DAN Oldfield was standing in front of an easel on which was a minute canvas. The scene depicted thereon was a pastoral of Mesonnier-like detail. At the moment Dan was engaged in painting lilac flowers on a green and white dress. The original dress was on a lay figure before him.
The studio in which he was working was one of seven enclosed in a courtyard. Two of the studios had small gardens in front. Standing in one of the gardens it was easier to imagine oneself in the depths of the country than in the midst of London. The roll of the traffic in the King’s Road was just sufficiently remote to sound not unlike the roar of the sea.
There were lilac bushes and laburnums in the gardens. A thrush sang in one of the laburnum trees in the spring, and a robin in the winter. The robin was very tame. It had established a visiting acquaintance with all seven studios. There was a certain amount of jealousy among the inhabitants when occasionally for a week at a time, it would show a marked preference for one studio. On the whole its affections were most deeply centred on studio number seven. At the moment this studio was empty.
Dan painted in the lilac flowers carefully, using extremely small brushes. Every now and then he stepped back from his work to judge of the effect. Any onlooker uneducated in the mysteries of art would have imagined the use of a magnifying glass a more desirable method to study the effect. Dan was evidently not of that opinion. He had just finished painting in the yellow heart of the thirteenth flower when the sound of the wheels of some large vehicle entering the courtyard struck upon his ears.
“What’s that!” he said carelessly, and he crossed to the window.
A large pantechnicon had drawn up opposite studio number seven. Men had already run round to open the doors at the back of the van. It was full of furniture.
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Dan.
He put his palette and brushes down on a table, and standing on a chair poked his head through the upper part of the window. A large roll of blue drugget and a dark oak easel were being carried up the small garden path. Two men were hauling a Chesterfield sofa from the van.
“Good Lord!” said Dan again.
He withdrew his head from the window, descended from the chair, and came out of his studio into the courtyard. The sunshine, which was brilliant, shone on his untidy red hair. He looked like a slightly worried giant.
The Chesterfield was reposing momentarily on the stones of the courtyard. The men were wiping their foreheads. The day was warm.
“Studio let?” demanded Dan.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Bringing in the furniture, sir. Nice day, but warm.”
“Who’s taken the studio?” demanded Dan.
“Can’t remember the lady’s name at the moment, sir. Elderly lady with grey hair. Saw her when——”
“An old lady!” interrupted Dan. His voice held at least three notes of disgust.
“Yes, sir, she——”
But Dan had vanished up the garden path of studio number six, had banged on the door, and entered without waiting for permission.
A man in his shirtsleeves was standing before an easel. A nude model was half sitting, half lying, on the platform.
“I say, Barnabas,” he began. Then he saw the model. “Morning, Tilly. Sorry I interrupted.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said the man addressed, good-humouredly. “I thought it was your fairy footfall before I heard the knock. What’s the trouble? Have you stuck the Messonnier painting on an envelope in mistake for a postage stamp and put it in the pillar-box? You’d better take a rest [Pg 43]now, Tilly, while Mr. Oldfield disburdens his mind.”
The girl stretched herself in a lazy panther-like fashion, and taking a faded purple dressing-gown from the model stand flung it round herself.
“Studio number seven’s let,” said Dan.
“Well, why shouldn’t it be?” said Barnabas imperturbably. “It’s been vacant six months. It’s a pleasant studio; large, well-ventilated, drains in perfect condition, an ideal——”
“Oh, shut up, Barnabas,” said Dan. “It’s let to an old woman.”
“What?”
“An old woman,” repeated Dan bitterly.
For a moment Barnabas looked utterly taken aback. Then he shook his head.
“Bad news indeed, my child. For the last five years at least we’ve been a pleasant little coterie of seven undeniable geniuses all of the male sex. Then Ashton left us. Why on earth didn’t your friend Shottover take the place? I thought you said he was going to.”
