But anxieties sit lightly on the young and healthy. As the days passed, the gloomy impressions faded and I became once more absorbed in my work. The Zodiac spoons were progressing apace, and were going to do me credit; and daily I became conscious of growing facility, of increasing skill, which not only lessened my labour but was itself a source of pleasure. To do a thing with ease is to do it with enjoyment; and, incidentally, added skill means added speed and greater earning power. Already I began to speculate on what Mr. Campbell’s idea of “a good price” would turn out to be.
Moreover, there were other distractions. Once or twice a week I looked in at the club, and these visits had a pleasant way of developing into impromptu jaunts—to picture galleries, exhibitions, museums, and even on one or two occasions a concert or a matinée. Of the relations which were growing up between Jasper Davenant and me I did not care to think much. Perhaps the ostrich is a wiser bird than we are apt to imagine, for it does, at least, avoid the pains of anticipation. Sooner or later, no doubt, some understanding would have to be arrived at; but meanwhile Mr. Davenant was a delightful companion—gay, cheerful, buoyant, humorous, but withal a man of earnest purpose and a serious outlook on life. In all our junketings was little, real frivolity; the fun and gaiety were but the condiments to season the more solid and serious interests. In so far as a friendship between a young man and a young woman, which must necessarily stop at friendship, can be, our friendship was unexceptionable. But; of course, there was the qualification. However, as I have said, I let the future take care of itself and drifted pleasantly with the stream.
About this time, I made quite a startling discovery. It happened that in one of my journeys to town I had seen in a bookseller’s window a book on studio pottery, and, thinking that it might be useful to Miss Finch, I had bought it, but had forgotten to give it to her. In the middle of my morning’s work I suddenly remembered the book, which I had put in a cupboard in the workshop, and got up from my bench to take it to her. Her “works” were at the bottom of the garden, in an outhouse which had once been a ship-smith’s shop; but, close neighbours as we were, and close friends, too, I had only once been in her workshop, when, on an off day, she had shown me her wheel, her lathe and her small glass kiln. About her work she was extraordinarily secretive; but then, she was a reticent girl in general, so far as her own affairs were concerned, though she showed a warm interest in her friends, and was, indeed, very affectionate and lovable.
As I came round the clump of bushes that hid her premises from the house, the silence and repose of the place gave me some qualms, and for a moment I hesitated to interrupt her work. However, I pocketed my scruples and rapped boldly on the door; whereupon the familiar voice at its highest pitch—several ledger lines above the stave—demanded who was there.
“It is I, Peggy; Helen Otway,” I replied apologetically. There was a pause of nearly half a minute, and then she unlocked and opened the door, looking rather embarrassed and very pink.
“I always lock myself in when I am at work,” she explained.
“Well, Peggy, don’t let me disturb you. I’ve only brought you a book that I got for you in town.”
“Oh, come in, Sibyl,” said she. “Of course I don’t mind you.”
She took the volume from me, and quickly turning over the pages and glancing at the illustrations, exclaimed, “What a ripping book! I shall enjoy reading it. And how sweet of you to think of getting it for me!” She linked her arm affectionately in mine and conducted me into her domain, passing through the outer room, which was devoted to plaster work—the making of moulds and “bats”—to the clay room, where the little gas engine and the mysterious wheel stood idle and a general tidying up appeared to have taken place. Here we stood chatting rather disjointedly, she still turning over the pages of the book with approving comments, and I looking about me with a craftsman’s curiosity respecting the materials and appliances of an unfamiliar craft. And here I got my first surprise; for, on a side bench I noticed a collection of what were evidently bookbinder’s tools. Was it possible that the secretive Titmouse was a bookbinder as well as a potter? I determined to inquire into this, but meanwhile my attention was attracted by the bench at which she had evidently been working, as suggested by the displaced stool. On this bench stood an object of some size—about twelve inches high—enveloped in a damp cloth. By its side were a spray-diffuser, a number of little spatulas and tiny modelling tools, and several little covered pots of a creamy, white earthenware delicately ornamented with floral decoration in a warm blue. Venturing to lift the cover of one, I found it to be filled with little rolls of brightly-tinted clay that looked like coloured crayons.
