"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.