TOGETHER
He sat there, holding the letter and looking absently over it at the
little dog who had gone to sleep again. There was no sound in the room
save the faint whisper of the tea-kettle. The sunny garden outside was
very still, too; the blackbird appeared to doze on his peach twig; the
kitten had settled down with eyes half closed and tail tucked under
flank.
The young man sat there with his letter in his hand and eyes lost in
retrospection for a while.
In his hand lay evidence that the gang which had followed him, and
through which he no longer doubted that he had been robbed, was now in
Paris.
And yet he could not give this information to the Princess Naïa. Here
was 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 light
sound came to his ears; and the next instant Rue Carew entered the
further drawing-room.
The little West Highland terrier looked up, wagged that section of him
which did duty as a tail, and watched her as Neeland rose to seat her
at the tea-table.
"Sandy," she said to the little dog, "if you care to say 'Down with
the 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, who
delivered 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 of
approval.
"Now," said Rue Carew, "you are friends, and we shall all be very
happy together, I'm sure.... Princess Naïa said we were not to wait.
Tell me how to fix your tea."
He explained. About to begin on a buttered _croissant_, he desisted
abruptly and rose to receive the Princess, who entered with the light,
springy step characteristic of her, gowned in one of those Parisian
afternoon creations which never are seen outside that capital, and
never will be.
"Far too charming to be real," commented Neeland. "You are a pretty
fairy story, Princess Naïa, and your gown is a miracle tale which
never was true."
He had not dared any such flippancy with Rue Carew, and the girl, who
knew she was exquisitely gowned, felt an odd little pang in her heart
as this young man's praise of the Princess Mistchenka fell so easily
and gaily from his lips. He might have noticed her gown, as it had
been chosen with many doubts, much hesitation, and anxious
consideration, for him.
She flushed a little at the momentary trace of envy:
"You _are_ too lovely for words," she said, rising. But the Princess
gently forced her to resume her seat.
"If this young man has any discrimination," she said, "he won't
hesitate with the golden apple, Ruhannah."
Rue laughed and flushed:
"He hasn't noticed my gown, and I wore it for him to notice," she
said. "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 surprise
and annoyance, his face grew hot with embarrassment. What on earth
possessed him to blush like a plow-boy! He suddenly felt like one,
too, and turned sharply to the little dog, perplexed, irritated with
himself and his behaviour.
Behind him the Princess was saying:
"The car is here. I shan't stop for tea, dear. In case anything
happens, I am at the Embassy."
"The Russian Embassy," repeated Rue.
"Yes. I may be a little late. We are to dine here _en famille_ at
eight. You will entertain James----
"James!" she repeated, addressing him. "Do you think Ruhannah
sufficiently 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 girl
might 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, still
considering him as though she had unexpectedly discovered a new
feature in his expressive face.
Whatever it was she discovered seemed to make her smile a trifle more
mechanical; she turned slowly to Rue Carew, hesitated, then, nodding
a 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, Neeland
returned to the little drawing-room where Rue was indulging Sandy with
small bits of sugar.
He took up cup and buttered _croissant_, and for a little while
nothing was said, except to Sandy who, upon invitation, repeated his
opinion of the Sultan and snapped in the offered emolument with
unsatiated satisfaction.
To Rue Carew as well as to Neeland there seemed to be a slight
constraint between them--something not entirely new to her since they
had met again after two years.
In the two years of her absence she had been very faithful to the
memory of his kindness; constant in the friendship which she had given
him unasked--given him first, she sometimes thought, when she was a
little child in a ragged pink frock, and he was a wonderful young man
who had taken the trouble to cross the pasture and warn her out of
range of the guns.
He had always held his unique place in her memory and in her innocent
affections; she had written to him again and again, in spite of his
evident 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 her
best-loved treasures. And when the prospect of actually seeing him
again presented itself, she had been so frankly excited and happy that
the Princess Mistchenka could find in the girl's unfeigned delight
nothing except a young girl's touching and slightly amusing
hero-worship.
But with her first exclamation when she caught sight of him at the
terminal, something about her preconceived ideas of him, and her
memory of him, was suddenly and subtly altered, even while his name
fell from her excited lips.
Because she had suddenly realised that he was even more wonderful than
she had expected or remembered, and that she did not know him at
all--that she had no knowledge of this tall, handsome, well-built
young fellow with his sunburnt features and his air of smiling
aloofness and of graceful assurance, almost fascinating and a trifle
disturbing.
Which had made the girl rather grave and timid, uncertain of the
estimation in which he might hold her; no longer so sure of any
encouragement from him in her perfectly obvious attitude of a friend
of former days.
And so, shyly admiring, uncertain, inclined to warm response at any
advance from this wonderful young man, the girl had been trying to
adjust herself to this new incarnation of a certain James Neeland who
had 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 sensation
not wholly unpleasant checked her speech for a moment.
This was odd, even unaccountable. Such awkwardness, such disquieting
and 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 and
told her of his visits there when he had walked over from Neeland's
Mills in the pleasant summer weather.
Nothing had changed, he assured her; mill-dam and pond and bridge, and
the rushing creek below were exactly as she knew them; her house stood
there at the crossroads, silent and closed in the sunshine, and under
the 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 congregated
in 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 my
father'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 cared
for. I had them plant the shrubs and flowers you mentioned in the list
you sent me."
"Thank you." She lifted her eyes again to him. "I wonder if you
realise 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 young
man? He was finding nothing to say to Rue Carew, or saying what he
said as crudely and uncouthly as any haymaker in Gayfield.
He looked up, exasperated, and met her eyes squarely. And Rue Carew
blushed.
