But neither Annan nor Ogilvy could use her then; and Neville had just finished a solid week of her.
“What I’ll do,” she said with decision, “will be to telephone John
Burleson. I never knew him to fail a girl in search of an engagement.”
“Isn’t he a dear,” said Valerie, smiling. “I adore him.”
She sat at the piano, running her fingers lightly over the keyboard, listening to what was being said, watching with happy interest everything that was going on around her, and casting an occasional glance over her shoulder and upward to where Neville stood at work.
“John Burleson,” observed Rita, looking fixedly at Ogilvy, “is easily the nicest man I know.”
“Help!” said Ogilvy, feebly.
Valerie glanced across the top of the piano, laughing, while her hands passed idly here and there over the keys:
“Sam can be very nice, Rita; but you’ve got to make him,” she said.
“Did you ever know a really interesting man who didn’t require watching?” inquired Annan, mildly.
Rita surveyed him with disdain: “Plenty.”
“Don’t believe it. No girl has any very enthusiastic use for a man in whom she has perfect confidence.”
“Here’s another profound observation,” added Ogilvy; “when a woman loses confidence in a man she finds a brand-new interest in him. But when a man once really loses confidence in a woman, he never regains it, and it’s the beginning of the end. What do you think about that, Miss West?”
Valerie, still smiling, struck a light chord or two, considering:
“I don’t know how it would be,” she said, “to lose confidence in a man you really care much about. I should think it would break a girl’s heart.”
“It doesn’t,” said Rita, with supreme contempt. “You become accustomed to it.”
Valerie leaned forward against the keyboard, laughing:
“Oh, Rita!” she said, “what a confession!”
“You silly child,” retorted Rita, “I’m twenty-two. Do you think I have the audacity to pretend I’ve never been in love?”
Ogilvy said with a grin: “How about you, Miss West?” — hoping to embarrass her; but she only smiled gaily and continued to play a light accompaniment to the fugitive air that was running through her head.
“Don’t be selfish with your experiences,” urged Ogilvy. “Come on, Miss
West! ‘Raus mit ‘em!’”
“What do you wish me to say, Sam?”
“That you’ve been in love several times.”
“But I haven’t.”
“Not once?”
Her lowered face was still smiling, as her pliant fingers drifted into
Grieg’s “Spring Song.”
“Not one pretty amourette to cheer those twenty-one years of yours?” insisted Ogilvy.
But his only answer was her lowered head and the faint smile edging her lips, and the “Spring Song,” low, clear, exquisitely persistent in the hush.
When the last note died out in the stillness Rita emphasised the finish with the ferrule of her parasol and rose with decision:
“I require several new frocks,” she said, “and how am I to acquire them unless I pose for somebody? Good-bye, Mr. Neville — bye-bye! Sam — good-bye, Mr. Annan — good-bye, dear,” — to Valerie— “if you’ve nothing better on hand drop in this evening. I’ve a duck of a new hat.”
The girl nodded, and, as Rita Tevis walked out, turning up her nose at Ogilvy who opened the door for her, Valerie glanced up over her shoulder at Neville:
“I don’t believe you are going to need me to-day after all, are you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, absently. “I’ve a lot of things to do. You needn’t stay,
Miss West.”
“Now will you be good!” said Annan, smiling at her with his humourous, bantering air. And to his surprise and discomfiture he saw the least trace of annoyance in her dark eyes.
“Come up to the studio and have a julep,” he said with hasty cordiality. “And suppose we dine together at Arrowhead — if you’ve nothing else on hand—”
She shook her head — the movement was scarcely perceptible. The smile had returned to her lips.
“Won’t you, Miss West?”
“Isn’t it like you to ask me when you heard Rita’s invitation? You’re a fraud, Mr. Annan.”
“Are you going to sit in that boarding-house parlour and examine Rita’s new bonnet all this glorious evening?”
She laughed: “Is there any man on earth who can prophesy what any woman on earth is likely to do? If you can, please begin.”
