Роберт Чамберс - The Dark Star

"My mind has become quite clear again."

"That's fine! Well, then, I think the thing for you to do is―" He took out his watch, examined it, replaced it—"Good Lord!" he said. "It is three o'clock!"

She watched him but offered no comment. He went to the telephone, called the New York Central Station, got General Information, inquired concerning trains, hung up, and came back to the desk where he had been sitting.

"The first train out leaves at six three," he said. "I think you'd better go into my bedroom and lie down. I'm not tired; I'll call you in time, and I'll get a taxi and take you to your train. Does that suit you, Ruhannah?"

She shook her head slightly.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I've been thinking. I can't go back."

"Can't go back! Why not?"

"I can't."

"You mean you'd feel too deeply humiliated?"

"I wasn't thinking of my own disgrace. I was thinking of mother and father." There was no trace of emotion in her voice; she stated the fact calmly.

"I can't go back to Brookhollow. It's ended. I couldn't bear to let them know what has happened to me."

"What did you think of doing?" he asked uneasily.

"I must think of mother—I must keep my disgrace from touching them—spare them the sorrow—humiliation―" Her voice became tremulous, but she turned around and sat up in her chair, meeting his gaze squarely. "That's as far as I have thought," she said.

Both remained silent for a long while. Then Ruhannah looked up from her pale preoccupation:

"I told you I had three thousand dollars. Why can't I educate myself in art with that? Why can't I learn how to support myself by art?"

"Where?"

"Here."

"Yes. But what are you going to say to your parents when you write? They suppose you are on your way to Paris."

She nodded, looking at him thoughtfully.

"By the way," he added, "is your trunk on board the Lusitania ?"

"Yes."

"That won't do! Have you the check for it?"

"Yes, in my purse."

"We've got to get that trunk off the ship," he said. "There's only one sure way. I'd better go down now, to the pier. Where's your steamer ticket?"

"I—I have both tickets and both checks in my bag. He—let me have the p–pleasure of carrying them―" Again her voice broke childishly, but the threatened emotion was strangled and resolutely choked back.

"Give me the tickets and checks," he said. "I'll go down to the dock now."

She drew out the papers, sat holding them for a few moments without relinquishing them. Then she raised her eyes to his, and a bright flush stained her face:

"Why should I not go to Paris by myself?" she demanded.

"You mean now? On this ship?"

"Yes. Why not? I have enough money to go there and study, haven't I?"

"Yes. But―"

"Why not!" she repeated feverishly, her grey eyes sparkling. "I have three thousand dollars; I can't go back to Brookhollow and disgrace them. What does it matter where I go?"

"It would be all right," he said, "if you'd ever had any experience―"

"Experience! What do you call what I've had today!" She exclaimed excitedly. "To lose in a single day my mother, my home—to go through in this city what I have gone through—what I am going through now—is not that enough experience? Isn't it?"

He said:

"You've had a rotten awakening, Rue—a perfectly devilish experience. Only—you've never travelled alone―" Suddenly it occurred to him that his lively friend, the Princess Mistchenka, was sailing on the Lusitania ; and he remained silent, uncertain, looking with vague misgivings at this girl in the armchair opposite—this thin, unformed, inexperienced child who had attained neither mental nor physical maturity.

"I think," he said at length, "that I told you I had a friend sailing on the Lusitania tomorrow."

She remembered and nodded.

"But wait a moment," he added. "How do you know that this—this fellow Brandes will not attempt to sail on her, also―" Something checked him, for in the girl's golden–grey eyes he saw a flame glimmer; something almost terrible came into the child's still gaze; and slowly died out like the afterglow of lightning.

And Neeland knew that in her soul something had been born under his very eyes—the first emotion of maturity bursting from the chrysalis—the flaming consciousness of outrage, and the first, fierce assumption of womanhood to resent it.

She had lost her colour now; her grey eyes still remained fixed on his, but the golden tinge had left them.

" I don't know why you shouldn't go," he said abruptly.

"I am going."

"All right! And if he has the nerve to go—if he bothers you—appeal to the captain."

She nodded absently.

"But I don't believe he'll try to sail. I don't believe he'd dare, mixed up as he is in a dirty mess. He's afraid of the law, I tell you. That's why he denied marrying you. It meant bigamy to admit it. Anyway, I don't think a fake ceremony like that is binding; I mean that it isn't even real enough to put him in jail. Which means that you're not married, Rue."

"Does it?"

"I think so. Ask a lawyer, anyway. There may be steps to take—I don't know. All the same—do you really want to go to France and study art? Do you really mean to sail on this ship?"

"Yes."

"You feel confidence in yourself? You feel sure of yourself?"

"Yes."

"You've got the backbone to see it through?"

"Yes. It's got to be done."

"All right, if you feel that way." He made no move, however, but sat there watching her. After a while he looked at his watch again:

"I'm going to ring up a taxi," he said. "You might as well go on board and get some sleep. What time does she sail?"

"At five thirty, I believe."

"Well, we haven't so very long, then. There's my bedroom—if you want to fix up."

She rose wearily.

When she emerged from his room with her hat and gloves on, the taxicab was audible in the street below.

Together they descended the dark stairway up which she had toiled with trembling knees. He carried her suitcase, aided her into the taxi.

"Cunard Line," he said briefly, and entered the cab.

Already in the darkness of early morning the city was awake; workmen were abroad; lighted tramcars passed with passengers; great wains, trucks, and country wagons moved slowly toward markets and ferries.

He had begun to tell her almost immediately all that he knew about Paris, the life there in the students' quarters, methods of living economically, what to seek and what to avoid—a homily rather hurried and condensed, as they sped toward the pier.

She seemed to be listening; he could not be sure that she understood or that her mind was fixed at all on what he was saying. Even while speaking, numberless objections to her going occurred to him, but as he had no better alternatives to suggest he did not voice them.

In his heart he really believed she ought to go back to Brookhollow. It was perfectly evident she would not consent to go there. As for her remaining in New York, perhaps the reasons for her going to Paris were as good. He was utterly unable to judge; he only knew that she ought to have the protection of experience, and that was lacking.

"I'm going to remain on board with you," he said, "until she sails. I'm going to try to find my very good friend, the Princess Mistchenka, and have you meet her. She has been very kind to me, and I shall ask her to keep an eye on you while you are crossing, and to give you a lot of good advice."

"A—princess," said Rue in a tired, discouraged voice, "is not very likely to pay any attention to me, I think."

"She's one of those Russian or Caucasian princesses. You know they don't rank very high. She told me herself. She's great fun—full of life and wit and intelligence and wide experience. She knows a lot about everything and everybody; she's been everywhere, travelled all over the globe."