The Last Drive (21 page)

“But what is it? What's the matter?” repeated Gowanton, who was beginning to be alarmed by all this mystery. He looked at Beach, who in turn looked at Sackerville; and Sackerville got up from the bed and walked to the window, where he stood with his back to the others looking out on the lawn with its great shade trees, while Gowanton kept saying over and over, “What's the matter, Mr. Beach? What is it?” And the grocer shook his head confusedly, wondering what on earth his guest was up to.

“Look here,” said Sackerville, turning suddenly, “I've been hesitating. I've thought perhaps—but it has to be done this way.”

He went over and stood in front of Gowanton, close to his chair.

“I sent for you,” he said in a sharper tone. “Beach had nothing to do with it. I sent for you to tell you that you can't marry Melissa.”

The grocer's cigar dropped to the floor. There was a swift silence, then Gowanton's falsetto laugh sounded nervously in the room.

“Oh—I see—a joke,” he stammered. “Ha, ha! I—pretty good!”

“No,” said Sackerville, sharper still. “It's no joke.” He turned to the grocer. “You must forgive me for this, Andy; I think you will. As for you, Gowanton, I don't care to make any apologies or explanations. I don't criticize you. I will even admit that you have as much right to happiness as I have. But I happen to be stronger—so much the worse for you. You can't marry Melissa Beach, because I'm going to marry her myself.”

“By——” cried the grocer, starting up.

Gowanton was on his feet, too, but he was too astounded to speak. What can you say to a madman? Who ever heard of anyone going up to a bridegroom on his wedding morning and telling him he is going to take his bride away from him? It isn't done, that's all. Stupefied, Gowanton grew red and pale by turns as he stood and gazed at Sackerville with his mouth open.

“Why—” he stammered, why—you must be crazy—”

“No.” Sackerville smiled. “I don't wonder you're surprised. No doubt it's a bit stiff. If I may say so, I am treating you as well as I possibly can. I could—I am pretty sure I could—have run off with her last night, but that wouldn't have been fair to her or you either. I was talking to her in the library. She doesn't love you, Gowanton, and she doesn't want to marry you. She isn't even willing to marry you. Why, she'd even prefer me. So you can't have her.”

It was at this point that Andrew Beach stepped softly to the door and turned the key in the lock. Why? Probably he didn't know himself. He merely felt that it would be best to have the door locked, so he locked it. Then he turned with his back against it and stood looking at the two men facing each other in the middle of the room.

“So,” Gowanton was saying, “you've been talking to her.”

“Yes. Last night.”

“And you knew—you knew—”

“Yes, I knew.”

“Then—” Gowanton paused, and his eyes slowly left Sackerville and went to Andrew Beach at the door.

“I am sorry,” he said to the grocer, “to have to call your guest a cad in your own house.”

Then his eyes came back.

“You are a cad, Mr. Sackerville,” he said calmly.

But Sackerville never budged. “No doubt,” he said drily. “I don't measure a man by his manners, Gowanton. Anyway, you're wrong. I have a thousand claims here to your one. She is mine, really mine, but you wouldn't understand if I tried to explain. She is mine, but I'm going to give you a chance.”

He turned.

“Andy, will you send for your daughter? And ask her which of us—Gowanton or me—she would rather marry.”

“No, he won't!” cried Gowanton suddenly, spring to the door. “It's absurd! Why, it's absurd! Mr. Beach—”

“Don't let him out, Andy,” said Sackerville.

“But it's ridiculous, I tell you! I won't stand for it! Why, you—”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Gowanton.” Andrew Beach raised his voice for the first time. “You have reminded me that this is my house. I'm going to do what Sackerville asks. I've known him longer than you have, and I think—anyway, he's right. Melly ought to have a chance, and I'm going to give her one. You wait—”

He unlocked the door, poked his head out and called to a servant in the hall. Then he closed the door again and turned to the two men.

“We haven't much time,” he observed, glancing at his watch. “It's twenty after eleven. We were to leave for the church at a quarter to twelve. The only thing is, if Melissa—”

A knock sounded. A voice came:

“Daddy!”

