The Last Drive (22 page)

I took my hat and coat and edged my way to the aisle. In the outer lobby I put on my coat and hat, took the slip of brown paper, read it over once more and folded it; but before placing it in my pocket, I gaily carried it to my lips. The doorman, standing nearby, stared at me in amazement. Perhaps he would have been still more amazed if he had know what was written on it:

“The man sitting on your right is Abe Goldstein, of Harris and Goldstein. They are a new firm without much capital, but they have an original and artistic line with the punch. He only asks a chance to show you.”

And that was the way I became acquainted with Sadie Levine, buyer of ladies' suits for the most exclusive house on Fifth Avenue. Usually it takes years to get an account like that. It happened last night. I called on her this morning and sold her a bill of fourteen different numbers, three of each, for a total of $1,760.50. How's that for a first order?

Old Fools and Young

Stout's longest and last piece for
Young's Magazine
was this novelette­. It appeared in the April 1918 issue, but must have been written more than a year earlier, as Stout had been busy collaborating with his brother Robert in promoting a school banking system, the Educational Thrift Service, since the end of 1916. This farewell appearance marks the only time that one of Stout's early stories for
Young's
was promoted on the cover: “OLD FOOLS AND YOUNG – Complete Novelette by REX T. STOUT”

B
efore the large granite pillars flanking the entrance to Roselawn—one of those showy country estates that turn the east bank of the Hudson into an unbroken series of formal parks and flower gardens—a high-powered Shinton roadster came to an abrupt stop early one July morning. At the wheel was a man of middle age, not more than a year or two either side of forty; he was the sole occupant of the car. The perplexed and somewhat resentful expression of his pleasing, still youthful countenance showed that he had certainly not halted as a tribute to the surrounding landscape, though such a tribute would have been not undeserved. On one side green valleys and gently sloping hills, thickly wooded, rested and charmed the eye with their endless variety of form and color; on the other, gardens and terraced lawns led past the buildings of the estate to where a glimmer of the broad river shone through the foliage. The day promised to be hot, but just now a gentle, steady breeze was stirring freshness in the air.

The man in the car, having stopped, had taken a letter from his pocket and glanced through it. It read as follows:

Fred:

Morton Waring has just telephoned that Kate is ill, and I am going right over; so again I have to call on you to help me out.

Three girls are to arrive here today from New York, from that East Side Vacation Club, and now I can't be here to receive them. They would probably feel slighted with no one here except the servants; so won't you come over and do the honors? Just make them welcome and turn them loose; they can amuse themselves. That's a good brother; I know you'll do it.

I'll be back this evening or tomorrow.

I forget what train they're coming on; it's in my desk somewhere. I 'phoned, but you were out, so I'm sending this over by Simmons.

JANET

The man at the wheel refolded the letter with a grunt of irritation and returned it to his pocket.

“No, she doesn't even say what train,” he observed glumly to the radiator. “Of course she wouldn't. Well, I'll have to find out.”

He started the motor and turned into the driveway between the granite pillars. It led him deviously, around sweeping curves, to the carriage entrance of the house itself—a large rambling structure of gray stone and uncertain architecture, set in the centre of a century-old grove not more than a hundred yards from the bank of the river. A man came running up from the garage in the rear, touching his cap as he approached with a deferential,

“Good morning, Mr. Canby.”

“Good morning, Simmons. Put her away,” returned the other as he leaped out and mounted the steps of the piazza. At the door he was met by a red-faced middle-aged woman who greeted him with unfeigned relief and began to explain vociferously that her mistress had left so suddenly she didn't know what to think, and she had been so afraid Mr. Canby wouldn't come, and the young women expected from the city any minute—!

Without waiting for her to finish, Canby passed through to the front of the house and on upstairs to his sister's writing-room, where, after a ten-minute search, he finally found a typewritten letter containing the information that the Misses Rose Manganaro, Mildred Lavicci and Nella Somi would arrive Wednesday morning on the 10:50 local; also, Mrs. Janet Morton Haskins would please accept the profound thanks of the East Side Vacation Club for giving these working girls the opportunity of enjoying the myriad delights and advantages of country life for the two weeks they would be free from their toilsom labor in the cruel city. . . .

