THE BREAKERS
The east dining-room was almost empty now, though the lobby and the
café beyond still swarmed with people arriving and departing. Brandes,
chafing at the telephone, had finally succeeded in getting Stull on
the wire, only to learn that the news from Saratoga was not agreeable;
that they had lost on every horse. Also, Stull had another disquieting
item to detail; it seemed that Maxy Venem had been seen that morning
in the act of departing for New York on the fast express; and with him
was a woman resembling Brandes' wife.
"Who saw her?" demanded Brandes.
"Doc. He didn't get a good square look at her. You know the hats women
wear."
"All right. I'm off, Ben. Good-bye."
The haunting uneasiness which had driven him to the telephone
persisted when he came out of the booth. He cast a slow, almost sleepy
glance around him, saw no familiar face in the thronged lobby, then he
looked at his watch.
The car had been ordered for ten; it lacked half an hour of the time;
he wished he had ordered the car earlier.
For now his uneasiness was verging on that species of superstitious
inquietude which at times obsesses all gamblers, and which is known as
a "hunch." He had a hunch that he was "in wrong" somehow or other; an
overpowering longing to get on board the steamer assailed him--a
desire to get out of the city, get away quick.
The risk he had taken was beginning to appear to him as an unwarranted
piece of recklessness; he was amazed with himself for taking such a
chance--disgusted at his foolish and totally unnecessary course with
this young girl. All he had had to do was to wait a few months. He
could have married in safety then. And even now he didn't know whether
or not the ceremony performed by Parson Smawley had been an illegally
legal one; whether it made him a bigamist for the next three months or
only something worse. What on earth had possessed him to take such a
risk--the terrible hazard of discovery, of losing the only woman he
had ever really cared for--the only one he probably could ever care
for? Of course, had he been free he would have married her. When he
got his freedom he would insist on another ceremony. He could persuade
her to that on some excuse or other. But in the meanwhile!
He entered the deserted dining-room, came over to where Rue was
waiting, and sat down, heavily, holding an unlighted cigar between his
stubby fingers.
"Well, little girl," he said with forced cheerfulness, "was I away
very long?"
"Not very."
"You didn't miss me?" he inquired, ponderously playful.
His heavy pleasantries usually left her just a little doubtful and
confused, for he seldom smiled when he delivered himself of them.
He leaned across the cloth and laid a hot, cushiony hand over both of
hers, where they lay primly clasped on the table edge:
"Don't you ever miss me when I'm away from you, Rue?" he asked.
"I think--it is nice to be with you," she said, hotly embarrassed by
the publicity of his caress.
"I don't believe you mean it." But he smiled this time. At which the
little rigid smile stamped itself on her lips; but she timidly
withdrew her hands from his.
"Rue, I don't believe you love me." This time there was no smile.
She found nothing to answer, being without any experience in
give-and-take conversation, which left her always uncertain and
uncomfortable.
For the girl was merely a creature still in the making--a soft,
pliable thing to be shaped to perfection only by the light touch of
some steady, patient hand that understood--or to be marred and ruined
by a heavy hand which wrought at random or in brutal haste.
Brandes watched her for a moment out of sleepy, greenish eyes. Then he
consulted his watch again, summoned a waiter, gave him the
parcels-room checks, and bade him have a boy carry their luggage into
the lobby.
As they rose from the table, a man and a woman entering the lobby
caught sight of them, halted, then turned and walked back toward the
street door which they had just entered.
Brandes had not noticed them where he stood by the desk, scratching
off a telegram to Stull:
"All O. K. Just going aboard. Fix it with Stein."
He rejoined Rue as the boy appeared with their luggage; an under
porter took the bags and preceded them toward the street.
"There's the car!" said Brandes, with a deep breath of relief. "He
knows his business, that chauffeur of mine."
Their chauffeur was standing beside the car as they emerged from the
hotel and started to cross the sidewalk; the porter, following, set
their luggage on the curbstone; and at the same instant a young and
pretty woman stepped lightly between Rue and Brandes.
"Good evening, Eddie," she said, and struck him a staggering blow in
the face with her white-gloved hand.
Brandes lost his balance, stumbled sideways, recovered himself, turned
swiftly and encountered the full, protruding black eyes of Maxy Venem
staring close and menacingly into his.
From Brandes' cut lip blood was running down over his chin and collar;
his face remained absolutely expressionless. The next moment his eyes
shifted, met Ruhannah's stupefied gaze.
