Helen Vardon's confession
is what takes the time. Including the cover, I should say there is
nearly a week’s work in that jar. And then it has to be fired and
glazed; but the firing and glazing are done in batches.”
“And all this for fifteen shillings a week!” I exclaimed.
“Say a pound,” said she. “That is about what I earn. It isn’t much, is
it? But I have a little money of my own, though I spent most of it on
fitting up the workshop.”
“And what period does this precious contract cover? When does it
expire?”
“Expire?” she repeated, a little sheepishly. “I don’t know that it
expires at all. No period is mentioned in it.”
“Peggy,” I said, solemnly; “you should alter your potter’s mark. Take
out the little, blue finch and put in a little, green goose. But,
seriously, we must see into this. I am a lawyer’s daughter--not that I
profess to have inherited a knowledge of law. But I am certain that
this agreement is not binding. Will you let me show it to a friend of
mine who is a lawyer? In strict confidence, of course.”
“Yes, if you like, Sibyl. But I don’t see that it matters. I like
doing the work and I do make a living by it. What more would you
have?”
“I thought you said you would like to do something more ambitious--the
very best work of which you are capable. Wouldn’t you?”
She was silent for a while, and a far-away, wistful look stole into
her face. Suddenly she said: “Sibyl, I’m going to show you something;
but you mustn’t tell anyone.” She led me to a large cupboard, the door
of which she unlocked and threw open. On the single shelf was a model
in red wax of a tall candlestick or lamp-holder of the most elaborate
design, the shaft and capital-like socket enriched--though
sparingly--with fine relief decoration, and the base occupied by a
spirited and graceful group of figures, beautifully modelled and full
of life and expression.
“That,” she said, “is to be my _chef d’œuvre_, though it doesn’t look
much in the wax. You must think of it in ivory-white, with a rich
coloured inlay and perhaps some under-glaze painting. It has taken me
months, doing a bit whenever I have had time, or when I couldn’t
resist the temptation to go on with it. Now it is finished, as far as
the modelling goes, and the next thing will be to mould it. But I
shan’t actually make the piece at present, because I don’t mean _him_
to have it--the dealer, you know. If I finished it now, it would be
his, of course.”
“Yes, by the contract it would. And it mustn’t. This piece ought to
give you a position in the front rank of artist potters. But I mustn’t
waste any more of your time. You will let me have that agreement,
won’t you?”
She promised that I should have it at lunch-time, and with this I went
back to my workshop to consider a plan that had come into my mind for
her enlightenment and emancipation. But it turned out that there was
no need for scheming on my part, for chance or Providence offered me
the opportunity ready-made. That very evening I received a short note
from Mr. Davenant informing me that Miss Tallboy-Smith had acquired a
collection of English and French soft porcelain, and that she proposed
to exhibit the whole of her new acquisition for a week at the club.
“She rather wants,” he said, “to make the opening day something of a
function, and has asked Hawkesley and me to be there to lunch. Can you
come, too? It would please her if you could--and you know how
delighted Hawkesley and I would be. Besides, I think it will really be
a very interesting show.”
Here was the very chance that I wanted. Forthwith, I swooped down on
the unsuspecting Titmouse and secured her agreement to bear me company
to a “pottery show,” without giving too many particulars. Then I wrote
to Mr. Davenant telling him that I was bringing a guest who was deeply
interested in pottery and porcelain, and suggesting that we might form
a party of four at a small table.
By the same post I sent off Peggy’s agreement to Dr. Thorndyke, with
the request that he would tell me whether it was or was not legally
binding. And, having thus laid the train, as I hoped, for the
discomfiture of Mr. Goldstein, I felt at liberty to return to my own
affairs.
Chapter XVII.
The Apotheosis of the Titmouse
The respective merits of hard and soft porcelain have been, from
time to time, warmly debated by collectors and experts, but never,
perhaps, have they been more earnestly discussed than on the occasion
of the opening of Miss Tallboy-Smith’s exhibition. During the
half-hour which preceded lunch, the central glass case and the
additional show-cases which had been set up for the occasion were
surrounded by groups of eager connoisseurs, and the contrasting
virtues of the _pâte tendre_ and the more durable, if less beautiful,
true porcelain were once more considered and expounded.
The attendance of the members and their friends must have been highly
gratifying to Miss Tallboy-Smith, though it was no greater than was
warranted by the importance of the exhibition; for the collection
included representative pieces, not only of Chelsea, Bow, Nantgarw,
Pinxton, and other English ware; but also of the old, French soft
paste porcelain, including several early examples of Sevres. The
preliminary glance at the collection had furnished material for
conversation, as I could see by observing the occupants of the long
central table, at the head of which sat the beaming hostess, supported
by Major Dewham-Brown (who talked little, but consumed his food with
intense concentration of purpose); and even our own small table,
tucked away inconspicuously in a corner, was not immune from the
influence of soft porcelain, for Mr. Hawkesley and my guest discussed
the topic with a wealth of knowledge that reduced Mr. Davenant and me
to respectful and attentive silence.
Our two friends were evidently very pleased with one another; and not
without reason. For Mr. Hawkesley was much more than a mere collector;
he was an enthusiastic and learned student of all kinds of ceramic
work; while, as to my friend Peggy, her conversation revealed a
familiarity with all kinds of materials and processes that made me
feel quite shy as I thought of the artless handbook with which I had
presented her.
