“THE POWER BEHIND THE PEN”
When the Reverend Maurice Hay died suddenly of heart failure, his
parishioners were full of solicitude and sympathy for his orphan girls,
Rose and Josephine, who, in spite of youth and good looks, were very
popular in Dullditch and its neighbourhood. As it was understood that
they had no fortune beyond their pretty faces, no investments, except
certain paltry accomplishments, their affairs naturally furnished a
subject of burning interest; the villagers laid their heads together,
and wondered what on earth the Hay girls were to do! Lady helps, lady
nurses, companions, typists, these attractive and genteel posts were
urged upon them, but the Hays decided that they would go together
to London, and endeavour to find work as artists. The community
disapproved and remonstrated--singly, in couples, and by letter. When
these good-natured efforts proved unavailing, it was remembered that
the Vicar’s daughters had foreign blood in their veins; their mother’s
father was an Italian, and an Italian painter--two facts much to be
deplored. His queer, roving, Bohemian ideas were manifesting themselves
in his descendants; yet it was admitted that the Hay girls had some
taste for drawing. Rose’s clever black-and-white sketches decorated
most of her friends’ albums; Josephine painted quite recognisable
miniatures--gratis. She had curly brown locks, a merry, round face, a
pink-and-white complexion, and resembled one of Cosway’s masterpieces.
Rose, with her dark hair and eyes, and ivory skin, was like her own
particular branch of art, a charming study in black and white.
The sisters had no near relatives, no one to advise, help, or control
them; with regard to their future plans, they were not merely
determined, but sanguine. It was their intention to settle in London,
and with a few good introductions, and plenty of hard work, they
expected to make their fortune, and by and by fly down to visit dear
old Dullditch, in a splendid 45 h.p. motor-car!
Those who had interest through friends--or even friends’ friends--wrote
letters, and did their utmost to give the orphans a start; and before
very long, armed with introductions and fortified with advice, they
departed full of hope and ambition. At first they dispatched glowing
descriptions of their “upper part,” the cheapness of London, the
numbers and quality of their invitations--and orders; but two years had
now passed, correspondence had languished, letters had ceased to arrive
at Dullditch, and there was no sign whatever of the 45 h.p. motor-car!
The truth was, the young amateurs had ceased to be a novelty--other
more interesting strangers had arrived. London likes a change, the Hays
had lost their hold on their little circle; their spirits and good
looks were clouded, orders and invitations had become painfully rare,
and in the pushing, hustling world the two pretty sisters were thrust
aside, and forgotten.
* * * * *
It was a wet November evening, and Josephine Hay sat by a fire of
cheap, bad coal, awaiting her sister’s return from an errand in the
City. Their home was the upper part of a shabby little house in West
Kensington; here they rented two rooms, back and front, as well as a
den on the stairs, which served for cooking--when there was anything
to cook. The front apartment was dining-, sitting-room, and studio
combined; a deal table, covered with drawing materials, stood in either
window, a decrepit horsehair sofa and a deformed cane chair were drawn
up to the fire, and between them was placed a tray, with tea-things, as
well as half a stale loaf and a pot of apple and blackberry jam.
By the capricious gleams of the smouldering coals, Josephine was
counting the contents of her lean leather purse; count as she would,
including coppers and one stamp, the grand total came to one pound,
three shillings, and seven pence.
She hastily snapped the purse, and turned on the light, as the door
opened to admit her sister, who was a wet and miserable spectacle.
“Oh, Rosie, you are drowned!” she cried.
“Not quite”--coming forward and putting down a flat parcel; “it is
a dreadful night.” As she spoke, she peeled off her damp gloves
with tender care, and then proceeded to remove her boots. Meanwhile
Josephine prepared to make tea.
“There’s a boot for you!” Rose said, exhibiting a small dilapidated
specimen; “it’s like a cullender--they both are; no charwoman would own
them!”
“And your stockings are soaking!”
“Oh, they will dry on,” was the courageous answer, and she held her
well-darned hose to the fire.
“No luck, I suppose?” said Josephine after a moment’s silence.
“None--I’ll tell you all about it, as soon as I’ve had my tea. I’m so
thirsty, and so hungry--and----” Here she reached for the loaf and
began to cut it.
“And tired,” said her sister, concluding the sentence; “you walked
home, Rose, and it’s five long miles.”
