The Dark Star. Chambers Robert William
the book on the invalid’s knees, Brandes took his cue; and the conversation developed into a monologue on the present condition of foreign missions – skilfully inspired by the respectful attention and the brief and ingenious questions of Brandes.
“Doubtless,” concluded the Reverend Mr. Carew, “you are familiar with the life of the Reverend Adoniram Judson, Mr. Brandes.”
It turned out to be Brandes’ favourite book.
“You will recollect, then, the amazing conditions in India which confronted Dr. Judson and his wife.”
Brandes recollected perfectly – with a slow glance at Stull.
“All that is changed,” said the invalid. “ – God be thanked. And conditions in Armenia are changing for the better, I hope.”
“Let us hope so,” returned Brandes solemnly.
“To doubt it is to doubt the goodness of the Almighty,” said the Reverend Mr. Carew. His dreamy eyes became fixed on the rain-splashed window, burned a little with sombre inward light.
“In Trebizond,” he began, “in my time–”
His wife came into the room, saying that the spare bedchamber was ready and that the gentlemen might wish to wash before supper, which would be ready in a little while.
On their way upstairs they encountered Ruhannah coming down. Stull passed with a polite grunt; Brandes ranged himself for the girl to pass him.
“Ever so much obliged to you, Miss Carew,” he said. “We have put you to a great deal of trouble, I am sure.”
Rue looked up surprised, shy, not quite understanding how to reconcile his polite words and pleasant voice with the voice and manner in which he had addressed her on the bridge.
“It is no trouble,” she said, flushing slightly. “I hope you will be comfortable.”
And she continued to descend the stairs a trifle more hastily, not quite sure she cared very much to talk to that kind of man.
In the spare bedroom, whither Stull and Brandes had been conducted, the latter was seated on the big and rather shaky maple bed, buttoning a fresh shirt and collar, while Stull took his turn at the basin. Rain beat heavily on the windows.
“Say, Ben,” remarked Brandes, “you want to be careful when we go downstairs that the old guy don’t spot us for sporting men. He’s a minister, or something.”
Stull lifted his dripping face of a circus clown from the basin.
“What’s that?”
“I say we don’t want to give the old people a shock. You know what they’d think of us.”
“What do I care what they think?”
“Can’t you be polite?”
“I can be better than that; I can be honest,” said Stull, drying his sour visage with a flimsy towel.
After Brandes had tied his polka-dotted tie carefully before the blurred mirror:
“What do you mean by that?” he asked stolidly.
“Ah – I know what I mean, Eddie. So do you. You’re a smooth talker, all right. You can listen and look wise, too, when there’s anything in it for you. Just see the way you got Stein to put up good money for you! And all you done was to listen to him and keep your mouth shut.”
Brandes rose with an air almost jocular and smote Stull upon the back.
“Stein thinks he’s the greatest manager on earth. Let him tell you so if you want anything out of him,” he said, walking to the window.
The volleys of rain splashing on the panes obscured the outlook; Brandes flattened his nose against the glass and stood as though lost in thought.
Behind him Stull dried his features, rummaged in the suitcase, produced a bathrobe and slippers, put them on, and stretched himself out on the bed.
“Aren’t you coming down to buzz the preacher?” demanded Brandes, turning from the drenched window.
“So you can talk phony to the little kid? No.”
“Ah, get it out of your head that I mean phony.”
“Well, what do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Stull gave him a contemptuous glance and turned over on the pillow.
“Are you coming down?”
“No.”
So Brandes took another survey of himself in the glass, used his comb and brushes again, added a studied twist to his tie, shot his cuffs, and walked out of the room with the solid deliberation which characterised his carriage at all times.
CHAPTER VI
THE END OF SOLITUDE
A rain-washed world, smelling sweet as a wet rose, a cloudless sky delicately blue, and a swollen stream tumbling and foaming under the bridge – of these Mr. Eddie Brandes was agreeably conscious as he stepped out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a large gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth.
He always had the appearance of having just come out of a Broadway barber shop with the visible traces of shave, shampoo, massage, and manicure patent upon his person.
His short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue serge; a smart straw hat embellished his head, polished russet shoes his remarkably small feet. On his small fat fingers several heavy rings were conspicuous. And the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded the ensemble.
Across the road, hub-deep in wet grass and weeds, he could see his wrecked runabout, glistening with raindrops.
He stood for a while on the verandah, both hands shoved deep into his pockets, his cigar screwed into his cheek. From time to time he jingled keys and loose coins in his pockets. Finally he sauntered down the steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at closer view.
Contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and his left eye closed to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, he presently became aware of a girl in a pink print dress leaning over the grey parapet of the bridge. And, picking his way among the puddles, he went toward her.
“Good morning, Miss Carew,” he said, taking off his straw hat.
She turned her head over her shoulder; the early sun glistened on his shiny, carefully parted hair and lingered in glory on a diamond scarf pin.
“Good morning,” she said, a little uncertainly, for the memory of their first meeting on the bridge had not entirely been forgotten.
“You had breakfast early,” he said.
“Yes.”
He kept his hat off; such little courtesies have their effect; also it was good for his hair which, he feared, had become a trifle thinner recently.
“It is beautiful weather,” said Mr. Brandes, squinting at her through his cigar smoke.
“Yes.” She looked down into the tumbling water.
“This is a beautiful country, isn’t it, Miss Carew?”
“Yes.”
With his head a little on one side he inspected her. There was only the fine curve of her cheek visible, and a white neck under the chestnut hair; and one slim, tanned hand resting on the stone parapet.
“Do you like motoring?” he asked.
She looked up:
“Yes… I have only been out a few times.”
“I’ll have another car up here in a few days. I’d like to take you out.”
She was silent.
“Ever go to Saratoga?” he inquired.
“No.”
“I’ll take you to the races – with your mother. Would you like to go?”
She remained