"Go into the hotel," he said calmly. "Quick----"
"Stay where you are!" interrupted Maxy Venem, and caught the
speechless and bewildered girl by the elbow.
Like lightning Brandes' hand flew to his hip pocket, and at the same
instant his own chauffeur seized both his heavy, short arms and held
them rigid, pinned behind his back.
"Frisk him!" he panted; Venem nimbly relieved him of the dull black
weapon.
"Can the fake gun-play, Eddie," he said, coolly shoving aside the
porter who attempted to interfere. "You're double-crossed. We got the
goods on you; come on; who's the girl?"
The woman who had struck Brandes now came up again beside Venem. She
was young, very pretty, but deathly white except for the patches of
cosmetic on either cheek. She pointed at Brandes. There was blood on
her soiled and split glove:
"You dirty dog!" she said unsteadily. "You'll marry this girl before
I've divorced you, will you? And you think you are going to get away
with it! You dog! You dirty dog!"
The porter attempted to interfere again, but Venem shoved him out of
the way. Brandes, still silently struggling to free his imprisoned
arms, ceased twisting suddenly and swung his heavy head toward Venem.
His hat had fallen off; his face, deeply flushed with exertion, was
smeared with blood and sweat.
"What's the idea, you fool!" he said in a low voice. "I'm not married
to her."
But Ruhannah heard him say it.
"You claim that you haven't married this girl?" demanded Venem loudly,
motioning toward Rue, who stood swaying, half dead, held fast by the
gathering crowd which pushed around them from every side.
"Did you marry her or did you fake it?" repeated Venem in a louder
voice. "It's jail one way; maybe both!"
"He married her in Gayfield at eleven this morning!" said the
chauffeur. "Parson Smawley turned the trick."
Brandes' narrow eyes glittered; he struggled for a moment, gave it up,
shot a deadly glance at Maxy Venem, at his wife, at the increasing
throng crowding closely about him. Then his infuriated eyes met Rue's,
and the expression of her face apparently crazed him.
Frantic, he hurled himself backward, jerking one arm free, tripped,
fell heavily with the chauffeur on top, twisting, panting, struggling
convulsively, while all around him surged the excited crowd, shouting,
pressing closer, trampling one another in eagerness to see.
Rue, almost swooning with fear, was pushed, jostled, flung aside.
Stumbling over her own suitcase, she fell to her knees, rose, and,
scarce conscious of what she was about, caught up her suitcase and
reeled away into the light-shot darkness.
She had no idea of what she was doing or where she was going; the
terror of the scene still remained luridly before her eyes; the
shouting of the crowd was in her ears; an indescribable fear of
Brandes filled her--a growing horror of this man who had denied that
he had married her. And the instinct of a frightened and bewildered
child drove her into blind flight, anywhere to escape this hideous,
incomprehensible scene behind her.
Hurrying on, alternately confused and dazzled in the patches of
darkness and flaring light, clutched at and followed by a terrible
fear, she found herself halted on the curbstone of an avenue through
which lighted tramcars were passing. A man spoke to her, came closer;
and she turned desperately and hurried across a street where other
people were crossing.
From overhead sounded the roaring dissonance of an elevated train; on
either side of her phantom shapes swarmed--figures which moved
everywhere around her, now illumined by shop windows, now silhouetted
against them. And always through the deafening confusion in her brain,
the dismay, the stupefaction, one dreadful fear dominated--the fear of
Brandes--the dread and horror of this Judas who had denied her.
She could not drive the scene from her mind--the never-to-be forgotten
picture where he stood with blood from his cut lip striping his fat
chin. She heard his voice denying her through swollen lips that
scarcely moved--denying that he had married her.
And in her ears still sounded the other voice--the terrible words of
the woman who had struck him--an unsteady, unreal voice accusing him;
and her brain throbbed with the horrible repetition: "Dirty dog--dirty
dog--dirty dog----" until, almost out of her mind, she dropped her bag
and clapped both hands over her ears.
One or two men stared at her. A taxi driver came from beside his car
and asked her if she was ill. But she caught up her suitcase and
hurried on without answering.
* * * * *
She was very tired. She had come to the end of the lighted avenue.
There was darkness ahead, a wall, trees, and electric lights sparkling
among the foliage.
Perhaps the sudden glimpse of a wide and star-set sky quieted her,
calmed her. Freed suddenly from the cañon of the city's streets, the
unreasoning panic of a trapped thing subsided a little.
