CHAPTER XIV

SCULPTOR AND SITTER

FOR two hours daily did Colin lay claim upon Phyllys, and she granted what he asked, albeit not easily. Mrs. Keith had ceased from protestation, but many obstacles were put in the way, though in a fashion hardly to be defined.

Phyllys found her first morning in the studio enchanting. Colin was at his best, ready for talk and quietly gay. She had begged to watch the process from the beginning; and she gazed with delight at his deft handling of the clay, as he filled in and covered over the light framework of lead piping, shaped roughly the shoulders over cross-pieces of wood designed for their support, and added lumps which with firm touches he formed into nose, chin, ears, giving each in turn a general resemblance to her own. It seemed that his task would be a bagatelle, he advanced so fast. When she said so, he broke into a laugh.

"This is preparation, not work. If you had not asked to come, it would have been done before I troubled you."

He went to and fro between the large and small room, bringing handfuls of the moist clay, remarking once, "A great sculptor would have a boy to keep him supplied."

"You will be a great sculptor some day," she declared confidently.

The opinion had no weight, yet he smiled. He was in a frame to be easily pleased. For one thing the sun shone; for another, he was free from headache; for a third, he felt that his sitter would bring inspiration. With all his outward placidity, Colin was an artist in temperament; a weather barometer; a creature of moods.

"Do all sculptors work as fast as you?"

"There are different modes. Not only one excellent way. Some do it slowly, adding pellets, not lumps. Each has to follow the method by which he can produce the best results. The broader and quicker method suits me."

"You seem to build it up," she murmured.

"That is the essence of clay-modelling. It is a literal building up. In marble sculpture one has the reverse—carving away material, and leaving the figure exposed."

"You mean it was there all the time, shut up in prison, and it had to be set free," she suggested, with a happy little laugh.

That brought his eyes upon her. "Precisely. But only a sculptor can see it there, before he cuts away the mass that hides it."

Colin had made a rough clay sketch of Phyllys in the attitude which first attracted him, and this rendered it easy to place her anew in the same position. She had to gaze at a bust, and could no longer watch his manipulations: so time passed slowly. A quarter of an hour seemed like a full hour; and to maintain the position was difficult. She tried to find entertainment in chatting about Midfell, but his murmurs of assent acted as a check, and she sank into silence, which soon meant an expression utterly "dead."

He had to arouse himself that he might arouse her.

This day all went well, and he proved merciful, allowing frequent rests.

In days following the work advanced more slowly; nay, even stood still. He could not satisfy himself.

He would stand, doing nothing, gazing at his sitter, with an air of calm aloofness, as if trying to read her soul. The aloofness prevented self-consciousness. Sometimes she wondered what it was that he saw or wished to see. Sometimes she had a sense that he saw deeper than other men—than Giles, for example. But all the while she recognised that she was his "sitter" pure and simple. He was studying a model for artistic purposes. He was not troubling himself to know Phyllys Wyverne for her own sake.

Then, when fifty minutes of endurance were ended, he would move, would hope she was not tired, would offer her the armchair, would ask whether she minded a cigarette, would change in a moment from the artist to the host. She found in him a dual nature; not like that of Giles, simple, homogeneous, the same throughout. One hour he was sculptor; another hour he was man.

Perhaps she admired him more as sculptor, and liked him more as man; but the combination had power.

By the fifth day things were going ill. Colin was not pleased with his work. He foresaw that this bust would be less of a success than that of Elsye Wallace; and the harder he toiled, the less he got on. He was gaining a worn look, his features becoming sharply drawn. Phyllys longed to advise a day's holiday, but did not venture.

A rap at the door made him lift troubled eyes, and a box was brought in from the moulder, containing, as he knew, the cast of Elsye.

"Put it down," he murmured, and bent anew to his modelling. It was characteristic that he should bestow his whole energy on the task in hand, and should have no thought to spare for that last completed. But presently, finding his sitter hopelessly "flat," he suggested an adjournment, and took out the cast.

"It's lovely," Phyllys said. "Are you not glad? Don't you feel proud?" She stretched her arms and sat down, while Colin threw himself into the armchair. "Isn't it perfect?"

"I don't know."

"Ought you to do any more to-day?"

There was a brief laugh. "Certainly I ought—if I can. That's the question."

"It seems getting on so nicely," she ventured.

"It's a dead failure," he replied shortly.

"I suppose people don't know their own faces. It seems to me all right."

"It's not you! I can't get at yourself."

Phyllys smiled, not ill-pleased. "But you don't expect to put my real self straight off into a lump of clay?"

"If not, I'm no sculptor."

Phyllys' next remark was commonplace. "You've got my nose and mouth all right."

He laughed again. "If that were all! The veriest tyro could do so much. An artist aims higher."

Her eyes questioned him.

