DRIVING HEAD-ON
It was mid-afternoon when they began to pass through that series of
suburbs which the city has flung like a single tentacle northward for
a hundred miles along the eastern banks of the Hudson.
A smooth road of bluestone with a surface like velvet, rarely broken
by badly paved or badly worn sections, ran straight south. Past
mansions standing amid spacious lawns all ablaze with late summer and
early autumn flowers they sped; past parks, long stretches of walls,
high fences of wrought iron through which brief glimpses of woodlands
and splendid gardens caught Rue's eye. And, every now and then,
slowing down to traverse some village square and emerging from the
further limits, the great river flashed into view, sometimes glassy
still under high headlands or along towering parapets of mountains,
sometimes ruffled and silvery where it widened into bay or inland sea,
with a glimmer of distant villages on the further shore.
Over the western bank a blinding sun hung in a sky without a cloud--a
sky of undiluted azure; but farther south, and as the sun declined,
traces of vapours from the huge but still distant city stained the
heavens. Gradually the increasing haze changed from palest lavender
and lemon-gold to violet and rose with smouldering undertones of fire.
Beneath it the river caught the stains in deeper tones, flowing in
sombre washes of flame or spreading wide under pastel tints of
turquoise set with purple.
Now, as the sun hung lower, the smoke of every river boat, every
locomotive speeding along the shores below, lay almost motionless
above the water, tinged with the delicate enchantment of declining
day.
And into this magic veil Rue was passing already through the calm of a
late August afternoon, through tree-embowered villages and towns, the
names of which she did not know--swiftly, inexorably passing into the
iris-grey obscurity where already the silvery points of arc-lights
stretched away into intricate geometrical designs--faint traceries as
yet sparkling with subdued lustre under the sunset heavens.
Vast shadowy shapes towered up ahead--outlying public buildings,
private institutions, industrial plants, bridges of iron and steel,
the ponderous bowed spans of which crossed wildernesses of railroad
tracks or craft-crowded waters.
Two enormous arched viaducts of granite stretched away through
sparkling semi-obscurity--High Bridge and Washington Bridge. Then it
became an increasing confusion of phantom masses against a fading
sky--bridges, towers, skyscrapers, viaducts, boulevards, a wilderness
of streets outlined by the growing brilliancy of electric lamps.
Brandes, deftly steering through the swarming maze of twilight
avenues, turned east across the island, then swung south along the
curved parapets and spreading gardens of Riverside Drive.
Perhaps Brandes was tired; he had become uncommunicative, inclined to
silence. He did point out to her the squat, truncated mass where the
great General slept; called her attention to the river below, where
three grey battleships lay. A bugle call from the decks came faintly
to her ears.
If Rue was tired she did not know it as the car swept her steadily
deeper amid the city's wonders.
On her left, beyond the trees, the great dwellings and apartments of
the Drive were already glimmering with light in every window; to the
right, under the foliage of this endless necklace of parks and
circles, a summer-clad throng strolled and idled along the river wall;
and past them moved an unbroken column of automobiles, taxicabs, and
omnibuses.
At Seventy-second Street they turned to the east across the park, then
into Fifth Avenue south once more. She saw the name of the celebrated
avenue on the street corner, turned to glance excitedly at Brandes;
but his preoccupied face was expressionless, almost forbidding, so she
turned again in quest of other delightful discoveries. But there was
nothing to identify for her the houses, churches, hotels, shops, on
this endless and bewildering avenue of grey stone; as they swung west
into Forty-second Street, she caught sight of the great marble mass of
the Library, but had no idea what it was.
Into this dusky cañon, aflame with light, they rolled, where street
lamps, the lamps of vehicles, and electric signs dazzled her
unaccustomed eyes so that she saw nothing except a fiery vista filled
with the rush and roar of traffic.
When they stopped, the chauffeur dropped from the rumble and came
around to where a tall head porter in blue and silver uniform was
opening the tonneau door.
Brandes said to his chauffeur:
"Here are the checks. Our trunks are at the Grand Central. Get them
aboard, then come back here for us at ten o'clock."
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?"
She felt herself flushing, tried to smile:
"It couldn't resemble anything," she explained with quaint honesty,
"because I am sailing for Europe tomorrow morning; I am going on board
in less than an hour. And also--also, I----"
"Also?"--he prompted her, amused, yet oddly touched by her childishly
literal reply.
"I am--married."
"Good Lord!" he said.
"This morning," she added, tasting her ice.
"And you're sailing for Europe on your honeymoon!" he exclaimed.
"Well, upon my word! And what is your ship?"
"The _Lusitania_."
"Really! I have a friend who is sailing on her--a most charming woman.
I sent flowers to her only an hour ago."
"Did you?" asked Rue, interested.
"Yes. She is a widow--the Princess Mistchenka--a delightful and pretty
woman. I am going to send a note to the steamer tonight saying
that--that my very _particular_ friend, Ruhannah Carew, is on board,
and won't she ask you to tea. You'd love her, Rue. She's a regular
woman."
"But--oh, dear!--a Princess!"
"You won't even notice it," he said reassuringly. "She's a corker;
she's an artist, too. I couldn't begin to tell you how nice she has
been to me. By the way, Rue, whom did you marry?"
"Mr. Brandes."
"Brandes? I don't remember--was he from up-state?"
"No; New York--I think----"
As she bent forward to taste her ice again he noticed for the first
time the childlike loveliness of her throat and profile; looked at her
with increasing interest, realising that she had grown into a most
engaging creature since he had seen her.
Looking up, and beyond him toward the door, she said:
"I think your friend is waiting for you. Had you forgotten him?"
"Oh, that's so!" he exclaimed. Then rising and offering his hand: "I
wish you happiness, Rue. You have my address. When you return, won't
you let me know where you are? Won't you let me know your husband?"
"Yes."
"Please do. You see you and I have a common bond in art, another in
our birthplace. Gayfield folk are your own people and mine. Don't
forget me, Rue."
"No, I won't."
So he took his leave gracefully and went away through the enthralling,
glittering unreality of it all leaving a young girl thrilled,
excited, and deeply impressed with his ease and bearing amid
awe-inspiring scenes in which she, too, desired most ardently to find
herself at ease.
Also she thought of his friend, the Princess Mistchenka. And again, as
before, the name seemed to evoke within her mind a recollection of
having heard it before, very long ago.
She wondered whether Neeland would remember to write, and if he did
she wondered whether a real princess would actually condescend to
invite her to take tea.