The Last Drive (19 page)

“Yes, I know,” he replied bitterly. Then, smiling: “That was what you said a year ago, wasn't it, Rina? And Guilford—damn him! But there, you'd better accept. I suppose he's still here. Call the waiter and send him over. Good advice from an old friend.”

And Bronson did what all smokers do when they are trying to appear calm. He took a cigarette from a packet and lit it with trembling fingers.

“But, Harry, I don't want to see him. I don't, really. I want you. I—I was so
glad
to see you!”

“Thanks. But that doesn't alter the advice.”

“Harry!”

“No, it doesn't. I mean it.”

“Harry, don't you know—can't you see—“

“Listen here, Rina,” he interrupted her, his eyes narrowing. “Now, this is straight. You told me once before that I was the only one. Cut out the imagination. Quit kidding yourself.”

“But I'm not—”

“Yes, you are. It's the same thing over again. And—well, it don't go.”

She began to protest, murmuring rapidly little broken bits of sentences that seemed meaningless, while he shook his head slowly from side to side, always with the twisted smile on this lips. And suddenly, looking into his eyes, she seemed for the first time to become aware of their hardness, their sinister coldness, and she stopped abruptly, with a quick, sharp breath, like one who passes from a warm house into a winter night.

“Oh!” she said slowly, painfully. “Then—I see—it is you—you do not care—”

Her eyes fell, and she began pushing the bits of paper about in the plate with nervous fingers. Then she looked up again into his eyes, with an expression of appeal, of misery and regret.

“Oh, Harry,” she cried in a whisper. “I—I thought—if you still loved me—”

And as they sat looking at each other, the smile faded from Bronson's face and his eyes filled with hunger—poignant, actual hunger, like the eyes of a staring animal.

“Rina,” he said huskily.

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he whispered fiercely. “I love you, Rina. I won't have you think I don't. You don't know what you've done. I love you, I love you, I love you. . . .”

He repeated the phrase over and over. Then suddenly he jerked himself up and passed his hand over his forehead, like a man awakening from sleep. He continued more calmly:

“But I don't think you ever loved me. No, I don't. I don't think you ever loved anyone. I'm wiser than I was a year ago, Rina. There are all kinds of girls—women—and I've met a few of them. You'd be surprised how much I've learned on Broadway in one year.

“I'm not the same man you used to know in Granton. I've changed. I've been drinking pretty hard, for instance. It was my own fault, but I was trying to forget you. I never will. Do you remember that the last night, the night you sent me away, you had on a yellow dress with white on it, and yellow shoes? Whenever I see a woman in a yellow dress I want to run and tear it off her. Once when I had been drinking—but that doesn't matter. I can't think of anyone but you.

“I'm working here, you know, at the cabaret. I'm a dancer. Do you remember how I used to talk in Granton—my high ambitions, my confidence, my—my decency? Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me? I'll never forget that. We were on the porch—on the steps—and it was moonlight. Your mother had just gone in, and we could hear her walking around inside. I didn't notice it then, but later, in my memory, I heard her footsteps, like in a dream, only much plainer. You wouldn't let me kiss you, but I didn't care.

“And the days that followed! The most wonderful days, so happy! Oh, I thought you loved me, Rina! Why shouldn't I?

“And then Guilford came.

“At first I was merely uneasy, then I was wretched, tormented with jealousy. I wanted to kill him! I would lie in bed all night, awake, feeling my fingers around his throat. I dreamed of his gasps, his death-rattle—I could hear it! I knew from the first that life held nothing more for me, that I was doomed.

“I came away. I tried to forget—I've tried every way possible—and I can't do it. But I'm getting—philosophical. Call it drunk if you want to. Another year, and I'll be all in. And listen, Rina, and for God's sake do what I tell you! Go back to Granton. New York is no place—”

He stopped abruptly. A waiter had approached and was handing Rina a card. She read it at a glance, then turned:

“Tell him no,” she said distinctly.

The waiter bowed with a little knowing smile and turned to go. But he found his way blocked by a tall, blond man in evening dress. At sight of him the waiter halted with an appearance of embarrassment.

“The lady said to tell you no,” he stammered.

“That's all right,” the blond man replied, pushing his way forward. “I'll speak to her myself. Hello, Rina,” he added, stopping beside her chair and looking down at her.

Bronson turned pale as he rose to his feet. Rina also half arose, then sank back into her chair. A tiny gleam of white showed above her lip as her teeth closed tightly over it. Bronson was glaring at the blond man. She took in her breath sharply as she saw the look in his eyes, and opened her mouth to speak before he could act. But another voice broke the silence.

