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The Dark Star, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
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Chapter 12. A Life Line |
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_ CHAPTER XII. A LIFE LINE She had told him her story from beginning to end, as far as she herself comprehended it. She was lying sideways now, in the depths of a large armchair, her cheek cushioned on the upholstered wings. Her hat, with its cheap blue enamel pins sticking in the crown, lay on his desk; her hair, partly loosened, shadowed a young face grown pinched with weariness; and the reaction from shock was already making her grey eyes heavy and edging the under lids with bluish shadows. She had not come there with the intention of telling him anything. All she had wanted was a place in which to rest, a glass of water, and somebody to help her find the train to Gayfield. She told him this; remained reticent under his questioning; finally turned her haggard face to the chairback and refused to answer. For an hour or more she remained obstinately dumb, motionless except for the uncontrollable trembling of her body; he brought her a glass of water, sat watching her at intervals; rose once or twice to pace the studio, his well-shaped head bent, his hands clasped behind his back, always returning to the corner-chair before the desk to sit there, eyeing her askance, waiting for some decision. But it was not the recurrent waves of terror, the ever latent fear of Brandes, or even her appalling loneliness that broke her down; it was sheer fatigue--nature's merciless third degree--under which mental and physical resolution disintegrated--went all to pieces. And when at length she finally succeeded in reconquering self-possession, she had already stammered out answers to his gently persuasive questions--had told him enough to start the fuller confession to which he listened in utter silence. And now she had told him everything, as far as she understood the situation. She lay sideways, deep in the armchair, tired, yet vaguely conscious that she was resting mind and body, and that calm was gradually possessing the one, and the nerves of the other were growing quiet. Listlessly her grey eyes wandered around the big studio where shadowy and strangely beautiful but incomprehensible things met her gaze, like iridescent, indefinite objects seen in dreams. These radiantly unreal splendours were only Neeland's rejected Academy pictures and studies; a few cheap Japanese hangings, cheaper Nippon porcelains, and several shaky, broken-down antiques picked up for a song here and there. All the trash and truck and dust and junk characteristic of the conventional artist's habitation were there. But to Ruhannah this studio embodied all the wonders and beauties of that magic temple to which, from her earliest memory, her very soul had aspired--the temple of the unknown God of Art. Vaguely she endeavoured to realise that she was now inside one of its myriad sanctuaries; that here under her very tired and youthful eyes stood one of its countless altars; that here, also, near by, sat one of those blessed acolytes who aided in the mysteries of its wondrous service. "Ruhannah," he said, "are you calm enough to let me tell you what I think about this matter?" "Yes. I am feeling better." "Good work! There's no occasion for panic. What you need is a cool head and a clear mind." She said, without stirring from where she lay resting her cheek on the chairback: "My mind has become quite clear again." "That's fine! Well, then, I think the thing for you to do is----" He took out his watch, examined it, replaced it--"Good Lord!" he said. "It is three o'clock!" She watched him but offered no comment. He went to the telephone, called the New York Central Station, got General Information, inquired concerning trains, hung up, and came back to the desk where he had been sitting. "The first train out leaves at six three," he said. "I think you'd better go into my bedroom and lie down. I'm not tired; I'll call you in time, and I'll get a taxi and take you to your train. Does that suit you, Ruhannah?" She shook her head slightly. "Why not?" he asked. "I've been thinking. I can't go back." "Can't go back! Why not?" "I can't." "You mean you'd feel too deeply humiliated?" "I wasn't thinking of my own disgrace. I was thinking of mother and father." There was no trace of emotion in her voice; she stated the fact calmly. "I can't go back to Brookhollow. It's ended. I couldn't bear to let them know what has happened to me." "What did you think of doing?" he asked uneasily. "I must think of mother--I must keep my disgrace from touching them--spare them the sorrow--humiliation----" Her voice became tremulous, but she turned around and sat up in her chair, meeting his gaze squarely. "That's as far as I have thought," she said. Both remained silent for a long while. Then Ruhannah looked up from her pale preoccupation: "I told you I had three thousand dollars. Why can't I educate myself in art with that? Why can't I learn