“All O. K. Just going aboard. Fix it with Stein.”
He rejoined Rue as the boy appeared with their luggage; an under porter took the bags and preceded them toward the street.
“There’s the car!” said Brandes, with a deep breath of relief. “He knows his business, that chauffeur of mine.”
Their chauffeur was standing beside the car as they emerged from the hotel and started to cross the sidewalk; the porter, following, set their luggage on the curbstone; and at the same instant a young and pretty woman stepped lightly between Rue and Brandes.
“Good evening, Eddie,” she said, and struck him a staggering blow in the face with her white-gloved hand.
Brandes lost his balance, stumbled sideways, recovered himself, turned swiftly and encountered the full, protruding black eyes of Maxy Venem staring close and menacingly into his.
From Brandes’ cut lip blood was running down over his chin and collar; his face remained absolutely expressionless. The next moment his eyes shifted, met Ruhannah’s stupefied gaze.
“Go into the hotel,” he said calmly. “Quick — —”
“Stay where you are!” interrupted Maxy Venem, and caught the speechless and bewildered girl by the elbow.
Like lightning Brandes’ hand flew to his hip pocket, and at the same instant his own chauffeur seized both his heavy, short arms and held them rigid, pinned behind his back.
“Frisk him!” he panted; Venem nimbly relieved him of the dull black weapon.
“Can the fake gun-play, Eddie,” he said, coolly shoving aside the porter who attempted to interfere. “You’re double-crossed. We got the goods on you; come on; who’s the girl?”
The woman who had struck Brandes now came up again beside Venem. She was young, very pretty, but deathly white except for the patches of cosmetic on either cheek. She pointed at Brandes. There was blood on her soiled and split glove:
“You dirty dog!” she said unsteadily. “You’ll marry this girl before I’ve divorced you, will you? And you think you are going to get away with it! You dog! You dirty dog!”
The porter attempted to interfere again, but Venem shoved him out of the way. Brandes, still silently struggling to free his imprisoned arms, ceased twisting suddenly and swung his heavy head toward Venem. His hat had fallen off; his face, deeply flushed with exertion, was smeared with blood and sweat.
“What’s the idea, you fool!” he said in a low voice. “I’m not married to her.”
But Ruhannah heard him say it.
“You claim that you haven’t married this girl?” demanded Venem loudly, motioning toward Rue, who stood swaying, half dead, held fast by the gathering crowd which pushed around them from every side.
“Did you marry her or did you fake it?” repeated Venem in a louder voice. “It’s jail one way; maybe both!”
“He married her in Gayfield at eleven this morning!” said the chauffeur. “Parson Smawley turned the trick.”
Brandes’ narrow eyes glittered; he struggled for a moment, gave it up, shot a deadly glance at Maxy Venem, at his wife, at the increasing throng crowding closely about him. Then his infuriated eyes met Rue’s, and the expression of her face apparently crazed him.
Frantic, he hurled himself backward, jerking one arm free, tripped, fell heavily with the chauffeur on top, twisting, panting, struggling convulsively, while all around him surged the excited crowd, shouting, pressing closer, trampling one another in eagerness to see.
Rue, almost swooning with fear, was pushed, jostled, flung aside. Stumbling over her own suitcase, she fell to her knees, rose, and, scarce conscious of what she was about, caught up her suitcase and reeled away into the light-shot darkness.
She had no idea of what she was doing or where she was going; the terror of the scene still remained luridly before her eyes; the shouting of the crowd was in her ears; an indescribable fear of Brandes filled her — a growing horror of this man who had denied that he had married her. And the instinct of a frightened and bewildered child drove her into blind flight, anywhere to escape this hideous, incomprehensible scene behind her.
Hurrying on, alternately confused and dazzled in the patches of darkness and flaring light, clutched at and followed by a terrible fear, she found herself halted on the curbstone of an avenue through which lighted tramcars were passing. A man spoke to her, came closer; and she turned desperately and hurried across a street where other people were crossing.
From overhead sounded the roaring dissonance of an elevated train; on either side of her phantom shapes swarmed — figures which moved everywhere around her, now illumined by shop windows, now silhouetted against them. And always through the deafening confusion in her brain, the dismay, the stupefaction, one dreadful fear dominated — the fear of Brandes — the dread and horror of this Judas who had denied her.
