Widdershins | Page 4

on his tenancy, and he was
anxious to have Romilly ready for publication in the coming autumn.
Nevertheless, he did not intend to force its production. Should it
demand longer in the doing, so much the worse; he realised its
importance, its crucial importance, in his artistic development, and it
must have its own length and time. In the workroom he had recently
left he had been making excellent progress; Romilly had begun, as the
saying is, to speak and act of herself; and he did not doubt she would
continue to do so the moment the distraction of his removal was over.
This distraction was almost over; he told himself it was time he pulled
himself together again; and on a March morning he went out, returned
again with two great bunches of yellow daffodils, placed one bunch on
his mantelpiece between the Sheffield sticks and the other on the table

before him, and took out the half-completed manuscript of Romilly
Bishop.
But before beginning work he went to a small rosewood cabinet and
took from a drawer his cheque-book and pass-book. He totted them up,
and his monk-like face grew thoughtful. His installation had cost him
more than he had intended it should, and his balance was rather less
than fifty pounds, with no immediate prospect of more.
"Hm! I'd forgotten rugs and chintz curtains and so forth mounted up
so," said Oleron. "But it would have been a pity to spoil the place for
the want of ten pounds or so.... Well, Romilly simply must be out for
the autumn, that's all. So here goes--"
He drew his papers towards him.
But he worked badly; or, rather, he did not work at all. The square
outside had its own noises, frequent and new, and Oleron could only
hope that he would speedily become accustomed to these. First came
hawkers, with their carts and cries; at midday the children, returning
from school, trooped into the square and swung on Oleron's gate; and
when the children had departed again for afternoon school, an itinerant
musician with a mandolin posted himself beneath Oleron's window and
began to strum. This was a not unpleasant distraction, and Oleron,
pushing up his window, threw the man a penny. Then he returned to his
table again....
But it was no good. He came to himself, at long intervals, to find that
he had been looking about his room and wondering how it had formerly
been furnished--whether a settee in buttercup or petunia satin had stood
under the farther window, whether from the centre moulding of the
light lofty ceiling had depended a glimmering crystal chandelier, or
where the tambour-frame or the picquet-table had stood.... No, it was
no good; he had far better be frankly doing nothing than getting
fruitlessly tired; and he decided that he would take a walk, but,
chancing to sit down for a moment, dozed in his chair instead.
"This won't do," he yawned when he awoke at half-past four in the

afternoon; "I must do better than this to-morrow--"
And he felt so deliciously lazy that for some minutes he even
contemplated the breach of an appointment he had for the evening.
The next morning he sat down to work without even permitting himself
to answer one of his three letters--two of them tradesmen's accounts,
the third a note from Miss Bengough, forwarded from his old address.
It was a jolly day of white and blue, with a gay noisy wind and a subtle
turn in the colour of growing things; and over and over again, once or
twice a minute, his room became suddenly light and then subdued
again, as the shining white clouds rolled north-eastwards over the
square. The soft fitful illumination was reflected in the polished surface
of the table and even in the footworn old floor; and the morning noises
had begun again.
Oleron made a pattern of dots on the paper before him, and then broke
off to move the jar of daffodils exactly opposite the centre of a creamy
panel. Then he wrote a sentence that ran continuously for a couple of
lines, after which it broke on into notes and jottings. For a time he
succeeded in persuading himself that in making these memoranda he
was really working; then he rose and began to pace his room. As he did
so, he was struck by an idea. It was that the place might possibly be a
little better for more positive colour. It was, perhaps, a thought too
pale--mild and sweet as a kind old face, but a little devitalised, even
wan.... Yes, decidedly it would bear a robuster note--more and richer
flowers, and possibly some warm and gay stuff for cushions for the
window-seats....
"Of course, I really can't afford it," he muttered,