He wanted her; he wanted her now; he wanted to marry her whether or
not he had the legal right; he wanted to go away for a month with her,
and then return and work for her, for them both--build up a fortune
and a good reputation with Stein's backing and Stein's theatre--stand
well with honest men, stand well with himself, stand always, with
her, for everything a man should be.
If she loved him she would forgive him and quietly remarry him as soon
as Minna kicked him loose. He was confident he could make her happy,
make her love him if once he could find courage to speak--if once he
could win her. And suddenly the only possible way to go about it
occurred to him.
His voice was a trifle husky and unsteady from the nervous tension
when he at last broke the silence: "Miss Rue," he said, "I have a word to say to your father and mother.
Would you wait here until I come back?"
"I think I had better go in, too----"
"Please don't."
"Why?" She stopped short, instinctively, but not surmising.
"You will wait, then?" he asked.
"I was going in.... But I'll sit here a little while."
He rose and went in, rather blindly.
* * * * *
Ruhannah, dreaming there deep in her splint armchair, slim feet
crossed, watched the fireflies sailing over the alders. Sometimes she
thought of Brandes, pleasantly, sometimes of other matters. Once the
memory of her drive home through the wintry moonlight with young
Neeland occurred to her, and the reminiscence was vaguely agreeable.
Listless, a trifle sleepy, dreamily watching the fireflies, the
ceaseless noise of the creek in her ears, inconsequential thoughts
flitted through her brain--the vague, aimless, guiltless thoughts of a
young and unstained mind.
She was nearly asleep when Brandes came back, and she looked up at
him where he stood beside her porch chair in the darkness.
"Miss Rue," he said, "I have told your father and mother that I am in
love with you and want to make you my wife."
The girl lay there speechless, astounded.