The Dark Star

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  TOGETHER

  He sat there, holding the letter and looking absently over it at thelittle dog who had gone to sleep again. There was no sound in the roomsave the faint whisper of the tea-kettle. The sunny garden outside wasvery still, too; the blackbird appeared to doze on his peach twig; thekitten had settled down with eyes half closed and tail tucked underflank.

  The young man sat there with his letter in his hand and eyes lost inretrospection for a while.

  In his hand lay evidence that the gang which had followed him, andthrough which he no longer doubted that he had been robbed, was now inParis.

  And yet he could not give this information to the Princess Naia. Herewas a letter which he could not show. Something within him forbade it,some instinct which he did not trouble to analyse.

  And this instinct sent the letter into his breast pocket as a lightsound came to his ears; and the next instant Rue Carew entered thefurther drawing-room.

  The little West Highland terrier looked up, wagged that section of himwhich did duty as a tail, and watched her as Neeland rose to seat herat the tea-table.

  "Sandy," she said to the little dog, "if you care to say 'Down withthe Sultan,' I shall bestow one lump of sugar upon you."

  "Yap-yap!" said the little dog.

  "Give it to him, please----" Rue handed the sugar to Neeland, whodelivered it gravely.

  "That's because I want Sandy to like you," she added.

  Neeland regarded the little dog and addressed him politely:

  "I shouldn't dare call you Sandy on such brief acquaintance," he said;"but may I salute you as Alexander? Thank you, Alexander."

  He patted the dog, whose tail made a slight, sketchy motion ofapproval.

  "Now," said Rue Carew, "you are friends, and we shall all be veryhappy together, I'm sure.... Princess Naia said we were not to wait.Tell me how to fix your tea."

  He explained. About to begin on a buttered _croissant_, he desistedabruptly and rose to receive the Princess, who entered with the light,springy step characteristic of her, gowned in one of those Parisianafternoon creations which never are seen outside that capital, andnever will be.

  "Far too charming to be real," commented Neeland. "You are a prettyfairy story, Princess Naia, and your gown is a miracle tale whichnever was true."

  He had not dared any such flippancy with Rue Carew, and the girl, whoknew she was exquisitely gowned, felt an odd little pang in her heartas this young man's praise of the Princess Mistchenka fell so easilyand gaily from his lips. He might have noticed her gown, as it hadbeen chosen with many doubts, much hesitation, and anxiousconsideration, for him.

  She flushed a little at the momentary trace of envy:

  "You _are_ too lovely for words," she said, rising. But the Princessgently forced her to resume her seat.

  "If this young man has any discrimination," she said, "he won'thesitate with the golden apple, Ruhannah."

  Rue laughed and flushed:

  "He hasn't noticed my gown, and I wore it for him to notice," shesaid. "But he was too deeply interested in Sandy and in tea and_croissants_----"

  "I _did_ notice it!" said Neeland. And, to that young man's surpriseand annoyance, his face grew hot with embarrassment. What on earthpossessed him to blush like a plow-boy! He suddenly felt like one,too, and turned sharply to the little dog, perplexed, irritated withhimself and his behaviour.

  Behind him the Princess was saying:

  "The car is here. I shan't stop for tea, dear. In case anythinghappens, I am at the Embassy."

  "The Russian Embassy," repeated Rue.

  "Yes. I may be a little late. We are to dine here _en famille_ ateight. You will entertain James----

  "James!" she repeated, addressing him. "Do you think Ruhannahsufficiently interesting to entertain you while I am absent?"

  But all his aplomb, his lack of self-consciousness, seemed to be gone;and Neeland made some reply which seemed to him both obvious and dull.And hated himself because he found himself so unaccountably abashed,realising that he was afraid of the opinions that this young girlmight entertain concerning him.

  "I'm going," said the Princess. "_Au revoir_, dear; good-bye,James----"

  She looked at him keenly when he turned to face her, smiled, stillconsidering him as though she had unexpectedly discovered a newfeature in his expressive face.

  Whatever it was she discovered seemed to make her smile a trifle moremechanical; she turned slowly to Rue Carew, hesitated, then, noddinga gay adieu, turned and left the room with Neeland at her elbow.