Ogilvy, hands clasped behind him, balancing alternately on heels and toes, stood regarding Neville’s work. Annan looked up, too, watching Neville where he stood on the scaffolding, busy as always, with the only recreation he cared anything for — work.
“I wish to Heaven I were infected with the bacillus of industry,” broke out Ogilvy. “I never come into this place but I see Kelly busily doing something.”
“You’re an inhuman sort of brute, Kelly!” added Annan. “What do you work that way for — money? If I had my way I’d spend three quarters of my time shooting and fishing and one quarter painting — and I’m as devotedly stuck on art as any healthy man ought to be.”
“Art’s a bum mistress if she makes you hustle like that!” commented
Ogilvy. “Shake her, Kelly. She’s a wampire mit a sarpint’s tongue!”
“The worst of Kelly is that he’d rather paint,” said Annan, hopelessly. “It’s sufficient to sicken the proverbial cat.”
“Get a machine and take us all out to Woodmanston?” suggested Ogilvy.
“It’s a bee — u — tiful day, dearie!”
“Get out of here!” retorted Neville, painting composedly.
“Your industry saddens us,” insisted Annan. “It’s only in mediocrity that you encounter industry. Genius frivols; talent takes numerous vacations on itself—”
“And at its own expense,” added Valerie, demurely. “I knew a man who couldn’t finish his ‘Spring Academy’ in time: and he had all winter to finish it. But he didn’t. Did you ever hear about that man, Sam?”
“Me,” said Ogilvy, bowing with hand on heart. “And with that cruel jab from you — false fair one — I’ll continue heavenward in the elevator. Come on, Harry.”
Annan took an elaborate farewell of Valerie which she met in the same mock-serious manner; then she waved a gay and dainty adieu to Ogilvy, and reseated herself after their departure. But this time she settled down into a great armchair facing Neville and his canvas, and lay back extending her arms and resting the back of her head on the cushions.
Whether or not Neville was conscious of her presence below she could not determine, so preoccupied did he appear to be with the work in hand. She lay there in the pleasant, mellow light of the great windows, watching him, at first intently, then, soothed by the soft spring wind that fitfully stirred the hair at her temples, she relaxed her attention, idly contented, happy without any particular reason.
Now and then a pigeon flashed by the windows, sheering away high above the sunlit city. Once, wind-caught, or wandering into unaccustomed heights, high in the blue a white butterfly glimmered, still mounting to infinite altitudes, fluttering, breeze-blown, a silvery speck adrift.
“Like a poor soul aspiring,” she thought listlessly, watching with dark eyes over which the lids dropped lazily at moments, only to lift again as her gaze reverted to the man above.
She thought about him, too; she usually did — about his niceness to her, his never-to-be-forgotten kindness; her own gratitude to him for her never-to-be-forgotten initiation.
It seemed scarcely possible that two months had passed since her novitiate — that two months ago she still knew nothing of the people, the friendships, the interest, the surcease from loneliness and hopeless apathy, that these new conditions had brought to her.
Had she known Louis Neville only t
wo months? Did all this new buoyancy date from two short months’ experience — this quickened interest in life, this happy development of intelligence so long starved, this unfolding of youth in the atmosphere of youth? She found it difficult to realise, lying there so contentedly, so happily, following, with an interest and appreciation always developing, the progress of the work.
Already, to herself, she could interpret much that she saw in this new world. Cant phrases, bits of studio lore, artists’ patter, their ways of looking at things, their manners of expression, their mannerisms, their little vanities, their ideas, ideals, aspirations, were fast becoming familiar to her. Also she was beginning to notice and secretly to reflect on their generic characteristics — their profoundly serious convictions concerning themselves and their art modified by surface individualities; their composite lack of humour — exceptions like Ogilvy and Annan, and even Neville only proving the rule; their simplicity, running the entire gamut from candour to stupidity; their patience which was half courage, half a capacity for suffering; and, in the latter, more woman-like than like a man.
