Part 33 (2/2)
”Well, I'll be blowed!” he sympathetically e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, ”Here where there ain't, what you might say, enough local color to more than touch up the noses of the Black Catters.”
”Jock! Now, see if you'd know it.” She read a sc.r.a.ppy description of the village. ”Would you recognize it?”
”With a footnote, it would go.” Jock was all attention. ”But I have my doubts as to whether Pete Falstar will take kindly to his place of residence being cla.s.sified as a human pig-sty. That's laying the local colour on, with a whitewash brush, don't you think? A little dirt and disorder don't seem to call for such language.”
”That is artistic license.” Constance explained.
”Well, you ought to pay high for that kind of license--but maybe you do.
Go on.”
”I handle my subject without gloves,” Constance began again.
”By gos.h.!.+ I'd keep 'em on when I was tackling pig-stys and such; but don't mind me.”
”And here; see if you can guess who this is?
”'The sleek, fat proprietor looked oily within and oily without. He oozed oil on the community that he was demoralizing with his poisonous whiskey and doctored beer.'”
”G.o.d bless and save us!” Jock rolled from side to side. ”If you don't beat all for gol-durned sa.s.s. Why, Tate will sue you for damages if that great American novel ever strikes his vision. Oil! Thunderation; and poisonous whiskey, and doctored beer. Was it Society or Settlement what let light in on you, about such terms?”
”Neither. It's--inspiration.”
”It's just plain imperdence, and it'll get you in trouble. Are you going to use names in that novel of yours?”
”Certainly not. Do you think I do not know my art? But you recognize Tate? Then he lives!”
”Good Lord! Know him? How under the everlasting firmament could I help knowing him? What other proprietor is there in St. Ange, you comical little bag of words? specially one as demoralizes the community with poisoned whiskey and doctored beer? b.a.l.l.s of fire! but this beats the band. Go on; go on.”
When a man of thirty steps out of a starved exile and comes in contact with a girl like Constance Drew, it may be dangerous to ”go on,” but the exile will certainly _want_ to.
Nothing loath; all sparkling and radiant, Constance swept along.
”And I've got--you, but maybe you will never forgive me. I took you at your--your worst--for don't you see when I use you--later--I'm going to redeem you and have you come out truly splendid.”
Jock's jaw dropped, and the laugh fled from his overflowing eyes.
”Me?” he gasped. Constance nodded, and waved a pointed pencil toward him.
”Wait!” she ran her eye down the page. ”'Beautiful woman--with a--Past'--that's the girl up in the other Masquerader's shack, that girl Joyce, you know, and Gaston--and here's Peggy Falstar--'woman sunk to man's level and reproducing her kind'--brief note of Billy Falstar as 'impish child'--oh! here you are!
”'Village Bacchus. Tall, handsome, but lost, apparently, to shame.
Swaggering criss-cross down the road, laughing senselessly and shouting songs. Slave to appet.i.te. Controlled by his brutal pa.s.sions. When spoken to in this state, a.s.sumes manner of gentleman. Subconscious self--study in heredity.--Let a strong influence enter his life--handsome n.o.ble girl--redemption at end--splendid character.'”
”Good G.o.d!”
Constance dropped the book. The eyes that met her own had a look in them that drove the cold, which she had not felt before, to her very heart.
”What--what--is the matter?” she gasped.
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