"True Art means more than a copy," he murmured. "It means interpretation; not copying. There's a lack of soul in what I have done. You have an elusive personality. I can't get at your true inwardness. Yet I'm not usually a duffer at character-reading."

"That reminds me—" and Phyllys spoke eagerly—"I wanted to ask you, what did you mean one day by the 'inwardness' of beauty? Do you remember?"

She had to recall to him what had passed.

"I meant the 'soul' of it. There is a soul to every outward form of beauty."

"I don't think I understand."

He roused himself to explain. "In Art each body has a soul. That is to say—in Nature, with which Art deals, which Art interprets. One has to get at that soul, before interpretation is possible. A superficial resemblance is nothing. Every thought of man may find outward expression, in word or in shape; and the outward expression is the body; the thought from which it sprang is the soul. Every thought of God may—perhaps must—find expression in word or in form; and there again, that which is manifest is the body, but the Divine underlying thought is the 'soul' of that which is manifested. If once you realise this, I don't think you will be in danger of undervaluing beauty."

"I don't think I am," she said. Then, smiling—"I'm glad it isn't easy to know me at first sight."

"Much of you is easy; but you have many facets. When I think I have reached the true Phyllys, I find myself mistaken. One day you are one thing, next day another. My aim is to get to the background."

"I wonder how you mean to do it," she laughed.

She had recalled him to his purpose. He leant forward, examining her with a penetrative gaze. She met it firmly, determined on resistance. She would be as elusive as she chose.

But those blue eyes had power. They differed from Giles' eyes; and they were reaching deep. If this was a trial of strength, she knew that he was gaining the mastery. She could not veil from him what he meant to see. Despite her will-refusal, he was getting into touch with her "inward" self. He was stronger than she. She knew it and resented the fact, yet was oddly glad.

[Illustration: A HARSH VOICE BROKE THE PAUSE, "SO—USING PHYLLYS FOR A MODEL."]

An abrupt consciousness dawned that this meant more than artistic interest. The indifference, the "apartness" had vanished. Her eyes fell before his.

Colin had never seen her thus, though he had for days analysed every line in her face.

This was no matter of lines; and though as sculptor, he thought less of colouring than of form, yet the pretty flush, the troubled curve of coral lips, the sweetness of downcast eyes, laid hold upon him. If she was a being of many facets, he was the same, and a facet of hers touched squarely a facet of his that moment.

"I have come upon the real Phyllys at last," he was saying; and his joy was only in part artistic.

Phyllys said nothing. She knew that he was reading her still; and she could not meet his gaze.

A harsh voice broke the pause. "So—using Phyllys for a model! How is that, pray?"

Phyllys looked up in amaze. This—Giles? This—her Midfell friend, her rescuer!

He went across to shake hands with her, absently, as if the act were mechanical; then stood between them, facing the fireplace, his back to the long room; tall, solid, upright. His hands were clenched, and the blaze of yellow light on his eyes was like that of a wild beast. Wrath transformed the whole face. Its deep red was exchanged for a mottled pallor.

Phyllys stiffened into girlish dignity. If Giles felt no pleasure at seeing her, she would show no pleasure at seeing him; and what could make him behave in such an extraordinary way?

Colin's first movement had been a start, but he replied in his lowest, most dragging voice—

"Yes; I'm making a study of her head. Not a successful one, I'm afraid. You didn't let us know you were coming to-day."

Giles turned from the speaker with a passionate movement, towards the bust of Elsye Wallace.

Phyllys recalled Colin's not wishing him to know of its existence; and she wondered—had he seen it on his first entrance?

But no! This evidently was his first glimpse; and the surprise was not a pleasant one. He stood gazing, his hands still clenched, his face set as in iron.

"That was not to have been seen," observed Colin.

The words, meant in explanation, put a finish to Giles' anger. He swung round, and strode blindly away, knocking against the heavy modelling-stand with such force that the bust of Phyllys was hurled to the ground. But he made no pause, and his step could be heard retreating along the passage.

Colin sat down, resting his brow on both hands.

"What an awful duffer I am!" he murmured.

"But nobody knew Giles was coming," ventured Phyllys.

"One might have expected it."

"I don't see why he is vexed."

Silence replied. She knew that, whatever there was to learn, she would not hear it from Colin.

"You won't work any more now, will you?"

"I don't think I can."

Another break.

"Had I better go? Mrs. Keith said she would want me."

He stood up to open the door, relieved, she thought, at the suggestion. Outside, remembering that she had left a book, she went back, to find Colin flung prone on the sofa. The bust still lay where it had fallen.

"Couldn't I get anything for you?" she asked. "Your head is bad!"

"Rather! No, nothing I want, thanks. Is that your book? I'll have a lazy hour."

Phyllys went again, feeling flat. This was not the manner of meeting with Giles that she had pictured. She was disappointed by his indifference; and his display of temper left an unpleasant impression. Could it be that he objected to Colin making a model of her head? But that would be childish! Why should he mind?