The grocer opened the door, and Melissa entered. He stepped forward to take her hand, then sprang back so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance as another figure, that of his wife, advanced across the threshold.

The mother and daughter stood, one a little in front of the other, stopped short by the appearance of three men where they had expected to find one or, at the most, two. But Mrs. Beach soon found her voice.

“John!” she cried, looking at Gowanton in amazement. “What in the name of goodness are you doing here?”

The bridegroom scowled. Andrew Beach proved his bravery by coming forward and opening his mouth to explain; but Sackerville, knowing that to be both useless and dangerous, put his hand on his friend's arm and said something in a low tone, and Andrew Beach nodded and turned to his daughter.

“Melly,” he said, “come here.”

She obeyed wonderingly. All in white, enveloped in lace and satin, she looked so fresh and lovely that she seemed to belong to a different world from those common-looking men in their black and gray. She went to her father's side, glancing first at Gowanton, then at Sackerville.

“Listen, Melly,” said the grocer, patting her hand, “I want to ask you something I should have asked you a long time ago. I've been a bad father; but it's not too late. Tell me the truth—remember, the truth—do you want to marry John Gowanton?”

“Good heavens!”

It was Mrs. Beach's voice.

“Are you crazy, Andrew? I knew it was something—when I saw John here—I knew it—”

But her husband silenced her for once. You would never have supposed that authority to be concealed in the little grocer's breast unless you had heard him in a business crisis.

“Not another word from
you
!” he commanded.

Then he turned to his daughter.

“Do you want to marry John Gowanton?” he repeated.

But though Melissa had had a moment to recover from her astonishment she could only stammer:

“Why, I am—yes—that is—”

“No, don't be frightened,” said the grocer. “Tell me the truth; do you want to marry him?”

Melissa looked at her father, at Sackerville, at her mother, and finally at Gowanton. She looked at him a long time, directly in his face, as if she were seeing him for the first time. And then her eyes dropped, and she saw her bridal dress with its folds of white, and her face suddenly grew pale with resolution.

“No,” she said, in a low, distinct voice. “No, I don't want to marry him.”

A sharp cry came from her mother:

“Melissa!”

“Let her alone,” said the grocer. “You've done enough as it is. Thank God, it's not too late. Mr. Gowanton—you've heard—I'm sorry—”

If Gowanton's face had been red before, it was purple now with emotion. It could be seen that he was hard put to maintain his role of gentleman. He looked very much as though he wanted to hit somebody.

“You mean—” he stammered violently and could get no farther.

“Yes,” said Andrew Beach. “I'm sorry.”

Gowanton choked. He glared at Sackerville a moment, then he turned and bowed formally to Melissa; then he went to the door, wheeled and bowed to Mrs. Beach. The next moment he was gone—gone in a rush down the stairs and through the hall to where his big gray limousine waited at the curb.

“And now,” said Mrs. Beach in tense tones of fury, “now, Andrew Beach, perhaps you'll explain—”

“You bet I'll explain,” said the grocer grimly. “But first, I know you've been to a lot of trouble for this wedding, and there's a church full of people down the street waiting for us. It's been a big expense, too, and I don't like to throw away money. Gowanton's gone, thank God, but we'll give Melly a chance to dig up another bridegroom.”

He turned to Sackerville.

“Just ask her, Harry. Ask her yes or no. No pushing. Only, if she wants to and you want to, I'll get a car to take you to the church and we'll have some fun with society.”

He looked steadily at Sackerville for a moment, patted Melissa on the shoulder, then went and took his wife by the arm and led her into the hall, closing the door behind them.

There was silence in the room—absolute silence, save for the soft rustling of the wind in the trees, through the open window. And the breeze entered, and there was a faint movement among the folds of lace on the bridal dress. … Sackerville saw it. . . .

Suddenly he spoke.

“Gowanton's gone,” he said. “So there's no hurry now. I don't know what I've done, Melissa, and I don't care. When a man wants something as I want you he will do anything. I want you to marry me now, but I'll wait if you say so. You must decide. They are waiting for us.”