how to support myself by art?" "Where?" "Here." "Yes. But what are you going to say to your parents when you write? They suppose you are on your way to Paris." She nodded, looking at him thoughtfully. "By the way," he added, "is your trunk on board the _Lusitania_?" "Yes." "That won't do! Have you the check for it?" "Yes, in my purse." "We've got to get that trunk off the ship," he said. "There's only one sure way. I'd better go down now, to the pier. Where's your steamer ticket?" "I--I have _both_ tickets and both checks in my bag. He--let me have the p-pleasure of carrying them----" Again her voice broke childishly, but the threatened emotion was strangled and resolutely choked back. "Give me the tickets and checks," he said. "I'll go down to the dock now." She drew out the papers, sat holding them for a few moments without relinquishing them. Then she raised her eyes to his, and a bright flush stained her face: "Why should I not go to Paris by myself?" she demanded. "You mean now? On this ship?" "Yes. Why not? I have enough money to go there and study, haven't I?" "Yes. But----" "Why not!" she repeated feverishly, her grey eyes sparkling. "I have three thousand dollars; I can't go back to Brookhollow and disgrace them. What does it matter where I go?" "It would be all right," he said, "if you'd ever had any experience----" "Experience! What do you call what I've had today!" She exclaimed excitedly. "To lose in a single day my mother, my home--to go through in this city what I have gone through--what I am going through now--is not that enough experience? Isn't it?" He said: "You've had a rotten awakening, Rue--a perfectly devilish experience. Only--you've never travelled alone----" Suddenly it occurred to him that his lively friend, the Princess Mistchenka, was sailing on the _Lusitania_; and he remained silent, uncertain, looking with vague misgivings at this girl in the armchair opposite--this thin, unformed, inexperienced child who had attained neither mental nor physical maturity. "I think," he said at length, "that I told you I had a friend sailing on the _Lusitania_ tomorrow." She remembered and nodded. "But wait a moment," he added. "How do you know that this--this fellow Brandes will not attempt to sail on her, also----" Something checked him, for in the girl's golden-grey eyes he saw a flame glimmer; something almost terrible came into the child's still gaze; and slowly died out like the afterglow of lightning. And Neeland knew that in her soul something had been born under his very eyes--the first emotion of maturity bursting from the chrysalis--the flaming consciousness of outrage, and the first, fierce assumption of womanhood to resent it. She had lost her colour now; her grey eyes still remained fixed on his, but the golden tinge had left them. "_I_ don't know why you shouldn't go," he said abruptly. "I _am_ going." "All right! And if _he_ has the nerve to go--if he bothers you--appeal to the captain." She nodded absently. "But I don't believe he'll try to sail. I don't believe he'd dare, mixed up as he is in a dirty mess. He's afraid of the law, I tell you. That's why he denied marrying you. It meant bigamy to admit it. Anyway, I don't think a fake ceremony like that is binding; I mean that it isn't even real enough to put him in jail. Which means that you're not married, Rue." "Does it?" "I think so. Ask a lawyer, anyway. There may be steps to take--I don't know. All the same--do you really want to go to France and study art? Do you really mean to sail on this ship?" "Yes." "You feel confidence in yourself? You feel sure of yourself?" "Yes." "You've got the backbone to see it through?" "Yes. It's got to be done." "All right, if you feel that way." He made no move, however, but sat there watching her. After a while he looked at his watch again: "I'm going to ring up a taxi," he said. "You might as well go on board and get some sleep. What time does she sail?" "At five thirty, I believe." "Well, we haven't so very long, then. There's my bedroom--if you want to fix up." She rose wearily. When she emerged from his room with her hat and gloves on, the taxicab was audible in the street below. Together they descended the dark stairway up which she had toiled with trembling knees. He carried her suitcase, aided her into the taxi. "Cunard Line," he said briefly, and entered the cab. Already in the darkness of early morning the city was awake; workmen were abroad; lighted tramcars passed with passengers; great wains, trucks, and country wagons moved slowly toward markets and ferries. He had begun to tell her almost immediately all that he knew about Paris, the life there in the students' quarters, methods of living economically, what to seek and what to avoid--a homily rather hurried and condensed, as they sped toward the pier. She seemed to be listening; he could not be sure that she understood or that her mind was fixed at all on what he was saying. Even while speaking, numberless objections to her going occurred to him, but as he had no better alternatives to suggest he did not voice them. In his heart he