Helen Vardon's confession
most pleasant; and during the next few days my mind was very full of
these new complications, of this dark cloud which had arisen over my
brightening horizon. Again and again I recalled in detail the
incidents of that terrible morning when my dear father was snatched
from me, but no new light, either on the tragedy itself or on these
sinister echoes of it, came to me. I even tried Lilith’s
crystal--having first locked my door--but either my faith was weak or
I lacked those special psychical gifts with which its owner credited
me. I did, indeed, get as far as the cloud, or mist, of which Lilith
had spoken; which gathered before my eyes and blotted out the crystal.
But that was all. When the mist cleared away, no picture emerged from
it, but only the crystal ball with the diminutive image of my own head
reflected on its bright surface.
But anxieties sit lightly on the young and healthy. As the days
passed, the gloomy impressions faded and I became once more absorbed
in my work. The Zodiac spoons were progressing apace, and were going
to do me credit; and daily I became conscious of growing facility, of
increasing skill, which not only lessened my labour but was itself a
source of pleasure. To do a thing with ease is to do it with
enjoyment; and, incidentally, added skill means added speed and
greater earning power. Already I began to speculate on what Mr.
Campbell’s idea of “a good price” would turn out to be.
Moreover, there were other distractions. Once or twice a week I looked
in at the club, and these visits had a pleasant way of developing into
impromptu jaunts--to picture galleries, exhibitions, museums, and even
on one or two occasions a concert or a matinée. Of the relations
which were growing up between Jasper Davenant and me I did not care to
think much. Perhaps the ostrich is a wiser bird than we are apt to
imagine, for it does, at least, avoid the pains of anticipation.
Sooner or later, no doubt, some understanding would have to be arrived
at; but meanwhile Mr. Davenant was a delightful companion--gay,
cheerful, buoyant, humorous, but withal a man of earnest purpose and a
serious outlook on life. In all our junkettings there was little, real
frivolity; the fun and gaiety were but the condiments to season the
more solid and serious interests. In so far as a friendship between a
young man and a young woman, which must necessarily stop at
friendship, can be, our friendship was unexceptionable. But, of
course, there was the qualification. However, as I have said, I let
the future take care of itself and drifted pleasantly with the stream.
About this time, I made quite a startling discovery. It happened that
in one of my journeys to town I had seen in a bookseller’s window a
book on studio pottery, and, thinking that it might be useful to Miss
Finch, I had bought it, but had forgotten to give it to her. In the
middle of my morning’s work I suddenly remembered the book, which I
had put in a cupboard in the workshop, and got up from my bench to
take it to her. Her “works” were at the bottom of the garden, in an
outhouse which had once been a shipsmith’s shop; but, close neighbours
as we were, and close friends, too, I had only once been in her
workshop, when, on an off day, she had shown me her wheel, her lathe
and her small glass kiln. About her work she was extraordinarily
secretive; but then, she was a reticent girl in general, so far as her
own affairs were concerned, though she showed a warm interest in her
friends, and was, indeed, very affectionate and lovable.
As I came round the clump of bushes that hid her premises from the
house, the silence and repose of the place gave me some qualms, and
for a moment I hesitated to interrupt her work. However, I pocketed my
scruples and rapped boldly on the door; whereupon the familiar voice
at its highest pitch--several ledger lines above the stave--demanded
who was there.
“It is I, Peggy; Helen Otway,” I replied apologetically. There was a
pause of nearly half a minute, and then she unlocked and opened the
door, looking rather embarrassed and very pink.
“I always lock myself in when I am at work,” she explained.
“Well, Peggy, don’t let me disturb you. I’ve only brought you a book
that I got for you in town.”
“Oh, come in, Sibyl,” said she. “Of course I don’t mind you.”
She took the volume from me, and quickly turning over the pages and
glancing at the illustrations, exclaimed, “What a ripping book! I
_shall_ enjoy reading it. And how sweet of you to think of getting it
for me!” She linked her arm affectionately in mine and conducted me
into her domain, passing through the outer room, which was devoted to
plaster work--the making of moulds and “bats”--to the clay room, where
the little gas engine and the mysterious wheel stood idle and a
general tidying up appeared to have taken place. Here we stood
chatting rather disjointedly, she still turning over the pages of the
book with approving comments, and I looking about me with a
craftsman’s curiosity respecting the materials and appliances of an
unfamiliar craft. And here I got my first surprise; for, on a side
bench I noticed a collection of what were evidently bookbinder’s
tools. Was it possible that the secretive Titmouse was a bookbinder as
well as a potter? I determined to inquire into this, but meanwhile my
attention was attracted by the bench at which she had evidently been
working, as suggested by the displaced stool. On this bench stood an
object of some size--about twelve inches high--enveloped in a damp
cloth. By its side were a spray-diffuser, a number of little spatulas
and tiny bon modelling-tools, and several little covered pots of a
creamy, white earthenware delicately ornamented with floral decoration
in a warm blue. Venturing to lift the cover of one, I found it to be
filled with little rolls of brightly-tinted clay that looked like
coloured crayons.
“You are mighty fastidious about your apparatus,” I remarked, picking
up the dainty little pot and wiping some smears of clay from its
surface.