“I beg your pardon; I thought you were alone,” said the blond man, in a smooth, easy voice. “I got impatient waiting for an answer to my invitation, so I followed the waiter. By Jove, it's good to see you again! Nearly a year, isn't it? Aren't you going to say hello, Rina?”

He put out his hand and laid it on her white arm.

But Bronson's eyes, narrowed to thin slits, were gleaming out of his pale face like points of lightning, and the gloss of his black coat shimmered in the dazzling light as a shiver of emotion shook his frame. Rina rose hastily to her feet, half upsetting her chair, and put out her hand as though to hold him back. Then she turned to the blond man.

“Mr. Guilford,” she said in a voice that was distinct in spite of its tremor, “let me introduce you to my husband, Mr. Bronson. You met him once or twice a year ago, in Granton.”

The blond man stared for a moment in surprise, plainly disconcerted. But he quickly recovered.

“You don't say!” he exclaimed pleasantly. “Really? Allow me to congratulate you—both of you. Yes, I remember you now, Mr. Bronson.”

And he held out his hands, one to each of them. They stared at him without moving. Then something—perhaps the expression of Rina's eyes—caused the color to come into his face with a sudden rush, and he dropped his hands.

“Really!” he repeated, with a foolish, uncomfortable smile. And he turned without another word and went away.

Rina watched his back move down the aisle. Then:

“Harry,” she stammered, “Harry—you see—”

She stopped abruptly, caught by the expression of his face. He was grinning, actually grinning, with his mouth twisted to one side and the muscles of his cheeks distorted. And as she looked, amazed, he suddenly burst into laughter—sharp, ringing laughter that drew the attention of twenty tables. He said nothing; he did not move or shake his shoulders; he merely stood still and laughed like a crazy man, while the diners turned around in their chairs to look at him in amused wonder, and Rina stood silent, speechless.

But suddenly he stopped, as his gaze was caught by something at the rear of the platform, which he faced, behind Rina.

“Ah,” he cried, “there she is now! Dibby! Claire! Come here!”

Rina turned in time to see the approach of a little, black-haired creature by the side of a fat, jolly-looking young man. They had on their wraps, having evidently come from the street.

“Here, Claire,” Bronson was saying. “Here, I want to introduce you to Rina Warner, an old friend of mine.”

And as Claire approached he took her hand and bowed deeply.

“Rina,” he said, “this is Claire, my wife. We were married a month ago.”

Then he began to laugh again.

Second Edition

This story about a broken engagement and a more promising marriage appeared in
Young's Magazine
.

H
arry Sackerville was only thirty-six then, but he had already built the railroad to China and handled the Algerian situation for the French government, for which he received the Cross of the Legion of Honor. He was not yet vulgarly famous, but his name was known in high places, and it was said that London was about to retain him to clear things up in Persia; but the plan fell through. When he returned from Africa he found, to his astonishment, that New York had decided he was a great man. He was dined by the Lotos Club, and the magazines and newspapers begged for articles and interviews on everything from Kabyles to Roquefort cheese. It was one of those little tricks fortune is so fond of playing.

After a month of New York, having taken too large a dose of teas and dinners and motor rides, Sackerville was unspeakably bored. Then he received a request for an interview from someone in the State Department at Washington. At the end of three days he was back in the metropolis, more restless than before. The evening of his return he dined with some friends at a downtown club; the company was congenial, the wines were good and Sackerville drank more than was necessary. The next morning he woke up with a headache.

“I'm sick of this place anyway,” he said to himself, yawning at the window.

He dressed, breakfasted, packed his bag and caught the ten o'clock train for Utica.

He was turning back to an early page in his book of life. It was in Utica that he had spent his first seventeen years in the world, for the most part an orphan and penniless. In all the nineteen years since he had left, the day after his graduation from high school, he had not been back; he had not found time, and, besides, his memories of youth were not cheerful. One in particular—that of Melissa Hayes, with her red hair and white skin and large blue eyes. She had been in his class.

What a curious mechanism is the human heart! Violent emotions may fill it, break it, and in a short time depart, leaving no trace of their passage; while some youthful impression, hardly noticed at the time, may find its place in a little corner and then, as the years pass, gradually and silently steal its way to the center.

Sackerville could remember now that he had admired Melissa Hayes nineteen years before, but he had no recollection of any eager passion for her. One night, however, asleep in the Chinese wilderness, he had dreamed of her red hair on his face and the thought of her had held him ever since. In the desert, in the midst of rough engineering camps, at moments of peril, amid the comforts of a Paris or Berlin hotel, he had thought of her; not always—for he was an enormously active man—but often. There had been at least one girl—the daughter of the French consul at Cairo—whom he would have married but for the memory of Melissa Hayes. And other women, too—but he did not care to think of them.