“No, I took a penn’orth of bus--instead of a bun--and now I’ll take it
out of the loaf, O housekeeper. Ah!” raising a cup of tea to her lips,
“this is delicious. I was thinking of this happy moment, as I paddled
along in the rain.--What have you done, Joe?”
“I went to Queen’s Gate with the miniatures, and saw Miss Wiggin. She
was _so_ disagreeable, and cross and dissatisfied. She said it was not
the least like her--or if it is, she had no idea she was so plain.”
“I could have told her that,” declared Rose.
“And--she supposed, as it was an order--and she muttered something
about charity, which I could not afford to hear--that she must take
it--when it was altered to her satisfaction. She insists on a better
complexion, and a new nose; so I have brought it home instead of the
three guineas--and I know I shall never please her. How did you fare?”
“Much the same! It has been a bad day altogether. I took my
illustrations of ‘A Drowned Girl’s Diary’ to Puffit & Smack, and the
Art Editor, a superior young man, with a pince-nez and a high-pitched
nose, received the sketches between two disdainful fingers, and then
examined them through his glasses, and said:
“‘Dear me, Miss Hay! These will never do. You have no idea of anatomy;
this girl has two elbows in her arm--and the man is a freak! The
editor has complained of your work, and--er--I’m really afraid we
cannot--er--accept any more of it; you might try the comic papers.’”
“Oh dear!” ejaculated the housekeeper.
“Fancy his attempting to be funny, whilst he took the bread out of my
mouth. The _Week End_ is my only employer, since the _Kestrel_ dropped
me--and died.”
“And Miss Wiggin assured _me_ that I need not expect any further orders
from her friends; she was in earnest, and a temper, so what are we to
do?”
“Ask old Mrs. Mote to lend us five pounds--or go out and sell matches?”
“Oh, Joe, I’d rather sell matches. I should hate to borrow, though she
is a dear old thing. Our affairs would be all over Dullditch.”
“If we are found in a garret starved to death, and the fact is printed
in scare lines in the _Daily Mail_, our affairs will also be the talk
of the village; however, never say die! I’ve brought back the sketches,
and I’ll have another try--it means twenty-five shillings.”
“And the rent,” said Josephine. “I cannot understand how we do so
badly--we got on swimmingly at first; visitors, orders, promises,
payment, theatre tickets, invitations--and _now_!”
“People were kind. We were new, unsophisticated, fresh and green from
the country; but only a pair of clever, self-confident amateurs. We
have done our best; it is not in us to do more--to excel.”
“Unless we could go over to Paris, and work there.”
“Might as well talk of going to heaven.”
“Goodness knows I work hard,” continued Josephine, with a catch in
her breath; “I study all the pictures I can, I run into the National
Gallery on free days, and stare, and ponder, and wish, and wonder; but
it’s all something so far above me--Genius--Genius--Genius!”
Her sister nodded a grave assent.
“I hear girls talking of effect, and atmosphere, and technique, but
there is something spiritual in Art, and in the work of great masters;
it seems such a waste of a precious gift, when they die, and their
marvellous power is lost to the world for ever. Oh, if they could only
bequeath their faculties as they bequeath their riches! How grateful I
should be for a tiny legacy--even for a crumb.”
“And so should I,” agreed Rose, “the smallest contribution thankfully
received; unfortunately there is no use in wishing. We are just a
dull, plodding, stupid couple, who have exhausted our resources, and
the patience of our--friends. I begin to see myself returning to ‘the
Ditch,’ as mother’s help to Mrs. Gull, the baker’s wife; there I shall
at least be sure of a roof and bread. Well, there is no use in looking
at the worst side of a picture. To-morrow I intend to make a fresh
start; I shall copy your figure, and if you like you may borrow my
nose, for the miniature. It is nice and straight--my best feature.”
“Really, Rose, you are wonderful!” exclaimed her sister. “What spirits
you have!--no matter what happens, they never seem to sink.”
“I hope we shall both _swim_--some day,” she answered, rising as she
spoke. “And now that my petticoats and stockings are dry, I am going to
bed.”
* * * * *
“’Pon my word--eh--it’s really--er--yes, quite good!” exclaimed the
Art Editor. “Comes all right this time, Miss Hay; it only wanted a
little pains, you see! You were getting slack. This is one of your
best drawings--so much life in it--the anatomy correct--excellent. Did
anyone help you?” and he gave her a sharp glance over his glasses.