But, indeed, Miss Peggy was quite transfigured. She had met with a
kindred spirit. And under the influence of contagious enthusiasm, the
usually silent and secretive Titmouse blossomed out in a manner that
surprised me. As I listened to the animated duet of her chirping
treble with Mr. Hawkesley’s robust baritone, I found it difficult to
identify her with the quiet little potter who was wont to work behind
locked doors in the old shipsmith’s shop at Wellclose Square.
After lunch the siege of the showcases began again on a more
portentous scale. Glass cases were opened for more complete inspection
of their contents, and pieces were even handed out to be handled,
stroked and smelled at by the more infatuated devotees. As neither Mr.
Davenant nor I could be included among the latter, we were satisfied
by a comparatively brief inspection of the treasures, after which we
retired to a sheltered seat to look on and talk.
“Just look at those two china-maniacs!” exclaimed Mr. Davenant. “They
are as thick as thieves already. And what is Miss Finch going to do
with that _bleu de roi_ vase? Is she going to kiss it? No; she has
given it back to the Tallboy-Smith. Well, well; enthusiasm is a fine
thing. By the way, she is a nice little lady, this friend of yours;
pretty and picturesque, too, and uncommonly well turned out. I’m
beginning to have a new respect for Wellclose Square.”
I looked at the Titmouse with a sort of motherly pride (though she was
about my own age). The word picturesque described her admirably with
her warm colour, her graceful hair, and the trim, _petite_ figure that
was so well set off by the simple, artistic dress--in which I seemed
to trace the hand of Lilith. She was my importation to the Magpies,
and I felt that she was doing me credit.
“I have often wondered,” Mr. Davenant said, after a reflective pause,
“what made you choose such an unlikely locality as Wellclose Square
for a residence, and, indeed, how you came to know of its existence.
Very few middle-class people do. I hope Miss Vardon will not consider
me unduly inquisitive.”
“Mrs. Otway will not,” said I.
“Mrs. Otway is a myth--a legal fiction. I refuse to recognise her
existence. She is a mere creature of documents, of church registers.
The real person is Miss Helen Vardon.”
“That sounds rather like nonsense,” said I, “but, of course, it can’t
be, because the speaker is Mr. Davenant. Perhaps there is some hidden
meaning in these cryptic observations.”
“There isn’t,” he rejoined; “or, at any rate, it shan’t remain hidden.
I mean that I refuse to recognise your connection with this man,
Otway, or to associate you with his beastly name.”
“But it is my beastly name, too, according to law and custom.”
“I don’t care for law and custom,” said he. “The name Otway is
abhorrent to me, and it doesn’t properly belong to you. I shall call
you Miss Vardon, unless you let me call you Helen; and I don’t see why
you shouldn’t, considering that we are old and intimate friends.”
“It would undoubtedly have the support of a well-established
precedent. There was a certain bishop who was called Peter because
that was his name. That precedent would apply to Helen, but it
certainly would not to Miss Vardon.”
“Then,” he rejoined, “let us follow this excellent precedent. Let it
be Helen. Is that agreed?”
“I don’t seem to have much choice; for if ‘Mrs. Otway’ is a legal
fiction, ‘Miss Vardon’ is an illegal one.”
“Well, don’t let us have any fictions at all. Let us adhere to the
actual baptismal facts.”
“Very well, Mr. Davenant.”
“But why ‘Mr. Davenant’? My baptismal designation is ‘Jasper.’”
“And a very pretty name, too,” said I. “But the precedent does not
apply in your case. You have not married Mr. Otway.”
“No, thank Heaven! If I had, there would be a case of petty treason.
But neither have you, for that matter. You have only gone through a
ridiculous ceremony which means nothing and signed a document which
sets forth what is not true.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that we are not adhering to our agreement
to avoid fictions. My marriage, unfortunately, is perfectly real and
valid in the eyes of the law.”
“The law!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Who cares for the law? Have
we not the pronouncement of that illustrious legal luminary, Bumble
C.J., that the law is a ass and a idiot? And, mark you, he was
specially referring to matrimonial law. Now, who would base his
actions and beliefs on the opinions of a ass and a idiot?”
“And to think,” said I, “that you have abandoned the law for mere
architecture! With your gift for casuistry, you ought to have been a
Chancery lawyer or else a Jesuit. But here is Miss Tallboy-Smith. She
thinks we are neglecting her treasures.”
But our hostess had not come to utter reproaches. On the contrary, she
was brimming over with pleasure and gratitude.
“My dear Mrs. Otway,” she exclaimed, beaming on me and grasping my
hands affectionately, “I can’t thank you enough for bringing that dear
young lady, Miss Finch, to see my porcelain. She is a _sweet_ girl,
and she simply knows _everything_ about china. It is perfectly
wonderful. She might be a potter herself. And her love of the
beautiful things and her enjoyment in looking at them has given me, I
can’t tell you how much, pleasure. You must really bring her to see my
whole collection. Will you? I shall love showing it to her.”
I agreed joyfully, for this would mean another nail in the coffin of
Mr. Goldstein; and as Peggy and Mr. Hawkesley joined us at this
moment, I was able to complete the arrangement and fix a date.