CHAPTER IV
THE TRODDEN WAY
There came the indeterminate year when Ruhannah finished school andthere was no money available to send her elsewhere for furtherembellishment, no farther horizon than the sky over the Gayfieldhills, no other perspective than the main street of Gayfield with theknitting mill at the end of it.
So into Gayfield Mill the girl walked, and found a place immediatelyamong the unskilled. And her career appeared to be predetermined now,and her destiny a simple one--to work, to share the toil and thegaieties of Gayfield with the majority of the other girls she knew; tomarry, ultimately, some boy, some clerk in one of the Gayfield stores,some farmer lad, perhaps, possibly a school teacher or a local lawyeror physician, or possibly the head of some department in the mill, ormaybe a minister--she was sufficiently well bred and educated for anyone of these.
* * * * *
The winter of her seventeenth year found her still very much a childat heart, physically backward, a late adolescent, a little shy,inclined to silences, romantic, sensitive to all beauty, andpassionately expressing herself only when curled up by the stove withher pencil and the red light of the coals falling athwart the slimhand that guided it.
She went sometimes to village parties, learned very easily to dance,had no preferences among the youths of Gayfield, no romances. Forthat matter, while she was liked and even furtively admired, herslight shyness, reticence, and a vague, indefinite something about herseemed to discourage familiar rustic gallantry. Also, she was as thinand awkward as an overgrown lad, not thought to be pretty, known to bepoor. But for all that more than one young man was vaguely haunted atintervals by some memory of her grey eyes and the peculiar sweetnessof her mouth, forgetting for the moment several freckles on thedelicate bridge of her nose and several more on her sun-tannedcheeks.
She had an agreeable time that winter, enchanted to learn dancing,happy at "showers" and parties, at sleigh rides and "chicken suppers,"and the various species of village gaiety which ranged from movingpictures every Thursday and Saturday nights to church entertainments,amateur theatricals at the town hall, and lectures under the auspicesof the aristocratic D. O. F.--Daughters of the Old Frontier.
But she never saw any boy she preferred to any other, never wasconscious of being preferred, excepting once--and she was not quitecertain about that.
It was old Dick Neeland's son, Jim--vaguely understood to have beenfor several years in Paris studying art--and who now turned up inGayfield during Christmas week.
Ruhannah remembered seeing him on several occasions when she was alittle child. He was usually tramping across country with his sturdyfather, Dick Neeland of Neeland's Mills--an odd, picturesque pair withtheir setter dogs and burnished guns, and old Dick's face as red as awrinkled winter apple, and his hair snow-white.
There was six years' difference between their ages, Jim Neeland's andhers, and she had always considered him a grown and formidable man inthose days. But that winter, when somebody at the movies pointed himout to her, she was surprised to find him no older than the otheryouths she skated with and danced with.
Afterward, at a noisy village party, she saw him dancing with everygirl in town, and the drop of Irish blood in this handsome, carelessyoung fellow established him at once as a fascinating favourite.
Rue became quite tremulous over the prospect of dancing with him.Presently her turn came; she rose with a sudden odd loss ofself-possession as he was presented, stood dumb, shy, unresponsive,suffered him to lead her out, became slowly conscious that he dancedrather badly. But awe of him persisted even when he trod on herslender foot.
He brought her an ice afterward, and seated himself beside her.
"I'm a clumsy dancer," he said. "How many times did I spike you?"
She flushed and would have found a pleasant word to reassure him, butdiscovered nothing to say, it being perfectly patent to them both thatshe had retired from the floor with a slight limp.
"I'm a steam roller," he repeated carelessly. "But you dance verywell, don't you?"
"I have only learned to dance this winter."
"I thought you an expert. Do you live here?"
"Yes.... I mean I live at Brookhollow."
"Funny. I don't remember you. Besides, I don't know your name--peoplemumble so when they introduce a man."
"I'm Ruhannah Carew."
"Carew," he repeated, while a crease came between his eyebrows. "OfBrookhollow---- Oh, I know! Your father is the retired missionary--redhouse facing the bridge."
