flushed, but answered:
“It is half a mile to Gayfield.”
The other man, noticing the colour in Ruhannah’s face, took off his pearl-grey hat. His language was less grammatical than his friend’s, but his instincts were better.
“Thank you,” he said – his companion staring all the while at the girl without the slightest expression. “Is there a telephone in any of them houses, miss?” – glancing around behind him at the three edifices which composed the crossroads called Brookhollow.
“No,” said Rue.
It thundered again; the world around had become very dusky and silent and the flash veined a rapidly blackening west.
“It’s going to rain buckets,” said the man called Eddie. “If you live around here, can you let us come into your house till it’s over, gir – er – miss?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mr. Brandes – Ed Brandes of New York–” speaking through cigar-clutching teeth. “This is Mr. Ben Stull, of the same… It’s raining already. Is that your house?”
“I live there,” said Rue, nodding across the bridge. “You may go in.”
She walked ahead, dragging the fish; Stull went to the car, took two suitcases from the boot; Brandes threw both overcoats over his arm, and followed in the wake of Ruhannah and her fish.
“No Saratoga and no races today, Eddie,” remarked Stull. But Brandes’ narrow, grey-green eyes were following Ruhannah.
“It’s a pity,” continued Stull, “somebody didn’t learn you to drive a car before you ask your friends joy-riding.”
“Aw – shut up,” returned Brandes slowly, between his teeth.
They climbed the flight of steps to the verandah, through a rapidly thickening gloom which was ripped wide open at intervals by lightning.
So Brandes and his shadow, Bennie Stull, came into the home of Ruhannah Carew.
Her mother, who had observed their approach from the window, opened the door.
“Mother,” said Ruhannah, “here is the fish I caught – and two gentlemen.”
With which dubious but innocent explanation she continued on toward the kitchen, carrying her fish.
Stull offered a brief explanation to account for their plight and presence; Brandes, listening and watching the mother out of greenish, sleepy eyes, made up his mind concerning her.
While the spare room was being prepared by mother and daughter, he and Stull, seated in the sitting-room, their hats upon their knees, exchanged solemn commonplaces with the Reverend Mr. Carew.
Brandes, always the gambler, always wary and reticent by nature, did all the listening before he came to conclusions that relaxed the stiffness of his attitude and the immobility of his large, round face.
Then, at ease under circumstances and conditions which he began to comprehend and have an amiable contempt for, he became urbane and conversational, and a little amused to find navigation so simple, even when out of his proper element.
From 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
