A STUDIO TEA
The following hour was one of the most delightful the two girls and
Lance had ever spent.
Overjoyed at meeting so unexpectedly, Lance’s reluctance forgotten in
the joy of being with his sister and friend, the three of them also
came in contact with a new and charming personality and in the midst of
a new and beautiful environment.
To Tory Drew an artist’s studio was not a new experience. She had lived
with her father in several of their own. She had visited with him the
studios of many fellow-artists. But to Dorothy and to Lance a studio
outside Westhaven was a fresh interest. Although she could say no word
aloud, undoubtedly Tory would have agreed that if other studios had
been handsomer, never was one more original or charming.
The room was in gray, a cold background with the northern window save
for the warmth of the other coloring.
At this hour the winter daylight was closing in and curtains were
partly drawn; they were a curious shade, half rose, half red, and
strangely luminous.
On the gray walls were the artist’s own pictures.
They were unlike modern work, and perhaps for this reason less popular.
In landscapes and in portraiture the tones were richer and darker.
Expecting two of his three guests, Mr. Winslow had prepared for tea.
An enormous lounge, large enough for sleeping and with a high back, was
drawn up in front of a meager fire. Wood was expensive in New York City
and Philip Winslow an unsuccessful artist.
The small tea table held an array of china with scarcely two pieces
alike, yet each one rarely lovely and gathered with care and taste in
the years when their owner had studied in France and Italy. There he
had won the Prix de Rome. Not in those days did he dream of living
on the top floor of a dilapidated house, in a cheap quarter of the
greatest of American cities.
The teakettle was boiling. One could hear the hissing behind the
oriental curtains that shut off a single corner of the room.
After greeting their new acquaintance and explaining the reason why
they were later than they had planned, Lance, Dorothy and Tory seated
themselves upon the great couch. There they sat, silently watching
their host until he had vanished into his improvised kitchenette.
They were pursuing almost the same trains of thought.
A man at once younger and older than the girls expected to find him,
Philip Winslow had a mass of pale-brown hair, brushed carelessly off
a high forehead, eyes darkly brown, with a melancholy expression even
when his lips smiled. He was unusually tall, and this may partly have
accounted for his appearance of extreme thinness, although neither
girl considered this true, for he looked as if he had not long before
suffered from a serious illness.
During the hour that followed the three guests found themselves talking
to their host with entire freedom as if they had been old friends. Yet
Philip Winslow was a shy person, ordinarily talking but little himself.
Disappointment at the failure of his work and ill health had altered
his original gaiety of spirit.
Indeed, Tory Drew had often heard her father speak of him as one of the
leaders in their old-time artist frolics in the Latin Quarter.
Only once was Tory overawed by her new acquaintance. This was when
she shyly offered him her collection of sketches and sat waiting his
criticism.
She was on the great sofa facing the now dying fire, while he sat in a
small chair opposite, beneath the fading daylight.
For five, ten minutes no one spoke.
The sketches were several bits of outdoor work and two paintings of the
little girl, Lucy Martin, who was now Lucy Hammond. Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy
Hammond had formally adopted the child who had lived in the Gray House
on the Hill, the orphan asylum in the village of Westhaven.
Lucy was oddly picturesque and always Tory had longed to make a
portrait of the younger girl since their original meeting. She
appreciated, however, that she was too young and untrained for real
portraiture. Her efforts were only simple drawings, with a good deal of
boldness of color and design. Personally, Tory considered the sketches
of Lucy the best things she had ever done and had chosen them for this
reason for exhibition.
Certainly Mr. Winslow passed over the others more rapidly, keeping
these in his hands and turning his glance from one to the other.
Apparently he was hardly aware now of his guests, although a short time
before he had been so courteous and attentive.
During the interval Tory wished _some one_ would speak of _something_.
Under the circumstances she was not in the position to chatter idly,
as if she were not intensely anxious for Mr. Winslow’s opinion of her
work. But Dorothy or Lance might have talked to each other in low
voices without rudeness or interference.
Instead, they pressed close beside each other, Lance’s slender hand
clutching a fold of his sister’s dress, as if he would thus be sure
of her presence. Dorothy, without any pretence of hiding her emotion,
rarely raised her eyes from her brother’s face.
