THE NEW STUDIO
In spite of the incense Edgar had been receiving, he was still a
somewhat chastened being; and he had no disagreeable remarks to make
about Phil when Mrs. Fabian wondered why he stayed so long at the
Wright cottage. He objected to the fact somewhat on his own account.
No doubt Violet was entertaining Philip. She had the artistic soul and
Phil was horribly good-looking. It was a soothing thought that he was
practically penniless and that he must soon return to his labors in New
York.
"How long are you expecting Phil to stay here?" he asked his mother
after a glance or two across the empty field.
"He says only a week," replied Mrs. Fabian, "but I hope to make it at
least two. He's daft about the island."
"But he couldn't work here," said Edgar with conviction. "You've no
place for oil and turpentine and splotches generally."
"That's what he says," sighed Mrs. Fabian. "I told him this morning
we'd give up the summer-house to him."
Edgar faced her. "Where do I come in?" he asked. "I expect the
summer-house to save your lives from me. I don't believe we can have
two artists in the family."
Kathleen caught the last words as she came downstairs. "Don't worry,"
she said lightly. "Phil will have none of us. He wants either a
ten-acre lot or a stable."
"Well, where is he?" asked Edgar, with some irritation. "I'm as hungry
as a hunter."
"And we have Aunt Mary's pretty things. Eliza gave them to mother."
"You don't say so! Well, the Angel of Peace has moulted a feather on
this island. There, I see Phil now, loping across the field. Do order
dinner to be served, mother."
The music-box was playing when the guest entered.
"Oh, am I late?" he cried contritely, and took the stairs in three
bounds.
"How burned he is already!" laughed Mrs. Fabian. "You will be looking
like that in a few days, Edgar."
The latter was standing, high-chested and with repressed impatience, in
an attitude his mother knew. He had not at all liked the radiance of
Phil's countenance as the latter burst into the room.
"This dinner is especially ordered for you, dear," said Mrs. Fabian
soothingly, "from the clam soup to the strawberry shortcake."
"When am I going to have any of it?" inquired Edgar. "Is it worth while
to be formal here?"
"Oh, he'll be down in one minute," said Kathleen; and indeed Philip
soon appeared and they all seated themselves.
"Last offence, really," said the guest gaily, "but one must be granted
a little extra license when he's proposing."
The waitress had placed the filled soup-plates before the family sat
down; and Edgar promptly choked on his first mouthful. Violet had told
him of meeting Phil in Gramercy Park. Where else and how often had the
perfidious girl been with him?
Kathleen swallowed her spoonful of soup, but it was not hot enough to
account for the strange burning heat which suddenly travelled down her
spine.
Mrs. Fabian alone looked up. "Don't take our breath away like that,"
she protested. "Who is the woman? Violet Manning or Eliza Brewster?"
"I dreamed of her all last night," returned Phil, eating hungrily. "I
knew she was coming, and I could hardly wait to learn my fate. Didn't
you notice that I merely played with my breakfast this morning?"
"You ate like a hunter. Didn't he, Kathleen?"
Phil laughed and raised his happy eyes to his hostess.
"Well, you'd save a whole lot of dinner this noon, only that she said
'Yes.'"
There was a miniature storm of hurt vanity in Edgar Fabian's breast.
That was the way with these "lookers." Let them have scarce the price
of a laundry bill, yet a girl couldn't resist them; and that gaze
of almost awed admiration in Violet's eyes yesterday. It had meant
nothing then but a tribute to genius. Phil should not have that look at
his table daily! Edgar wouldn't stand it. He would match his singing
against the other's painting, and time would show if Philip Sidney
would have a walk-away. She couldn't be happy with a pauper like that,
and she should be saved.
As for Kathleen, she could not stop to criticize Philip's blunt
announcement. Whether he were jesting or in earnest his sudden words
had flashed an awful light upon her own sentiments.
"There's no depth to it," she thought now in defence of her pain. "I
know in time."
"Tell us more this minute," said Mrs. Fabian, "and stop eating, you
unromantic creature! I didn't even suspect that you knew Violet Manning
well. You sly-boots. I'm offended with you."