So he was going to Utica to visit his boyhood friend, Andrew Beach, with whom he had corresponded at intervals. He pulled a letter out of his coat pocket as he leaned back in the chair of the pullman. It was on a business letterhead: “Andrew Beach, Fancy Groceries, Wholesale and Retail.” He smiled. Queer how men could bury themselves under bags of potatoes in a little upstate town and get happiness out of it! Old Andy, too.
Was
he happy? Sackerville wondered.

Then he thought of Melissa Hayes and admitted to himself that it was her red hair which was taking him back to Utica. It was absurd, of course; probably she didn't live there anymore and certainly she was married. He told himself that the image in his heart was not Melissa Hayes at all; it was a memory, an abstract desire, an ideal. It could make no difference if he saw her and spoke to her—the disturbing image would remain in his heart to tantalize him forever; but he wanted to see her—

And it was of her he thought as the train flew swiftly along the bank of the Hudson. He leaned back in his chair with an unopened book on his knees, gazing through the window at the curving outline of the hills across the river. He found himself getting impatient the other side of Albany; then, as he neared his destination, he was taken with a curious reluctance, almost a timidity. He was sorry he had come. But when the train stopped he leaped to the platform, summoned a cab and gave the address on Andrew Beach's letterhead.

Ten minutes later he was shaking hands with Andy in a little office with the word “Private” on the door. After the first greetings the two men stood looking at each other in silence for some time.

“You've changed a lot, old man,” said Sackerville. Indeed, it was difficult to believe that this little fat, bustling grocer, already half bald, was his old boyhood friend. There was nothing to go by, no feature he could place—but yes, the eyes. They had the same sly, twinkling expression he remembered so well. Come to think of it, this was just the sort of man one would have expected Andy Beach to grow into. No doubt he was adept at the tricks of the trade.

“Yes, I'm doing fine,” the grocer was saying. “Three floors here and a warehouse over on Fillmore Street; you know, opposite old Pat's livery stable. I've got the biggest wholesale business in the city. Show you my plant in the morning—” he glanced at his watch—“too late now. We'll go home and have some dinner. Mrs. Beach will sure be glad to see you. Got your bag?”

“Yes, but I'll send it down to the hotel,” said Sackerville.

But Andrew Beach wouldn't hear of that. Let his friend Harry stay at a hotel? He should say not! His wife would never forgive him! He gave some orders to subordinates in the office, linked his arm in Sackerville's and led him out to the curb where a motor-car was waiting with a chauffeur on the seat.

“Ah!” said Sackerville.

“Yes,” said the grocer, motioning him to get in. “Some car, eh? Good as any in town. I work hard, and I believe in getting what I can out of life. The best is none too good for me when I can afford it.”

As the car sped through the darkening streets he continued his chatter.

“I see you've been doing big things,” he observed, “in Africa and places. There was a whole page about you in the
Herald
a week ago Sunday; I suppose you saw it. My wife read it aloud to me. Well, I'm glad— See there? Old Snyder's drugstore. Yep; still there. Things still look familiar, don't they? It don't seem possible you've been gone twenty years. There's old Carroll's church, but he's dead; remember how we used to pester him? By the way, you've got here just in time for
the event
, so don't be surprised if you find things every which way you know, Melissa's going to be married next week.”

Sackerville sat up. “Melissa?”

“Yes. My daughter. I've spoke about her in my letters, I suppose. Always called her Melly, but she won't stand for it anymore now she's engaged. All right, so I say Melissa. She's a fine girl.”

“Melissa!” Sackerville repeated stupidly.

“Yep. Named after her mother—Melissa Hayes—she was in our class—remember the tall girl with red hair and big blue eyes? Of course, I wrote you about it. I married her about a year after you left.”

“No, I never knew it,” said Sackerville after I pause. “But I—I remember her.”

“Sure you do. I must have written you about it, but it was a long time ago. She's been a good wife, Harry, except for a few queer notions. She's society. And then— Here, see that big house on the corner? No, the one with the closed porch. That's Dan Harrison's—remember Dan? He's in real estate. Very successful. We'll drop in on him tonight. Here we are! Yep, this belongs to yours truly. Got a hundred feet both ways—garage in the rear. Good Lord! I ought to have telephoned Melissa! She'll give me the dickens.”

As Sackerville got out of the car and ascended the steps of the broad, deep porch, he felt ironically amused at himself. He had sought the ideal of his heart and found the wife of a provincial grocer!
Tant pis!
No one but a fool would have expected anything better. He was sentimental enough to feel a repugnance about crossing the threshold; he did not want to meet her. Certainly it would not be his Melissa, whose face had haunted him in the desert and wild places of the earth.

“Sit down—in there—make yourself at home—back in a minute,” Andrew Beach was saying as he disappeared down the hall.

