STUDIO DOINGS
“So here we have our little girl back again,” cried Mr. Barstow as he
came gaily into the Austins’ studio on the evening of Ellen’s arrival.
“Welcome back to the old ‘haunches,’ as old Potter used to say. Let’s
look at you. Grown? I should say so. Almost a young lady, but she keeps
her lovely coloring, doesn’t she, Mrs. Austin? Now sit down here and
tell us all that you have been doing down there in the country. Milking
the cows, feeding the pigs, and all that?”
“I’ve fed nothing but the cat, and I haven’t learned to milk, but I can
do a lot of other things.” She ran over a list of her accomplishments in
the domestic line.
“Great Cæsar! they certainly have been keeping you at it. Good thing,
though. When Kogi gets obstreperous I’ll know where to send for a cook.
I tell you what we’ll do; we’ll have a spree at my studio some day. I’ll
send Kogi off, and you and Mrs. Austin can come over and cook all over
the place. What do you consider your chef-d’œuvre?”
“I can make a pretty good omelet, and Cousin Rindy has shown me how to
prepare some of the dishes she learned about over in France.”
“Fine! We’ll count on the omelet, and you can think up the other things
meanwhile. We’re going to celebrate at my studio on Christmas Eve, you
know. All the old crowd will be there, and we shall do our prettiest to
have some fun. Now I must be off. Don’t forget, Connie, Christmas Eve.
Come early.” He put his head over the top of the screen behind which
Mrs. Austin was at work, waved his hand to Ellen, and dashed out.
“May I come see what you are doing?” asked Ellen as the door closed
behind Mr. Barstow.
“No, no,” answered Mrs. Austin. “I am finishing your Christmas gift, and
wouldn’t have you see it for the world. I must take advantage of the
daylight, you know, and there is so little left.”
“A Christmas gift for me! Oh, Mrs. Austin, you shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because this visit is a fine enough present.”
“But, don’t you see, you are giving me the visit, and I must do
something for you.”
“That is one way to look at it,” Ellen answered. “According to my point
of view it is I who receive from you.”
“Well, never mind, don’t let’s talk about it. You’ll get me all fussed
up. You go find a book or something to amuse you. There are some
magazines over on the big table. When Phil comes in we’ll decide whether
we’ll have a delicatessen dinner here or go out somewhere. Make yourself
comfortable.”
This delightful lack of ceremony exactly suited Ellen. She wandered
around the room for a few minutes, looked at the sketches on the walls,
and finally curled herself up on a big couch by the window, to look out
upon the familiar streets. One by one the lights flashed out from the
tall buildings and from the street lamps, then brilliant signs began to
appear, crowds hurried home, elevated trains rumbled along near by,
automobiles honked, the siren of a fire engine wailed its warning, while
Ellen’s thoughts travelled back to the dear departed days of which all
these sights and sounds only too vividly reminded her. She covered her
face with her hands as the tears began to gather.
Presently Mrs. Austin came and sat down beside her. She drew her close.
“I know, little girl, I know. It is very hard, but we want to give you
such a good time while you are here that you will remember that rather
than the sad time back of it. We are all such busy people that you may
have thought we were forgetting you, but we haven’t forgotten, and we
are always going to keep you in our hearts. There comes Phil; let’s see
what he wants to do about dinner.”
Mr. Austin came in laden with packages. He was a tall, spare man with
near-sighted brown eyes, a pointed Vandyke beard, sandy hair, and a
nervous mouth. He had an absent-minded way of looking at you as if he
saw not you but a vision. He had met Ellen at the train, delivered her
to his wife, and then had gone off to his club.
“I thought it would be rather nice to have a snack here,” he said as he
laid the packages on the table. “I was away down-town on Fulton Street
to look at that work of Kean’s, so I went over to that Spanish place and
got some of those things you like, Connie,—that nougat stuff, and some
dandy little cakes.”
“Cakes and candy won’t make a very hearty dinner for Ellen, I’m afraid.”
“But, bless you, child, I got those at the Spanish grocer’s, I told you.