They both looked elsewhere at once, but in the girl's breast a new
pulse beat; a new instinct stirred, blindly importuning her for
recognition; a new confusion threatened the ordered serenity of her
mind, vaguely menacing it with unaccustomed questions.
Then the instinct of self-command returned; she found composure with
an effort.
"You haven't asked me," she said, "about my work. Would you like to
know?"
He said he would; and she told him--chary of self-praise, yet eager
that he should know that her masters had spoken well of her.
"And you know," she said, "every week, now, I contribute a drawing to
the illustrated paper I wrote to you about. I sent one off yesterday.
But," and she laughed shyly, "my nostrils are no longer filled with
pride, because I am not contented with myself any more. I wish to
do--oh, so much better work!"
"Of course. Contentment in creative work means that we have nothing
more to create."
She nodded and smiled:
"The youngest born is the most tenderly cherished--until a new one
comes. It is that way with me; I am all love and devotion and
tenderness and self-sacrifice while fussing over my youngest. Then a
still younger comes, and I become like a heartless cat and drive away
all 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 more
progeny."
"It's our penalty for producing. Only the newest counts. And those to
come 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 my
studies," she ventured. "No, not now. I am too vain to risk anything
except the kindest of morning lights. Because I do hope for your
approval----"
"I know they're good," he said. And, half laughingly: "I'm beginning
to find out that you're a rather wonderful and formidable and
overpowering 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 right
immediately----" She sprang to her feet. "I'll get them; I'll be only
a moment----"
She was gone before he discovered anything to say, leaving him to walk
up and down the deserted room and think about her as clearly as his
somewhat dislocated thoughts permitted, until she returned with both
arms full of portfolios, boards, and panels.
"Now," she said with a breathless smile, "you may mortify my pride and
rebuke my vanity. I deserve it; I need it; but Oh!--don't be too
severe----"
"Are you serious?" he asked, looking up in astonishment from the first
astonishing drawing in colour which he held between his hands.
"Serious? Of course----" She met his eyes anxiously, then her own
became 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 colour
of 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 figures
there in the sun on the bank of the brimming river under an
iris-tinted April sky.
"What do you call it, Rue?"
"Baroque."
He continued to scrutinise it in silence, then drew another carton
prepared for oil from the sheaf on the sofa.
Over autumn woods, in a windy sky, high-flying crows were buffeted and
blown about. From the stark trees a few phantom leaves clung,
fluttering; and the whole scene was possessed by sinuous, whirling
forms--mere glimpses of supple, exquisite shapes tossing, curling,
flowing through the naked woodland. A delicate finger caught at a dead
leaf 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 Naïa. And somehow it
made him think of vast skies and endless plains and the tumult of
surging 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. "I
thought I'd just show you the--the results of them and of--of whatever
is 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 to
her:
"What can _I_ tell you?" he added with a short laugh. "What have I to
say to a girl who can do--_these_--after two years abroad?"
Sheer happiness kept her silent. She had not dared hope for such
approval. Even now she dared not permit herself to accept it.
"I have so much to say," she ventured, "and such an appalling amount
of 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 all
your aptitude and talents, just look what you've _accomplished_ and
where 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 more
study than you have, more years of advantage, and who now is an
illustrator without anything in particular to distinguish him from the
several 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 and
cut them out; and they are in my scrapbook----"
She hesitated, breathless, smiling back at him out of her beautiful
golden-grey eyes as though challenging him to doubt her loyalty or her
belief in him.
It was rather curious, too, for the girl was unusually intelligent and
discriminating; and Neeland's work was very, very commonplace.
His face had become rather sober, but the smile still lurked on his
lips.
"Rue," he said, "you are wonderfully kind. But I'm afraid I know about
my work. I can draw pretty well, according to school standards; and I
approach pretty nearly the same standards in painting. Probably that
is why I became an instructor at the Art League. But, so far, I
haven'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 window
again, and stood there looking out across the sunny garden. "Of
course," 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," he
continued thoughtfully, "that is very often the case with a man who is
better 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 that
I get more enjoyment out of doing things than in explaining with
pencil 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 exact
pictures of how things are done if you choose; but it seems to me that
if one really has anything to say, one should show in one's pictures
how things _might_ be or _ought_ to be. Don't you?"
He seemed surprised and interested in her logic, and she took courage
to speak again in her pretty, deprecating way:
"If the function of painting and literature is to reflect reality, a
mirror would do as well, wouldn't it? But to reflect what might be or
what 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 all
sure I am right."
"I don't know. The mind ought to be a mirror reflecting only the
essentials of reality."
"And _that_ requires imagination, doesn't it?" she asked. "You see you
have put it much better than I have."
"Have I?" he returned, smiling. "After a while you'll persuade me that
I 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 changes
on what already is; you dissect, I skate over the surface of
things--Oh, Lord! I don't know what's lacking in me!" he added with
gay pretence of despair which possibly was less feigned than real.
"But I know this, Rue Carew! I'd rather experience something
interesting than make a picture of it. And I suppose that confession
is fatal."
"Why, Jim?"
"Because with me the pleasures of reality are substituted for the
pleasures of imagination. Not that I don't like to draw and paint. But
my ambition in painting is and always has been bounded by the visible.
And, although that does not prevent me from appreciation--from
understanding and admiring your work, for example--it sets an
impregnable limit to any such aspiration on my part----"
His mobile and youthful features had become very grave; he stood a
moment with lowered head as though what he was thinking of depressed
him; then the quick smile came into his face and cleared it, and he
said gaily:
"I'm an artistic _Dobbin_; a reliable, respectable sort of Fido on
whom editors can depend; that's all. Don't feel sorry for me," he
added, laughing; "my work will be very much in demand."