"Yes."
"Certainly," he said, taking another look at her; "you're the littlegirl daddy and I used to see across the fields when we were shootingwoodcock in the willows."
"I remember you," she said.
"I remember _you_!"
She coloured gratefully.
"Because," he added, "dad and I were always afraid you'd wander intorange and we'd pepper you from the bushes. You've grown a lot, haven'tyou?" He had a nice, direct smile though his speech and manners were atrifle breezy, confident, and _sans facon_. But he was at thatage--which succeeds the age of bumptiousness--with life and careerbefore him, attainment, realisation, success, everything the mysteryof life holds for a young man who has just flung open the gates andwho takes the magic road to the future with a stride instead of hisaccustomed pace.
He was already a man with a profession, and meant that she shouldbecome aware of it.
* * * * *
Later in the evening somebody told her what a _personage_ he hadbecome, and she became even more deeply thrilled, impressed, andtremulously desirous that he should seek her out again, not venturingto seek him, not dreaming of encouraging him to notice her by glanceor attitude--not even knowing, as yet, how to do such things. Shethought he had already forgotten her existence.
But that this thin, freckled young thing with grey eyes ought tolearn how much of a man he was remained somewhere in the back ofNeeland's head; and when he heard his hostess say that somebody wouldhave to see Rue Carew home, he offered to do it. And presently wentover and asked the girl if he might--not too patronisingly.
In the cutter, under fur, with the moonlight electrically brilliantand the world buried in white, she ventured to speak of his art,timidly, as in the presence of the very great.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I studied in Paris. Wish I were back there. ButI've got to draw for magazines and illustrated papers; got to make aliving, you see. I teach at the Art League, too."
"How happy you must be in your career!" she said, devoutly meaning it,knowing no better than to say it.
"It's a business," he corrected her, kindly.
"But--yes--but it is art, too."
"Oh, art!" he laughed. It was the fashion that year to shrug when artwas mentioned--reaction from too much gabble.
"We don't busy ourselves with art; we busy ourselves with business.When they use my stuff I feel I'm getting on. You see," he admittedwith reluctant honesty, "I'm young at it yet--I haven't had very muchof my stuff in magazines yet."
After a silence, cursed by an instinctive truthfulness which alwaysspoiled any little plan to swagger:
"I've had several--well, about a dozen pictures reproduced."
One picture accepted by any magazine would have awed her sufficiently.The mere fact that he was an artist had been enough to impress her.
"Do you care for that sort of thing--drawing, painting, I mean?" heinquired kindly.
She drew a quick breath, steadied her voice, and said she did.
"Perhaps you may turn out stuff yourself some day."
She scarcely knew how to take the word "stuff." Vaguely she surmisedit to be professional vernacular.
She admitted shyly that she cared for nothing so much as drawing, thatshe longed for instruction, but that such a dream was hopeless.
At first he did not comprehend that poverty barred the way to her; heurged her to cultivate her talent, bestowed advi
ce concerning the ArtLeague, boarding houses, studios, ways, means, and ends, until shefelt obliged to tell him how far beyond her means such magicsplendours lay.
He remained silent, sorry for her, thinking also that the chances wereagainst her having any particular talent, consoling a heart that wasunusually sympathetic and tender with the conclusion that this girlwould be happier here in Brookhollow than scratching around thepurlieus of New York to make both ends meet.
"It's a tough deal," he remarked abruptly. "--I mean this art stuff.You work like the dickens and kick your heels in ante-rooms. If theytake your stuff they send you back to alter it or redraw it. _I_ don'tknow how anybody makes a living at it--in the beginning."
"Don't _you_?"
"I? No." He reddened; but she could not notice it in the moonlight."No," he repeated; "I have an allowance from my father. I'm new at ityet."
"Couldn't a man--a girl--support herself by drawing pictures formagazines?" she inquired tremulously.
"Oh, well, of course there are some who have arrived--and they manageto get on. Some even make wads, you know."
