COLIN AND HIS WORK
COLIN did not appear next morning till breakfast was ended; and a cup
of tea met his wants. Mrs. Keith was short in manner, as if still
offended; but her vexation seemed powerless to ruffle him. Phyllys
wondered whether he felt it more than he showed.
She scanned him with interest. A gift to delve below the surface was
hers, but as yet it had not been developed; and while he interested, he
baffled her.
Everything in this new world claimed attention: Colin not least. The
contrast was great between his slender outlines and dilettante ease,
and the muscular vigour of Giles. That she would like Colin she felt
sure; not as she liked Giles, yet perhaps not less. The intellectual
development of his face, the dreamy abstraction which seemed a part
of himself, laid hold on her imagination. He resembled no one she had
hitherto come across. It would be difficult, she thought, to view him
with indifference. He might be liked or disliked; he could not be
ignored. Her eyes were again and again drawn in his direction; and each
time she found herself to be the object of his study.
The night before he had seen a pretty girl in a neat frock, hazily
indistinct. Things were apt to grow hazy, when overpowering headache
had him in its grasp. He would often talk on, while unable to see
across the room.
To-day, though not at his best, he could use his faculties, and he
recognised that Phyllys was out of the common. The rounded outlines
of her slim figure, the flow of hair about her well-shaped head, the
subtleties of moulding in cheek and chin, the sweet expressiveness of
eyes half hidden under dense fringes, the changeful suggestions of
light and shade—these found their way to his brain, touching him as
artist, not as man. He scrutinised her, not as a girl of flesh and
blood, but as a subject for statuary.
Breakfast over, he strolled through the French window, and indulged
in a cigarette; but when Mrs. Keith disappeared, Phyllys heard at her
side the soft dragging voice, which at first she had supposed to mean
physical weakness, but which she found to be habitual.
"Will you come with me?" he said.
On reaching the room, lately transformed into a studio, she gave
one of her little gasps of pleasure. It appealed to her artistic
instincts—hers by inheritance and early cultivation, not slain by ten
years of systematic asphyxiation.
Two skylight windows had been made, with arrangements for modifying
light from either, and a heavy curtain was partly drawn across the
side-window. Near the stove at one end of the long room, on a square of
carpet, were a sofa and an armchair. The space remaining was boarded
and bare. At the centre stood a modelling-stand, heavy and four-legged,
with a revolving top, upon which was something hidden by cloths.
Framed photographs of antique sculptures adorned the walls, varied by
fine bas-reliefs. Several statues occupied small pedestals; and on a
side-table lay plaster casts of limbs and hands, together with odd
little wooden tools, which she touched with pleasure, for they recalled
old days.
"And this?" she questioned, pausing beside a closed door. "Is this part
of the studio?"
"If I should take to plaster-casting, that will be my casting-room. At
present I use it for odds and ends."
He opened the door, and showed a large wooden box, lined with zinc and
half-full of damp clay, prepared for use; also a water-tap with its
sink, and a watering-pot with a fine rose. "One must have everything
ready."
"You don't do the casting yourself, then, or cutting in marble?"
"I have tried my hand at both. Here—" as they returned to the larger
room—"a bit of low relief, for practice. Not worth much. Carving in
marble is slow work. At present I give my attention to modelling in
clay."
He took her round, pointing out some casts that he had brought from
Italy, imitations from historic masterpieces. They lingered over a bust
after the Venus of Milo; then over the copy of an ancient dilapidated
torso, which Phyllys surveyed with dubious eyes.
"I don't think I care about that. It might be anything."
"Ah, but it is grand. The work of a great sculptor. See the moulding,
how squarely it is put in. Look at those flat surfaces, and the
relation of each to the whole. The main question in sculpture is not
so much what a man works at as how he works at it." Then a pause, and
a slow smile. "For the matter of that, the same may be said of all
Art—painting, music, writing. Now I will show you something that you
will appreciate."
He lifted down a bas-relief in pure white plaster, a reduction from
Donatelli's S. Cecilia, exquisite in delicacy of modelling.
Phyllys clasped her hands with a gesture of delight, pretty because
unconscious, as she drank in the beauty of that refined angelic face.
Colin altered the slant of it. "See—if the light falls in a full glare
you hardly make out anything. Now, if I put it so that shadows are
thrown, you have the effect—you get the soul of it."
He held the thing motionless, till with a sigh she murmured, "It is
'too' lovely. I'm sure of one thing—it can't be wrong to love what is
beautiful."
He looked at her curiously.
"Barbara and Miss Robins say it is wrong to care about looks—any sort
of looks—things or people. They say it is vanity and waste of time."
"But true beauty is Divine."
"Is it?" wistfully. "They say it is a snare."
"Do they? Perhaps they have not eyes to see. True beauty is uplifting;
but only when one has power to see its inwardness."
"I'm glad to think it is not wrong," she murmured. "I do love things
that are beautiful. Won't you show me something you did yourself when
you were abroad?"
"I left all behind me. Nothing worth bringing. Here is one attempt
since my return."
He led her to a corner of the studio, where stood in shade a head of
bronzed plaster upon a stand.
"Giles!" was her exclamation. "How like! Oh, how like!" She viewed it
from different positions. "It is his very self. And how wonderfully you
have given the look in his eyes. Only a little hollow for each eye—and
yet they are 'his!'"
