CHAPTER VII
OBSESSION
By the end of the week Brandes had done much to efface any unpleasantimpression he had made on Ruhannah Carew.
The girl had never before had to do with any mature man. She wastherefore at a disadvantage in every way, and her total lack ofexperience emphasised the odds.
Nobody had ever before pointedly preferred her, paid her undividedattention; no man had ever sought her, conversed with her, deferred toher, interested himself in her. It was entirely new to her, thisattention which Brandes paid her. Nor could she make any comparisonsbetween this man and other men, because she knew no other men. He wasan entirely novel experience to her; he had made himself interesting,had proved amusing, considerate, kind, generous, and apparentlyinterested in what interested her. And if his unfeigned preference forher society disturbed and perplexed her, his assiduous civilitiestoward her father and mother were gradually winning from her far morethan anything he had done for her.
His white-faced, odd little friend had gone; he himself had takenquarters at the Gayfield House, where a car like the wrecked one wasstabled for his use.
He had already taken her father and mother and herself everywherewithin motoring distance; he had accompanied them to church; heescorted her to the movies; he walked with her in the August eveningsafter supper, rowed her about on the pond, fished from the bridge,told her strange stories in the moonlight on the verandah, her fatherand mother interested and attentive.
For the career of Mr. Eddie Brandes was capable of furnishing materialfor interesting stories if carefully edited, and related withdiscretion and circumspection. He had been many things to manymen--and to several women--he had been a tinhorn gambler in theSouthwest, a miner in Alaska, a saloon keeper in Wyoming, a fightpromoter in Arizona. He had travelled profitably on popular oceanliners until requested to desist; Auteuil, Neuilly, Vincennes, andLongchamps knew him as tout, bookie, and, when fitfully prosperous, asa plunger. Epsom knew him once as a welcher; and knew him no more.
He had taken a comic opera company through the wheat-belt--one way; hehad led a burlesque troupe into Arizona and had traded it there for ahotel.
"When Eddie _wants_ to talk," Stull used to say, "that smoke,_Othello_, hasn't got nothing on him."
However, Brandes seldom chose to talk. This was one of his raregarrulous occasions; and, with careful self-censorship, he was makingan endless series of wonder-tales out of the episodes and _faitsdivers_ common to the experience of such as he.
So, of moving accidents by flood and field this man had a store, andhe contrived to make them artistically innocuous and perfectly fit forfamily consumption.
Further, two of his friends motored over from Saratoga to see him,were brought to supper at the Carews'; and they gave him a clean billof moral health. They were, respectively, "Doc" Curfoot--suave haunterof Peacock Alley and gentleman "capper"--whom Brandes introduced asthe celebrated specialist, Doctor Elbert Curfoot--and Captain HarmanQuint, partner in "Quint's" celebrated temple of chance--introduced asthe distinguished navigating officer which he appeared to be. Thesteering for their common craft, however, was the duty of the eminentDoc.
They spent the evening on the verandah with the family; and it wasquite wonderful what a fine fellow each turned out to be--informationconfidentially imparted to the Reverend Mr. Carew by each of the threedistinguished gentlemen in turn.
Doc Curfoot, whose business included the ability to talk convincinglyon any topic, took the Reverend Mr. Carew's measure and choseliterature; and his suave critique presently became an interestingmonologue listened to in silence by those around him.
Brandes had said, "Put me in right, Doc," and Doc was accomplishingit, partly to oblige Brandes, partly for practice. His agreeable voiceso nicely pitched, so delightfully persuasive, recapitulating all thecommonplaces and cant phrases concerning the literature of the day,penetrated gratefully the intellectual isolation of these humblegentlepeople, and won very easily their innocent esteem. With theReverend Mr. Carew Doc discussed such topics as the influence onfiction of the ethical ideal. With Mrs. Carew Captain Quint exchangedreminiscences of travel on distant seas. Brandes attempted to maintainlow-voiced conversation with Rue, who responded in diffidentmonosyllables to his advances.
* * * * *
Brandes walked down to their car with them after they had taken theirleave.
"What's the idea, Eddie?" inquired Doc Curfoot, pausing before thesmart little speeder.
"It's straight."
"Oh," said Doc, softly, betraying no surprise--about the only thing henever 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 Minnadon't double-cross you, Eddie."