“This is what comes of having a widowed sister with contemplations on humanity,” observed Canby, as he tossed the letter back in the drawer. ‘Here's a nice job I've got. Pleasant task for an aged bachelor: playing croquet with Tired Working Girls! I'm not sure it's even decent. Lord, what names! Manganaro!—Lavicci!—Somi! They won't be able to speak English, their hands and feet will be in the way, and they'll have their pockets full of garlic to nibble between meals! Sis says she'll be back tonight or tomorrow, and maybe she will and maybe she won't. Oh Lord! Hanged if I'll go to the station, anyway; I'll send Simmons.”

Downstairs, having summoned the chauffeur from the garage and delivered his instructions, and having ascertained from the housekeeper that the rooms of the expected guests were in readiness, Canby deposited himself in a shady corner of the piazza with a morning newspaper, a box of cigarettes, a bottle, a siphon, and a glass. Soon he saw Simmons, in a new seven-passenger touring car, winding along the driveway on his way to the station, seven miles distant. Canby sighed and returned to his paper. He had had a match on for this morning with Garrett Linwood, a guest at his own country home, some fifteen miles to the northeast, and he had expected at about this hour to be standing on the sixth tee, driving across the brook. That's what comes of having a sister. . . .

Buried in the sporting page of his newspaper some forty-five minutes later, Canby came to with a start at the sound of the returning automobile whizzing along the driveway. Hastily tossing off his glass and throwing the paper aside, he reached the central arch of the main portico just as the car drew up at the foot of the steps.

The three young women from the East Side Vacation Club descended rather stiffly, with embarrassed movements. Canby glanced at them with idle curiosity and then spoke, welcoming them to Roselawn in the name of his sister, their hostess, and explaining her temporary absence. They mumbled something in reply, and Canby, somewhat embarrassed himself, was relieved to find the housekeeper at this elbow.

“Mrs. Garton will show you your rooms,” he finished. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

“I'm going back for the luggage, sir,” came from Simmons.

Canby nodded; in his indifference he had forgotten all about it; but, come to think of it, of course even working girls would have luggage. Having followed the housekeeper with his eyes as she led the visitors into the house, he returned to his corner on the piazza and took up his newspaper; but by the time he had finished the financial page he was vaguely uneasy. As host
pro tem.
, he felt that he probably ought to do something; so a few minutes later, he started in search of Mrs. Garton. As he crossed the reception hall he heard footsteps above, and there, on the landing of the great staircase, stood his three guests, huddled together as if for protection and gazing down at him doubtfully.

“I was just looking for you,” said Canby, trying to make his tone pleasant and fatherly. “Thought you might like to come out on the piazza—quite cool and cheerful. Later I'll take you over the gardens, when the sun isn't so hot.”

There was a movement on the landing, and a “Thank you, sir,” came down to him. He reflected with relief that they did appear to understand English, at least; and when they had descended the stairs he led the way outside.

There, after they had been distributed among the comfortable wicker chairs and he had rung for a maid to bring cakes and lemonade, he took the trouble to look at them. The two nearest him were easily classified as Italian peasant girls, with their dark skin and hair and eyes, rather coarse features and large hands and feet. They wore brightly colored dresses and one had a large yellow imitation rose in her hair. The third was more difficult; in fact, the longer Canby looked at her the more difficult she became. Her soft brown hair, combed back from her forehead, revealed a well-formed brow, smooth and white; her features were regular and her skin of a delicate velvety texture; and the hand that rested on the arm of the chair was small and exquisite in shape. She wore a laundered dress of light tan with a black velvet bow at the throat, and the low collar permitted a view of a dainty neck between the softly curving shoulders. Nineteen, she may have been, or twenty, and was of that delightful size and figure that makes any other woman always seem either too large or too small.

Canby took in these details, or most of them, gazing at her with something like astonishment. Curious his eye hadn't picked her out from the others as they got out of the car; but, after all, there was nothing noticeable about her, nothing startling. That was just it; it was only after you noticed her that you saw her. There was something decidedly attractive and appealing about the little red mouth, with the sensitive lips neither closed nor parted; and the total effect of her attitude and expression was of quiet, well-bred modesty as she sat there, all unconscious of Canby's stare.

