The Dark Star
Page 67He leaned over and kissed the cold, almost colourless cheek; her
little mechanical smile came back. Then they remembered the chauffeur
behind them and Brandes reddened. He was unaccustomed to a man on the
rumble.
"Could I talk to mother on the telephone when we get to New York?" she
asked presently, still painfully flushed.
"Yes, darling, of course."
"I just want to hear her voice," murmured Rue.
"Certainly. We can send her a wireless, too, when we're at sea."
That interested her. She enquired curiously in regard to wireless
telegraphy and other matters concerning ocean steamers.
* * * * * In Albany her first wave of loneliness came over her in the stuffy
dining-room of the big, pretentious hotel, when she found herself
seated at a small table alone with this man whom she seemed, somehow
As she did not appear inclined to eat, Brandes began to search the
card for something to tempt her. And, glancing up presently, saw tears
glimmering in her eyes.
For a moment he remained dumb as though stunned by some sudden and
terrible accusation--for a moment only. Then, in an unsteady voice: "Rue, darling. You must not feel lonely and frightened. I'll do
anything in the world for you. Don't you know it?"
She nodded.
"I tell you," he said in that even, concentrated voice of his which
scarcely moved his narrow lips, "I'm just crazy about you. You're my
own little wife. You're all I care about. If I can't make you happy
somebody ought to shoot me."
She tried to smile; her full lips trembled; a single tear, brimming,
fell on the cloth.
"It's only forty miles," he said with heavy joviality. "Shall we turn
around and go back?"
She glanced up at him with an odd expression, as though she hoped he
meant it; then her little mechanical smile returned, and she dried her
eyes naïvely.
"I don't know why I cannot seem to get used to being married," she
said. "I never thought that getting married would make me
so--so--lonely."
"Let's talk about art," he suggested. "You're crazy about art and
you're going to Paris. Isn't that fine."
"Oh, yes----"
"Sure, it's fine. That's where art grows. Artville is Paris' other
name. It's all there, Rue--the Loove, the palaces, the Latin Quarter,
"What is the Louvre like?" she asked, tremulously, determined to be
brave.
As he had seen the Louvre only from the outside, his imaginary
description was cautious, general, and brief.
After a silence, Rue asked whether he thought that their suitcases
were quite safe.
"Certainly," he smiled. "I checked them."
"And you're sure they are safe?"
"Of course, darling. What worries you?"
And, as she hesitated, he remembered that she had forgotten to put
something into her suitcase and that the chauffeur had driven her back
to the house to get it while he himself went into the Gayfield House
to telephone Stull.