Jasper County Democrat, Volume 9, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 December 1906 — High Art and Hairpins [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

High Art and Hairpins

By IZOLA FORRESTER

“Mr. Asquith is out by himself yet,” said the tailor who had his shop on the ground floor of Washington square. He held the door half open, and Helene paused with one foot on the narrow flight of stairs leading to the studio. She was frankly disappointed to have come so far for nothing. She hesitated, glanciag back doubtfully at the waiting cab. “Did he say when he would be back ?" “He not ever say when,” answered the tailor positively, with sweeping Hungarian assertion. “He goes, then Le comes again. The door is open.” “Then I _ think that I shall wait.” Helene smiled with sudden pleasure. “I am sure he will come soon. He must have expected me and left the door open." “Sure be must,” agreed the tailor cordially. It was entirely probable. If there had been the slightest chance of

the descent of such a radiant young goddess as this he had no doubt but what Mr. Asquith lived in a state of perpetual expectancy. , Helene went quickly upstairs. At the second flight there was no landing. The top step ended abruptly at a door, and the ceiling sloped In an angle to meet the top of the door. She lifted the old fashioned latch and looked in, her heart beating faster. The studio was empty. For an instant she hesitated. She had never been in his studio. It seemed like an intrusion into some intimate, personal part of his life In which she, with ail his love for her, had no share. But because of that very privacy she wanted to intrude. She wanted to see how he lived, here in his own little den where he did his work, the work that was to win him fame and fortune before the world, the den where he dreamed his dreams of the future In which she had so great a share. She pushed the door farther open, lifted her soft light skirt of silk higher from the dusty stair and went into the studio, closing the door after her. It was a half ceiled attic, the nearest approach to a Parisian atelier that Asquith could find in New York. There was a skylight In the high peaked roof, and wide, heavy cross beams visible to the naked eye marked the eaves line. There was no burlap on the walls, no Turkish rugs on the floor, no Dutch shelves nor steins, not even a taboret or samovar. It was simply a workshop. A huge black walnut easel stood crosswise, facing the north light. Before it stood a rush bottomed chair and a low table littered with brushes, paint tubes and half mixed colors. A dingy, well daubed blouse lay over the back of the chair and a pipe half smoked rested on the easel ledge. Helene saw It all at one glance and laughed Joyously, tremulously. She had never felt herself so near to him as now. What a boy he was, after all, and how funny he must look In that old blouse. She sat down in the rush bottomed chair and leaned her head back against the sleeve of the blouse.

The walla were hare except for half finished charcoal and pen and Ink studies, with here and there a water color. The black and white studies were strange to her, but the landscapes all bore the came straggling signature, Hugh Asquith. That was all. Not a single Venus, not tk cast of anything In sight. Asquith was strictly a landscape artist and did not paint the figure. Vaguely she had been pleased that he did not. Of course If one were devoted to art and must paint the figure, then one must have models, and models must necessarily be beautiful, and— Right there Helene’s logic ended, but It was sufficient. She was glad that Asquith was a landscape artist and did not require any model save old Mother Nature. She drew off her long mousquetalre gloves with a sigh of content On the third finger of her left hand sparkled ft diamond. It had been there over a month now. With a sudden Impulse fts the gloves slipped to the floor she pressed the ring against her Ups. It stood for so much—more than a mere engagement They bad known each other a

long time, two seasons, and she had met him every winter at dinners and swell dances. But this summer It bad been different. Asquith said It was fate. Helene thought it the most delicious bit of maneuvering love had ever managed.

The rest of the family had gone to Europe. Helene had hesitated. Between an automobile tour of Brittany; and the Baltic coafct and a quiet summer with her married cousin at Larchmont she bad chosen Larchmont. Asquith was a member of the yacht club at Larchmont. Every morning from the broad veranda at Bayview cottage she could see him out on the rocks, sketching before sunrise.

They were splendid rock's, huge, gaunt and gray; they rose raggedly from the water at low tide, like the bodies of some submerged sea monsters. One could walk to them easily, stepping over little pools left by the tide and stray strands of seaweed, and one morning Helene walked to them, slim and sweet and fresh as the dawn in her white dress and white low shoes. It was the shoes that did It. When Asquith turned at her call foi help he found her standing in one of the pools, and the white shoes were ruined.

Helene glanced up at the wall. A little water color hung near her, some gray rocks In a rose tinted sea, with a bit of salt marsh in the foreground. She smiled at it happily. They had Bat up there together that morning, and she had taken off her shoes and stockings—the precious ruined shoes and stockings—and that had been all. And Asquith had said It was fate. She laughed again. He was such a boy, after all. She stopped to pick up her gloves and stopped short-to look at something lying on the floor at -her feet. It was merely a hairpin. She picked it up and looked at It.euriously. Her own hairpins were brown tortoise shell ones to match her hair. This one was gold, a small, insidious gold wire affair, very cheap and very dainty. The laugh was gone from her lips. In Its place was a look of wonderment, of almost fear. There had been a woman In Hugh’s studio, a woman with blond hair, who wore gold wire hairpins, who dropped gold wire hairpins around promiscuously. And Hugh had told her he- never painted the figure. More than that, he had told her that no one knew of his den In the attic except herself and a few close friends. He had no patrons, no buyers of pictures, because as yet he had never sold any. All of his relatives were in Europe too. If the hairpin did not belong to a model, whom did it belong to? With a sudden fierce Impulse, she threw the hairpin away from her. It fell with a tiny clink against the wall. Almost instantly she had repented. After all, It was purely a personal affair with Hugh, in which she had no part. He had not expected her to visit his studio. She had no right to resent another element of femininity which she had found there. Even If he did have models It was probably necessary. All artists had to study from life sooner or later. But was It necessary that they should have hair that matched gold hairpins?

She arose and crossed the room to where the hairpin had fallen. For a moment she held It in her hand Irresolute. Then slowly she laid it on his table, and beside it she left the new solitaire ring. It would be enough. She knew that he would understand. As she turned to the door her eyes filled with a sudden rush of blinding tears, and as she felt for the latch it lifted and the door opened. It was not Asquith. On the landing outside stood a girl, plump, rosy cheeked and red haired, holding up her skirts in one hand and a pall of scrub water In the other. “Oh, I thought Mr. Asquith was home,” she said apologetically. “I Just cleaned up his place, ma’am, and I guess I lost one es my hairpins. It’s a little wire one, but I need It to keep my pug up tight.” “I laid It on the table,” said Helene gently. The girl set the pail down on the stairs and secured the hairpin, fastening up her tumbling red curls with it deftly. “Thank you, ma’am," she called as she went downstairs, and Helene went back to the table and slipped the ring in its old place Just as Asquith came up the stairs.

IT WAS MERELY A HAIRPIN.