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 naïvely.
"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
Naïa?" 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.
ROW BETWEEN SPORTING MEN
EDDIE BRANDES, FIGHT PROMOTER AND
THEATRICAL MAN, MIXES IT WITH
MAXY VENEM
A WOMAN SAID TO BE THE CAUSE: AFFRAY DRAWS
A BIG CROWD IN FRONT OF THE HOTEL
KNICKERBOCKER
BOTH MEN, BADLY BATTERED, GET AWAY BEFORE THE
POLICE ARRIVE
Breakfasting leisurely, he read the partly humorous, partly
contemptuous account of the sordid affair. Afterward he sent for all
the morning papers. But in none of them was Ruhannah Carew mentioned
at all, nobody, apparently, having noticed her in the exciting affair
between Venem, Brandes, the latter's wife, and the chauffeur.
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.