“So I thought,” replied Dan gloomily. “He’s such a vacillating ass. I told him he’d lose it if he didn’t hurry and make up his mind. Now he has lost it, and we’ve an old woman coming to plant herself among us. It isn’t that I dislike women——”
Barnabas grinned suddenly.
“What’s funny?” asked Dan.
“Your unnecessary statement, my child.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“I know. There was so remarkably little need to state the fact.”
“But,” went on Dan firmly, “I don’t like old women.”
“There are exceptions,” said Barnabas solemnly. “My paternal grandmother——”
“Bother your paternal grandmother. I tell you the studio’s let to an old woman, and they’re taking in the furniture now.”
Barnabas moved towards the door.
“Let’s have a look at it,” he said. “I wonder what her taste in studio furniture is like.”
He went out into his little garden, Dan following him. A dark oak bookcase and an oak chest were being removed from the van.
“By Jove, the ancient lady has got taste!” said Barnabas. “Genuine old stuff, or my name’s not John Kirby.”
The two stood together in the garden on the little gravel path, looking across a bed of forget-me-nots and a small fence at the working men.
Barnabas—his real name was John Kirby, but he had first been nicknamed the Comforter, and finally Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, by his fellow-artists—was a tall man who would have looked even taller if it had not been for the huge frame of the man beside him.
“I wouldn’t mind that bit of furniture myself,” said Barnabas, as a beautiful corner cupboard was unearthed from the van. “Hullo! what’s this? ‘The Winged Victory,’ by Jingo! and a pedestal. Here’s art and no mistake. Pictures, too. Here, you,” he called to the two men who were carrying them, “allow us momentarily to cast our eyes upon those treasures. Ye gods and little fishes! a Nicholson, a Pryde, two Sickerts, and a genuine Bartolozzi print. The ancient lady evidently possesses not only taste but cash—hard coin of the realm, my child.”
“Those old fogies always have tons of money,” grunted Dan.
Three large wooden packing-cases were now carried towards the studio.
“Be careful with the unpacking of those,” said the man who was evidently the chief in command. “Old blue Worcester dinner service, sir,” he explained in an aside to the two who were looking over the fence.
Dan groaned.
“Pure swank on her part,” said Barnabas sorrowfully. “What have the fleshpots of Egypt in common with the earthenware and bread and cheese of Bohemia. Why didn’t she take up her abode in the fashionable quarters of Kensington.”
“Turn a Park Lane house into a studio,” said Dan.
“Have you any idea,” asked Barnabas, addressing himself to the man in command, “when the fortunate possessor of these rare and valuable articles intends to take up her residence in this charming domicile?—in other words, when does the elderly lady come in?”
“To-night, sir, about seven o’clock, I think. Our orders are to have everything ready before six, even if we had to put on extra hands. But it will be ready easily, bless you, even to the making of the beds and final sweeping, which my wife’s seeing to. There’s not above four or five hours’ work here. There ain’t none of the little whatnots and ornaments to unpack what ladies usually carries about.”
Barnabas looked at Dan.
“To-night!” he said meaningly. “And you have one of your famous parties on! To-night the old lady will sleep—if she can—lulled by the sound of hilarious laughter, the twanging of banjos, ribald songs, and all the other pleasant little noises which are an invariable accompaniment to one of your mad entertainments. Shall you be busy to-morrow?” he asked the man.
“Yes, sir; we’re moving a family into Elm Park Gardens.”
Barnabas shook his head. “That’s unfortunate. You’ll doubtless be required here. The old lady will be making a hasty exit. The old blue Worcester dinner service will be repacked less carefully—there won’t be time for care—the corner cupboard and the Chesterfield sofa, to say nothing of the Winged——”
“Ass!” said Dan. “What is the use of talking rot about it. We shall have complaints from the owner of the studios about the noise we make. I know what it will be.”
“A new set of regulations à la German,” said Barnabas. “No pianos before seven or after ten. Lights out at eleven. We shall become a set of model young men who will work quietly all the week and go to church on Sundays. Hullo, here’s Jasper. Let’s tell him the pleasing tidings.”
