Part 14 (1/2)
I have their friends.h.i.+p, also that of Brant--Eugene Brant--who does the cleverest professionally amateur studio work in the world, according to my humble opinion. And the Kendalls do the finest garden and outdoor studies, as you know. Could I have better training? Mr. Brant thinks me fit to start a city studio--a modest one--but the Misses Kendall advise a year in a small town, just working for experience and perfection. Then when I do begin in a bigger place I'll be ready to do work of real distinction. Come, tell me, isn't it a beautiful plan?”
”Any plan, which brings you to live near me, is a beautiful plan. And you've really chosen this little town? How did you come to do it?”
”Tales of the beauty of the region, and the reflection that, since one small town in it was probably as good as another, there was no reason why I shouldn't be near one of my dearest friends, and have, frankly, the help of her patronage. Shall you mind giving it to me?”
”I'll bring you a dozen subjects the first day. I suppose you haven't looked about at all as yet for the place?”
”I shall not need to, if you won't object to having me close by, even so near as across the road. As I stood on your doorstep I saw my future studio spring, full-fledged, into view, with a '_To rent_' notice already up. Could I have a plainer sign that my good fairy is attending my footsteps?”
Miss Ruston leaned forward to the window as she spoke, drew aside the thin curtain which swayed there in the summer breeze, and pointed across the street. ”Isn't there a little old cottage, back in there somewhere, in a tangle of old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers? It doesn't show from here, I see, but from below I caught just a glimpse of its unimposing dimensions. The sign is on the gate, in the hedge. It's simply perfect that the place should have a hedge!”
”Evidently you didn't inspect it very closely, Charlotte dear. It's a most forlorn little old place, and much run down. Two old ladies have lived there all their lives, and have died there within the year. They would never sell, although, as you see, the neighbourhood all about is built up with modern houses--all except our own. This house is quite old, I believe, too.”
”Two old ladies lived and died there, did they?” mused Charlotte Ruston.
”Their gentle ghosts won't trouble us, and Granny will delight in that garden. What a background for an outdoor studio! Do let's go over and explore the place, will you?”
As they crossed the street the newcomer was using her eyes with eager observation. ”It's a fine old street,” she said, ”with all these beautiful trees. What a pity it is mostly so modern in the matter of architecture! I wonder if the people in those houses will think me out of my head, to begin with, because I choose this quaint little dwelling-place. I shall choose it, Len, if I can get it, I warn you.”
With some difficulty they opened the gate in the hedge, and proceeded up the path of moss-grown stones to the house, set so far back from the street that it was nearly concealed by the growth of untrimmed shrubbery, old rose-bushes heavy with pink and white roses, lilac trees, and barberry-bushes.
”Of all the dear, queer, little front porches!” Miss Ruston cried, setting her exploring foot on a porch floor which promptly sagged beneath her weight. She threw a quizzical glance at her companion. ”Even though the roof falls in on my head, and the walls sway as I pa.s.s by, I must have this house--if it is dry! Of course I can't bring Granny to a damp house. Putting in my skylight and s.h.i.+ngling the rest of the roof will take care of dampness from above, but I must look after the floors and foundations. Who owns it, and how can we get in?”
An hour later the key had been obtained from the astonished owner, an inhabitant of one of the modern houses near by and a nephew of the former occupants, and the place had been thoroughly gone over. It was examined by a future tenant who made light of all the real drawbacks to the place--as the owner secretly considered them--but who demanded absolutely water-tight conditions as the price of her rent. As she was willing to pay what seemed to the landlord an extraordinary rent--though he carefully concealed his feelings on this point--he somewhat grudgingly agreed to put in the skylight and s.h.i.+ngle the roof.
”But when it comes to paint and paper and plumbing, the house isn't worth it, and I can't agree to do it,” he declared positively. ”Not for any one year rental.”
”I don't want paint, paper, or plumbing,” she replied, and he set her down as eccentric indeed. ”But I do want that fireplace unsealed, and if you will put that and the chimney in order, so I can have fires there, I won't ask for any modern conveniences. When can you have it ready for me?
By the middle of July?”
He did not think this possible, but his new tenant convinced him that it was, and went away smiling, her hands full of June roses, and her spirits high. It was with her vivid personality at its best that she presently took her place at the luncheon table, meeting there, however, at first, only Miss Mathewson.
”My patient has fallen asleep after his walk,” Amy explained to Mrs.
Burns, as she came in. ”I thought he had better not be wakened.”
”You were quite right, I am sure,” Ellen agreed. Then she made the two young women known to each other, and the three sat down. R.P. Burns, M.D., rus.h.i.+ng in the midst of the meal, found them laughing merrily together over a tale the guest had been telling.
As Burns came forward Miss Ruston rose to meet him. The two regarded each other with undisguised interest as they shook hands.
”Yes, I can make a much better photograph of you than the one on your wife's dressing-table,” said she, judicially, and laughed at his astonished expression.
”Can you, indeed?” he inquired. ”Have you a snapshot camera concealed anywhere about you? If so, I'll consider going back to town for my luncheon.”
”You are safe for to-day,” Ellen a.s.sured him, and he sat down.
He was told the tale of the morning, the subject introduced by his wife, and amplified by their guest. He expressed his interest.
”You have a good courage, Miss Ruston,” said he. ”And we'll agree to stand by you. Any time, in the middle of the night, that we hear the crash and fall of decayed old timbers, we'll come to the rescue and pull you out. We don't have much excitement here. The wreck will have the advantage of advertising you thoroughly. Then you can build a tight little bungalow on the spot and settle down to real business.”
Miss Ruston shook her shapely head. ”No tight little bungalows for me,”
she averred. ”Those vine-clad old walls will make wonderful backgrounds for my outdoor subjects--they and the garden. Then, indoors--the fireplace, the queer old doors--”