The Dark Star

The chauffeur lifted his hand to his cap, and looked stealthily between his fingers at Brandes.

“Ten o’clock,” he repeated; “very good, sir.”

Rue instinctively sought Brandes’ arm as they entered the crowded lobby, then remembered, blushed, and withdrew her hand.

Brandes had started toward the desk with the intention of registering and securing a room for the few hours before going aboard the steamer; but something halted him – some instinct of caution. No, he would not register. He sent their luggage to the parcels room, found a maid who took Rue away, then went on through into the bar, where he took a stiff whisky and soda, a thing he seldom did.

In the toilet he washed and had himself brushed. Then, emerging, he took another drink en passant, conscious of an odd, dull sense of apprehension for which he could not account.

At the desk they told him there was no telephone message for him. He sauntered over to the news stand, stared at the display of periodicals, but had not sufficient interest to buy even an evening paper.

So he idled about the marble-columned lobby, now crowded with a typical early-autumn throng in quest of dinner and the various nocturnal amusements which the city offers at all times to the frequenters of its thousand temples.

Rue came out of the ladies’ dressing room, and he went to her and guided her into the dining-room on the left, where an orchestra was playing. In her blue, provincial travelling gown the slender girl looked oddly out of place amid lace and jewels and the delicate tints of frail evening gowns, but her cheeks were bright with colour and her grey eyes brilliant, and the lights touched her thick chestnut hair with a ruddy glory, so that more than one man turned to watch her pass, and the idly contemptuous indifference of more than one woman ended at her neck and chin.

What Rue ate she never afterward remembered. It was all merely a succession of delicious sensations for the palate, for the eye, for the ear when the excellent orchestra was playing some gay overture from one of the newer musical comedies or comic operas.

Brandes at times seemed to shake off a growing depression and rouse himself to talk to her, even jest with her. He smoked cigarettes occasionally during dinner, a thing he seldom did, and, when coffee was served, he lighted one of his large cigars.

Rue, excited under an almost childishly timid manner, leaned on the table with both elbows and linked fingers, listening, watching everything with an almost breathless intelligence which strove to comprehend.

People left; others arrived; the music continued. Several times people passing caught Brandes’ eye, and bowed and smiled. He either acknowledged such salutes with a slight and almost surly nod, or ignored them altogether.

One of his short, heavy arms lay carelessly along the back of his chair, where he was sitting sideways looking at the people in the lobby – watching with that same odd sensation of foreboding of which he had been conscious from the first moment he had entered the city line.

What reason for apprehension he had he could not understand. Only an hour lay between him and the seclusion of the big liner; a few hours and he and this girl beside him would be at sea.

Once he excused himself, went out to the desk, and made an inquiry. But there was no telephone or telegraph message for him; and he came back chewing his cigar.

Finally his uneasiness drew him to his feet again:

“Rue,” he said, “I’m going out to telephone to Mr. Stull. It may take some little time. You don’t mind waiting, do you?”

“No,” she said.

“Don’t you want another ice or something?”

She confessed that she did.

So he ordered it and went away.

As she sat leisurely tasting her ice and watching with unflagging interest the people around her, she noticed that the dining-room was already three-quarters empty. People were leaving for café, theatre, or dance; few remained.

Of these few, two young men in evening dress now arose and walked toward the lobby, one ahead of the other. One went out; the other, in the act of going, glanced casually at her as he passed, hesitated, halted, then, half smiling, half inquiringly, came toward her.

“Jim Neeland!” she exclaimed impulsively. “ – I mean Mr. Neeland–” a riot of colour flooding her face. But her eager hand remained outstretched. He took it, pressed it lightly, ceremoniously, and, still standing, continued to smile down at her.

Amid all this strange, infernal glitter; amid a city of six million strangers, suddenly to encounter a familiar face – to see somebody – anybody – from Gayfield – seemed a miracle too delightful to be true.

“You are Rue Carew,” he said. “I was not certain for a moment. You know we met only once before.”

Rue, conscious of the startled intimacy of her first greeting, blushed with the memory. But Neeland was a tactful young man; he said easily, with his very engaging smile:

“It was nice of you to remember me so frankly and warmly. You have no idea how pleasant it was to hear a Gayfield voice greet me as ‘Jim.’”

“I – didn’t intend to–”

“Please intend it in future, Rue. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No.”

“And will you ever forget that magnificent winter night when we drove to Brookhollow after the party?”

“I have – remembered it.”

“So have I… Are you waiting for somebody? Of course you are,” he added, laughing. “But may I sit down for a moment?”

“Yes, I wish you would.”

So he seated himself, lighted a cigarette, glanced up at her and smiled.

“When did you come to New York?” he asked.

“Tonight.”

“Well, isn’t that a bit of luck to run into you like this! Have you come here to study art?”

“No… Yes, I think, later, I am to study art here.”

“At the League?”

“I don’t know.”

“Better go to the League,” he said. “Begin there anyway. Do you know where it is?”

“No,” she said.

He called a waiter, borrowed pencil and pad, and wrote down the address of the Art Students’ League. He had begun to fold the paper when a second thought seemed to strike him, and he added his own address.

“In case I can do anything for you in any way,” he explained.

Rue thanked him, opened her reticule, and placed the folded paper there beside her purse.

“I do hope I shall see you soon again,” he said, looking gaily, almost mischievously into her grey eyes. “This certainly resembles fate. Don’t you think so, Rue – this reunion of ours?”

“Fate?” she repeated.

“Yes. I should even call it romantic. Don’t you think our meeting this way resembles something very much like romance?”