"Sure proof that character and expression reside more in the
surroundings than in the eyes themselves."
"And you did this since you came home?"
"Yes. I'd awfully hard work to get him to sit; but he gave in now and
then. When he went north, I had to do my best with photographs. No, I
didn't attempt the moulding."
Phyllys' next move was towards the centre modelling-table. She had
noticed that he kept clear of that, and her curiosity was roused. "May
I see what you are doing now?" she asked.
And after a momentary hesitation, he removed the damp cloths, laying
bare a child's head in clay, life-size, nearly completed.
It was a lovable little face, half-sad, yet with a tender shy peace.
The luxuriant hair was cut low on the forehead, and fell around in
heavy waves; and the effect of dark eyes was admirably given, under
drooping lids.
"Who is it?"
"Elsye Wallace. She died many years ago."
"You have done it from memory?"
"Partly from memory. Partly from an oil-painting and some photographs."
"I heard a Dr. Wallace spoken of yesterday."
"He is our medical man. Elsye was his only child."
Phyllys gave her attention to the bust, scanning it from various
directions. "I like it!" came at length. "I can't tell you how much I
like it. Of course I don't know—I'm no judge—but she seems almost to
'live.' You make me love her, as if I had known the real Elsye. Were
you fond of her? Do you mind telling me?"
"Yes; we knew her well."
Phyllys looked up. "You ought to go on," she said earnestly. "You
'will' go on?"
"You are encouraging."
"But you don't want encouraging. You know you can do it."
"Nobody knows it always."
"You won't let anybody make you leave off?" She was thinking of his
mother.
"No. I shall not be stopped."
A chair was near, and Phyllys sat down, resting her cheek on one hand,
gazing earnestly. A smile broke over her face.
"You little darling!" she murmured.
Colin stood back, his attention diverted from his own work to Phyllys.
A longing seized him to make a sketch in clay of that pretty girl-head.
His fingers ached to reproduce the soft flow of hair, the delicate
moulding of brow and lips. She had the precise pose which he would
want; and he hardly dared to breathe for fear of making her move. He
was trying to learn every curve by heart, that he might be able to
replace her. When, in response to observation, she turned, she caught a
gleam of that gaze from under the penthouse of slender fingers.
He at once explained. "I am wondering whether you would let me make a
study of your head."
"Mine But why? Yes, if you like. That would be rather fun."
"You promise?"
"I should like it if—Will Mrs. Keith mind?"
"I want an unconditional promise."
Phyllys looked troubled.
"She has always opposed my modelling. I think you will admit that a man
must choose for himself?"
"Then it is not a new idea?"
"Nearly as old as I am myself."
Phyllys wondered, recalling contrary assertions.
"I promise," she at length said. "But why should Mrs. Keith care?"
"Can't imagine. Neither can Giles."
He was replacing the wet cloths, and she said, "You won't try to work
at that to-day? You know you can't."
He finished what he was doing, then replied, "But when Giles comes home
you must please see less. I don't betray myself to him, if I can help
it."
"Why should he not know?"
"It bothers him. My stupid headaches are a hindrance to work, and he
knows how much I want to get on. So please don't draw his attention.
That is all. And—" after a pause—"don't name to him this bust."
"I won't, if you would rather I should not."
"I would rather you should not. Now, shall we go?"
In the hall they were joined by Mrs. Keith, who showed some annoyance
on hearing where Phyllys had been.
"I have hunted for you all over the house," she complained.
"Phyllys is going to let me make a model of her head."
Mrs. Keith's movement was of protest. "You won't do anything so
ridiculous!"
"I can hardly imagine anything less ridiculous."
"Phyllys has come here to enjoy herself."
"But indeed I shall enjoy that," urged Phyllys. "I love anything to do
with modelling."
Mrs. Keith's face darkened. "I would rather it should be given up," she
said.
Colin made no verbal reply. The gaze of mother and son met, and Phyllys
was conscious of a trial of strength between the two. Mrs. Keith's
restless dark orbs stared into the quiet blue eyes, which, with all
their courtesy, spoke absolute non-submission. Silence lasted hardly
three seconds, but in that space he rose superior.
Phyllys was startled by his look of invincible resolution. Had it been
Giles she would have felt no surprise. But Colin—the embodiment rather
of charm than of strength—that in him should be found, underlying the
charm, a force of will which, though endlessly gentle, would have at
all costs its own way, she had not expected.
Mrs. Keith's eyes sank, and she spoke sullenly. "Of course you will do
as you choose. 'My' wishes are of no importance."
"Of very great importance; but one has sometimes to follow one's own
judgment. Some day I hope you will see with me. Shall I show Phyllys
the church this morning?"
"No. She is coming with me."
"Then I will go for a ride—" in unruffled calm; and he vanished.
"A great pity! He will only make himself ill again," said Mrs. Keith.
"I have such a dread of another breakdown. He is a dear fellow." She
glanced quickly at Phyllys. "But I must have you appreciate Giles also."
The girl smiled—a small subtle smile. She did not count that she was
in danger of undervaluing Giles. Already she had told herself that she
disapproved of Colin's manner to his mother during those three seconds.
To anybody else it would not have mattered; but to his mother! She was
sure that Giles would never so have contested in Colin's place. None
the less, she liked Colin, and she could not see why Mrs. Keith should
so persistently oppose his favourite occupation.