Simplicity, courage, lack of humour — those appeared to be the fundamentals characterising the ensemble — supplemented by the extremes of restless intelligence and grim conservatism.
And the whole fabric seemed to be founded not on industry but on impulse born of sentiment. In this new, busy, inspiring, delightful world logic became a synthesis erected upon some inceptive absurdity, carried solemnly to a picturesque and erroneous conclusion.
She had been aware, in stage folk, of the tendency to sentimental impulse; and she again discovered it in this new world, in a form slightly modified by the higher average of reasoning power. In both professions the heart played the dominant part in creator and creation. The exceptions to the rule were the few in either profession who might be called distinguished.
Neville had once said to her: “Nothing that amounts to anything in art is ever done accidentally or merely because the person who creates it loves to do it.”
She was thinking of this, now, as she lay there watching him.
He had added: “Enthusiasm is excellent while you’re dressing for breakfast; but good pictures are painted in cold blood. Go out into the back yard and yell your appreciation of the universe if you want to; but the studio is a silent place; and a blank canvas a mathematical proposition.”
Could this be true? Was all the beauty, all the joyous charm, all the splendour of shape and colour the result of working out a mathematical proposition? Was this exquisite surety of touch and handling, of mass and line composition, all these lovely depths and vast ethereal spaces superbly peopled, merely the logical result of solving that problem? Was it all clear, limpid, steady, nerveless intelligence; and was nothing due to the chance and hazard of inspiration?
Gladys, the cat, walked in, gently flourishing her tail, hesitated, looked around with narrowing green-jewelled eyes, and, ignoring the whispered invitation and the outstretched hand, leaped lightly to a chair and settled down on a silken cushion, paws and tail folded under her jet-black body.
Valerie reproached her in a whisper, reminding her of past caresses and attentions, but the cat only blinked at her pleasantly.
On a low revolving stand at Valerie’s elbow lay a large lump of green modelling wax. This wax Neville sometimes used to fashion, with his facile hands, little figures sketched from his models. These he arranged in groups as though to verify the composition on the canvas before him, and this work and the pliant material which he employed had for her a particular and never-flagging interest. And now, without thinking, purely instinctively, she leaned forward and laid her hand caressingly on the lump of wax. There was something about the yielding, velvety texture that fascinated her, as though in her slim fingers some delicate nerves were responding to the pleasure of contact.
For a while she moulded little cubes and pyramids, pinched out bread-crumb chickens and pigs and cats.
“What do you think of this little wax kitten, Gladys?” she whispered, holding it up for the cat’s inspection. Gladys regarded it without interest and resumed her pleasant contemplation of space.
Valerie, elbows on knees, seated at the revolving stool with all the naïve absorption of a child constructing mud pies, began to make out of the fascinating green wax an image of Gladys dozing.
Time fled away in the studio; intent, absorbed, she pinched little morsels of wax from the lump and pushed them into place with a snowy, pink-tipped thumb, or with the delicate nail of her forefinger removed superfluous material.
Stepping noiselessly so not to disturb Neville she made frequent journeys around to the other side of the cat, sometimes passing sensitive fingers over silky feline contours, which, research inspired a loud purring.
As she worked sometimes she talked under her breath to herself, to
Gladys, to Neville:
“I am making a perfectly good cat, Valerie,” she whispered. “Gladys, aren’t you a little bit flattered? I suppose you think it’s honour enough to belong to that man up there on the scaffolding. I imagine it is; he is a very wonderful man, Gladys, very high above us in intellect as he is in body. He doesn’t pay very much attention to you and me down here on the floor; he’s just satisfied to own us and be amiable to us when he thinks about us.