Sackerville entered a large modern parlor and seated himself on a covered divan in the recess of a double window. Looking around, he told himself that the room was not half bad; there was even evidence of taste. The furniture was all in dark tapestry, except a table and chair of kioto wood near the fireplace; the walls were dark gray, and there were few pictures. At one end was a pianola with a cabinet of rolls. The whole was bathed in the soft light of an electric pedestal lamp in a corner; and Sackerville was idly taking in these details and commending them when he heard steps in the hall. He told himself that it would be the grocer's wife, and he braced himself. The steps approached the door—

“My God!” cried Sackerville aloud, springing to his feet.

“Oh!” came a startled voice. “I beg your pardon—I didn't know there was anyone—”

It was Melissa—Melissa of the wilderness! He could not understand it, and he stood staring stupidly as she entered the room with a quick, unconscious grace and crossed to the table. He felt stunned and silly. There she was, tall, slender, youthful, with her large soft eyes relieving the fire of the splendid hair, and her skin like frozen snow. She took a book from the table and turned to leave. She neared the door.

“Oh, here you are!” came the voice of Andrew Beach. “Sackerville!” The grocer entered the room, followed by a large tall woman with flushed face and shining eyes. “Harry, this is my wife and my daughter Melly—all right, Melissa then. Two of 'em. First and second edition. What do you think? Looks just the same, don't he? He's a great man, daughter, but don't be afraid of him. Yes, you've heard us speak of Harry Sackerville. Remember the piece in the
Herald
a week ago? Come on, Harry, if you want to wash up; dinner's about ready. I'll show you your room.”

Upstairs the astonished Sackerville moved about in a daze as he washed his hands and face and changed his linen, while his host sat on the bed and chattered. He had seen her, he was to dine with her—that was as far as his thoughts could get. She existed. She was here. What supernatural luck! He felt a glow in his breast.

“You'll have to excuse the women,” Andrew Beach was saying. “They'll probably eat and run. Busier than two hens the week before Easter. This wedding business is awful. Lord, it's funny to think of Melly getting married. Only yesterday—”

Sackerville dropped the soap on the floor.

“—she was a kid on my knee. It's a bad thing, Harry, when your children grow up. Though Melly—Melissa's all I've got. There's bound to be things you don't like, and you wonder if they'll be happy. Take this man going to marry Melissa; I suppose he'll do, but I don't like him. Railroad man—owns the lines both ways up the valley—I guess he's about the richest young man in town, but Lord, it won't make Melissa happy just to be able to take free rides on a railroad. It's her mother's doing. Society bug. Says her daughter will be the most prominent matron in the city. I don't like it. Who wants to be a prominent matron? It ain't wise.”

This chatter carried them to the dining-room, and there Andrew Beach subsided suddenly and completely to give his wife a chance. Mrs. Beach talked rather slowly in order to make sure of her pronunciation. Her accent was very refined. She opened with a discussion of school reminiscences with Sackerville, then spoke at some length of the pleasure it gave one to entertain so distinguished a guest at one's own table in an informal manner. She gushed. This lasted till the roast, when she began talking of her home, having been started by a compliment from Sackerville. It was such a satisfaction to one to surround one's self with artistic things. Thanks to Andrew's commercial success—she smiled approvingly at her husband—she had been able to gratify her tastes. Also, she had raised her family to a position at the very top of society, and the hour of her greatest triumph was at hand. No doubt Andrew had informed Mr. Sackerille of the approaching marriage of her daughter to Mr. John Gowanton.

The distinguished guest admitted that he had been so informed.

“The most eligible gentleman in the city,” said Mrs. Beach emphatically.

Her husband muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Damphool.”

“What did you say, Andrew?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Beach hastily, conveying some meat to his mouth.

At that moment Sackerville did something he had been trying to do since the beginning of dinner. He met the eyes of Melissa Beach—and they twinkled. Unconsciously he returned her glance with the frank familiarity of an intimate friend, so clearly and obviously was she the Melissa of his heart, whose image had been with him many years; and she flushed and looked away. He watched the delicate color tint her white skin and found a place for it in his memory; and when, in a few moments, her eyes stole back, he was still gazing at her, and the flush deepened. He had no sense of his own rudeness; he was merely seeing in reality what had so often charmed his heavy-lidded eyes in the lonely nights.

“Really, the best family in the city—” Mrs. Beach was saying.

That night Sackerville lay awake to think. Not despairing thoughts, though it would seem that he had found the object of his dreams only to lose it. He was a man who had fought with mountains and deserts and gangs of lazy criminal men and sneaky little diplomats; and ordinary foes, such as social conventions and ambitious matrons and best families, held no terrors for him. On the whole, his thoughts were optimistic and happy.