Woman and Artist

by Max O'Rell

On the morning of the second day after her sudden decision, a van was brought to the door for her few effects, and at five o'clock she had turned her back upon the house that she had grown to loathe. Two days later she was thoroughly installed in her new one.

Here she had succeeded in fitting up a studio, which was an imitation, a cheap and pathetic reproduction, exact in almost every detail, of the one in which she had passed the happiest hours of her old life in Elm Avenue.

Each item of furniture occupied precisely the same spot as in the St. John's Wood studio, and the whole effect was tasteful, for the work had been a labour of love to Dora. The two easels were placed side by side in the centre of the room, and on Philip's stood the unfinished portrait. On one side of the door she had placed an old oak chest that she had picked up at a dealer's for a small sum, and which resembled closely one that Philip owned and prized; on the other side of the door stood the old clock, which she did not, however, set going. What did the time of day matter to her now? Clocks go too slowly when one is tired of life. Away in a corner she hung Philip's old working jacket, which she had come across in the depths of a chest in one of the attics. It would no longer be only in her dreams that she would see the St. John's Wood studio, for it had sprung into existence again under her hands; and in these surroundings she would be able to continue the life that had been interrupted by the events already chronicled. She was going to try to bring to life again one part of her past. She turned to work to help her to forget the other.

She had come here with new hope in her heart, to call her talent to her rescue, and to serve Art faithfully and ask of it her bread. At the least, she felt that here she could, when her time came, die without a malediction on her lips.

Dora gave orders to Hobbs to refuse her door generally. Lorimer and Dr. Templeton were the only exceptions. She laid the greatest stress on these directions, and Hobbs solemnly promised to obey to the letter.

Without delay she traced herself a programme which she resolved to follow out faithfully. She would work at her easel three hours every morning, would take outdoor exercise every afternoon to keep herself refreshed and strong, and the evenings should be devoted to reading and needlework.

She had brought with her several excellent photographs of Eva, and fully intended to make a portrait of the child whom death had robbed her of. Her brush would help her to see again that sweet flesh of her flesh. "But not yet, not just yet," she said.

As she had to earn a livelihood, and painting was to be her means of subsistence, she resolved to look about at once for a model. She chose a little Italian boy who played a concertina under her windows almost every day. The picturesque urchin was ready enough to pose for the signora, and beamed with delight at the shilling Dora put into his grubby little palm at the conclusion of each sitting.

Dora took her first walk in the neighbourhood, and Hobbs went with her. They set out without any destination in view, but had not been walking more than five minutes when they found themselves in Elm Avenue. No trace of any emotion crossed Dora's face, and, instead of turning back as Hobbs was for doing, Dora would insist on going as far as No. 50. The house was to let. No one had lived in it since Philip left. Dora drew up on the other side of the road in front of the house. Hobbs tried to draw her away, for she feared that the sight of her old home might be too painful for her mistress.

"No," said Dora, "I am going to show you how thoroughly cured and strong I am ... I am going in."