  "I'll tuck you in," he began; but she said:

  "Thanks; Marotte will do that." And left him at the door.

  When the car had driven away down the rue Soleil d'Or, Neelandreturned to the little drawing-room where Rue was indulging Sandy withsmall bits of sugar.

  He took up cup and buttered _croissant_, and for a little whilenothing was said, except to Sandy who, upon invitation, repeated hisopinion of the Sultan and snapped in the offered emolument withunsatiated satisfaction.

  To Rue Carew as well as to Neeland there seemed to be a slightconstraint between them--something not entirely new to her since theyhad met again after two years.

  In the two years of her absence she had been very faithful to thememory of his kindness; constant in the friendship which she had givenhim unasked--given him first, she sometimes thought, when she was alittle child in a ragged pink frock, and he was a wonderful young manwho had taken the trouble to cross the pasture and warn her out ofrange of the guns.

  He had always held his unique place in her memory and in her innocentaffections; she had written to him again and again, in spite of hisevident lack of interest in the girl to whom he had been kind. Rare,brief letters from him were read and reread, and laid away with herbest-loved treasures. And when the prospect of actually seeing himagain presented itself, she had been so frankly excited and happy thatthe Princess Mistchenka could find in the girl's unfeigned delightnothing except a young girl's touching and slightly amusinghero-worship.

  But with her first exclamation when she caught sight of him at theterminal, something about her preconceived ideas of him, and hermemory of him, was suddenly and subtly altered, even while his namefell from her excited lips.

  Because she had suddenly realised that he was even more wonderful thanshe had expected or remembered, and that she did not know him atall--that she had no knowledge of this tall, handsome, well-builtyoung fellow with his sunburnt features and his air of smilingaloofness and of graceful assurance, almost fascinating and a trifledisturbing.

  Which had made the girl rather grave and timid, uncertain of theestimation in which he might hold her; no longer so sure of anyencouragement from him in her perfectly obvious attitude of a friendof former days.

  And so, shyly admiring, uncertain, inclined to warm response at anyadvance from this wonderful young man, the girl had been trying toadjust herself to this new incarnation of a certain James Neeland whohad won her gratitude and who had awed her, too, from the time when,as a little girl, she had first beheld him.

  She lifted her golden-grey eyes to him; a little unexpected sensationnot wholly unpleasant checked her speech for a moment.

  This was odd, even unaccountable. Such awkwardness, such disquietingand provincial timidity wouldn't do.

  "Would you mind telling me a little about Brookhollow?" she ventured.

  Certainly he would tell her. He laid aside his plate and tea cup andtold her of his visits there when he had walked over from Neeland'sMills in the pleasant summer weather.

  Nothing had changed, he assured her; mill-dam and pond and bridge, andthe rushing creek below were exactly as she knew them; her house stoodthere at the crossroads, silent and closed in the sunshine, and underthe high moon; pickerel and sunfish still haunted the shallow pond;partridges still frequented the alders and willows across her pasture;fireflies sailed through the summer night; and the crows congregatedin the evening woods and talked over the events
of the day.

  "And my cat? You wrote that you would take care of Adoniram."

  "Adoniram is an aged patriarch and occupies the place of honour in myfather's house," he said.

  "He is well?"

  "Oh, yes. He prefers his food cut finely, that is all."

  "I don't suppose he will live very long."

  "He's pretty old," admitted Neeland.

  She sighed and looked out of the window at the kitten in the garden.And, after an interval of silence:

  "Our plot in the cemetery--is it--pretty?"

  "It is beautiful," he said, "under the great trees. It is well caredfor. I had them plant the shrubs and flowers you mentioned in the listyou sent me."

  "Thank you." She lifted her eyes again to him. "I wonder if yourealise how--how splendid you have always been to me."

  Surprised, he reddened, and said awkwardly that he had done nothing.Where was the easy, gay and debonaire assurance of this fluent youngman? He was finding nothing to say to Rue Carew, or saying what hesaid as crudely and uncouthly as any haymaker in Gayfield.

  He looked up, exasperated, and met her eyes squarely. And Rue Carewblushed.

  They both looked elsewhere at once, but in the girl's breast a newpulse beat; a new instinct stirred, blindly importuning her forrecognition; a new confusion threatened the ordered serenity of hermind, vaguely menacing it with unaccustomed questions.