She could not drive the scene from her mind — the never-to-be forgotten picture where he stood with blood from his cut lip striping his fat chin. She heard his voice denying her through swollen lips that scarcely moved — denying that he had married her.
And in her ears still sounded the other voice — the terrible words of the woman who had struck him — an unsteady, unreal voice accusing him; and her brain throbbed with the horrible repetition: “Dirty dog — dirty dog — dirty dog — —” until, almost out of her mind, she dropped her bag and clapped both hands over her ears.
One or two men stared at her. A taxi driver came from beside his car and asked her if she was ill. But she caught up her suitcase and hurried on without answering.
* * * * *
She was very tired. She had come to the end of the lighted avenue. There was darkness ahead, a wall, trees, and electric lights sparkling among the foliage.
Perhaps the sudden glimpse of a wide and star-set sky quieted her, calmed her. Freed suddenly from the cañon of the city’s streets, the unreasoning panic of a trapped thing subsided a little.
Her arm ached; she shifted the suitcase to her other hand and looked across at the trees and at the high stars above, striving desperately for self-command.
Something had to be done. She must find some place where she could sit down. Where was she to find it?
For a while she could feel her limbs trembling; but gradually the heavy thudding of her pulses quieted; nobody molested her; nobody had followed her. That she was quite lost did not matter; she had also lost this man who had denied her, somewhere in the depths of the confusion behind her. That was all that mattered — escape from him, from the terrible woman who had struck him and reviled him.
With an effort she checked her thoughts and struggled for self-command. Somewhere in the city there must be a railroad station from which a train would take her home.
With the thought came the desperate longing for flight, and a rush of tears that almost choked her. Nothing mattered now except her mother’s arms; the rest was a nightmare, the horror of a dream which still threatened, still clutched at her with shadowy and spectral menace.
For a moment or two she stood there on the curb, her eyes closed, fighting for self-control, forcing her disorganized brain to duty.
Somebody must help her to find a railroad station and a train. That gradually became clear to her. But when she realised that, a young man sauntered up beside her and looked at her so intently that her calmness gave way and she turned her head sharply to conceal the starting tears.
“Hello, girlie,” he said. “Got anythin’ on tonight?”
With head averted, she stood there, rigid, dumb, her tear-drenched eyes fixed on the park; and after one or two jocose observations the young man became discouraged and went away. But he had thrust the fear of strangers deep into her heart; and now she dared not ask any man for information. However, when two young women passed she found sufficient courage to accost them, asking the direction of the railroad station from which trains departed for Gayfield.
The women, who were young and brightly coloured in plumage, displayed a sympathetic interest at once.
&n
bsp; “Gayfield?” repeated the blonder of the two. “Gee, dearie, I never heard of that place.”
“Is it on Long Island?” inquired the other.
“No. It is in Mohawk County.”
“That’s a new one, too. Mohawk County? Never heard of it; did you, Lil?”
“Search me!”
“Is it up-state, dearie?” asked the other. “You better go over to Madison Avenue and take a car to the Grand Central — —”
“Wait,” interrupted her friend; “she better take a taxi — —”
“Nix on a taxi you pick up on Sixth Avenue!” And to Rue, curiously sympathetic: “Say, you’ve got friends here, haven’t you, little one?”
“No.”
“What! You don’t know anyone in New York!”
Rue looked at her dumbly; then, of a sudden, she remembered Neeland.
“Yes,” she said, “I know one person.”
“Where does your friend live?”
In her reticule was the paper on which he had written the address of the Art Students’ League, and, as an afterthought, his own address.
Rue lifted the blue silk bag, opened it, took out her purse and found the paper.
“One Hundred and Six, West Fifty-fifth Street,” she read; “Studio No. 10.”
“Why, that isn’t far!” said the blonder of the two. “We are going that way. We’ll take you there.”
“I don’t know — I don’t know him very well — —”
“Is it a man?”
“Yes. He comes from my town, Gayfield.”
“Oh! I guess that’s all right,” said the other woman, laughing. “You got to be leery of these men, little one. Come on; we’ll show you.”
