FAULKNER’S FOLLY
I
In the Studio
Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.
A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman’s back, when he should have been standing at attention. He might not have heard her soft footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very slightly ajar.
Faulkner’s Folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been its original owner. It was a perfect example of the type known in England as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a style inspired by the Italian disciples of Palladio, and as developed by Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess the joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home. The house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the staircase had been the architect’s joy and delight. It showed the wooden wainscoting, which was handed down from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and rather plain balusters. But the carved wood necessary to carry out the plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the available funds and Faulkner’s Folly, in little more than two years after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value.
James Faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had been her own home.
The man who bought Faulkner’s Folly was one who could well appreciate all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great wealth, and a friend of long standing, took Faulkner’s house with much joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up.
A part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of Mrs. Faulkner by the master hand of the new owner; but Faulkner’s death had postponed this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was staying at the Stannards’ while the picture was being painted. Partly because of sentiment toward her husband’s favourite feature of the house, and partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities, Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had selected for the portrait.
But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no thought of her picture, as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening of the studio door.
“Blake,” she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. As the Stannards’ guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts’ servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of her own rule in that house.