really believed she ought to go back to Brookhollow. It was perfectly evident she would not consent to go there. As for her remaining in New York, perhaps the reasons for her going to Paris were as good. He was utterly unable to judge; he only knew that she ought to have the protection of experience, and that was lacking. "I'm going to remain on board with you," he said, "until she sails. I'm going to try to find my very good friend, the Princess Mistchenka, and have you meet her. She has been very kind to me, and I shall ask her to keep an eye on you while you are crossing, and to give you a lot of good advice." "A--princess," said Rue in a tired, discouraged voice, "is not very likely to pay any attention to me, I think." "She's one of those Russian or Caucasian princesses. You know they don't rank very high. She told me herself. She's great fun--full of life and wit and intelligence and wide experience. She knows a lot about everything and everybody; she's been everywhere, travelled all over the globe." "I don't think," repeated Rue, "that she would care for me at all." "Yes, she would. She's young and warm-hearted and human. Besides, she is interested in art--knows a lot about it--even paints very well herself." "She must be wonderful." "No--she's just a regular woman. It was because she was interested in art that she came to the League, and I was introduced to her. That is how I came to know her. She comes sometimes to my studio." "Yes, but you are already an artist, and an interesting man----" "Oh, Rue, I'm just beginning. She's kind, that's all--an energetic, intelligent woman, full of interest in life. I _know_ she'll give you some splendid advice--tell you how to get settled in Paris--Lord! You don't even know French, do you?" "No." "Not a word?" "No.... I don't know anything, Mr. Neeland." He tried to laugh reassuringly: "I thought it was to be Jim, not Mister," he reminded her. But she only looked at him out of troubled eyes. In the glare of the pier's headlights they descended. Passengers were entering the vast, damp enclosure; porters, pier officers, ship's officers, sailors, passed to and fro as they moved toward the gangway where, in the electric glare of lamps, the clifflike side of the gigantic liner loomed up. At sight of the monster ship Rue's heart leaped, quailed, leaped again. As she set one slender foot on the gangway such an indescribable sensation seized her that she caught at Neeland's arm and held to it, almost faint with the violence of her emotion. A steward took the suitcase, preceded them down abysmal and gorgeous stairways, through salons, deep into the dimly magnificent bowels of the ocean giant, then through an endless white corridor twinkling with lights, to a stateroom, where a stewardess ushered them in. There was nobody there; nobody had been there. "He dare not come," whispered Neeland in Ruhannah's ear. The girl stood in the centre of the stateroom looking silently about her. "Have you any English and French money?" he asked. "No." "Give me--well, say two hundred dollars, and I'll have the purser change it." She went to her suitcase, where it stood on the lounge; he unstrapped it for her; she found the big packet of treasury notes and handed them to him. "Good heavens!" he muttered. "This won't do. I'm going to have the purser lock them in the safe and give me a receipt. Then when you meet the Princess Mistchenka, tell her what I've done and ask her advice. Will you, Rue?" "Yes, thank you." "You'll wait here for me, won't you?" "Yes." So he noted the door number and went away hastily in search of the purser, to do what he could in the matter of foreign money for the girl. And on the upper companionway he met the Princess Mistchenka descending, preceded by porters with her luggage. "James!" she exclaimed. "Have you come aboard to elope with me? Otherwise, what are you doing on the _Lusitania_ at this very ghastly hour in the morning?" She was smiling into his face and her daintily gloved hand retained his for a moment; then she passed her arm through his. "Follow the porter," she said, "and tell me what brings you here, my gay young friend. You see I am wearing the orchids you sent me. Do you really mean to add yourself to this charming gift?" He told her the story of Ruhannah Carew as briefly as he could; at her stateroom door they paused while he continued the story, the Princess Mistchenka looking at him very intently while she listened, and never uttering a word. She was a pretty woman, not tall, rather below middle stature, perhaps, beautifully proportioned and perfectly gowned. Hair and eyes were dark as velvet; her skin was old ivory and rose; and always her lips seemed about to part a little in the faint and provocative smile which lay latent in the depths of her brown eyes. "_Mon Dieu!_" she said, "what a history of woe you are telling me, my friend James! What a tale of innocence and of deception and outraged trust is this that you relate to me! _Allons! Vite!