“Oh no, indeed,” she replied eagerly, “it is entirely my own work.”
“Is that so?” he answered dubiously. “I must confess that people would
hardly credit that this lifeless performance,” drawing out a former
sketch, “and this,” tapping her latest production, “were the work of
the same hand. One is the well-meant attempt of an amateur, the other
is the--ah, I will not flatter you to your face--it is capital.”
“I am so glad you are pleased,” said Rose, with a tinge of colour in
her pale face--praise and encouragement were indeed rare. “Am I to do
the remainder?” she added timidly.
“Oh yes, but in your later style; you may always depend upon
commissions if you stick to that. I expect you would like a little
cheque,” and he sat down and scribbled one for twenty-five shillings;
then, as he handed it to her, he cleared his throat, and said, “To be
quite frank, this was intended to have been your last payment--but now
that you have shown what you can accomplish, when you _try_, I hope we
shall continue to do business together. It,” and he smiled, “was rather
a narrow squeak. I cannot think why you have hitherto hid your light
under a bushel. This sketch,” once more examining it, “is--er--really
quite good.”
Here, as the telephone rang passionately, he offered his hand with an
air of graceful dismissal, and bowed her to the door.
“Twenty-five shillings and compliments,” announced Rose, as she handed
the little cheque to her sister.
“Three guineas--and gush!” rejoined Josephine, with a delighted laugh.
“Miss Wiggin is enchanted with your nose--highly flattered, and said
it was so admirably truthful to life! She took the miniature away to
the drawing-room, and exhibited it to some friends--then she called me
in. A man who was an artist talked of ‘fine technical achievement,’ ‘a
subtle interpretation of a personality,’ and other grand terms. The
main thing was, he _liked_ it; and I received two orders. Miss Wiggin
was so fascinated with her picture, she kept looking, and looking at
it, and could not bear to put it down. She has ordered another copy,
and she asked me such an odd question.”
“Your age?--your dressmaker’s address?”
“No, you silly, silly girl, but if I had painted it myself?”
“And you replied, ‘Of course--who else?’”
“Yes, but she said, ‘The reason I ask is, that it is so _very_ superior
to your general work--such dash--and yet such finish.’
“I can see that myself. When I was working on it I felt as if I were
inspired, and influenced; I was in a sort of raging fever--my brush
flew here and there, and instead of making a hideous muddle, every
stroke told!”
“Imagine drawing inspiration from the face of a Miss Wiggin!” exclaimed
Rose.
“Imagine it, indeed! The miniature is to be exhibited. It may make my
fortune. It _is_ good--I feel it in my bones.”
“Poor dear Joe--your bones are prominent enough!”
“At any rate, I believe we have turned the corner. We have four pounds
five in hand, and the rent--how shall we spend it?”
“A good lunch, and a matinée?” suggested Rose.
“Certainly not. We spend it--but on boots, real boots, not brown
paper--and gloves, the signs of gentlefolk. Perhaps hats--I know a
very cheap place, and appearances are so important.”
“So is food,” broke in her sister; “let us celebrate our good luck
with something for supper--sausages on toast, strawberry jam, and
sponge-cakes? A feast for the gods!”
* * * * *
The artists continued to prosper; their tide of success flowed
steadily--fortune increased with fame. Miniatures by J. Hay were much
sought for; Josephine had more orders than she could execute--her
reputation was firmly established. As for Rose--the name of “R. Hay” on
a black-and-white sketch was a guarantee of excellence; she illustrated
important books, and where once she was thankful for shillings, she now
received sovereigns. Former acquaintances recalled the sisters--and
their own active benevolence to a couple of struggling strangers--and
prided themselves on their perspicuity. They looked up the Hays,
deluged them with invitations, and enquired “where they had been hiding
for the last twelve months?”
“Nothing succeeds like success.” The portraits of the sister artists
appeared in popular papers and magazines, their names in paragraphs,
and in lists of guests at various famous houses.
They no longer rented an “upper part,” but a smart and commodious
flat in a fashionable locality, and employed two servants, and a
Court dressmaker. Their strides in their art were amazing, even to
themselves. Once, as Rose completed a spirited sketch, she exclaimed:
“Now this really _is_ good! So good, that I can hardly believe
I have drawn it myself, but that I am a mere automaton, worked
by--a--a--certain--something--a hidden power!”