"The lovely Violet!" exclaimed Phil, "I left her having an attack of
emotional insanity over there."
He looked up and met a gaze from Edgar, suggestive of locking horns;
and remembered Gramercy Park, and Violet's sudden dignity.
"But not on my account," he went on easily. "My inamorata's name is
Jane!" He cast his eyes adoringly ceilingward. "Dear little name!
Quaint little name! Jane!"
The relaxation that travelled throughout Kathleen's limbs was as
painful and as exasperating as the burn had been. Her eyes were fixed
on her soup-plate, and she smiled.
Edgar's teeth shone with the utmost glee. Phil wasn't such a bad sort
after all. He regarded him with interest, waiting for the sequel.
"Philip Sidney, don't be idiotic," said Mrs. Fabian. "My soup is
getting cold waiting for you to explain yourself."
"Why, Jane Foster came this morning, mother," said Kathleen. "I'll help
you out."
"And I can really only stay with you a week, Aunt Isabel," added Phil.
"She has taken you for a boarder? And all this fuss is about that?"
asked Mrs. Fabian. "I should scarcely have thought you'd be so crazy to
change my house for hers."
"I know how Phil feels," said Edgar benevolently. "He wants to feel
free to make smudges."
"I do, Edgar, mind-reader that you are. Listen, then, all of you. I
proposed to Jane that she let me use her chicken-house, and Jane,
blessings on her, said the one little word to make me a happy man."
Phil's radiant gaze was bent now upon Kathleen, who met it and nodded.
"Just the thing!" she said, and her mother and brother started in on a
Babel of tongues. Mrs. Fabian had forgotten the chicken-house. She had
not been in that field for years; but Edgar approved, and altogether
they joined in Phil's jubilation, and Mrs. Fabian related how she had
prepared Pat to pack for just such an exigency.
"The little house is awfully dilapidated," said Kathleen. "Its piazza
has fallen off; and I'm sure it leaks. But perhaps you can make it fit
to hold your paraphernalia."
"Aunt Isabel, I want you and Kathleen to keep away until I'm in order,"
said Phil impressively. "You'd try to discourage me and that would
waste your time. Eliza is almost in tears, but I know what I want and
what I can do."
"A chicken-house!" exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, with second thoughts of
disgust.
"Yes, nobody can come near but Edgar; and if he does, he'll have to
scrub."
"Thank you very much," and the young man raised his eyebrows: "I have
my own work to do, you may remember." Scrubbing chicken-houses he
thought might even eclipse the memory of lighting the oil-stove.
"Of course," returned Phil, all attention. "I'm extremely interested in
this determination of yours. You certainly have the goods."
"So they tell me," said Edgar, and twisted his mustache.
"What are you going to do for furniture?" asked Mrs. Fabian. "You must
at least have some chairs and a table."
"And a lounge!" cried Phil,--"and an oil-stove." He laughed toward
Edgar. "I'm going to live there, best of aunts, and maybe take my
dinners with Jane, the star of my existence!"
"Phil, you're crazy," said Mrs. Fabian, despairing. "You will continue
to live here and work over there."
He shook his head gaily. "Don't worry. Just watch; and if you have any
attic treasures in the way of furniture, let me store them for you."
When Mrs. Fabian really understood the enterprise Phil was embarking
upon, she resigned herself, and finding an old suit of Mr. Fabian's
which he had used for fishing, she bestowed it upon her guest.
Then the work commenced. Eliza tried with a lofty sense of devotion
to lend a hand and even besought the privilege; but she was repulsed.
Philip induced Captain James to take an interest in his scheme and
render him assistance at certain epochs in the reconstruction period,
but the Captain and Jane Foster were the only persons privileged to
come near the scene of operations; and Miss Foster's heart so far went
out to her strong, determined young tenant that she began hunting in
her own garret for things to help him along.
With shovel and wheelbarrow, scrubbing-brushes, soapsuds,
disinfectants, hammer and nails, Phil went to work.
Eliza stood on her boundary-line, her hands on her hips, and watched,
her long nose lifted, while loads of refuse and debris were patiently
wheeled down to the edge of the bank and given over to the cleansing
tide.
