The Common Law. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ would die unless I had an outlet. This is almost one. At least it gives me something to do with my life."

      "Posing?"

      "Yes."

      "I don't quite understand you."

      "Why, I only mean that—the other"—she smiled—"what you call the bow-wows, would not have been an outlet for me…. I was a show-girl for two months last winter; I ought to know. And I'd rather have died than—"

      "I see," he said; "that outlet was too stupid to have attracted you."

      She nodded. "Besides, I have principles," she said, candidly.

      "Which effectually blocked that outlet. They sometimes kill, too, as you say. Youth stifled too long means death—the death of youth at least. Outlets mean life. The idea is to find a safe one."

      She flushed in quick, sensitive response:

      "That is it; that is what I meant. Mr. Neville, I am twenty-one; and do you know I never had a childhood? And I am simply wild for it—for the girlhood and the playtime that I never had—"

      She checked herself, looking across at him uncertainly.

      "Go on," he nodded.

      "That is all."

      "No; tell me the rest."

      She sat with head bent, slender fingers picking at her napkin; then, without raising her troubled eyes:

      "Life has been—curious. My mother was bedridden. My childhood and girlhood were passed caring for her. That is all I ever did until—a year ago," she added, her voice falling so low he could scarcely hear her.

      "She died, then?"

      "A year ago last February."

      "You went to school. You must have made friends there."

      "I went to a public school for a year. After that mother taught me."

      "She must have been extremely cultivated."

      The girl nodded, looking absently at the cloth. Then, glancing up:

      "I wonder whether you will understand me when I tell you why I decided to ask employment of artists."

      "I'll try to," he said, smiling.

      "It was an intense desire to be among cultivated people—if only for a few hours. Besides, I had read about artists; and their lives seemed so young, so gay, so worth living—please don't think me foolish and immature, Mr. Neville—but I was so stifled, so cut off from such people, so uninspired, so—so starved for a little gaiety—and I needed youthful companionship—surroundings where people of my own age and intelligence sometimes entered—and I had never had it—"

      She looked at him with a strained, wistful expression as though begging him to understand her:

      "I couldn't remain at the theatre," she said. "I had little talent—no chance except chances I would not tolerate; no companionship except what I was unfitted for by education and inclination…. The men were—impossible. There may have been girls I could have liked—but I did not meet them. So, as I had to do something—and my years of seclusion with mother had unfitted me for any business—for office work or shop work—I thought that artists might care to employ me—might give me—or let me see—be near—something of the gayer, brighter, more pleasant and youthful side of life—"

      She ceased, bent her head thoughtfully.

      "You want—friends? Young ones—with intellects? You want to combine these with a chance of making a decent living?"

      "Yes." She looked up candidly: "I am simply starved for it. You must believe that when you see what I have submitted to—gone through with in your studio"—she blushed vividly—"in a—a desperate attempt to escape the—the loneliness, the silence and isolation"—she raised her dark eyes—"the isolation of the poor," she said. "You don't know what that means."

      After a moment she added, level-eyed: "For which there is supposed to be but one outlet—if a girl is attractive."

      He rose, walked to and fro for a few moments, then, halting:

      "All memory of the initial terror and distress and uncertainty aside, have you not enjoyed this morning, Miss West?"

      "Yes, I—have. I—you have no idea what it has meant to me."

      "It has given you an outlook, anyway."

      "Yes…. Only—I'm terrified at the idea of going through it again—with another man—"

      He laughed, and she tried to, saying:

      "But if all artists are as kind and considerate—"

      "Plenty of 'em are more so. There are a few bounders, a moderate number of beasts. You'll find them everywhere in the world from the purlieus to the pulpit…. I'm going to make a contract with you. After that, regretfully, I'll see that you meet the men who will be valuable to you…. I wish there was some way I could box you up in a jeweller's case so that nobody else could have you and I could find you when I needed you!"

      She laughed shyly, extended her slim white hand for him to support her while she mounted to her eyrie. Then, erect, delicately flushed, she let the robe fall from her and stood looking down at him in silence.

      CHAPTER II

      Spring came unusually early that year. By the first of the month a few willows and thorn bushes in the Park had turned green; then, in a single day, the entire Park became lovely with golden bell-flowers, and the first mowing machine clinked over the greenswards leaving a fragrance of clipped verdure in its wake.

      Under a characteristic blue sky April unfolded its myriad leaves beneath which robins ran over shaven lawns and purple grackle bustled busily about, and the water fowl quacked and whistled and rushed through the water nipping and chasing one another or, sidling alongside, began that nodding, bowing, bobbing acquaintance preliminary to aquatic courtship.

      Many of the wild birds had mated; many were mating; amorous caterwauling on back fences made night an inferno; pigeons cooed and bubbled and made endless nuisances of themselves all day long.

      In lofts, offices, and shops youthful faces, whitened by the winter's pallour, appeared at open windows gazing into the blue above, or, with, pretty, inscrutable eyes, studied the passing throng till the lifted eyes of youth below completed the occult circuit with a smile.

      And the spring sunshine grew hot, and sprinkling carts appeared, and the metropolis moulted its overcoats, and the derby became a burden, and the annual spring exhibition of the National Academy of Design remained uncrowded.

      Neville, lunching at the Syrinx Club, carelessly caught the ball of conversation tossed toward him and contributed his final comment:

      "Burleson—and you, Sam Ogilvy—and you, Annan, all say that the exhibition is rotten. You say so every year; so does the majority of people. And the majority will continue saying the same thing throughout the coming decades as long as there are any exhibitions to damn.

      "It is the same thing in other countries. For a hundred years the majority has pronounced every Salon rotten. And it will so continue.

      "But СКАЧАТЬ