Helen Vardon's confession
that he has very little of it, and charges accordingly. But it is
wonderful stuff.” He lifted out of his bag a couple of jars and a
bowl--handling them with that curious delicacy that one often notices
in persons with large, strong, supple hands--and placed them carefully
on the table.
“You see,” he continued, “there are two methods of treatment, which
are sometimes combined, as on this jar; and these two styles are based
on two very different types of old work--the old English slip-ware,
such as the Wrotham and Staffordshire and Toft-ware, and the old
French Henri Deux, or Oiron ware. In the one, the ornament is produced
by laying on pipes or threads of coloured slip--that is, clay in the
semi-liquid state; in the other by inlaying coloured paste or enamel
in cavities in the body, which seems to be made with tools like those
used by bookbinders. This covered jar--which looks almost like a piece
of fine Japanese cloisonné--and this bowl show the inlay method, and
this other jar is an example of the slip decoration, but with one or
two spots of enamel inlay.”
“I think I prefer the pure inlay,” said Mr. Davenant.
“So do I,” said Mr. Hawkesley, “and so, I think, does the artist. All
his finest work is done by the inlay method, though he uses the slip
decoration with such skill and taste that it is virtually a new
method. The old Wrotham and Toft-ware looks very primitive by the side
of this scholarly, refined work.”
I turned the three pieces of pottery over in my hands and warmly
commended the judgment of the collector. No modern work that I had
ever seen approached it for perfection of finish or grace of design;
while the colour-scheme combined richness, delicacy and restraint in a
truly marvellous manner. It seemed to unite the brilliancy of enamel
to the sober beauty of old tapestry. And even the little blue bird,
inlaid on the bottom of each piece to form the potter’s mark, was
finished with care and taste.
“May one inquire as to the local habitation and name of the dealer?”
Mr. Davenant asked.
“You may,” was the reply. “His name is Maurice Goldstein, and he is to
be found at Number 56, Hand Court, Holborn. And I should like to wring
his neck.”
We both laughed at the vindictive tone in which this benevolent wish
was uttered, and at the sudden ferocity of aspect that swept over the
usually good-humoured, kindly face.
“Why this homicidal craving?” Mr. Davenant asked.
“Don’t you see,” the other demanded, indignantly, “that this infernal
Goldswine--I beg your pardon----”
“You needn’t,” said I.
“That this miserable huckster is grinding the face of some poor
artist; that he is not only devouring the earnings of this
industrious, painstaking worker, but--for his own paltry profit--he is
robbing that artist of the credit--of the fame--to which his genius
and his enthusiasm entitle him. Look at this lovely jar! I gave that
mean worm ten guineas for it. How much do you suppose he gave the
potter?”
“Ten shillings, perhaps,” suggested Mr. Davenant.
“Probably not much more, though there is getting on for a week’s work
in it.”
“Still,” I said, with a mischievous desire to stir up his indignation
afresh, “the potter probably enjoys making these beautiful things. The
work is its own reward.”
“I can’t agree to that,” Mr. Hawkesley rejoined, warmly. “He doesn’t
enjoy being hard up and having to work for a pittance. Besides, it
isn’t just. This man makes a jar that is going to give me a life-long
pleasure. I want to pay him for that pleasure. I want to know who he
is, to shake his hand and thank him and tell him that he is the salt
of the earth. And this Shylock hides him away and just feeds on him
like the beastly parasite that he is.”
He gathered up the treasured masterpieces, and having wished us adieu,
with a sudden return to his customary geniality, crossed to the glass
case to find a vacant niche for his samples of “mystery ware.”
“I like Jack Hawkesley,” said my companion, as we watched him.
“So do I,” I agreed warmly. “He takes a human interest in the artist.
I wish more collectors were like him.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Davenant. “He is a good type of rich man. Would that
there were more Hawkesleys.” He poured out the coffee which the
waitress had just brought and then asked: “What do you think of this
club--as a feeding and resting place, I mean?”
“It seems a comfortable, homely place, and the members and their
exhibits are quite interesting.”
“I find it so. You wouldn’t care to join, I suppose? It is cheap, as
clubs go: five guineas a year and no entrance fee. I should think you
would find it a great convenience, living so far from the centre of
town.”
“It _would_ be a great convenience. But should I be eligible? I am not
a collector, you know.”
“No, but you are something of an expert. At any rate, Hawkesley and I
would manage the formalities. Think it over, and if you decide to
honour us, drop me a line. This is my address--56, Clifford’s Inn.”
He handed me his card, and when he had made a note of my address, I
prepared to depart.
“I have wasted a fearful amount of your time, Mr. Davenant,” said I;
“but it has been a very pleasant interlude for me.”
“Has it really? I hope it has. For my part, I have enjoyed myself just
as I did in the old days when you used to let me wag a philosophic
chin at you, and I am reluctant to let you go so soon. Mayn’t I see
you to the station, or wherever you are going?”
“I thought of walking back to get myself acquainted with London.”
“Then let me put you on the right road and show you some of the short
cuts.”
“But what about your work?”
He regarded me with that quaint, humorous smile that I had always
found so attractive. “My work is, at present, of a somewhat
intermittent type. This is one of the intermissions. Let us fare forth
and study the architectural beauties of the Metropolis.”
