The Dark Star Part 12

"Perhaps you may turn out stuff yourself some day."

She scarcely knew how to take the word "stuff." Vaguely she surmised it to be professional vernacular.

She admitted shyly that she cared for nothing so much as drawing, that she longed for instruction, but that such a dream was hopeless.

At first he did not comprehend that poverty barred the way to her; he urged her to cultivate her talent, bestowed advice concerning the Art League, boarding houses, studios, ways, means, and ends, until she felt obliged to tell him how far beyond her means such magic splendours lay.

He remained silent, sorry for her, thinking also that the chances were against her having any particular talent, consoling a heart that was unusually sympathetic and tender with the conclusion that this girl would be happier here in Brookhollow than scratching around the purlieus 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 d.i.c.kens and kick your heels in ante-rooms. If they take your stuff they send you back to alter it or redraw it. _I_ don't know 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 it yet."

"Couldn't a man--a girl--support herself by drawing pictures for magazines?" she inquired tremulously.

"Oh, well, of course there are some who have arrived--and they manage to 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_, Jean Throssel, 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, you know--does all that stuff for _The Looking Gla.s.s_--futurist graft, no mouths on her people--she makes _hers_, I understand."

It was rather difficult for Rue to follow him amid the vernacular mazes.

"Then, of course," he continued, "men like Alexander Fairless and Philip Lightwood who imitates him, make fortunes out of their drawing.

I could name a dozen, perhaps. But the rest--hard sledding, Miss Carew!"

"Is it _very_ hard?"

"Well, I don't know what on earth I'd do if dad didn't back me as his fancy."

"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'll make plenty of money," he a.s.sured her confidently.

"I'm sure you will."

"Thank you," he smiled. "My friends tell me I've got it in me. I have one friend in particular--the Princess Mistchenka--who has all kinds of confidence in my future. When I'm blue she bolsters me up. She's quite wonderful. I owe her a lot for asking me to her Sunday nights and for giving me her friendship."

"A--a princess?" whispered the girl, who had drawn pictures of thousands but was a little startled to realise that such fabled creatures 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 Sunday night suppers are wonderful. You meet people who do things--all sorts--everybody who is somebody."

He turned to her frankly:

"I think myself very lucky that the Princess Mistchenka should be my friend, because, honestly, Miss Carew, I don't see what there is in me to 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 drop ill.u.s.trating 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 and flashed 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 for dancing with me.... If you ever do come to New York to study, I hope you'll let me know."

"Yes," she said, "I will."

He was halfway to his sleigh, looked back, saw her looking back as she entered 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 she stood framed in the lighted doorway. And the same drop was no doubt responsible for his taking her by the waist and tilting back her head in its fur hood and kissing her soft, warm lips.

She looked up at him in a flushed, bewildered sort of way, not resisting; but his eyes were so gay and mischievous, and his quick smile so engaging that a breathless, uncertain smile began to edge her lips; and it remained stamped there, stiffening even after he had jumped into his cutter and had driven away, jingling joyously out into the dazzling moonshine.

In bed, the window open, and the covers pulled to her chin, Rue lay wakeful, living over again the pleasures of the evening; and Neeland's face was always before her open eyes, and his pleasant voice seemed to be 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. And she shyly thought the experience agreeable. And, as she recalled, revived, and considered all that Neeland had said, it seemed to her that this young man led an enchanted life and that such as he were indeed companions fit for princesses.

"Princess Mistchenka," she repeated aloud to herself. And somehow it sounded vaguely familiar to the girl, as though somewhere, long ago, she had heard another voice p.r.o.nounce the name.

CHAPTER V

EX MACHINA