_ Let us find this poor, abandoned infant--this unhappy victim of your sex's well-known duplicity!" "She isn't a victim, you know," he explained. "I see. Only almost--a--victim. Yes? Where is this child, then?" "May I bring her to you, Princess?" "But of course! Bring her. I am not afraid--so far--to look any woman in the face at five o'clock in the morning." And the threatened smile flashed out in her fresh, pretty face. * * * * * When he came back with Rue Carew, the Princess Mistchenka was conferring with her maid and with her stewardess. She turned to look at Rue as Neeland came up--continued to scrutinise her intently while he was presenting her. There ensued a brief silence; the Princess glanced at Neeland, then her dark eyes returned directly to the young girl before her, and she held out her hand, smilingly: "Miss Carew--I believe I know exactly what your voice is going to be like. I think I have heard, in America, such a voice once or twice. Speak to me and prove me right." Rue flushed: "What am I to say?" she asked naively. "I knew I was right," exclaimed the Princess Mistchenka gaily. "Come into my stateroom and let each one of us discover how agreeable is the other. Shall we--my dear child?" * * * * * When Neeland returned from a visit to the purser with a pocket full of British and French gold and silver for Ruhannah, he knocked at the stateroom door of the Princess Mistchenka. That lively personage opened it, came out into the corridor holding the door partly closed behind her. "She's almost dead with fatigue and grief. I undressed her myself. She's in my bed. She has been crying." "Poor little thing," said Neeland. "Yes." "Here's her money," he said, a little awkwardly. The Princess opened her wrist bag and he dumped in the shining torrent. "Shall I--call good-bye to her?" he asked. "You may go in, James." They entered together; and he was startled to see how young she seemed there on the pillows--how pitifully immature the childish throat, the tear-flushed face lying in its mass of chestnut hair. "Good-bye, Rue," he said, still awkward, offering his hand. Slowly she held out one slim hand from the covers. "Good voyage, good luck," he said. "I wish you would write a line to me." "I will." "Then----" He smiled; released her hand. "Thank you for--for all you have done," she said. "I shall not forget." Something choked him slightly; he forced a laugh: "Come back a famous painter, Rue. Keep your head clear and your heart full of courage. And let me know how you're getting on, won't you?" "Yes.... Good-bye." So he went out, and at the door exchanged adieux with the smiling Princess. "Do you--like her a little?" he whispered. "I do, my friend. Also--I like you. I am old enough to say it safely, am I not?" "If you think so," he said, a funny little laugh in his eyes, "you are old enough to let me kiss you good-bye." But she backed away, still smiling: "On the brow--the hair--yes; if you promise discretion, James." "What has tottering age like yours to do with discretion, Princess Naia?" he retorted impudently. "A kiss on the mouth must of itself be discreet when bestowed on youth by such venerable years as are yours." But the Princess, the singularly provocative smile still edging her lips, merely looked at him out of dark and slightly humorous eyes, gave him her hand, withdrew it with decision, and entered her stateroom, closing the door rather sharply behind her. * * * * * When Neeland got back to the studio he took a couple of hours' sleep, and, being young, perfectly healthy, and perhaps not unaccustomed to the habits of the owl family, felt pretty well when he went out to breakfast. Over his coffee cup he propped up his newspaper against a carafe; and the heading on one of the columns immediately attracted his attention. EDDIE BRANDES, FIGHT PROMOTER AND A WOMAN SAID TO BE THE CAUSE: AFFRAY DRAWS BOTH MEN, BADLY BATTERED, GET AWAY BEFORE THE
Nor did the evening papers add anything material to the account, except to say that Brandes had been interviewed in his office at the Silhouette Theatre and that he stated that he had not engaged in any personal encounter with anybody, had not seen Max Venem in months, had not been near the Hotel Knickerbocker, and knew nothing about the affair in question. He also permitted a dark hint or two to escape him concerning possible suits for defamation of character against irresponsible newspapers. The accounts in the various evening editions agreed, however, that when interviewed, Mr. Brandes was nursing a black eye and a badly swollen lip, which, according to him, he had acquired in a playful sparring encounter with his business manager, Mr. Benjamin Stull. And that was all; the big town had neither time nor inclination to notice either Brandes or Venem any further; Broadway completed the story for its own edification, and, by degrees, arrived at its own conclusions. Only nobody could discover who was the young girl concerned, or where she came from or what might be her name. And, after a few days, Broadway, also, forgot the matter amid the tarnished tinsel and raucous noises of its own mean and multifarious preoccupations. _ |
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