He took a step toward her. She looked up and met his eyes questioningly.

“I have loved you ten years,” he said. “I have waited that long. I will love you all my life. Melissa— Will you—”

And then, still with her eyes on his, she nodded.

He was close to her now, and he bent his head and touched his lips to her hair, the hair that he had felt on his face one night in the wilderness.

“I never thought—” he said, “I never dreamed—”

But that could not have been strictly true. There was that license in his pocket!

It Happened Last Night

This story appeared in
The Black Cat
in January 1917; it was reprinted in
The Canadian Magazine
in 1936. John McAleer knew of the 1936 publication but not that the story had first appeared nineteen years earlier. Discussing the story in his biography of Rex Stout, McAleer describes it as a “slick romance” that “reads like apprentice work.” In this, McAleer was prescient: it
was
apprentice work, in the same sense that all of Stout's early stories were. In any event, the story presents itself as a rather typical Stout romance, but closes with an unexpected twist
—
and not the expected sort of unexpected twist.

I
knew that she was inaccessible to me. When I first found the thought of her whirling about in my mind, the sensible thing would have been to go to the corner café for a drink and drown the fancy like a man. She belonged to another world, and anything I might do would be like a dog baying at the moon. I knew that; but I entertained the thought and caressed it, encouraged it. I was intoxicated.

I had seen her once or twice before, but from that afternoon on Fifth Avenue dated my obsession. I had come downtown in the subway and stopped off at Forty-second Street on some errand or other, when suddenly she swept into sight. I already knew her by name and reputation, much as you know a famous prima donna or a royal princess­. I stopped and stared like a fool, and then, half-unconsciously­, drawn by an irresistible attraction, turned and fol­lowed­ her. She was dressed fashionably, but in faultless taste; her large dark eyes looked out from under the modish rim of a Doquet straw and her pale oval countenance and curved red lips, contradicting each other, imparted a piquant distinction to her appearance. Men turned to look at her. Knowing that I was making a fool of myself, I nevertheless followed her up the avenue. Every now and then she stopped to look at a window­ display while I stood a few yards away gazing at her from the corner of my eye. It was a senseless performance; I certainly had no thought of accosting her on the street, but I was impelled by an overpowering fascination.

After that the thought of her was constantly in my mind. Wherever I found myself, at the office in the morning, at home at night, on the subway, there was always before me that pale oval face with the red lips, to my torment. I dreamed of our meeting, of addressing her, of those red lips smiling at me in welcome, of the friendly pressure of her hand, and I thought of what I should say and how she would answer me. I composed a thousand speeches and turned each one over and over in my brain to perfect it and make it worthy of her. I was mad.

All that, knowing she was inaccessible, immeasurably above me. Humble as I was and of the poorest connections, the conventional channels were closed to me with insurmountable barriers. But I could not forget her. Heaven knows I tried; but in the end I gave it up, and one evening, gritting my teeth, I said to myself, as I was going home on the elevated:

“Very well, I'll meet her, somehow, and take my chance. Anything will be better than this ceaseless yearning.”

My heart felt lighter after this resolution, but by the time I got home I was lost in contemplation of a hundred wild schemes that darted into my mind; so much so that I forgot to kiss my wife as I entered the flat. We had been married only about a year and honeymoon days had scarcely waned. Five minutes later, as I sat in the front room reading the paper, I suddenly remembered and jumped up and hurried to the kitchen, uneasy. My wife stood stirring something on the stove and I stopped and kissed her on the cheek before I noticed that anything was wrong.

She turned around quickly, and I saw tears in her eyes.

In the scene that followed, I was certainly not myself. It was not only that I had forgotten the kiss that evening. My wife had said not a word during the previous weeks about my preoccupation and brooding, but I learned now that nothing had escaped her notice. She accused me of neglecting her, of ceasing to love her, of being indifferent to her. I confess I acted a perfect ass. I should have told her everything, and she, sensible little woman that she is, would have seen the thing as I did and have done all in her power to help me out of my trouble. But the vanity and stupidity of man are boundless. I hesitated and evaded.