He turned to the girl nearest him:

“I know what your names are,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I don't know how they're distributed.”

Her black eyes, honest and patient, returned his look.

“Mine is Rose Manganaro,” she replied. “This,” she indicated to the girl next to her, “is Mildred Lavicci. And Miss Somi—Nella Somi.”

So her name was Nella Somi. That might be anything. He wished that she would turn her head so he could see her eyes. He ventured some trivial question, but it was Rose Manganaro who answered, and a conversation was started. She spoke of the hot city they had left behind, and the ride up the Hudson, and the beautiful homes they had passed on the way from the station. Then cakes and lemonade arrived, and Canby amused himself by watching their white teeth as they bit into the yellow squares. Nella Somi, he remarked, took no cake, but merely sipped her lemonade. After that their tongues were loosened and the two Italian girls talked freely and unaffectedly. Mildred had noticed some men playing golf on the way from the station, and Canby described the game in detail for their benefit.

Thus the time passed somehow until luncheon, and after that they returned to the piazza. Canby had promised himself that, as soon as he had sat at the table with them, he would leave them to their own resources and drive back to Greenhedge for the match with his friend Linwood, who was waiting for him; but, now that the time had come, he didn't go. The desultory conversation of that morning was resumed, and the afternoon dragged away. Nella Somi spoke hardly at all, but the others made up for it. Finally, the shadows began to lengthen and a cooling breeze arose from the direction of the river. Rose Manganaro spoke of the gardens.

“I'll show you around if you want,” offered Canby. “Not so hot now.”

“Oh, we wouldn't trouble you, sir,” replied Rose, getting up from her chair, “we can go alone, if it's all right. Are you coming, Mildred? Nella?”

Mildred was already on her feet, but Nella Somi declared that she was too comfortable to move. Canby at once decided to stay where he was, but rose politely as the two girls passed in front of him on their way to the steps. A minute later they had disappeared around the bend of the garden path. When Canby sat down again he moved over to the chair left vacant next to Nella Somi.

“You don't care for flowers?” he ventured after a little.

“Oh yes, I love them,” she replied quickly, “but it's so hot, and I'm so tired.”

“In an hour it will be cool; we're quite close to the river here, you know. In the evenings, on the water, it's really chilly.”

“In a boat, you mean.”

“Yes; especially in a swift one.”

Suddenly she turned her eyes on him, and he saw them for the first time.

It took his breath. He had expected them to be brown, from the darkness of her hair, and their clear vivid blue almost startled him. The lashes, heavy and drooping, were even darker than her hair, and the effect was striking and strangely beautiful. If she had purposely kept them from him throughout the afternoon she appeared now to have changed her mind, for she returned his gaze frankly and artlessly, to the point of disconcerting him. The vivid blue eyes held curiosity.

“You don't do anything, do you?” she observed finally.

“Do anything?” he repeated.

“Work, I mean.”

“Oh! No.” He forbore smiling. “That is, no regular work. I have an office in New York, but I'm very seldom there.”

“How funny! I have to work so hard and you do nothing at all.” There was no resentment in her tone; her interest in the question seemed purely academic.

“Your hard work doesn't seem to leave much impression,” returned Canby.

She calmly noted his gaze resting on her pretty white hands.

“I wouldn't let it,” she replied with a smile. “Anyway, it isn't that kind. I sort candies, and I wear gloves.” She twisted about in her chair the better to face him, with a quick graceful movement of her supple young body. The blue eyes were half closed as if in speculation. “To think of a big ugly man like you with nothing to do, and me working all day long,” she continued. “I could be so pretty if I had time for things!”

“I'm not sure it would be safe for you to be much prettier,” returned Canby with a laugh. To himself he added, “Or possible either.” He went on aloud: “But am I so ugly as all that?”

The blue eyes flashed a smile, then were serious:

“All men are ugly,” she declared daintily; “it's a part of them. They're clumsy and not nice to look at. If only there were something else to marry!”

“Are you thinking of marriage?”

“Oh, yes; Tony, Rose's brother. But I haven't promised yet, and I don't think I will. He's very nice, but so—so ugly.” She paused a moment. “There were a lot of men on the train this morning and they were frightful.”