It was only four blocks; Ruhannah presently found herself on the steps of a house from which dangled a sign, “Studios and Bachelor Apartments to Let.”
“What’s his name?” said the woman addressed as Lil.
“Mr. Neeland.”
By the light of the vestibule lantern they inspected the letter boxes, found Neeland’s name, and pushed the electric button.
After a few seconds the door clicked and opened.
“Now, you’re all right!” said Lil, peering into the lighted hallway. “It’s on the fourth floor and there isn’t any elevator that I can see, so you keep on going upstairs till your friend meets you.”
“Thank you so much for your great kindness — —”
“Don’t mention it. Good luck, dearie!”
The door clicked behind her, and Rue found herself alone.
The stairs, flanked by a massive balustrade of some dark, polished wood, ascended in spirals by a short series of flights and landings. Twice she rested, her knees almost giving way, for the climb upward seemed interminable. But at last, just above her, she saw a skylight, and a great stair-window giving on a court; and, as she toiled up and stood clinging, breathless, to the banisters on the top landing, out of an open door stepped Neeland’s shadowy figure, dark against the hall light behind him.
“For heaven’s sake!” he said. “What on earth — —”
The suitcase fell from her nerveless hand; she swayed a little where she stood.
The next moment he had passed his arm around her, and was half leading, half carrying her through a short hallway into a big, brilliantly lighted studio.
CHAPTER XII
A LIFE LINE
She had told him her story from beginning to end, as far as she herself comprehended it. She was lying sideways now, in the depths of a large armchair, her cheek cushioned on the upholstered wings.
Her hat, with its cheap blue enamel pins sticking in the crown, lay on his desk; her hair, partly loosened, shadowed a young face grown pinched with weariness; and the reaction from shock was already making her grey eyes heavy and edging the under lids with bluish shadows.
She had not come there with the intention of telling him anything. All she had wanted was a place in which to rest, a glass of water, and somebody to help her find the train to Gayfield. She told him this; remained reticent under his questioning; finally turned her haggard face to the chairback and refused to answer.
For an hour or more she remained obstinately dumb, motionless except for the uncontrollable trembling of her body; he brought her a glass of water, sat watching her at intervals; rose once or twice to pace the studio, his well-shaped head bent, his hands clasped behind his back, always returning to the corner-chair before the desk to sit there, eyeing her askance, waiting for some decision.
But it was not the recurrent waves of terror, the ever latent fear of Brandes, or even her appalling loneliness that broke her down; it was sheer fatigue — nature’s merciless third degree — under which mental and physical resolution disintegrated — went all to pieces.
And when at length she finally succeeded in reconquering self-possession, she had already stammered out answers to his gently persuasive questions — had told him enough to start the fuller confession to which he listened in utter silence.
And now she had told him everything, as far as she understood the situation. She lay sideways, deep in the armchair, tired, yet vaguely conscious that she was resting mind and body, and that calm was gradually possessing the one, and the nerves of the other were growing quiet.
Listlessly her grey eyes wandered around the big studio where shadowy and strangely beautiful but incomprehensible things met her gaze, like iridescent, indefinite objects seen in dreams.
These radiantly unreal splendours were only Neeland’s rejected Academy pictures and studies; a few cheap Japanese hangings, cheaper Nippon porcelains, and several shaky, broken-down antiques picked up for a song here and there. All the trash and truck and dust and junk characteristic of the conventional artist’s habitation were there.
But to Ruhannah this studio embodied all the wonders and beauties of that magic temple to which, from her earliest memory, her very soul had aspired — the temple of the unknown God of Art.
Vaguely she endeavoured to realise that she was now inside one of its myriad sanctuaries; that here under her very tired and youthful eyes stood one of its countless altars; that here, also, near by, sat one of those blessed acolytes who aided in the mysteries of its wondrous service.
“Ruhannah,” he said, “are you calm enough to let me tell you what I think about this matter?”
“Yes. I am feeling better.”
“Good work! There’s no occasion for panic. What you need is a cool head and a clear mind.”
She said, without stirring from where she lay resting her cheek on the chairback:
“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?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 814