"W-wads?" she repeated, mystified.
"I mean a lot of money. There's that girl on the _Star_, JeanThrossel, who makes all kinds of wealth, they say, out of her spidery,filmy girls in ringlets and cheesecloth dinner gowns."
"Oh!"
"Yes, Jean Throssel, and that Waythorne girl, Belinda Waythorne, youknow--does all that stuff for _The Looking Glass_--futurist graft, nomouths on her people--she makes _hers_, I understand."
It was rather difficult for Rue to follow him amid the vernacularmazes.
"Then, of course," he continued, "men like Alexander Fairless andPhilip Lightwood who imitates him, make fortunes out of their drawing.I could name a dozen, perhaps. But the rest--hard sledding, MissCarew!"
"Is it _very_ hard?"
"Well, I don't know what on earth I'd do if dad didn't back me as hisfancy."
"A father ought to, if he can afford it."
"Oh, I'll pay my way some day. It's in me. I feel it; I know it. I'llmake plenty of money," he assured her confidently.
"I'm sure you will."
"Thank you," he smiled. "My friends tell me I've got it in me. I haveone friend in particular--the Princess Mistchenka--who has all kindsof confidence in my future. When I'm blue she bolsters me up. She'squite wonderful. I owe her a lot for asking me to her Sunday nightsand for giving me her friendship."
"A--a princess?" whispered the girl, who had drawn pictures ofthousands but was a little startled to realise that such fabledcreatures really exist.
"Is she _very_ beautiful?" she added.
"She's tremendously pretty."
"Her--clothes are very beautiful, I suppose," ventured Rue.
"Well--they're very--smart. Everything about her is smart. Her Sundaynight suppers are wonderful. You meet people who do things--allsorts--everybody who is somebody."
He turned to her frankly:
"I think myself very lucky that the Princess Mistchenka should be myfriend, because, honestly, Miss Carew, I don't see what there is in meto interest such a woman."
Rue thought she could see, but remained silent.
"If I had my way," said Neeland, a few moments later, "I'd dropillustrating and paint battle scenes. But it wouldn't pay, you see."
"Couldn't you support yourself by painting battles?"
"Not yet," he said honestly. "Of course I have hopes--intentions----"he laughed, drew his reins; the silvery chimes clashed and jingled andflashed in the moonlight; they had arrived.
At the door he said:
"I hope some day you'll have a chance to take lessons. Thank you fordancing with me.... If you ever do come to New York to study, I hopeyou'll let me know."
"Yes," she said, "I will."
He was halfway to his sleigh, looked back, saw her looking back as sheentered the lighted doorway.
"Good night, Rue," he said impulsively, warmly sorry for her.
"Good night," she said.
The drop of Irish blood in him prompted him to go back to where shestood framed in the lighted doorway. And the same drop was no doubtresponsible for his taking her by the waist and tilting back her headin its fur hood and kissing her soft, warm lips.
She looked up at him in a flushed, bewildered sort of way, notresisting; but his eyes were so gay and mischievous, and his quicksmile so engaging that a breathless, uncertain smile began to edge herlips; and it remained stamped there, stiffening even after he hadjumped into his cutter and had driven away, jingling joyously out intothe dazzling moonshine.
* * * * *
In bed, the window open, and the covers pulled to her chin, Rue laywakeful, living over again the pleasures of the evening; and Neeland'sface was always before her open eyes, and his pleasant voice seemed tobe sounding in her ears. As for the kiss, it did not trouble her.Girls she went with were not infrequently so saluted by boys. That,being her own first experience, was important only in that degree. Andshe shyly thought the experience agreeable. And, as she recalled,revived, and considered all that Neeland had said, it seemed to herthat this young man led an enchanted life and that such as he wereindeed companions fit for princesses.
"Princess Mistchenka," she repeated aloud to herself. And somehow itsounded vaguely familiar to the girl, as though somewhere, long ago,she had heard another voice pronounce the name.
The Dark Star Page 6