“It's only business, dear,” I declared. “I'm worried, that's all.”

As a matter of fact, things were very well at the office; but it could not be denied that I was worried. In the end, it was patched over somehow, though that was the most uncomfortable dinner since our marriage.

In the days that followed, I continued revolving in my mind schemes for meeting her—wild, impossible schemes—conceiving and rejecting them in endless succession. Nothing else seemed to matter but her, only her! If I could only speak to her! Only hear her voice and see her smile! Only hear the words that I imagined on her lips! One morning, at my desk in the office, I sat with these thoughts in my brain—they were never absent—quite unconsciously writing her name, over and over, on a sheet of paper, until it was filled. I was lost in my dreams, when suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow:

“What's that for?”

I looked up to find my partner, Harris, gazing in bewilderment at her name scribbled all over the paper. I jerked myself up in my chair and hastily turned the sheet upside down, while I felt the blood rush into my face or out of it, I don't know which.

“What's that for?” he repeated.

Then he saw the expression on my face and his look of puzzlement changed slowly to one of incredulous understanding as he stood and stared at me. I said nothing and he stared in silence for a long while.

“You're a damned fool,” he said at length, calmly.

“It can be,” I retorted and seizing my hat, I jumped up and left the office.

I wandered about the streets for hours, and though I had several appointments for that day I kept none of them. I was wandering in the light of a glorious vision and was blinded by it. Of course Harris was right: I was a damned fool. But I couldn't help it. I walked at random, not knowing or caring where I went, with her face always before me.

Suddenly I saw her.

It was on Broadway, somewhere in the Thirties, about five o'clock in the afternoon. She was walking uptown, unhurried, with an assured, leisurely step that was, in fact, deceiving; for when I turned and followed her I found that she carried herself along faster than one would think. I threw caution to the winds and marched along almost at her heels. A happy chance came presently to my assistance, or I believe I should have been ass enough to accost her on the street and thereby have utterly ruined myself in her sight.

Luckily my timidity held me back until she had reached Forty-second Street; there she turned west and a few steps from Seventh Avenue entered the lobby of the Stuyvesant Theatre. I was close behind her as she approached the box office; I looked over her shoulder as she purchased two tickets in the orchestra for the performance of “Peaches and Cream” that night, and noted the numbers on the coupons.

At that moment came my inspiration. I waited till she had disappeared again into the street, then approached the ticket seller.

“One for tonight, orchestra.”

He turned to glance over the rack, pulled out a coupon and started to put it in an envelope. Meanwhile, I was studying the chart of the theatre under the slab of glass on the ledge.

“What row is it?” I inquired.

“Fourth. Aisle.”

“Got anything in the eleventh, near the centre?”

He nodded, after consulting the rack.

“Right here. Fine seat.” He pointed to the location on the chart. We were getting hot.

“I'd prefer the other side, if possible.”

He frowned impatiently and mumbled something I didn't catch as he turned again to the rack. Out came another coupon; a quick glance showed me its number. A moment later, I had parted company with a two dollar bill and was emerging into the street with a ticket that called for the seat adjoining those purchased by her.

I didn't go back to the office that evening; I wouldn't even have gone home to dinner but for the necessity of changing my clothes. I forget what lie I told my wife, but it couldn't have been a very good one, for my mind was entirely occupied with the question whether or not to wear a dress suit. I knew that the audience at the Stuyvesant was usually about half and half, and I finally decided on my new grey business sack, for I had no desire to appear in false colors. Anyway, hired dress suits are generally of antiquated model, and I knew her eye would detect it at a glance, accustomed as she was to such things. I wished to give myself every advantage possible.

I had a hard time deciding just what to write, and the idea came to me that it would be better to go down to the office first and use the typewriter; but in the end I went out to a stationary and cigar store for a newspaper wrapper with mucilage on the end and used that. Before I finally copied it, as plainly and neatly as possible, I tried fifty different ways of saying what I wanted to in the fewest words, and even then I wasn't satisfied with it.