In the midst of her own nervousness Tory felt a regret that was half
envy. Who would not desire affection like Dorothy’s and her twin
brothers’? Tory so often was separated from the people she cared for
most. The devoted intimacy with her artist father had been interrupted
by his second marriage and his wish that she be brought up among her
mother’s people and in her own country. Then the friendship between
Katherine Moore and herself! Not altered by Kara’s illness--a thousand
times no; but assuredly affecting the hours they could spend together
and their happiness in each other’s society.
Would Mr. Winslow never speak? Was her work so poor that he dreaded
telling her the truth for the sake of his old affection for her father,
Tory reflected.
Biting her lips, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
If her aunt, Miss Victoria Fenton, had been able to see her at this
instant, she would have recognized one of the Fenton characteristics
she vainly had looked for in her niece--dignity in meeting defeat.
Naturally pale, Tory was possessed of less color than usual. Her lips,
therefore, appeared redder and her wide eyes darker and more wistful.
They contradicted the bravery of her attitude.
Sympathetically and encouragingly, Lance tried to sustain her through
the last of the ordeal. For the moment forgetting his sister, he
reached out to the girl on the other side of him.
He wanted to be able to explain to Tory, to make her realize that
she would _succeed_. She was made for success, even if the present
criticism should be unfavorable. She was young and would have the
opportunity given her to go on struggling for years and years. Painting
was not like music; one did not require to succeed while one was young,
one could, if necessary, work many years. For himself Lance was more
fearful.
But Tory was not interested in what he might say or think at the
present time.
Mr. Winslow was at last speaking, if only to ask a question.
“How long and with whom have you studied?” he inquired, holding up one
of the small sketches so that it formed a shield for his face.
“Why, I have never really studied at all,” Tory answered. “I mean I
have had no regular lessons. I, of course, have had the advantage of
hearing a good many clever people talk about art and I have watched my
father work and have worked beside him for as long as I can remember.
Until this winter father has believed it wiser for me not to study art.
He wanted me to learn more of other things first. He was afraid I would
lose interest in school and not be properly domestic.”
Again Mr. Winslow was silent.
“Is my work so poor? Do you think I had best give up altogether the
hope of becoming an artist?” Tory demanded, desperate at last, but at
the same time determined she would never give up.
“I am not sure, but I am going to be truthful, Tory. I am disappointed
in your work; from what your father had said and written me I had
expected more.”
The hand that had sheltered his face dropped to his lap and Tory was
angry and touched by the artist’s expression. He seemed so very sorry
for what he was saying and yet felt obliged to speak.
Making a sudden movement as if she would rescue her despised sketches,
Tory felt her hand seized and herself drawn up to stand beside the
artist.
Endeavoring to smile gallantly, she was meeting with little success.
“My dear child, you have misunderstood me. I don’t know how to make
myself clear to young people, nor to old ones for that matter. I am
far from intending to say you have no talent. I think you have talent,
although I would not have you trust my judgment altogether. What I
meant was that I was surprised you do not know more of the technical
side of your work with so successful an artist as your father is. You
have originality, but you draw badly and your coloring is--oh, well,
you see I do not agree with other artists, so perhaps you are right and
I am wrong. I don’t see why your father sent you to me for my opinion.
There are a dozen other better men he might have asked.”
Within the last few moments Tory Drew had gone through a process of
enlightenment with regard to the character of her new acquaintance. No
longer was she so deeply discouraged or unable to express herself. She
knew him to be intensely critical both of his own work and of other
people’s, deeply sensitive and yet compelled to tell the truth as he
saw it, whether it would hurt himself or others.
“Do you think I could learn to draw, learn to see color differently
and to paint it?” Tory asked with the little charming half-shy,
half-friendly manner to which most persons yielded.
Philip Winslow frowned.
“I would like to have you study with me a few years and afterwards
go to some one I recommend, if you would work. But you won’t. You
are a girl and girls don’t work, not really. But why should you?
You know what my work has brought me: poverty and but few friends,
no recognition. You need not work half so hard and will have better
fortune with any other teacher.”
Unexpectedly and light-heartedly Tory laughed.
Her two companions, Dorothy and Lance, stared at her in surprise and
in consternation. Ordinarily Tory possessed beautiful manners which
the other young people in Westhaven admired and oftentimes envied. Yet
it was not polite of Tory to laugh either in the face of Mr. Winslow’s
criticism or his bitterness with regard to himself.
