed, with a moment's outburst of confidence," I haven't got as much imagination as an artist really wants. I don't get a clear vision of things in my mind; I just get a shadowy sort of notion. But unless I can have some degree of reality before me, very similar to my vague fancy—well, I am nowhere. My idea just dies away."
"Paint portraits. There's more money in that than in anything else, you know."
"Oh, that reminds me of a bit of real luck. When Lord Winborough returns to England in the autumn, he has promised to let me do a bust of him to exhibit. Splendid chance, isn't it? But I am awfully set on doing that 'Belle Dame' picture."
"Perhaps Miss Stornway knows of a girl with red-gold hair and all the rest of it. By the way, it's time."
He ceased working, and slightly nodded to Evarne. She stood up, stretched her arms over her head, gave a couple of tiny kicks to take the stiffness from one of her knees, then slipped behind the screen that formed a temporary dressing-room. She reappeared, clad in a loose crimson wrapper, and sat down by the fire.
The young men joined her.
"You heard what we were talking about, of course, Miss Stornway?" questioned Towning. "Is there a 'Belle Dame' among your friends?"
But Evarne was unable to render assistance. She knew of two models with red-gold hair, but the accompanying round, rosy faces andretroussénoses of both were in no way mystic and interesting. All she could do was to promise to remember the requirement, and to send any likely damsel along for inspection.
"Thank you. But you're about the fiftieth person who's on the lookout," returned Jack Hardy ruefully.
When he finally took his departure, he walked slowly back to Kensington, a cloud of discontent upon his brow. His mind was full of his picture, the great work he was longing to commence, yet—morbidly conscious of his own limitations—he was resolutely determined not to start without having found a suitable model for the central figure.
"Imustget on! Imustmake headway! All my youth is passing!"
He almost snarled these words aloud. Earnest, enthusiastic, patiently hard-working, Jack Hardy was devoid of one spark of divine inspiration, and knew it but too well for his peace of mind. He saw his own handiwork without gloss or glamour; viewed it as it was in stern reality, good in composition, in technique, but commonplace—oh! Phœbus Apollo and all ye Muses—how sadly commonplace! Not a man or woman, trained and practised as he was, but could have done equally well. In the ripest fruit of his hand and brain there was absolutely nothing individual; scarce a trace of originality; no magnetism, no grip. Never had Jack Hardy completed a work, and looking upon it said within himself: "None but I could have produced just this result. Only the combination of heart and brain and soul and knowledge that makes Me could have evolved this picture. I myself am in it."
As a student, a great future had been prophesied for him, and in those days he had believed in himself. But time had glided by, his thirtieth year was past, his powers had matured without enlarging their scope, and with bitter reluctance he commenced to realise that he now saw the full extent to which his capacity would ever attain. He might become more certain, more facile, but nothing else. No longer could he still look forward and upward, confident in what would be revealed when the summit of the hill he so laboriously climbed was reached. He was there, and lo! it was but the crowded tableland of mediocrity!
His thoughts were bitter as he walked through the streets that day. Why had Nature so utterly denied him that divine "something" that no industry can give, no study can acquire? "I can but despise my own men and women," he thought. "I am no creator! I make forms in paint, but I cannot give them the breath of life. I make them beautiful—strictly speaking—yet there is no beauty in them. I am a craftsman, a mechanic—not an artist."
But he had a stout heart and a dogged obstinacy thatrefused to yield. Surely this fervid ambition to abandon himself to imaginative work must be the outcome of some fire of inspiration, however small and smouldering. Let him only find that woman with the gleaming pale face and the sunlike hair, and he surely could and would produce his masterpiece.
He looked around as he walked. Even if he discovered his personified dream out of the ranks of professional models, he meant to leave no stone unturned to persuade her to sit for his great picture.
He shivered somewhat as the chill winter blasts rushed by. Money was far from plentiful in Jack's pockets. In true artistic style he inhabited a garret in Bohemia, and it was only by the strictest economy that he was enabled to exist on the work he sold, aided by the small sum of money he had inherited from his mother.
Yet the studio belonging to the top suite in the handsome block of flats that he entered, and in which he was obviously quite at home, bore every sign of ample wealth. A spacious and lofty apartment, it was obviously no makeshift, but had been destined by its architect to behold artistic labours. This was clearly shown by its top-lights, and its one very huge window, unusually wide and deep.
From the front entrance of the flat of which it formed part, this studio was reached by crossing a wide hall, on the left side of which opened the living-rooms of the suite. But the entire right-hand half of the flat, looking north, was devoted to the requirements of Art. At the farther end of the studio itself a door opened on to a short passage on each side of which was a quite small room. That on the right was the model's dressing-room; it communicated also directly with the studio, but the other little room had its only opening into the short corridor. It was destined for the storing of plaster and other materials used in modelling, and possessed the useful addition of a tiny sink with hot and cold water. A door at the farther end of thedividing passage gave access to a flight of stairs which ultimately led out to Langthorne Place, where was the back entrance of the block of flats.
The studio itself was verily a fascinating spot, with its exquisite replicas of classical statues; its curious swords and armour; its plaques; its Damascus shawls and Eastern draperies; divans and lavishly carved chairs and tables. Vases of curious build, harmonious outline, or rich colour stood around, several—despite the wintry season—filled with pink and crimson roses.
But for all this luxury, it was obviously a workshop. The scent of the flowers struggled feebly through the stronger odour of oils and turpentine, while a couple of the vases were utilised to hold spiky clusters of innumerable paint-brushes. The statue of Venus was next to the life-sized lay figure; the Salviati mirror reflected, besides a bronze Mercury, a grim skeleton and a plaster cast of a head with the outer skin removed to show the facial muscles. Numerous studies and unfinished sketches decorated or defaced the walls, while heavy-looking books on anatomy and perspective were to be found by the side of daintily-bound poets and some of the newest novels. There was quite enough of dust and disorder to show thisatelierto be the haunt of earnest workers, and the young man, clad in a much-besmeared painting overall, who stood before a large canvas, scarcely glanced aside as Jack entered.
In this industrious artist Jack beheld his best and truest friend. It was to the good-nature of Geoffrey Danvers that he owed the privilege of working in this splendid studio from morning to evening, and making it practically his home; it was Geoff's generosity that freed him from any difficulties concerning the cost of canvas, colours and models.
Meeting at an Art school in Paris, a close comradeship had sprung up between the two young Englishmen, and when Geoff returned to London and took up his abode in this flat with its fine studio, he was not slow in suggestingthat Jack Hardy should continue to be his brother-in-art.
He knew his friend's poverty, knew that without some such help he would be condemned to waste many of his days turning out "pot-boilers," and was heartily glad to be able to save him from this embittering employment. For the present, at all events, Jack was quite freed from every expense connected with his work. He procured all his materials from Geoff's colour dealer, and never even saw the bills, while each week the fee for his model got itself paid in the same convenient manner.
But money was indeed scarcely an object to Geoff. He was possessed of far more than enough for the simple life that was his choice. He really could not see that any unusual kindliness or generosity lay in his favourite diversion of playing "fairy godfather" to other young artists, clever yet needy. All his aspirations for the future, all his interest in the present, lay in Art—his life's occupation—and he pursued it with a devotion, an ardour, that could not have been surpassed had he known his whole ultimate welfare to depend upon his success.