Then on my way from the subway I loaded up at the delicatessen.”
“You’re a good child, Phil. I don’t know what I should do without you.
Let’s see what you have. Sliced ham, cheese, potato salad, rolls, canned
peaches;” she mentioned the articles as she drew them forth from the big
bag. “I’ll open a can of soup, and we shall do very well. If we get
hungry before bedtime, we can have a cup of chocolate. You and Ellen can
set the table, Phil, while I get the soup ready.”
Mr. Austin swept the books and papers from the largest table, and laid
some queer-looking mats upon it while Ellen went for the dishes. There
were no two of these alike, and when it came time to serve the peaches
the soup plates had to be washed, as there was nothing else in which to
put them. However, they had a jolly meal and Ellen enjoyed the
informality.
“It does so remind me of the old days,” she sighed.
“I thought it might, and that you would like it,” said Mr. Austin.
“But we don’t mean that you shall always eat in this higgledy-piggledy
way,” declared Mrs. Austin.
“It’s fun, and I like it,” Ellen assured her.
The dishes were scarcely out of the way before visitors from the
neighboring studios dropped in, and the familiar art patter began. One
or more brought sketches which were set up and commented upon with much
gesture of thumbs and heated discussion. Ellen listened to it all with
glowing appreciation, and when the talk became an exchange of
witticisms, she withdrew herself farther and farther away from the dull
little town she had left. This was the life. Nobody had such good times
as these care-free artists.
Later Mrs. Austin made chocolate and brought out the cakes and nougat,
which were consumed to the uttermost crumb. There were not enough cups
for the chocolate, but anything did,—tumblers, mugs, even two small
pitchers,—and as for spoons, who wanted them when there were clean
sticks of charcoal handy?
It was nearly midnight before the company dispersed, and then Ellen was
put to bed on the couch, her coverings eked out by a Navajo blanket
taken down from the wall, and she went to sleep with the moonlight
streaming in through the skylight, picking out the gilt on the hilts of
a pair of swords, and causing the glass eyes of a simpering lay figure
to stare at her uncannily.
Mrs. Austin was in hiding behind the screen most of the next day, but
she emerged in time to scramble together some sort of lunch made up of
the odds and ends left over from the night before. Mr. Austin was out
nearly all day, so Ellen, left to herself, sallied forth to hunt up some
of her old friends. She was so late getting back that she found Mr. and
Mrs. Austin waiting for her.
“We feared you were lost,” said Mrs. Austin. “We thought we’d go
somewhere and get a light supper. Mr. Barstow is sure to have a big
feast in the course of the evening, so we must save our appetites for
that. Are you going to wear that dress, Ellen? If you are not, skurry
into another one.”
“We should dress up, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, this is a gala occasion. Put on your very flossiest.”
Ellen, eager to wear the white crêpe, lost no time in getting into it,
and appeared promptly to exhibit herself to her hostess.
“What a lovely dress!” she exclaimed. “You look perfectly dear in it.
Did you get it in Marshville?”
“Well, yes, I did and I didn’t. Do you know a Mary West, from Baltimore,
Mrs. Austin?”
“Never heard of the lady. Who is she?”
“I don’t know, and thought perhaps you could tell me.” Then she related
the tale of the mysterious box, giving Miss Rindy’s theory regarding the
sender.
Mrs. Austin was interested at once. “Whoever she is, she has mighty good
taste,” she declared. “I noticed what a swagger coat and hat you had as
soon as I set my eyes on you, and that pretty wool dress you have been
wearing is quite out of the common,—nothing you could pick up on a
bargain counter. Come along, honey child, I am very proud of you. Phil
is pacing the studio like a caged lion, so we’d better not tarry.”
They took their meal at a French pastry shop near by, and then went on
to Mr. Barstow’s studio which was not far away. They found their host
dancing around in great excitement. He was a little wiry man with a bald
head, dark eyes, large nose, and humorous mouth. He grabbed Ellen’s
hands and danced her across the floor to where a table was littered with
paper and string.