"How?"
"--Or shoot you up. She's some _schutzen-fest_, you know, when sheturns loose----"
"Ah, I tell you she _wants_ the divorce. Abe Grittlefeld's crazy abouther. He'll get Abe Gordon to star her on Broadway; and that's enoughfor her. Besides, she'll marry Maxy Venem when she can afford to keephim."
"_You_ never understood Minna Minti."
"Well, who ever understood any German?" demanded Brandes. "She's oneof 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 girland 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 doingfine. Tell him to send me what's mine, because I'll want it very soonnow. I'm going to take a month off and then I'm going to show Steinhow a theatre can be run."
"Eddie," said Quint, "it's a good thing to think big, but it's a damnpoor thing to talk big. Cut out the talk and you'll be a big man someday."
The graceful car moved forward into the moonlight; his two friendswaved an airy adieu; and Brandes went slowly back to the dark verandahwhere sat a young girl, pitifully immature in mind and body--and twoold people little less innocent for all their experience in the ranksof Christ, for all the wounds that scarred them both in the over-seaservice 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 NewYork is not only fashionable but extensive."
"Both," said Brandes.
"I assume so. He seems to be intimately acquainted with people whosenames for generations have figured prominently in the social columnsof 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 oneaccepts promissory notes to liquidate those little affairs peculiar tothe temple of chance. And New York's best furnished the neophytes forthese rites.
"I thought Captain Quint very interesting," ventured Ruhannah. "Heseems to have sailed over the entire globe."
"Naval men are always delightful," said her mother. And, laying herhand on her husband's arm in the dark: "Do you remember, Wilbour, howkind the officers from the cruiser _Oneida_ were when the rescue partytook us aboard?"
"God sent the _Oneida_ to us," said her husband dreamily. "I thoughtit was the end of the world for us--for you and me and baby Rue--thatdreadful flight from the mission to the sea."
His bony fingers tightened over
his wife's toilworn hand. In the longgrass 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 trifledamp for him; besides, he desired to read. Brandes, as always, rose toaid 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 acigar, but sat in silence, his narrow eyes trying to see Ruhannah inthe 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 notremember the time or occasion when the knack of fluent speech had everfailed him.
He had never foreseen such a situation; it had never occurred to himthat he would find the slightest difficulty in saying easily andgracefully what he had determined to say to this young girl.
Now he sat there silent, disturbed, nervous, and tongue-tied. At firsthe did not quite comprehend what was making him afraid. After a longwhile he understood that it was some sort of fear of her--fear of herrefusal, fear of losing her, fear that she might have--in some occultway--divined what he really was, that she might have heard thingsconcerning him, his wife, his career. The idea turned him cold.
And all at once he realised how terribly in earnest he had become; howdeeply involved; how vital this young girl had become to him.
Never before had he really wanted anything as compared to this desireof his for her. He was understanding, too, in a confused way, thatsuch a girl and such a home for him as she could make was going notonly to give him the happiness he expected, but that it also meantbetterment for himself--straighter living, perhaps straighterthinking--the birth of something resembling self-respect, perhaps evenaspiration--or at least the aspiration toward that respect from otherswhich honest living dare demand.
He wanted her; he wanted her now; he wanted to marry her whether ornot 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 fortuneand a good reputation with Stein's backing and Stein's theatre--standwell with honest men, stand well with himself, stand always, withher, for everything a man should be.
If she loved him she would forgive him and quietly remarry him as soonas 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 hecould win her. And suddenly the only possible way to go about itoccurred to him.
His voice was a trifle husky and unsteady from the nervous tensionwhen 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 feetcrossed, watched the fireflies sailing over the alders. Sometimes shethought of Brandes, pleasantly, sometimes of other matters. Once thememory of her drive home through the wintry moonlight with youngNeeland occurred to her, and the reminiscence was vaguely agreeable.
Listless, a trifle sleepy, dreamily watching the fireflies, theceaseless noise of the creek in her ears, inconsequential thoughtsflitted through her brain--the vague, aimless, guiltless thoughts of ayoung and unstained mind.
She was nearly asleep when Brandes came back, and she looked up athim where he stood beside her porch chair in the darkness.
"Miss Rue," he said, "I have told your father and mother that I am inlove with you and want to make you my wife."
The girl lay there speechless, astounded.