“I don’t mean that in any critical or reproachful sense, Gladys. Don’t you dare think I do — not for one moment! Do you hear me? Well then! If you are stupid enough to misunderstand me I’ll put a perfectly horrid pair of ears on you!… I’ve made a very dainty pair of ears for you, dear; I only said that to frighten you. You and I like that man up there — tremendously, don’t we? And we’re very grateful to him for — for a great many happy moments — and for his unfailing kindness and consideration…. You don’t mind posing for me; you wear fur. But I didn’t wear anything, dear, when I first sat to him as a novice; and, kitty, I was a fortunate girl in my choice of the man before whom I was to make a début. And I—”
The rattle of brushes and the creak of the scaffolding arrested her:
Neville was coming down for a view of his work.
“Hello,” he said, pleasantly, noticing for the first time that she was still in the studio.
“Have I disturbed you, Mr. Neville?”
“Not a bit. You never do any more than does Gladys.” He glanced absently at the cat, then, facing his canvas, backed away from it, palette in hand.
For ten minutes he examined his work, shifting his position from minute to minute, until the change of positions brought him backed up beside Valerie, and his thigh brushing her arm made him aware of her. Glancing down with smiling apology his eye fell on the wax, and was arrested. Then he bent over the work she had done, examining it, twirled the top of the stool, and inspected it carefully from every side.
“Have you ever studied modelling, Miss West?”
“No,” she said, blushing, “you must know that I haven’t.” And looked up expecting to see laughter in his eyes; and saw only the curiosity of interest.
“How did you know how to start this?”
“I have often watched you.”
“Is that all the instruction you’ve ever had in modelling?”
She could not quite bring herself to believe in his pleasant seriousness:
“Y-yes,” she admitted, “except when I have watched John Burleson.
But — this is simply rotten — childish — isn’t it?”
“No,” he said in a matter of fact tone, “it’s interesting.”
“Do you really think — mean—”
He looked down at her, considering her while the smile that she knew and liked best and thought best suited to his face, began to glimmer; that amused, boyish, bantering smile hinting of experience and wisdom delightfully beyond her.
“I really think that you’re a very unusual girl,” he said. “I don’t want to spoil you by telling you so every minute.”
“You don’t spoil me by telling me so. Sometimes
I think you may spoil me by not telling me so.”
“Miss West! You’re spoiled already! I’m throwing bouquets at you every minute! You’re about the only girl who ever sat for me with whom I talk unreservedly and incessantly.”
“Really, Mr. Neville?”
“Yes — really, Mr. Neville,” he repeated, laughing— “you bad, spoiled little beauty! You know devilish well that if there’s any intellectual space between you and me it’s purely a matter of circumstance and opportunity.”
“Do you think me silly enough to believe that!”
“I think you clever enough to know it without my telling you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that.”
She was still smiling but in the depths of her eyes he felt that the smile was not genuine.
“See here,” he said, “I don’t want you to think that I don’t mean what I say. I do. You’re as intelligent a woman as I ever knew. I’ve known girls more cultivated in general and in particular, but, I say again, that is the hazard of circumstance. Is all clear between us now, Miss West?”
“Yes.”
He held out his hand; she glanced up, smiled, and laid her own in it.
And they shook hands heartily.
“Good business,” he said with satisfaction. “Don’t ever let anything threaten our very charming accord. The moment you don’t approve of anything I say or do come straight to me and complain — and don’t let me divine it in your eyes, Miss West.”
“Did you?”
“Certainly I did. Your lips were smiling but in your eyes was something that did not corroborate your lips.”
“Yes…. But how could you see it?”
“After all,” he said, “it’s part of my business to notice such things.” He seated himself on the arm of her chair and bent over the wax model, his shoulder against hers. And the chance contact meant nothing to either: but what he said about men and things in the world was inevitably arousing the intelligence in her to a gratitude, a happiness, at first timid, then stirring subtly, tremulously, toward passionate response.
No man can do that to a girl and leave the higher side of her indifferent or unresponsive. What he had aroused — what he was awakening every day in her was what he must some day reckon with. Loyalty is born of the spirit, devotion of the mind; and spiritual intelligence arouses fiercer passions than the sensuous emotions born of the flesh.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 520