IN BOHEMIA
It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, and through one of the
windows of the newly-furnished studio a shaft of sunlight had found its
way. It formed a patch of light on the blue drugget on the floor, and
caught the corner of an oak dresser on which the old Worcester dinner
service was arranged.
There were two figures in the studio, though to the eyes of mortals the
place would have seemed empty. The one was in a robe of white and gold,
the other in a dress of dull grey. The white-robed figure was sitting
in a large chair near an oak chest, on which was a Sèvres bowl. She
looked as if she had come to stay. There was an irresolute appearance
about the grey-clad figure.
"I can't stay in this studio with you here," she said.
"I know," said the white-robed figure.
"It is my prerogative to be here," went on the grey-clad figure. "You
don't belong to age."
The white-robed figure smiled.
"You sit there," said the grey-clad figure, "as if the place belonged
to you."
"It will," said the one in white.
"You will not be able to stay," said the grey-clad figure warningly.
"I shall stay till I am asked to leave. Then you can take my place."
"That will be soon," said the grey-clad figure.
"We shall see," said the figure in white.
"I shall come back again," said the grey-clad figure, but the words
lacked confidence.
"When you are asked," said the figure in white.
"I am going now," said the grey-clad figure. "If I stay here any longer
with you I shall lose all my personality."
And Doubt flew through the window. She hated passing through the shaft
of sunlight, but it was the only way out. But Joy remained in the
studio.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. Its note was like the
bell of a miniature cathedral. There was the sound of wheels in the
courtyard. They stopped.
The door opened and a woman in a black dress and wide mushroom hat
crossed the threshold. She saw the shaft of sunlight, the oak dresser
with its array of blue plates, and she looked towards the great chair
by the chest. Being a mortal she did not see the figure seated in it.
But Joy came forward to welcome her.
* * * * *
An hour later Miss Mason was eating a supper of cold chicken, salad,
bread and butter, tinned peaches and cream. She was being waited on by
a little flower-faced girl in a blue print dress and a quaint cap and
apron. The little girl's name was Sally.
She had been found through an advertisement, after Miss Mason had
visited registry offices innumerable, and interviewed cooks fat, cooks
scraggy, cooks superior, cooks untidy, cooks confident, and cooks
deprecating, none of whom had pleased her. The owners of the registry
offices had considered Miss Mason an impossible person.
Sally's sole references had been that of her mother, the Sunday-school
teacher, and her own fresh little face. Miss Mason had fallen in love
with her on the spot.
She arrived with a parcel under her arm five minutes after Miss Mason
had entered the studio. Her box was to come the next morning by the
carrier.
Miss Mason finished her supper and Sally cleared the table. She then
vanished into the minute kitchen, out of which was an equally minute
bedroom.
Miss Mason got up from her chair and went slowly round the studio.
She had spent three weeks of careful shopping. It was astonishing how
quickly she had found herself going from place to place, aided by
friendly policemen. Her purchases had been sent to a furniture agent
who was responsible for their arrangement in the studio.
It was all exactly as she had imagined it would be. There were the
brown walls with the few pictures, the blue drugget on the floor, and
the old Persian rugs. There was the "Winged Victory" on its straight
pedestal in one corner. There was the dresser against one wall,
with the blue dinner service on its shelves. There was the bookcase
filled with books, the only reminder of her old life. There was the
Chesterfield sofa standing at right angles to the fire-place. There was
the corner cupboard, and a small cupboard with glass doors, in which
were a few bits of rare old china. There was the easel. There were a
few new canvases against the wall. There was a box full of oil paints.
There were charcoal sticks in another box--Miss Mason had found that
chalk in bottles was not the correct thing nowadays. There was a whole
ream of white Michelet paper. There was a sheaf of brushes in a green
earthenware jar. There was a large mahogany palette hanging on a nail.
It shone smooth and polished like a mirror.
When she had been the round of the studio she sat down in the big chair
and looked at the empty Sèvres bowl.
"Must buy pink roses for that to-morrow," she said.
She leant back in the chair. The corners of her mouth were relaxed in
a little tender smile. Her eyes were shining. She heard the voices of
men crossing the courtyard. They were laughing. She laughed a little
herself. And over and over again in her heart the words of the lady in
the blue dress were sounding:
"If happiness comes to you welcome her with both hands; and with every
kiss she gives you years will roll away from your heart. Happiness is
like the spring, which wakes the world to brightness after a dreary
winter."
Sally came back into the studio.
"Is there anything more I can do for you, ma'am?"
"No, child. You'd better get to bed. Boiled eggs for breakfast."
"Yes, ma'am. Good night."
"Good night." There was a moment's pause. Sally had reached the door.
"Got a young man?" Miss Mason's voice was so gruff that Sally's heart
beat uncomfortably.
"Yes, ma'am; but----"
"Does he live in London?"
"Yes, ma'am." Sally was trembling a little.
"Better write to-morrow and ask him to come to tea on Sunday. Suppose
there's room in that ridiculous kitchen for you both?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am." Sally's voice was joyful.
"Better buy some cake to-morrow. Gingerbread, plum cake, anything you
like. Don't loiter now. Get to bed like a good girl."
And Sally fled, feeling that Miss Mason was a winged angel in an odd
disguise.
Half an hour later Miss Mason herself went to her bedroom. It was
dainty and charming. The curtains before the window were white muslin,
with outer curtains of white dimity and borders of tiny pink rosebuds.
The quilt covering the bed was white like the curtains, it also had a
border of pink rosebuds. The carpet was cream-coloured, the furniture
Chippendale.
When Miss Mason was ready for bed she knelt down, her hands folded on
the rosebud-covered quilt. The old petitions of childhood, still used
by the woman of sixty years, failed her for the first time.
"God," said Miss Mason softly, "I am happy, and I thank You."
That was all.
She got into bed. For a long time she lay gazing into the darkness with
open eyes. She was too happy to sleep. She had become aware of sounds
she had heard at intervals during the evening almost without realizing
them--singing, the twanging of banjos, the sound of laughter. Now in
the darkness she heard them clearly. Her old eyes puckered at the
corners into little delighted wrinkles.
Then suddenly she heard the notes of a violin. Miss Mason had no
knowledge of music, but even to her ignorant ears the hand was that of
a master. When it stopped there was silence.
Presently she dozed. Much later she was awakened from a half-sleep
by laughter, footsteps, and louder singing. The words came to her
distinctly.
She lay there smiling, a queer old figure in a white nightcap, one
rather bony hand beating time softly on the quilt.
"For he's a jolly good fellow,
For he's a jolly good fellow,
For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,
And so say all of we."
With a little sigh of supreme content Miss Mason uttered the one word:
"Bohemia!"