Since then I have been sewing for all I am worth. The joint establishments do not boast the possession of a sewing machine, so I have had to make my studio curtains by hand. Mother Hubbard was delighted to be able to help in this department, and between us we finished them yesterday, and with Ginty's assistance I have hung them to-day! "Ginty" is the carpenter. The "g" is hard and the name is unusual, but I am inclined to doubt whether it was ever bestowed upon him by his godparents in baptism. I suspect Sar'-Ann of having a hand in that nomenclature.
If my landlord could see my studio now he would hardly recognise his conservatory. One end has been boarded off for a dark-room, and the whole has been neatly painted slate colour. When my few backgrounds and accessories arrive I shall have a very presentable studio indeed.
Ginty is now engaged painting the outside in white and buff, and he is then going to make me a board which will be placed at the bottom of the garden to inform all and sundry that "Grace Holden is prepared to do all kinds of photographic work at reasonable prices." I don't anticipate that barriers will be needed to keep back the crowd.
How tired I am, and yet how wonderfully fresh and buoyant! My limbs tremble and my head aches, but my soul just skips within me. I have had a week in which to repent, and I have never come within sight of repentance. And yet I have seen no more of Windyridge. I have not been near the heather. I have not even climbed to the top of the hill behind my cottage in order to look over the other side. I have wanted to, but I dare not; I am terrified lest there should be factory chimneys in close proximity.
Once or twice it has been warm enough for me to stretch myself full length upon the grass, and I have lain awhile in blissful contemplation of the work of the Great Architect in the high vault of His cathedral. That always rests me, always fills me with a sense of mystery, always gives me somehow or other a feeling of peace and of partnership. I rise up feeling that I must do my best to make the world beautiful, and use all my abilities—such as they are—to bring gladness into the lives of other people. I cannot make clouds and sunsets, but I can paint miniatures, and I can take portraits (or I think I can), and these things make some homes bright and some folk happy. But I must not moralise.
More often I bring out the deck-chair, which is one of my luxuries, and sit in front of the cottage with Mother Hubbard as a companion. She is splendid company. If I encourage her she will tell me interesting stories of her youth and married life, or repeat the gossip of the village; for none is better versed than she in all the doings of the countryside. If, however, I wish to be quiet she sits silently by my side, as only a real friend can. But whether she talks or is silent her knitting needles never stop their musical clatter. What she does with all the stockings is beyond my knowledge, but I believe Sar'-Ann could tell me if she would, and I am sure all this knitting contributes no little to Mother Hubbard's happiness.
So I lean back in my chair and feast upon the scene before me and am satisfied. I wonder if it would appeal to many as it does to me. Probably not, for, after all, I suppose there are many more beautiful places than Windyridge, but I have never travelled and so cannot compare them. Then again, this is Yorkshire and I am "Yorkshire," and that explains something. Still, I ought to try to write down what it is that impresses me, so I will paint as well as I can the picture that is spread before me as I sit.
First of all, as a fitting foreground, the garden—past its best, I can see, but still gay with all the wild profusion of Flora's providing; plants whose names are as yet unknown to me, but which are a constant delight to sight and smell. Then the road, with its border of cool, green grass, winding down into the valley between hedges of hawthorn and holly—ragged, untidy hedges, brown and green where the sun catches them, blue-grey and confused in the shadows. Beyond them a stretch of fields—meadow and pasture, and the brown and kindly face of Mother Earth dipping steeply down to meet the trees which fill the narrow valley, and are just beginning to catch the colours of the sunset. Footpaths cross the fields, and I see at times those who tread them and climb the stiles between the rough grey walls; and I promise myself many a good time there, but not yet.
On the other side, beyond the trees, the climb is stiffer, and the hills rise, as it sometimes seems, into the low-lying clouds. I can see a few houses under the shelter of a clump of chestnuts and sycamores, the farthest outposts of their comrades in the valley, but far above them rises the moor, the glorious moor, heather-clad, wild, and, but for the winding roads, as God made it. Far away to the west it stretches, and when the day is clear I catch the glow of the gorse and the daily decreasing hint of purple on the horizon miles away; but in these autumn days the distance is often wrapped in a diaphanous shawl of mist, which yet lends a charm to the glories it half conceals.
High up the hill to the left is the village of Marsland, with its squat, grey church, which I must visit one day; and farther away still—for I must be candid at all costs—there are a few factory chimneys, but they are too distant to be obtrusive.