“Come, help me tie up my presents,” he cried. “I haven’t them near
ready. You come, too, Connie. Phil can amuse himself by tying them on
the tree as we get them done. He is so tall we won’t need a stepladder.
Reed Marshall and I trimmed the tree last night. Know Reed? Nice boy. He
went out a while ago, but he’ll be back; said he had to go, though I did
expect he would help me with these things.”
They all fell to work, and by the time the first guest arrived the last
package was tied on the tree. Then the company trooped in, singly, in
couples, and in groups till the big studio was gay with bright costumes
and lively with chatter.
The fun began when Mr. Barstow mounted the model stand and started to
dance an Irish jig, which he did with great agility. Then Mr. Austin’s
tall form made its way through the crowd, and, standing by the dancer,
this man with the dreamy eyes and solemn face sang an absurd Irish song
which nobody could possibly have suspected him of being able to do. The
performance brought forth shouts of laughter and wild applause.
Scarcely had these two performers stepped down than some one dashed into
the room, turned a handspring upon the model stand, then stood grinning
at the company and rolling his eyes comically. He was blackened up and
wore the exaggerated dress of a negro minstrel. Presently he burst out
into a weird melody with fanciful words and peculiar rhythm; this he
followed with a double shuffle. It was all so cleverly done that some
could scarce believe it was not a veritable negro before them.
“Where did you get him? Is he a real darkey?” some one asked Mr.
Barstow.
“Get him? I didn’t get him; he came. It is that rascal, Reed Marshall.
He insisted that he must go when I wanted him to stay. Now I see what he
was up to. He said he’d come back and help; he’s doing it. Go to it,
boy,” he called out. “Give us a buck and wing. Keep it up.” The order
was obeyed, the youth showing such a knowledge of his steps that the
applause was loud and long. As soon as it was over the young man made
his way to where Mr. Barstow stood with Ellen.
“Well, Uncle Pete,” he said, “I told you I’d be back to help, and here I
am. Did I put it over all right?”
“You sure did, son,” returned Mr. Barstow, smiling. “Come here, Reed; I
want to present you to Miss Ellen North. She is the daughter of one of
my old cronies, just as you are the son of another. Now make yourself
agreeable to Ellen while I go hunt up Steve Kendall; he is going to play
Santa Claus. You may not recognize Reed when you meet him again, Ellen,
but that’s no matter. His get-up doesn’t affect his character at all,
nor go so far as to color his speech.”
He went off, and the young man sat down by Ellen on the divan. He looked
at her with a smile that resembled a grin because of the dark
surroundings of his white teeth.
“We should be friends because we are both children of cronies; you are a
cronette and I am a cronine. I shall call you Cronette, henceforth.
Isn’t Uncle Pete the jolly little playmate? Have you known him long?”
“Oh, yes, always. He and my father were students together in Spain, and
Daddy always called him Don Pedro, which is what I call him. Where did
you learn to do those dances?”
“Down on de Easte’n Sho. Das whar I comes from, chile. Is you a dancer,
Sis’ Cronette?”
Ellen laughed. “I used to be, but since I have been living in Marshville
I haven’t had much chance to do anything so frivolous. My cousin with
whom I live believes in making me practical. The utilitarian alone
appeals to her.”
“So Useful is your front name.”
“Exactly: Useful Ellen.”
“I like Cronette better. Say, I’d like mighty well to paint you. Can you
give me a chance? Your coloring goes to my head. Will you sit for me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t during these holidays. You see I am visiting Mrs.
Austin, and she has planned out all sorts of things for me to do while I
am here. You’d better ask her.”
“So I do, Sis’ Cronette, an’ efen it please her sagacity, I sho mek a
little one o’ dese yer studies.”
“You are an artist, then?”
“Trying to be. I goes to de League, an’ some o’ dese days I’se gwine to
Eu’ope. Yuh been to Eu’ope, Sis’ Cronette?”
“I came near it, but I never got there.”
“Huccome?”
“My mother and I were going over to join my father, but he came home
to—to die. He was wounded and gassed, you know.”
The grin faded from Reed’s face. “I didn’t know, but I do know that he
was a mighty good artist. I’ve always liked his work tremendously.”