And we fared forth accordingly.
The short cuts discovered by my companion did not in the least conform
to Euclid’s definition of a straight line; and their brevity was
relieved by sundry excursions into alleys and by-streets and
incursions into churches and other ancient buildings. They led us by
way of the Temple and its old round church, Mitre Court, Fetter Lane,
Nevill’s Court, Gough Square, and so to St. Paul’s Churchyard and into
the Cathedral; thence by Paul’s Alley, Paternoster Row, Cheapside and
Lombard Street, dropping into one or two churches on our way, until we
came out on Great Tower Hill, and drifted slowly down Royal Mint
Street. And all the while we gossiped pleasantly of this wonderful
city and its wonderful, inexhaustible past; and my guide expounded,
with all his old gaiety and brightness--and with astonishing knowledge
of his subject--until I had almost forgotten Wellclose Square and the
sinister shadow that hung over my life, and seemed to be back in the
untroubled days of my girlhood.
But not quite. For, even as I talked--or more often listened--with the
liveliest interest and pleasure, a project was maturing in my mind. I
had, in fact, conceived a brilliant idea. Mr. Davenant’s suggestion
that I should join the club had started a train of thought that ran as
an under-current--in the subconscious mind, perhaps, as Lilith would
have said. It had begun vaguely when I saw the modern pictures on the
walls, and the modern works in the glass case and the Major hawking
round his little platter. Here was a place in which the work of the
unknown artist could be shown and perhaps sold; my own work, Lilith’s
work, the Titmouse’s, Philibar’s, even Miss Polton’s. For five guineas
a year I could open this emporium, not only to myself, but to my
fellow-workers; could slip past the dealer and secure his profits for
us all. I say it was a brilliant idea--at least, it appeared so to me;
and throughout that long peregrination, made delightful by the
sympathetic companionship of my newly-recovered friend it germinated
and grew until, as we halted to say good-bye at the corner of Cable
Street, it had grown to full maturity.
“I have been thinking,” said I, “of your suggestion--about joining the
club, you know. It would be nice to have a place to go to for a rest
or a meal, in the centre of town. And I shall often want such a
place.”
His face brightened perceptibly--perhaps at the implied assurance that
I could afford to spend five guineas.
“Then, may I put your name up for election?”
“Will you be so kind?”
“Won’t I? It will be jolly, and we shan’t lose sight of one another
again; though that was my fault for not writing. I was often on the
point of sending you a letter, and then I felt a silly
diffidence--thought that you might consider I was presuming on a mere
acquaintanceship. However, I will propose you for membership at once,
and in about a week’s time you will be a full-blown Magpie. Then I
will send you a line, though, of course, you will get the official
notification.”
He handed me my bag, and with a hearty hand-shake, we said “Good-bye,”
and went our respective ways.
It was but a few minutes’ walk to Wellclose Square, and I took it
slowly; for now that my companion was gone and I was bereft of his
buoyancy and vitality, I was suddenly aware of intense bodily fatigue.
Moreover, I felt a certain reluctance to bring to a definite close
what had been an interval of quiet but perfect happiness. And so, in
spite of my fatigue, I sauntered on, loitering awhile in St. George’s
churchyard and stopping to look up at the quaint stone name-tablet at
the corner of Chigwell Lane, until weariness and growing hunger drove
me homewards. And even then, it was not without regret that I pulled
the brass bell-knob and, as it were, wrote “Finis” to this pleasant
and eventful chapter.
Chapter XV.
The Magic Pendulum
The weighty question whether my handicraft would yield me a
livelihood was answered on the following morning by the arrival of a
letter from Mr. Campbell; and it was answered, though not very
emphatically, in the affirmative. The prices that he offered,
provisionally--and advised me not to accept--were appallingly low;
very little above those of mere commercial goods. But even so, it
would be possible, by hard work and spare living, to eke out a bare
subsistence. And it was fair to assume that Mr. Campbell’s offer was,
as indeed he explicitly stated, a minimum, on which an advance might
be expected. Accordingly, I declined the offer and decided to await
the results of actual sales to his customers.
I was turning these matters over at the breakfast table, when Lilith
came and took a vacant chair by my side.
“Well, Sibyl,” she said, in a low voice, “how did you fare yesterday?
Did you have any success?”
“Yes. I came back with an empty bag.”
“And a full purse?”
“Ah! That is another matter. The tide of handicraft doesn’t seem
exactly to lead on to fortune.”
“I want to hear all about it,” said Lilith. “But we can’t discuss it
here. Let us have a quiet talk up in my room after breakfast. If you
will run up when you’ve finished, I will join you in a few minutes.”
I assented gladly, for Lilith, apart from what the irreverent Titmouse
characterised as her “crystal-gazing tosh,” was a sound adviser on
business affairs; and a few minutes later I betook myself upstairs to
her studio. I had scarcely seen this room before, for there was an
unwritten law, sternly enforced by Miss Polton, forbidding the
boarders to enter one another’s workrooms except by invitation and on
specific business, and I now looked about me with a good deal of
curiosity.
It was a queer room. The two sides of Lilith’s personality, like two
separate persons, seemed to have parcelled it out into two distinct
territories. There was the working territory, neat, precise,