  Then the instinct of self-command returned; she found composure withan effort.

  "You haven't asked me," she said, "about my work. Would you like toknow?"

  He said he would; and she told him--chary of self-praise, yet eagerthat he should know that her masters had spoken well of her.

  "And you know," she said, "every week, now, I contribute a drawing tothe illustrated paper I wrote to you about. I sent one off yesterday.But," and she laughed shyly, "my nostrils are no longer filled withpride, because I am not contented with myself any more. I wish todo--oh, so much better work!"

  "Of course. Contentment in creative work means that we have nothingmore to create."

  She nodded and smiled:

  "The youngest born is the most tenderly cherished--until a new onecomes. It is that way with me; I am all love and devotion andtenderness and self-sacrifice while fussing over my youngest. Then astill younger comes, and I become like a heartless cat and drive awayall progeny except the newly born."

  She sighed and smiled and looked up at him:

  "It can't be helped, I suppose--that is, if one's going to have moreprogeny."

  "It's our penalty for producing. Only the newest counts. And those tocome are to be miracles. But they never are."

  She nodded seriously.

  "When there is a better light I should like to show you some of mystudies," she ventured. "No, not now. I am too vain to risk anythingexcept the kindest of morning lights. Because I do hope for yourapproval----"

  "I know they're good," he said. And, half laughingly: "I'm beginningto find out that you're a rather wonderful and formidable andoverpowering girl, Ruhannah."

  "You don't think so!" she exclaimed, enchanted. "_Do_ you? Oh, dear!Then I feel that I ought to show you my pictures and set you rightimmediately----" She sprang to her feet. "I'll get them; I'll be onlya moment----"

  She was gone before he discovered anything to say, leaving him to walkup and down the deserted room and think about her as clearly as hissomewhat dislocated thoughts permitted, until she returned with botharms full of portfolios, boards, and panels.

  "Now," she said with a breathless smile, "you may mortify my pride andrebuke my vanity. I deserve it; I need it; but Oh!--don't be toosevere----"

  "Are you serious?" he asked, looking up in astonishment from the firstastonishing drawing in colour which he held between his hands.

  "Serious? Of course----" She met his eyes anxiously, then her ownbecame incredulous and the swift colour dyed her face.

  "Do you _like_ my work?" she asked in a fainter voice.

  "_Like_ it!" He continued to stare at the bewildering grace and colourof the work, turned to another and lifted it to the light:

  "What's this?" he demanded.

  "A monotype."

  "_You_ did it?"

  "Y-yes."

  He seemed unable to take his eyes from it--from the exquisite figuresthere in the sun on the bank of the brimming river under aniris-tinted April sky.

  "What do you call it, Rue?"

  "Baroque."

  He continued to scrutinise it in silence, then drew another cartonprepared for oil from the sheaf on the sofa.

  Over autumn woods, in a windy sky, high-flying crows were buffeted andblown about. From the stark trees a few phantom leaves clung,fluttering; and the whole scene was possessed by sinuous, whirlingforms--mere glimpses of supple, exquisite shapes tossing, curling,flowing through the naked woodland. A delicate finger caught at a deadleaf here; there frail arms clutched at a bending, wind-tossed bough;grey sky and ghostly forest were obsessed, bewitched by the winnowing,driving torrent of airy, half seen spirits.

  "The Winds," he said mechanically.

  He looked at another--a sketch of the Princess Naia. And somehow itmade him think of vast skies and endless plains and the tumult ofsurging men and rattling lances.

  "A Cossack," he said, half to himself. "I never before realised it."And he laid it aside and turned to the next.

  "I haven't brought any life studies or school drawings," she said. "Ithought I'd just show you the--the results of them and of--of whateveris in me."

  "I'm just beginning to understand what is in you," he said.

  "Tell me--what is it?" she asked, almost timidly.

  "Tell _you_?" He rose, stood by the window looking out, then turned toher:

  "What can _I_ tell you?" he added with a short laugh. "What have I tosay to a girl who can do--_these_--after two years abroad?"

  Sheer happiness kept her silent. She had not dared hope for suchapproval. Even now she dared not permit herself to accept it.