“You are mighty fastidious about your apparatus,” I remarked, picking up the dainty little pot and wiping some smears of clay from its surface.
“And why not?” demanded Peggy. “Why shouldn’t one have pretty things to work with? The old craftsmen did. I’ve seen some old planes and chisel-handles beautifully carved, and I am sure they did better work for having beautiful tools to work with. I would have pretty tools myself if I could make them.”
“You shall, Peggy,” said I. “You shall show me what you want and I will make them for you.”
As I was speaking I absently turned the little pot upside down and glanced at the bottom. And then I really did get a shock. There was only a single spot of ornament on the base, but that spot was a revelation: for it was a little blue bird.
I smothered the exclamation that rose to my lips and put the pot down on the bench. What could be the meaning of this? Had Peggy, like Mr. Hawkesley, been attracted by Mr. Goldstein’s wares? Or was it possible—“Won’t you show me what you were doing, Peggy?” I asked.
She turned scarlet at the question, and looked so distressed that I felt it a cruelty to press her. But cruel or not, I meant to get to the bottom of the mystery.
“I’d rather not, Sibyl, if you don’t mind,” she said, shyly.
“But why? What an extraordinary little person you are.”
“Well,” she said, doggedly, “if you must know, I am not allowed to show my work to anyone.”
“Not allowed by whom?”
“By the dealer who takes all my work. For some reason, best known to himself, he makes a secret of it; won’t allow anyone to know who makes it.”
“But apart from the dealer, Peggy, you wouldn’t mind my seeing your work?
“Of course I shouldn’t. I should like you to see it. But a promise is a promise, you know.”
“Of course,” I agreed; and then I stepped quickly up to the bench and very carefully picking up the damp cloth, lifted it clear of the object which it covered; which turned out to be a jar standing on a small turn-table. Peggy sprang forward with a gasp of consternation; but she was too late. The deed was done; moreover, the murder was out; for in the moment when my first glance fell on the jar, Mr. Hawkesley’s “mystery ware” had ceased to be a mystery so far as I was concerned.
The appearance of the jar was rather curious, but perfectly unmistakable. The clay, in its “green” state—unbaked and still somewhat plastic—was of a cool, grey colour, and the surface of the squat, octagonal body and the short neck and rim was covered with rich and intricate floral ornament, very minute, sharp and delicate. In the completed part this ornament was of dull blue and finished flush with the surface; in the unfinished part it was simply indented and had the appearance of what bookbinders call “blind tooling,” but was somewhat deeper.
From the work, my eyes turned with a sort of respectful wonder to the creator, who stood by my side with an air partly embarrassed, partly defiant. To me there was some thing very impressive in the thought that this unassuming, little lady was actually a master craftsman (I am compelled to use the masculine form, there being no feminine equivalent); the creator of masterpieces which would live in the great collections of the future for the admiration of generations yet unborn. And in the first shock of surprised admiration and pride in my friend’s
achievement I had nearly blurted out all that I knew. But reflection suggested a better plan.
“My dear Peggy!” I exclaimed. “I never dreamed that you did work of this quality.”
“There’s nothing very wonderful about it,” she replied, regarding the jar with a kind of affectionate disparagement. “It is only a poor imitation of the beautiful Oiron ware. That pottery has always interested me; partly because it is so lovely, and partly because, according to tradition, it was made by a woman—Helene de Hangest-Gerilis. But my work isn’t a patch of hers, and it isn’t even as good as I could do.”
“How is that?”
“Well, you see, it ought to have more modelled ornament than I put on. It ought to be more important. Her pieces were most elaborately modelled—many of them had figures in the full round. But I can’t afford to carry my work as far as that. It would take too long. Besides, I have to work to order, to some extent, and my orders are to keep to moderately, simple pieces.”
