The Dark Star Part 33

"You may go in, James."

They entered together; and he was startled to see how young she seemed there on the pillows--how pitifully immature the childish throat, the tear-flushed face lying in its ma.s.s of chestnut hair.

"Good-bye, Rue," he said, still awkward, offering his hand.

Slowly she held out one slim hand from the covers.

"Good voyage, good luck," he said. "I wish you would write a line to me."

"I will."

"Then----" He smiled; released her hand.

"Thank you for--for all you have done," she said. "I shall not forget."

Something choked him slightly; he forced a laugh:

"Come back a famous painter, Rue. Keep your head clear and your heart full of courage. And let me know how you're getting on, won't you?"

"Yes.... Good-bye."

So he went out, and at the door exchanged adieux with the smiling Princess.

"Do you--like her a little?" he whispered.

"I do, my friend. Also--I like you. I am old enough to say it safely, am I not?"

"If you think so," he said, a funny little laugh in his eyes, "you are old enough to let me kiss you good-bye."

But she backed away, still smiling:

"On the brow--the hair--yes; if you promise discretion, James."

"What has tottering age like yours to do with discretion, Princess Naa?" he retorted impudently. "A kiss on the mouth must of itself be discreet when bestowed on youth by such venerable years as are yours."

But the Princess, the singularly provocative smile still edging her lips, merely looked at him out of dark and slightly humorous eyes, gave him her hand, withdrew it with decision, and entered her stateroom, closing the door rather sharply behind her.

When Neeland got back to the studio he took a couple of hours' sleep, and, being young, perfectly healthy, and perhaps not unaccustomed to the habits of the owl family, felt pretty well when he went out to breakfast.

Over his coffee cup he propped up his newspaper against a carafe; and the heading on one of the columns immediately attracted his attention.

ROW BETWEEN SPORTING MEN

EDDIE BRANDES, FIGHT PROMOTER AND THEATRICAL MAN, MIXES IT WITH MAXY VENEM

A WOMAN SAID TO BE THE CAUSE: AFFRAY DRAWS A BIG CROWD IN FRONT OF THE HOTEL KNICKERBOCKER

BOTH MEN, BADLY BATTERED, GET AWAY BEFORE THE POLICE ARRIVE

Breakfasting leisurely, he read the partly humorous, partly contemptuous account of the sordid affair. Afterward he sent for all the morning papers. But in none of them was Ruhannah Carew mentioned at all, n.o.body, apparently, having noticed her in the exciting affair between Venem, Brandes, the latter's wife, and the chauffeur.

Nor did the evening papers add anything material to the account, except to say that Brandes had been interviewed in his office at the Silhouette Theatre and that he stated that he had not engaged in any personal encounter with anybody, had not seen Max Venem in months, had not been near the Hotel Knickerbocker, and knew nothing about the affair in question.

He also permitted a dark hint or two to escape him concerning possible suits for defamation of character against irresponsible newspapers.

The accounts in the various evening editions agreed, however, that when interviewed, Mr. Brandes was nursing a black eye and a badly swollen lip, which, according to him, he had acquired in a playful sparring encounter with his business manager, Mr. Benjamin Stull.

And that was all; the big town had neither time nor inclination to notice either Brandes or Venem any further; Broadway completed the story for its own edification, and, by degrees, arrived at its own conclusions. Only n.o.body could discover who was the young girl concerned, or where she came from or what might be her name. And, after a few days, Broadway, also, forgot the matter amid the tarnished tinsel and raucous noises of its own mean and multifarious preoccupations.

CHAPTER XIII

LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL

Neeland had several letters from Ruhannah Carew that autumn and winter. The first one was written a few weeks after her arrival in Paris:

Dear Mr. Neeland:

Please forgive me for writing to you, but I am homesick.

I have written every week to mother and have made my letters read as though I were still married, because it would almost kill her if she knew the truth.

Some day I shall have to tell her, but not yet. Could you tell me how you think the news ought to be broken to her and father?

_That man_ was not on the steamer. I was quite ill crossing the ocean.

But the last two days I went on deck with the Princess Mistchenka and her maid, and I enjoyed the sea.

The Princess has been so friendly. I should have died, I think, without her, what with my seasickness and homesickness, and brooding over my terrible fall. I know it is immoral to say so, but I did not want to live any longer, truly I didn't. I even asked to be taken. I am sorry now that I prayed that way.

Well, I have pa.s.sed through the most awful part of my life, I think. I feel strange and different, as though I had been very sick, and had died, and as though it were another girl sitting here writing to you, and not the girl who was in your studio last August.

I had always expected happiness some day. Now I know I shall never have it. Girls dream many foolish things about the future. They have such dear, silly hopes.

All dreams are ended for me; all that remains in life for me is to work very hard so that I can learn to support myself and my parents. I should like to make a great deal of money so that when I die I can leave it to charity. I desire to be remembered for my good works. But of course I shall first have to learn how to take care of myself and mother and father before I can aid the poor. I often think of becoming a nun and going out to nurse lepers. Only I don't know where there are any. Do you?

Paris is very large and a sort of silvery grey colour, full of trees with yellowing leaves--but Oh, it is _so_ lonely, Mr. Neeland! I am determined not to cry every day, but it is quite difficult not to. And then there are so many, many people, and they all talk French! They talk very fast, too, even the little children.

This seems such an ungrateful letter to write you, who were so good and kind to me in my dreadful hour of trial and disgrace. I am afraid you won't understand how full of grat.i.tude I am, to you and to the Princess Mistchenka.

I have the prettiest little bedroom in her house. There is a pink shade on my night lamp. She insisted that I go home with her, and I had to, because I didn't know where else to go, and she wouldn't tell me. In fact, I can't go anywhere or find any place because I speak no French at all. It's humiliating, isn't it, for even the very little children speak French in Paris.

But I have begun to learn; a cheerful old lady comes for an hour every day to teach me. Only it is very hard for me, because she speaks no English and I am forbidden to utter one word of my own language. And so far I understand nothing that she says, which makes me more lonely than I ever was in all my life. But sometimes it is so absurd that we both laugh.