Роберт Чамберс - The Dark Star

Brandes walked down to their car with them after they had taken their leave.

"What's the idea, Eddie?" inquired Doc Curfoot, pausing before the smart little speeder.

"It's straight."

"Oh," said Doc, softly, betraying no surprise—about the only thing he never betrayed. "Anything in it for you, Eddie?"

"Yes. A good girl. The kind you read about. Isn't that enough?"

"Minna chucked you?" inquired Captain Quint.

"She'll get her decree in two or three months. Then I'll have a home. And everything that you and I are keeps out of that home, Cap. See?"

"Certainly," said Quint. "Quite right, Eddie."

Doc Curfoot climbed in and took the wheel; Quint followed him.

"Say," he said in his pleasant, guarded voice, "watch out that Minna don't double–cross you, Eddie."

"How?"

"—Or shoot you up. She's some schutzen–fest , you know, when she turns loose―"

"Ah, I tell you she wants the divorce. Abe Grittlefeld's crazy about her. He'll get Abe Gordon to star her on Broadway; and that's enough for her. Besides, she'll marry Maxy Venem when she can afford to keep him."

" You never understood Minna Minti."

"Well, who ever understood any German?" demanded Brandes. "She's one of those sour–blooded, silent Dutch women that make me ache."

Doc pushed the self–starter; there came a click, a low humming. Brandes' face cleared and he held out his square–shaped hand:

"You fellows," he said, "have put me right with the old folks here. I'll do the same for you some day. Don't talk about this little girl and me, that's all."

"All the same," repeated Doc, "don't take any chances with Minna. She's on to you, and she's got a rotten Dutch disposition."

"That's right, Doc. And say, Harman,"—to Quint—"tell Ben he's doing fine. Tell him to send me what's mine, because I'll want it very soon now. I'm going to take a month off and then I'm going to show Stein how a theatre can be run."

"Eddie," said Quint, "it's a good thing to think big, but it's a damn poor thing to talk big. Cut out the talk and you'll be a big man some day."

The graceful car moved forward into the moonlight; his two friends waved an airy adieu; and Brandes went slowly back to the dark verandah where sat a young girl, pitifully immature in mind and body—and two old people little less innocent for all their experience in the ranks of Christ, for all the wounds that scarred them both in the over–sea service which had broken them forever.

"A very handsome and distinguished gentleman, your friend Dr. Curfoot," said the Reverend Mr. Carew. "I imagine his practice in New York is not only fashionable but extensive."

"Both," said Brandes.

"I assume so. He seems to be intimately acquainted with people whose names for generations have figured prominently in the social columns of the New York press."

"Oh, yes, Curfoot and Quint know them all."

Which was true enough. They had to. One must know people from whom one accepts promissory notes to liquidate those little affairs peculiar to the temple of chance. And New York's best furnished the neophytes for these rites.

"I thought Captain Quint very interesting," ventured Ruhannah. "He seems to have sailed over the entire globe."

"Naval men are always delightful," said her mother. And, laying her hand on her husband's arm in the dark: "Do you remember, Wilbour, how kind the officers from the cruiser Oneida were when the rescue party took us aboard?"

"God sent the Oneida to us," said her husband dreamily. "I thought it was the end of the world for us—for you and me and baby Rue—that dreadful flight from the mission to the sea."

His bony fingers tightened over his wife's toilworn hand. In the long grass along the creek fireflies sparkled, and their elfin lanterns, waning, glowing, drifted high in the calm August night.

The Reverend Mr. Carew gathered his crutches; the night was a trifle damp for him; besides, he desired to read. Brandes, as always, rose to aid him. His wife followed.

"Don't stay out long, Rue," she said in the doorway.

"No, mother."

Brandes came back. Departing from his custom, he did not light a cigar, but sat in silence, his narrow eyes trying to see Ruhannah in the darkness. But she was only a delicate shadow shape to him, scarcely detached from the darkness that enveloped her.

He meant to speak to her then. And suddenly found he could not, realised, all at once, that he lacked the courage.

This was the more amazing and disturbing to him because he could not remember the time or occasion when the knack of fluent speech had ever failed him.

He had never foreseen such a situation; it had never occurred to him that he would find the slightest difficulty in saying easily and gracefully what he had determined to say to this young girl.

Now he sat there silent, disturbed, nervous, and tongue–tied. At first he did not quite comprehend what was making him afraid. After a long while he understood that it was some sort of fear of her—fear of her refusal, fear of losing her, fear that she might have—in some occult way—divined what he really was, that she might have heard things concerning him, his wife, his career. The idea turned him cold.

And all at once he realised how terribly in earnest he had become; how deeply involved; how vital this young girl had become to him.

Never before had he really wanted anything as compared to this desire of his for her. He was understanding, too, in a confused way, that such a girl and such a home for him as she could make was going not only to give him the happiness he expected, but that it also meant betterment for himself—straighter living, perhaps straighter thinking—the birth of something resembling self–respect, perhaps even aspiration—or at least the aspiration toward that respect from others which honest living dare demand.

He wanted her; he wanted her now; he wanted to marry her whether or not he had the legal right; he wanted to go away for a month with her, and then return and work for her, for them both—build up a fortune and a good reputation with Stein's backing and Stein's theatre—stand well with honest men, stand well with himself, stand always, with her, for everything a man should be.

If she loved him she would forgive him and quietly remarry him as soon as Minna kicked him loose. He was confident he could make her happy, make her love him if once he could find courage to speak—if once he could win her. And suddenly the only possible way to go about it occurred to him.

His voice was a trifle husky and unsteady from the nervous tension when he at last broke the silence:

"Miss Rue," he said, "I have a word to say to your father and mother. Would you wait here until I come back?"

"I think I had better go in, too―"

"Please don't."

"Why?" She stopped short, instinctively, but not surmising.

"You will wait, then?" he asked.

"I was going in…. But I'll sit here a little while."

He rose and went in, rather blindly.

Ruhannah, dreaming there deep in her splint armchair, slim feet crossed, watched the fireflies sailing over the alders. Sometimes she thought of Brandes, pleasantly, sometimes of other matters. Once the memory of her drive home through the wintry moonlight with young Neeland occurred to her, and the reminiscence was vaguely agreeable.

Listless, a trifle sleepy, dreamily watching the fireflies, the ceaseless noise of the creek in her ears, inconsequential thoughts flitted through her brain—the vague, aimless, guiltless thoughts of a young and unstained mind.

She was nearly asleep when Brandes came back, and she looked up at him where he stood beside her porch chair in the darkness.