“Your orders! From the dealer, I suppose? Tell me about him, Peggy, and how it is that you are such a slave.”
“I’m not a slave,” she retorted doggedly. “But I have a contract with a dealer. He takes the whole of my work, and he makes it a condition that I shan’t sell anything to any one else or let anybody know what kind of work I do. I oughtn’t to have let you in, but I know that I can trust you not to breathe a word to anyone of what you have seen here.”
Mr. Hawkesley was right, then; and I recalled with sympathetic vindictiveness his desire to wring the dealer’s neck.
“Concerning this contract, Peggy,” said I. “You say the dealer has the right to the whole of your work. Did he pay you anything for this privilege?”
“Yes. He paid five pounds when the agreement was signed; but he deducted it from the payment for the first lot of pieces.”
“Then it was only payment on account, not payment for the exclusive right to all your work. And with regard to the prices, how are they fixed?
“Oh, the dealer fixes the prices, of course. He knows more about it than I do.”
“Evidently. But what sort of prices does he fix?”
“Oh, ordinary prices, I suppose. He will probably give me fifteen shillings for this jar.”
“And how long will it take you to make it?”
“Let me see,” she said, reflectively. “There is the throwing and turning; that doesn’t take very long. Then this one had to be shaped after it was turned. Then there comes the decorating; of course that is what takes the time. Including the cover, I should say there is nearly a week’s work in that jar. And then it has to be fired and glazed; but the firing and glazing are done in batches.”
“And all this for fifteen shillings a week!” I exclaimed.
“Say a pound,” said she. “That is about what I earn. It isn’t much, is it? But I have a little money of my own, though I spent most of it on fitting up the workshop.”
“And what period does this precious contract cover? When does it expire?
“Expire?” she repeated, a little sheepishly. “I don’t know that it expires at all. No period is mentioned in it.”
“Peggy,” I said, solemnly; “you should alter your potter’s mark. Take out the little, blue finch and put in a little, green goose. But, seriously, we must see into this. I am a lawyer’s daughter—not that I profess to have inherited a knowledge of law. But I am certain that this agreement is not binding. Will you let me show it to a friend of mine who is a lawyer? In strict confidence, of course.”
“Yes, if you like, Sibyl. But I don’t see that it matters. I like doing the work and I do make a living by it. What more would you have?”
“I thought you said you would like to do something more ambitious—the very best work of which you are capable. Wouldn’t you?”
She was silent for a while, and a far-away, wistful look stole into her face. Suddenly she said: “Sibyl, I’m going to show you something; but you mustn’t tell anyone.” She led me to a large cupboard, the door of which she unlocked and threw open. On the single shelf was a model in red wax of a tall candlestick or lamp-holder of the most elaborate design, the shaft and capital-like socket enriched—though sparingly—with fine relief decoration, and the base occupied by a spirited and graceful group of figures, beautifully modelled and full of life and expression.
“That,” she said, “is to be my chef d’art—though it doesn’t look much in the wax. You must think of it in ivory-white, with a rich coloured inlay and perhaps some under-glaze painting. It has taken me months, doing a bit whenever I have had time, or when I couldn’t resist the temptation to go on with it. Now it is finished, as far as the modelling goes, and the next thing will be to mould it. But I shan’t actually make the piece at present, because I don’t mean him to have it—the dealer, you know. If I finished it now, it would be his, of course.”
“Yes, by the contract it would. And it mustn’t. This piece ought to give you a position in the front rank of artist potters. But I mustn’t waste any more of your time. You will let me have that agreement, won’t you?”
She promised that I should have it at lunch-time, and with this I went back to my workshop to consider a plan that had come into my mind for her enlightenment and emancipation. But it turned out that there was no need for scheming on my part, for chance or Providence offered me the opportunity ready-made. That very evening I received a short note from Mr. Davenant informing me that Miss Tallboy-Smith had acquired a collection of English and French soft porcelain, and that she proposed to exhibit the whole of her new acquisition for a week at the club.