“And why not?” demanded Peggy. “Why shouldn’t one have pretty things
to work with? The old craftsmen did. I’ve seen some old planes and
chisel-handles beautifully carved, and I am sure they did better work
for having beautiful tools to work with. I would have pretty tools
myself if I could make them.”
“You shall, Peggy,” said I. “You shall show me what you want and I
will make them for you.”
As I was speaking I absently turned the little pot upside down and
glanced at the bottom. And then I really did get a shock. There was
only a single spot of ornament on the base, but that spot was a
revelation: for it was a little blue bird.
I smothered the exclamation that rose to my lips and put the pot down
on the bench. What could be the meaning of this? Had Peggy, like Mr.
Hawkesley, been attracted by Mr. Goldstein’s wares? Or was it
possible----
“Won’t you show me what you were doing, Peggy?” I asked.
She turned scarlet at the question, and looked so distressed that I
felt it a cruelty to press her. But cruel or not, I meant to get to
the bottom of the mystery.
“I’d rather not, Sibyl, if you don’t mind,” she said, shyly.
“But why? What an extraordinary little person you are.”
“Well,” she said, doggedly, “if you must know, I am not allowed to
show my work to anyone.”
“Not allowed by whom?”
“By the dealer who takes all my work. For some reason, best known to
himself, he makes a secret of it; won’t allow anyone to know who makes
it.”
“But apart from the dealer, Peggy, you wouldn’t mind my seeing your
work?”
“Of course I shouldn’t. I should like you to see it. But a promise is
a promise, you know.”
“Of course,” I agreed; and then I stepped quickly up to the bench and
very carefully picking up the damp cloth, lifted it clear of the
object which it covered; which turned out to be a jar standing on a
small turn-table. Peggy sprang forward with a gasp of consternation;
but she was too late. The deed was done; moreover, the murder was out;
for in the moment when my first glance fell on the jar, Mr.
Hawkesley’s “mystery ware” had ceased to be a mystery so far as I was
concerned.
The appearance of the jar was rather curious, but perfectly
unmistakable. The clay, in its “green” state--unbaked and still
somewhat plastic--was of a cool, grey colour, and the surface of the
squat, octagonal body and the short neck and rim was covered with rich
and intricate floral ornament, very minute, sharp and delicate. In the
completed part this ornament was of dull blue and finished flush with
the surface; in the unfinished part it was simply indented and had the
appearance of what bookbinders call “blind tooling,” but was somewhat
deeper.
From the work, my eyes turned with a sort of respectful wonder to the
creator, who stood by my side with an air partly embarrassed, partly
defiant. To me there was something very impressive in the thought that
this unassuming, little lady was actually a master craftsman (I am
compelled to use the masculine form, there being no feminine
equivalent); the creator of masterpieces which would live in the great
collections of the future for the admiration of generations yet
unborn. And in the first shock of surprised admiration and pride in my
friend’s achievement I had nearly blurted out all that I knew. But
reflection suggested a better plan.
“My dear Peggy!” I exclaimed. “I never dreamed that you did work of
this quality.”
“There’s nothing very wonderful about it,” she replied, regarding the
jar with a kind of affectionate disparagement. “It is only a poor
imitation of the beautiful Oiron ware. That pottery has always
interested me; partly because it is so lovely, and partly because,
according to tradition, it was made by a woman--Helene de
Hangest-Genlis. But my work isn’t a patch of hers, and it isn’t even
as good as I could do.”
“How is that?”
“Well, you see, it ought to have more modelled ornament than I put on.
It ought to be more important. Her pieces were most elaborately
modelled--many of them had figures in the full round. But I can’t
afford to carry my work as far as that. It would take too long.
Besides, I have to work to order, to some extent, and my orders are to
keep to moderately, simple pieces.”
“Your orders! From the dealer, I suppose? Tell me about him, Peggy,
and how it is that you are such a slave.”
“I’m not a slave,” she retorted doggedly. “But I have a contract with
a dealer. He takes the whole of my work, and he makes it a condition
that I shan’t sell anything to any one else or let anybody know what
kind of work I do. I oughtn’t to have let you in, but I know that I
can trust you not to breathe a word to anyone of what you have seen
here.”
Mr. Hawkesley was right, then; and I recalled with sympathetic
vindictiveness his desire to wring the dealer’s neck.
“Concerning this contract, Peggy,” said I. “You say the dealer has the
right to the whole of your work. Did he pay you anything for this
privilege?”
“Yes. He paid five pounds when the agreement was signed; but he
deducted it from the payment for the first lot of pieces.”
“Then it was only payment on account, not payment for the exclusive
right to all your work. And with regard to the prices, how are they
fixed?”
“Oh, the dealer fixes the prices, of course. He knows more about it
than I do.”
“Evidently. But what sort of prices does he fix?”
“Oh, ordinary prices, I suppose. He will probably give me fifteen
shillings for this jar.”
“And how long will it take you to make it?”
“Let me see,” she said, reflectively. “There is the throwing and
turning; that doesn’t take very long. Then this one had to be shaped
after it was turned. Then there comes the decorating; of course that