“Oh, I am so glad. You have seen it here?”
“Yes, you know Uncle Pete has a lot of his pictures packed away. He
means to have an exhibition of them some day with some of his own work.”
“My mother always hoped that could be done sometime. Dear Don Pedro, it
is like him to want to do that.”
“Here comes Santa Claus. We’d better go over and see what he has for
us.”
So Ellen, escorted by the grotesque figure, crossed the room to where
the tree, now lighted up by many colored electric bulbs, was fast
becoming surrounded by the company.
There was a gift, and sometimes more than one, for each person. “I can
scarcely wait to see your present to me,” Ellen whispered to Mrs.
Austin. She did not have to wait long, for in a few minutes Santa Claus
handed her a small box which she opened immediately, to see smiling up
at her the pictured face of her own mother, painted upon ivory. It was
as much as the girl could do to choke back the tears, but she did, and
had barely whispered her thanks when her name was again called, and
another box was passed over to her. This contained a string of crystal
beads, Mr. Austin’s gift, which she at once decided to wear.
“May I see the miniature?” asked Reed at her elbow.
“Mrs. Austin painted it; you know that miniatures are her specialty, and
there is nothing in the world I would rather have,” Ellen told him. “It
is such a good likeness of my dear mother.”
The young man looked at it earnestly. “I don’t wonder you treasure it,”
he said, “and——”
But here he was interrupted by Mr. Barstow, who came up with a large
package which he laid in Ellen’s arms, saying: “I wanted to give you
this myself. It was your father’s, and I want you to have it.”
Ellen eagerly undid the string and took off the wrappings. “Oh, Don
Pedro, Don Pedro!” she breathed. “Daddy’s violin, and you are giving it
to me? But I shouldn’t take it; it is too valuable.”
“Not too valuable for dear old Gerry’s daughter. No, child, I want you
to take it. All the better that it is valuable, for if you get into a
hole some day you can sell it.”
“Let me know when you reach the hole,” spoke up Reed. “I always have
been crazy about that violin, haven’t I, Uncle Pete? It has a most
wonderful tone.”
“Then you have played on it.”
“Often.”
“Then play a farewell.” She gave the violin into his hands and he drew
the bow across the strings, tuned up, and played the simple air of “Holy
Night.” Then he handed back the instrument “Now you,” he said.
“I know only one thing very well,” she announced, and began the melody
she had played at the birthday party. “Dear old Jeremy Todd taught me
that,” she said as she ended.
“Jeremy Todd? You don’t mean to say you know old Jeremy?” exclaimed Mr.
Barstow. “Where did you run across him? I’ve not seen him or heard of
him for years. Used to know him well. What’s become of him, and why
doesn’t he show up? Lots of talent. We all believed he would make his
mark.”
Ellen gave such information as she could, Mr. Barstow listening
attentively, and at the close shaking his head and saying, “Poor old
chap! Poor old Jeremy! I’d like mighty well to see him again.”
But here entered Kogi with a great tray, and Mr. Barstow skipped off to
see that the refreshments were served properly. Delicious they were and
of great variety, so abundant, too, that it is a wonder that any one was
able to join in the carols with which the evening ended.
Ellen went off hugging her violin, for the gift of which she had hugged
and kissed the giver. “Dear Don Pedro,” she whispered, “I can never
thank you enough for this. It has been such a wonderful evening
altogether. I shall remember it to my dying day.”
Reed Marshall followed her to the street. “If it wasn’t for this rig I
sure would see you home, Cronette, but I’m coming to see you. Mrs.
Austin says I may, but she won’t make any promises about the sittings,
for she says she is chock-full of engagements for you, and I shall just
have to take my chances.”
“I’d really like to see what you look like in your true character,” said
Ellen laughing. “I feel sort of queer about you, as if you were not a
real somebody.”
“I’ll convince you that I am, at the very first opportunity.”
But Mr. and Mrs. Austin were waiting, so Ellen ran on to join them, and
they walked briskly home with the music of the Christmas carols still
ringing in their ears.