I was in an agony of suspense, and not disposed to sit around and talk with my wife till time to go, I went out for a walk. Then the thought struck me that something might happen on the subway to delay me, so I rushed to the station and took the first train downtown. I reached the theatre a little after seven and stood in the lobby till the doors opened. I was the first one seated.

Then I encountered my only difficulty. She had bought two tickets, adjoining mine on the left, but which one would she occupy? It was an even chance that she would occupy the seat next to mine. I felt certain that her companion would be some relative or woman friend, since she had bought the tickets herself. So I took the program from the arm of the seat next to mine and opened it at a page near the back, for I didn't want her to see it before the show began, and I knew that during the first or second intermission she would look through the whole program. They always do. So I pasted the newspaper wrapper on which I had written my appeal in a page near the back. The brown paper stood out conspicuously against the white. I closed the program and replaced it with a feeling that if the thing didn't work it wouldn't be my fault. I had done my best.

I tried to amuse myself by watching the theatre fill up, but I was horribly restless and turned around constantly to see if she were coming. At last she would know my name! At last she would speak to me! For I assured myself that she couldn't be so heartless as to ignore me. She couldn't! As the time passed my restlessness increased to a torment of suspense.

A minute or two before curtain time she arrived. I was watching the aisle to the right, but she came unexpectedly down the other side and was already pushing her way past the row of knees to her seat before I saw her. My heart leaped with joy as I saw that she was in front; she would sit next to me, as I had hoped! Behind was her companion, a pleasant-faced lady of fifty-five or so, no doubt her mother, or possibly an aunt.

They had barely time to get seated and take off their wraps before the house darkened and the curtain rose. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her profile, delicate in its severity, and the soft rounded contour of neck and shoulders, her dark fine hair contrasting startlingly with the whiteness of her skin. I haven't the remotest idea about the first act. I scarcely breathed—so close to her, almost touching her! There in front of us her breath was mingling with mine! And soon she would read my name. She would speak to me. I was a-quiver with excitement and hope. Would they never get through that foolishness on stage?

Then the curtain, applause, and the house was light again. She spoke to her companion; they discussed the performers. I was in a fever of impatience. They talked for so long that I feared the second act would begin before they finished. Finally she began turning the leaves of her program. She read, “What the Man Will Wear,” “The Golfer,” and “Here and There.” She skimmed over the advertisements, turning the pages more rapidly. I could feel myself trembling in my seat, and suddenly I was aware that she had reached it. She was reading the slip of paper I had pasted in her program. I bit my lips to keep myself steady. She read it a second time, a third. I felt, rather than saw, her swift glance. There was a silence, a rather long silence, and then her voice came:

“Really, this is rather clever.”

I turned. Yes, she was speaking to me! I swallowed hard and tired to answer, but couldn't She saw, and smiled—a divine smile!

She spoke again:

“You wrote this? You put this here?”

I nodded, and stammered, “Yes. I did. Forgive me, but it was the only way.” Suddenly my voice came, and I continued swiftly: “No doubt you think it bold and in bad taste, but I have been trying for months to think of some way of meeting you. To one in my humble position the conventional channels were closed. I knew no one that could or would introduce me. I thought of calling on you, but of course you wouldn't have seen me, and you would have been right. So I did this. It was the only way I could think of. I beg you not to be offended.”

I stopped, wondering if I had said too much or not enough. But I could see she was smiling; at least she wasn't angry. She read the slip over again. I heard her murmur, “How amusing.” No, she wasn't angry. Suddenly she turned to me:

“Really, I think you deserve—well, we'll see. You deserve respect for your originality at least. Let's see; tomorrow's Thursday. Will you call in the morning at ten—between ten and eleven? Wait—” she smiled—“take this and use it as your card when you come.” She tore out the slip I had pasted in her program and handed it to me.

I tried to stammer my thanks; she waved them away smilingly and turned to speak to her companion, who had been regarding us in wondering curiosity. The lights began to go out for the second act. My heart was so full of elation I couldn't sit through such a banal performance; besides, would it not be more delicate not to remain? She might feel obliged to converse with me; might think I expected it; it would be presumptuous. And I wanted to get away to think it over.