Violet generously offered her window which gave upon the scene of
operations, and the opera-glass with which she watched birds; but Eliza
declined.
"I won't spy on him," she said, adding vindictively, "but I'll
look--the obstinate boy!"
The first time Kathleen called, Violet took her up to her room and they
sat in the open window.
"The opera-glass is scarcely any use," she explained, "for he hasn't
washed the windows yet and you can't see in at all."
Kathleen laughed, but shrank back. "I don't want him to think we're
watching," she replied.
"Oh, he knows we all are; but even after he has gone at night, we don't
dare to go and look in. We can't pass that rock there--not even Eliza."
A charming tenor voice suddenly sounded on the air, singing an aria
from "La Bohème." The girls looked and saw Edgar advancing toward the
chicken-house, peering in curiously.
Suddenly, Phil, attired in a sweater and Mr. Fabian's trousers which
scarcely reached his ankles, dashed out at the caller and pressed a
scrubbing-brush on his acceptance. Edgar suddenly stopped his lay and
ran, laughing, toward Mrs. Wright's, where he found the girls and took
them out on the water.
"I should think you'd want to help him," said Kathleen wistfully.
"I do," replied Edgar, "but I restrain myself. Phil doesn't want me,
really," he added; and he was certainly right. Phil had no time to
stumble over Marcellines.
A week passed. Jane Foster had been smiling and important for the last
few days, but not for kingdoms would Eliza have questioned her. She
had acquired an air of calm indifference, which belied the burning
curiosity within. When Phil stopped in passing to speak with her, she
talked of the weather. Mrs. Wright, on the contrary, expressed her
eagerness to see what was going on so near and yet so far from them.
"Pluto gets ahead of us," she said, "and you've trained him so well he
never tells anything."
Edgar happened to be present and he shrugged his shoulders. "Better
hurry up, Phil," he remarked, "and have your opening before interest
wanes. You'll have an anti-climax the first thing you know."
Mrs. Wright turned the gentle radiance of her eyes on the speaker.
"We heard you last night, singing as you went home, Mr. Fabian," she
said: "that lovely voice floating across the field will make us famous.
People will hear it and wonder about the source, and begin to talk of
the angel of Brewster's Island."
"Wonderfully level-headed people, those Wrights," soliloquized Edgar,
as he sauntered home. "A distinct acquisition to the island." Some
thought occurred to him. "I wish father could have heard that," he
mused.
Phil lingered behind him. He had changed into his own clothes
remarkably early this afternoon. There was an hour yet before
supper-time.
"Where are the rest of your family this afternoon?" he asked.
"Violet went with Kathleen into the woods to get some specimens she
wants for her microscope," replied Mrs. Wright.
"Where's Eliza?" Phil smiled as he asked it, and his companion smiled
in answer.
"In her room, I think."
Phil raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
"Yes, I think so, a little," she replied softly, nodding. "You see Jane
has been there every day."
"But that's all the rent I pay," protested Phil, all very quietly, for
though they were standing outdoors, the windows were open.
"Yes, but--it's a good deal for flesh and blood to bear," said Mrs.
Wright with a twinkling glance. "The green-eyed monster ramps at the
best of us, you know."
"I wonder if I could see Eliza," said Phil in his natural voice.
"Yes, I think she's in her room," returned Mrs. Wright. "I'll go and
see."
She disappeared, and Phil's eyes roved to the boulder cottage and fixed
there. A smile touched the corners of his lips. He had not meant to
carry prohibition too far with Eliza. It was genuine desire to save
her trouble as well as the wish to surprise her after her vehement
opposition to his scheme, which had made him warn her away. Now he was
eager to make it right with her.
"I remember now," said Mrs. Wright, returning; "Eliza went down the
hill this afternoon. I don't know just when she'll come back; but won't
you sit down and wait for her?"
"Thank you, I don't believe I will. I'll come back later. I've been a
runaway guest all this week," and with a smile of farewell, an eager
look grew in Phil's eyes as he started to run across the field toward
home.