“I beg your pardon,” she added an instant later. “I was only thinking.
Father told me you would say pretty much what you have said. If only
you would agree to teach me some day I must not mind anything else. I
don’t believe your work is so unpopular as you say it is. It is only
that you are not well and you are impatient and angry with people when
they don’t see things as you do. You know you really ought to be a Girl
Scout.”
Tory flushed.
“I suppose you will think I am rude. I am afraid I was really. Only you
seem to feel as I did when I came to Westhaven to live last winter and
thought no one understood or liked me. When I became a Scout I saw
things differently.”
Mr. Winslow did not appear offended by Tory’s odd speeches.
Don was right, Lance McClain thought, Tory Drew had a character of
attraction no one of her Troop of Girl Scouts possessed, except of
course their own sister, Dorothy. Dorothy was altogether different.
Lance knew that he was sufficiently like Tory in some characteristics
to understand her better than his brother or sister. They were
alike; they could admire or be angry with her, they would not always
understand her.
“Look here, Miss Victoria Drew, how old are you?” Mr. Winslow asked
abruptly. He did not appear offended, however, merely amused. “I have
been talking to you as if you were a grown woman and now you inform me
I should follow your example and become a Girl Scout. Offer me advice
that is a little less impossible! Besides, what or who is a Girl Scout?”
Tory shook her head. Her hair under a small blue velvet hat looked an
especially bright red-gold.
“I am nearly fifteen. It would require too long a time to tell you what
it means to be a Girl Scout. Perhaps there were no Boy Scouts when
you were young enough to join their organization. If only you would
come to Westhaven I should like you to meet our Patrol of the Eagle’s
Wing Troop. Besides, it would do you good. Won’t you come? The country
is beautiful with its white covering of snow. My aunt, Miss Victoria
Fenton, is a wonderful housekeeper and you and Uncle Richard would be
sure to like each other. Besides, there is our Troop Captain, Sheila
Mason. I wish some day you might know her and paint her portrait. She
is lovely, but altogether unlike the portraits you have done.”
Tory glanced not very admiringly at the heads of men and women adorning
the artist’s gray walls. His models had assuredly not been chosen for
their beauty.
This time Mr. Winslow returned Tory’s laughter with emphasis.
She had divined that he was lonely and disillusioned and that, as in
most cases, the fault was as much his own as his world’s.
“Fifteen, and I have been talking to you as if you were a woman! I
suppose I had forgotten what your father wrote. In any case I might
have known by looking at you. I don’t often pay visits, but if your
aunt and uncle would like to have me at any time, perhaps I’ll come and
look over other drawings you have done and tell you how poor they are.
You are too young for anything but your three ‘R’s’ at present. But we
might have a few lessons for the sake of the good time we would have
and because your father has been kinder to me than he would be willing
to let other people know.”
At a signal from Tory, Dorothy and Lance had arisen. The three of them
were preparing to leave, aware of having remained longer than they
should. Outside, the winter twilight had almost completely closed in.
Lighting a pair of candles, Mr. Winslow turned to Dorothy and Lance,
fearing that he had not shown sufficient attention to his other
visitors in his interest in his old friend’s daughter.
He admired Dorothy McClain’s appearance, her tall, upright figure,
with the broad shoulders and slender hips, the clear, fresh skin and
straightforward blue eyes. An instant he considered that so a Greek
girl might have appeared in the days of the great Greek sculptors.
Then inwardly he denied his own thought. Dorothy McClain was a typical
American girl.
Turning toward Lance, he put out his hand for a second time.
“I did not recognize you at first. I believe we have seen each other
before, here in this very house. Do you live here?”
Lance shook his head.
“No, I come here now and then. I have a friend in one of the other
studios who allows me the use of his piano.”
“Do you mean the rich fellow named Moore, who won’t have anything to do
with the rest of us in this building?”
Lance stiffened.
“I know nothing of Mr. Moore’s private affairs.”
A little later, when they had said farewell and gone, Dorothy and Tory
both appreciated that they had learned the name of Lance’s friend
which he had declined to tell them without permission. It was of no
importance. Moore was not an uncommon name. As a matter of fact, it was
possibly bestowed upon Kara because it was so ordinary a name, when she
had been deserted as a baby in the evergreen cabin.