Her arm ached; she shifted the suitcase to her other hand and looked
across at the trees and at the high stars above, striving desperately
for self-command.
Something had to be done. She must find some place where she could sit
down. Where was she to find it?
For a while she could feel her limbs trembling; but gradually the
heavy thudding of her pulses quieted; nobody molested her; nobody had
followed her. That she was quite lost did not matter; she had also
lost this man who had denied her, somewhere in the depths of the
confusion behind her. That was all that mattered--escape from him,
from the terrible woman who had struck him and reviled him.
With an effort she checked her thoughts and struggled for
self-command. Somewhere in the city there must be a railroad station
from which a train would take her home.
With the thought came the desperate longing for flight, and a rush of
tears that almost choked her. Nothing mattered now except her mother's
arms; the rest was a nightmare, the horror of a dream which still
threatened, still clutched at her with shadowy and spectral menace.
For a moment or two she stood there on the curb, her eyes closed,
fighting for self-control, forcing her disorganized brain to duty.
Somebody must help her to find a railroad station and a train. That
gradually became clear to her. But when she realised that, a young man
sauntered up beside her and looked at her so intently that her
calmness gave way and she turned her head sharply to conceal the
starting tears.
"Hello, girlie," he said. "Got anythin' on tonight?"
With head averted, she stood there, rigid, dumb, her tear-drenched
eyes fixed on the park; and after one or two jocose observations the
young man became discouraged and went away. But he had thrust the fear
of strangers deep into her heart; and now she dared not ask any man
for information. However, when two young women passed she found
sufficient courage to accost them, asking the direction of the
railroad station from which trains departed for Gayfield.
The women, who were young and brightly coloured in plumage, displayed
a sympathetic interest at once.
"Gayfield?" repeated the blonder of the two. "Gee, dearie, I never
heard of that place."
"Is it on Long Island?" inquired the other.
"No. It is in Mohawk County."
"That's a new one, too. Mohawk County? Never heard of it; did you,
Lil?"
"Search me!"
"Is it up-state, dearie?" asked the other. "You better go over to
Madison Avenue and take a car to the Grand Central----"
"Wait," interrupted her friend; "she better take a taxi----"
"Nix on a taxi you pick up on Sixth Avenue!" And to Rue, curiously
sympathetic: "Say, you've got friends here, haven't you, little one?"
"No."
"What! You don't know anyone in New York!"
Rue looked at her dumbly; then, of a sudden, she remembered Neeland.
"Yes," she said, "I know one person."
"Where does your friend live?"
In her reticule was the paper on which he had written the address of
the Art Students' League, and, as an afterthought, his own address.
Rue lifted the blue silk bag, opened it, took out her purse and found
the paper.
"One Hundred and Six, West Fifty-fifth Street," she read; "Studio No.
10."
"Why, that isn't far!" said the blonder of the two. "We are going that
way. We'll take you there."
"I don't know--I don't know him very well----"
"Is it a man?"
"Yes. He comes from my town, Gayfield."
"Oh! I guess that's all right," said the other woman, laughing. "You
got to be leery of these men, little one. Come on; we'll show you."
It was only four blocks; Ruhannah presently found herself on the steps
of a house from which dangled a sign, "Studios and Bachelor
Apartments to Let."
"What's his name?" said the woman addressed as Lil.
"Mr. Neeland."
By the light of the vestibule lantern they inspected the letter boxes,
found Neeland's name, and pushed the electric button.
After a few seconds the door clicked and opened.
"Now, you're all right!" said Lil, peering into the lighted hallway.
"It's on the fourth floor and there isn't any elevator that I can see,
so you keep on going upstairs till your friend meets you."
"Thank you so much for your great kindness----"
"Don't mention it. Good luck, dearie!"
The door clicked behind her, and Rue found herself alone.
The stairs, flanked by a massive balustrade of some dark, polished
wood, ascended in spirals by a short series of flights and landings.
Twice she rested, her knees almost giving way, for the climb upward
seemed interminable. But at last, just above her, she saw a skylight,
and a great stair-window giving on a court; and, as she toiled up and
stood clinging, breathless, to the banisters on the top landing, out
of an open door stepped Neeland's shadowy figure, dark against the
hall light behind him.
"For heaven's sake!" he said. "What on earth----"
The suitcase fell from her nerveless hand; she swayed a little where
she stood.
The next moment he had passed his arm around her, and was half
leading, half carrying her through a short hallway into a big,
brilliantly lighted studio.