The door of another studio had opened, and a slight, dark man with a somewhat ascetic and rather discontented-looking face came out in the sunshine.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
“We’re studying the preface to a little book called ‘From Wildness to Decorum,’” answered Barnabas gravely. “The first chapter will no doubt be named ‘Hints from the Ancients to Young Men—on Deportment.’”
“Do you ever talk sense?” asked Jasper. “I suppose someone has taken this studio.”
Dan imparted the information they had lately received.
“So there’s no more fun for us poor young fellows, and we’ll grow like the good artists grow,” chanted Barnabas.
“I don’t see why you should imagine that because this lady has taken the studio that she should [Pg 48]necessarily object to any of our amusements,” said Jasper seriously. “Besides, I hardly think it is kind——”
Barnabas gave a little chuckle of laughter.
“Dear child!” he said patting Jasper gently on the shoulder. “He’s learnt the first chapter of the little book by heart while we’ve been grizzling in the garden. Entirely Dan’s fault, my child. He interrupted a busy morning, thereby causing me to view the whole world, and old ladies in particular, in a pessimistic spirit. Let us be kind. We will invite the old dame to your party, Dan. We’ll sing songs suited to the ears of age. We’ll hire a harmonium for the evening, and——”
“I wish you would occasionally be serious,” interrupted Jasper half impatiently. “Of course we should have preferred a man in the studio, but I don’t see why you and Dan need be so certain that a woman’s advent will interfere with us. Do the others know?”
“Lord, no, my child,” said Barnabas. “It would take an earthquake to induce the other three to put nose beyond door or eye to window before one o’clock. If Michael isn’t at work on an illustration of a starved child, he’ll be writing an essay on ‘Humour—Some more of its more cynical aspects.’ Alan will be painting a burning cross in the centre of a crimson rose, and would regard the smallest interruption as the highest form of sacrilege, and Paul will be doing such genuine good [Pg 49]work that it would be sacrilege to interrupt him.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Jasper spoke in the tone of one who has been giving a subject close consideration.
“You know, I don’t think we ought to let the fact that a woman has taken the studio arouse feelings of animosity in us towards her. She is bound to have a studio somewhere if she wants to paint, and why not among us? I think we should do our best to make her welcome.”
Dan swore softly beneath his breath. Jasper had moments of priggishness that were almost beyond the patience of man to endure. Except when these moods were on him he was not such a bad sort of fellow.
Barnabas choked down a little laughter and a big bit of annoyance at a gulp.
“Right oh! my child. And now I must return to my studio, or Tilly will have smoked all my cigarettes. I offered her one once, and henceforth she has looked upon them all as her own especial property. Worst of acting in a moment of ill-considered generosity. Dan, don’t be boorish any longer. I’ll leave Jasper to read you a further homily on the whole duty of man towards ancient ladies. So long, my children. Don’t trample down my forget-me-nots in your ardour.”
He gave them a cheerful nod and vanished within the studio.
His departure left a curious blank. It gave something the impression felt when the sun retires behind a cloud, or the sensation we experience the first morning of work following a month’s holiday. People almost invariably felt this sensation when Barnabas left them.
The two other men still stood a few moments longer watching the unpacking of the van. Dan, however, had ceased to find the same interest in the proceedings. He could no longer grumble with a free mind. In the presence of Jasper his utterances would have taken on an air of seriousness he was far from fully intending. Besides, his proximity in this mood annoyed him. The minute lilac flowers, too, required his attention.
Jasper remembered that he also had left a model within his studio. Besides, his latest resolution—among others—was not to waste mornings unnecessarily.
The two separated. The work of removing the furniture from the van continued.
A thrush, unheeding the presence of the men, settled in the laburnum tree and began to sing. Perhaps it was an unconscious song of welcome to the woman who would that evening enter the castle of her dreams.