  "I have so much to say," she ventured, "and such an appalling amountof work before I can learn to say it----"

  "Your work is--stunning!" he said bluntly.

  "You don't think so!" she exclaimed incredulously.

  "Indeed I do! Look at what you have done in two years. Yes, grant allyour aptitude and talents, just look what you've _accomplished_ andwhere you _are_! Look at you yourself, too--what a stunning,bewildering sort of girl you've developed into!"

  "Jim Neeland!"

  "Certainly, Jim Neeland, of Neeland's Mills, who has had years morestudy than you have, more years of advantage, and who now is anillustrator without anything in particular to distinguish him from theseveral thousand other American illustrators----"

  "Jim! Your work is charming!"

  "How do _you_ know?"

  "Because I have everything you ever did! I sent for the magazines andcut them out; and they are in my scrapbook----"

  She hesitated, breathless, smiling back at him out of her beautifulgolden-grey eyes as though challenging him to doubt her loyalty or herbelief in him.

  It was rather curious, too, for the girl was unusually intelligent anddiscriminating; and Neeland's work was very, very commonplace.

  His face had become rather sober, but the smile still lurked on hislips.

  "Rue," he said, "you are wonderfully kind. But I'm afraid I know aboutmy work. I can draw pretty well, according to school standards; and Iapproach pretty nearly the same standards in painting. Probably thatis why I became an instructor at the Art League. But, so far, Ihaven't done anything better than what is called 'acceptable.'"

  "I don't agree with you," she said warmly.

  "It's very kind of you not to." He laughed and walked to the windowagain, and stood there looking out across the sunny garden. "Ofcourse," he added over his shoulder, "I expect to get along all right.Mediocrity has the best of chances, you know."

  "You are _not_ mediocre!"

  "No, I don't think I am. But my work is.
And, do you know," hecontinued thoughtfully, "that is very often the case with a man who isbetter equipped to act than to tell with pen or pencil how others act.I'm beginning to be afraid that I'm that sort, because I'm afraid thatI get more enjoyment out of doing things than in explaining withpencil and paint how they are done."

  But Rue Carew, seated on the arm of her chair, slowly shook her head:

  "I don't think that those are the only alternatives; do you?"

  "What other is there?"

  She said, a little shyly:

  "I think it is all right to _do_ things if you like; make exactpictures of how things are done if you choose; but it seems to me thatif one really has anything to say, one should show in one's pictureshow things _might_ be or _ought_ to be. Don't you?"

  He seemed surprised and interested in her logic, and she took courageto speak again in her pretty, deprecating way:

  "If the function of painting and literature is to reflect reality, amirror would do as well, wouldn't it? But to reflect what might be orwhat ought to be requires something more, doesn't it?"

  "Imagination. Yes."

  "A mind, anyway.... That is what I have thought; but I'm not at allsure I am right."

  "I don't know. The mind ought to be a mirror reflecting only theessentials of reality."

  "And _that_ requires imagination, doesn't it?" she asked. "You see youhave put it much better than I have."

  "Have I?" he returned, smiling. "After a while you'll persuade me thatI possess your imagination, Rue. But I don't."

  "You do, Jim----"

  "I'm sorry; I don't. You construct, I copy; you create, I ring changeson what already is; you dissect, I skate over the surface ofthings--Oh, Lord! I don't know what's lacking in me!" he added withgay pretence of despair which possibly was less feigned than real."But I know this, Rue Carew! I'd rather experience somethinginteresting than make a picture of it. And I suppose that confessionis fatal."

  "Why, Jim?"

  "Because with me the pleasures of reality are substituted for thepleasures of imagination. Not that I don't like to draw and paint. Butmy ambition in painting is and always has been bounded by the visible.And, although that does not prevent me from appreciation--fromunderstanding and admiring your work, for example--it sets animpregnable limit to any such aspiration on my part----"

  His mobile and youthful features had become very grave; he stood amoment with lowered head as though what he was thinking of depressedhim; then the quick smile came into his face and cleared it, and hesaid gaily:

  "I'm an artistic _Dobbin_; a reliable, respectable sort of Fido onwhom editors can depend; that's all. Don't feel sorry for me," headded, laughing; "my work will be very much in demand."