“Do you know, _I_ have often felt that too,” said Josephine, “as if
some masterful personality helped me--a peculiar inspiration directed
my hand, guided it rapidly, and resolutely, to unerring achievement and
success!”
Her sister looked at her with an air of grave surprise. “I wonder if
this could be so?” she murmured.
The pen in Josephine’s fingers suddenly wrote on the margin of her work
the words:
“Yes, it is so.”
She stared at the sentence in fascinated silence, then turning hastily
about, said:
“Oh, Rose, do come and see what the pen has just written of itself!
What can it mean? I declare on my honour I did not originate this.”
“I see.... I believe it is what is called automatic writing,” said
Rose, after a significant pause. “I have heard of it. Do try if it will
write more. See, here is a sheet of clean paper--now write a question.”
“Do you help my sister?” Josephine wrote obediently.
“Yes, and yourself,” came the reply.
“We are most grateful to you. Were you a great artist?”
“I am--a great artist,” wrote the power behind the pen.
“May we know your name?”
“No.”
“What may we call you?”
“Helper.”
“Can we do anything for you?”
“Pray.”
“Will you continue to help us?”
“Yes. Good-bye.”
“Is it not uncanny?” said Josephine. “Do you think I wrote this?--or
the artist?--or is it one of the modern discoveries--my subconscious
self coming to the surface?”
“Perhaps,” replied Rose, “but it explains all my success, and yours.
The help arrived precisely when we were at our wits’ end. Don’t you
remember, that wet November night--how we talked of lost gifts, and
inspiration? I believe he came then.”
“Yes, I remember that night well.”
“We were two wretched little painstaking amateurs, without one spark,
or glimmer, of genius. Now we are ‘true artists’; even the wickedest
critic admits this. The Helper has been our master, has taught us,
and set his own work once more before the public, drawn by our feeble
fingers; it is the hand of the dead reincarnated in ours--we are in
tune with some unknown mystery.”
“Yes, and we had better keep the mystery to ourselves,” said Rose the
practical, and she stood up, and put the sheet of paper in the fire.
“Do you think it wrong, Rosie?--are we what is called ‘possessed’?”
“No--did he not ask us to pray? And we will. Why should not a departed
spirit show kindness, and give charity to others? You and I are the
objects of his benevolence--but for him, God knows what would have
become of us!”
After this experience, it became an everyday matter to carry on a
little correspondence with the Helper, who proved to be the Hays’
mainstay for many months; but at last he gave notice of his departure,
in these words:
“You can now walk, and work alone--and another sorely needs assistance.”
“For a picture?” wrote Josephine.
“Yes, an important picture, which may make his fortune. A picture
like this,” and with a few telling strokes the pen rapidly sketched
a desert scene, a sunset, and a great caravan, with many kneeling
figures; in the foreground two horses and two men; in the far distance,
a passing sandstorm. Under this sketch the pen wrote, ‘Good-bye.’
“How we shall miss him,” said Rose, with a sigh; “though it is true
that we are able to walk alone,--especially since we have had those
lessons in Paris.”
“I shall always treasure the sketch,” said her sister, “our Helper’s
last writing, and message. I shall lock it away in my desk.”
Two years elapsed, and ‘R. and J. Hay’ continued to prosper; they
visited Dullditch--but not by motor--and during a holiday on the
Continent happened by chance to enter a fine exhibition of modern
paintings.
As she moved along slowly and conscientiously, catalogue in hand, Rose
was accosted by Josephine, who looked so agitated and pale, that she
was justly alarmed.
“Are you ill?” she asked. “What is it?”
“_The picture is here_,” she whispered excitedly. “Come, it is in
the next room--the Helper’s picture of the desert. Oh, it is a
masterpiece!--I could scarcely get near it for the crowd.”
Then, when at last an opening was obtained, Rose beheld the finished
result of the sketch in her sister’s desk--correct in every particular.
There was the vast desert, the passing of a great sandstorm, the
setting of a red sun, and a halted caravan. It was the hour of prayer
and thanksgiving; a multitude of the faithful had prostrated themselves
towards Mecca; in the foreground, two Europeans, dismounted, held their
Arab horses, as they stood bare-headed, gazing towards the east.
On referring to the catalogue, the sisters read:
“409.--After the Sirocco. Anon.”