In all his arrangements, each time he had gained an effect he had
thought of Kathleen's amusement and appreciation.
As soon as he found that Eliza was out of the question, his eagerness
burst forth to get the girls' point of view. He met Violet Manning
returning from the woods escorted by Edgar.
"I open the studio to-morrow," he cried gaily. "Will you come to my tea
at three-thirty?"
"Will we!" exclaimed Violet. "We couldn't have lasted much longer! I'm
glad you let us see it 'before' so we can fully appreciate it 'after.'"
Violet was looking pretty and very happy. Phil considered for one
moment whether he should ask her to pour. Even yet he felt that
Kathleen lived in a remote rarefied air of elegance. Would one dare ask
her to dispense tea in a chicken-house? But he wisely kept silence.
Aunt Isabel might yet enter into what she continued to term his
foolishness.
With a wave of his hand, he fled on his way, and found Kathleen,
flushed from her walk, carrying mosses to the table in the wind-break.
"I've finished," he cried, vaulting over the railing and appearing
beside her. "Want to see it?"
She looked up into his expectant eyes.
"Are we invited?" she returned.
"To-morrow, everybody is; but I thought I'd like you to see it right
now--if you aren't too tired."
"A private view!" she exclaimed. "Who was ever too tired for that? But
I'm of the earth so earthy, I shall have to go in and wash my hands."
"No, no, don't," replied Phil softly. "You'd meet Aunt Isabel, and
this is to be clandestine. Wipe your hands on this,"--he pulled his
handkerchief out of his pocket,--"and come."
Kathleen laughed and brushing her fingers free of traces of the
treasured moss, she wiped them and they started across the field.
"Here's hoping Violet and Edgar don't see us," said Phil, and took the
path he had trodden so often straight to the hen-house, and which did
not pass very near the Wrights.
As they approached, Kathleen looked curiously at the little cottage
with its sloping red roof, nestling close to the ground on the breast
of the hill and sheltered by the tall Balm-of-Gilead trees. Their
rustling leaves held always a murmur as of rain and to-day fleecy white
clouds piled against the blue sky behind the cottage.
As they drew near, Kathleen stopped and clasped her hands, and laughter
bubbled from her lips.
"That's clever!" she exclaimed heartily, and Phil's eyes danced as she
met them.
A swinging sign had been hung above the low door. Upon it strutted a
splendid cock and above his proudly lifted comb appeared the legend:--
VILLA CHANTECLER.
Phil threw open the low door with a sweeping bow; and Kathleen paused
on the threshold with a low cry of surprise; then stepped into the
cool, dusky interior.
She found herself in a low-ceiled room with small-paned windows set
high. A golden radiance streamed through, falling on the soft tone of
floor and walls.
On a table draped with dull green a tall candlestick and ivory-tinted
plate reflected gleams of light.
Kathleen sank on the cushions of a long, low divan.
"You can paint Rembrandt portraits in here!" she said. "Don't explain
how you've done it. I don't want to know. It is the most restful,
delightful studio I've ever seen--and smelling of ambergris?"
"No, only of bay leaves."
Phil waited and let her look at the hangings, the cushioned chairs, and
spindle legs of the quaint table.
"You like it," he said after a pause of deep satisfaction.
She looked up at him. "I am making genuflexions to you in my mind."
He laughed. "But the best is yet to come. Sit where you are."
He moved to the back of the room and opened a door toward the ocean.
It was as if a brilliant panel had suddenly been set in the dark wall.
Kathleen sprang to her feet.
"Like enamel!" she said softly, and approached the opening.
It led upon a terrace with a white railing. Tall white pillars at
either end were crowned with dark-green bay.
"Is it a stage-setting," she said, "or is it practicable?"
"Come out and see."
Together they moved outside and the wind came up out of the sea across
the sleeping field and swept their faces and set the young leaves of
the orchard to whispering with sweet fresh lips to their gnarled stems.
Kathleen looked up at her companion, smiled and shook her head.
"You have added poetry to our island," she said. "I didn't think any
one could do that."
Phil met her gaze.
"And you," he said, "have put the finishing touch to my satisfaction."