“She rather wants,” he said, “to make the opening day something of a function, and has asked Hawkesley and me to be there to lunch. Can you come, too? It would please her if you could—and you know how delighted Hawkesley and I would be. Besides, I think it will really be a very interesting show.
Here was the very chance that I wanted. Forthwith, I swooped down on the unsuspecting Titmouse and secured her agreement to bear me company to a “pottery show,” without giving too many particulars. Then I wrote to Mr. Davenant telling him that I was bringing a guest who was deeply interested in pottery and porcelain, and suggesting that we might form a party of four at a small table.
By the same post I sent off Peggy’s agreement to Dr. Thorndyke, with the request that he would tell me whether it was or was not legally binding. And, having thus laid the train, as I hoped, for the discomfiture of Mr. Goldstein, I felt at liberty to return to my own affairs.
CHAPTER XVII
The Apotheosis of the Titmouse
The respective merits of hard and soft porcelain have been, from time to time, warmly debated by collectors and experts, but never, perhaps, have they been more earnestly discussed than on the occasion of the opening of Miss Tallboy-Smith’s exhibition. During the half-hour which preceded lunch, the central glass case and the additional show-cases which had been set up for the occasion were surrounded by groups of eager connoisseurs, and the contrasting virtues of the pate tendre and the more durable, if less beautiful, true porcelain were once more considered and expounded.
The attendance of the members and their friends must have been highly gratifying to Miss Tallboy-Smith, though it was no greater than was warranted by the importance of the exhibition; for the collection included representative pieces, not only of Chelsea, Bow, Nantgarw, Pinxton, and other English ware; but also of the old, French soft paste porcelain, including several early examples of Sevres. The preliminary glance at the collection had furnished material for conversation, as I could see by observing the occupants of the long central table, at the head of which sat the beaming hostess, supported by Major Dewham-Brown (who talked little, but consumed his food with intense concentration of purpose); and even our own small table, tucked away inconspicuously in a corner, was not immune from the influence of soft porcelain, for Mr. Hawkesley and my guest discussed the topic with a wealth of knowledge that reduced Mr. Davenant and me to respectful and attentive
silence.
Our two friends were evidently very pleased with one another; and not without reason. For Mr. Hawkesley was much more than a mere collector; he was an enthusiastic and learned student of all kinds of ceramic work; while, as to my friend Peggy, her conversation revealed a familiarity with all kinds of materials and processes that made me feel quite shy as I thought of the artless handbook with which I had presented her.
But, indeed, Miss Peggy was quite transfigured. She had met with a kindred spirit. And under the influence of contagious enthusiasm, the usually silent and secretive Titmouse blossomed out in a manner that surprised me. As I listened to the animated duet of her chirping treble with Mr. Hawkesley’s robust baritone, I found it difficult to identify her with the quiet little potter who was wont to work behind locked doors in the old shipsmith’s shop at Wellclose Square.
After lunch the siege of the showcases began again on a more portentous scale. Glass cases were opened for more complete inspection of their contents, and pieces were even handed out to be handled, stroked and smelled at by the more infatuated devotees. As neither Mr. Davenant nor I could be included among the latter, we were satisfied by a comparatively brief inspection of the treasures, after which we retired to a sheltered seat to look on and talk.
“Just look at those two china-maniacs!” exclaimed Mr. Davenant. “They are as thick as thieves already. And what is Miss Finch going to do with that bleu de roi vase? Is she going to kiss it? No; she has given it back to the Tallboy-Smith. Well, well; enthusiasm is a fine thing. By the way, she is a nice little lady, this friend of yours; pretty and picturesque, too, and uncommonly well turned out. I’m beginning to have a new respect for Wellclose Square.”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 211