The Last Drive and Other Stories

This Is My Wife

This romance story marks Stout’s only appearance in Snappy Stories¸ a twice-monthly “Magazine of Entertaining Fiction” that catered to the women’s market.

The first thing you would notice about the room was the light — dazzling, glaring, bold; a perfect riot of light, whitish yellow, that came from four immense chandeliers in the ceiling and innumerable electric lamps on the marble pillars, attached to the walls, on the tables, everywhere. Then your ears would be assaulted, and you would hear the clinking of glasses, the muffled footsteps of waiters, the confusing hum of conversation from half a thousand tongues, and mingled with all this the sound of music, now suppressed, now insistent, that came from the orchestra on the rear of the raised platform at one side. And finally you would glance at the platform and observe the two figures, a man and a woman, who appeared there, in the spotlight.

The man, fair-haired, sallow-faced, bright-eyed, of medium height, was dressed in correct evening white and black, save for a bit of red that peeped out from one edge of his waistcoat; the other, more girl than woman, was a pretty, saucy little thing with black hair and eyes that sparkled. Her costume apparently consisted of about twenty yards of diaphanous material, pink in color, draped around her form and caught somewhere with a pin.

While the orchestra played, these two danced, slowly and rather gracefully at first, then with increasing abandon and violence, ending with a series of dizzy gyrations that caused the twenty yards of pink to float wildly in the air. Suddenly they halted; the girl placed her locked hands on the back of the man’s neck, and he began to whirl. Her feet left the floor; still he went around, faster and faster, while the orchestra played at a frenzied speed, with cymbals crashing and drum rattling. The thing ended with a sudden tremendous burst of violence, an orgy of sound and movement; and the audience of diners interrupted their meal long enough to applaud enthusiastically.

The dancers, who had left the platform, paused at the rear.

“Shall we take it?” asked the girl.

“No, what’s the use?” replied the other, mopping the perspiration from his face and hands. “Come and have a drink.”

They moved off to one of the tables against the wall, one of the few unoccupied in the immense room, and beckoned a waiter.

“You were up too close again,” said the man abruptly, after he had given the order.

The girl looked at him. Seen thus closely, she appeared to be more of a woman than a girl. The eyes that had sparkled for the audience looked tired and old, and there were two little puffs of flesh beneath the corners of her mouth. Nevertheless, she was pretty.

“I was no closer than last night,” she replied.

“I can’t help that. You were too close. You nearly pushed me over.”

“Well, it’s not my fault if I’m not tall enough. Wait till something happens and then talk.”

“That’s easy enough to say,” retorted the man, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe off the perspiration that was beginning to appear again on his sallow face. “But it’s hard enough without somebody trying to pull you over. One flop, and, bingo! goes our sixty per. You ought to be more careful.”

“Aw, cut it,” said the girl indifferently. “Gee, I’m thirsty! Where’s the waiter? Oh, hello, Dibby!”

This last was addressed to a fat, jolly-looking young man who was sauntering toward their table.

“Hello!” The newcomer nodded, seating himself. “How’s things, Bronson? I say, Claire, I just met the new soprano. She’s on next. Not bad-looking. What are you drinking?”

Then, as the waiter appeared with the order, the fat man burst into laughter and winked at the girl. “Lemon juice and fizz. Bad for the stomach,” he said gravely. “But you ought to cut the green stuff, Claire. On the level, I mean it. Waiter, bring me some Dubonnet and sherry. Are you really off, Bronson?”

The other merely nodded, sipping his lemon and seltzer.

“What about the new soprano? What’s the matter with Mawsey?” asked Claire.

“Canned,” replied the fat man gaily. “Last night. Thank the Lord! Say, she was good, just like a counterfeit V. No? Rotten!”

“What’s the new one like?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t heard her perform. She’s on next. Tall and queenly. Where’s the waiter? I’m thirsty as the devil. No wonder — been drinking too much today. By the way, you should have been with us this afternoon, Bronson. Where were you?”

“I don’t know. Uptown,” replied the sallow-faced man.

“He went for a walk in the park,” put in Claire, and her eyes sparkled at the fat man.

“So I did,” Bronson asserted carefully.

“As for me, I slept till two o’clock,” Claire continued. “Wow, but I was tired! We had a little supper last night, and I went to bed at half-past three. We kept Harry awake, and he threw his shoes at us, and one hit me on the side and made a blue spot as big as your hand. Really, you should have been there, Dibby. We had a swell time. Old Rumford brought six bottles of champagne, and May dropped one on the fire-escape—”

“’Sh,” interrupted the fat man. “Break off, Claire, and give me the fate of the fizz later. Here comes the new one. Let’s see if she’s got anything.”

They turned to look at the stage as the orchestra began the introduction to a popular song. The young woman who appeared on the platform was visibly ill at ease. Her cheeks were flushed, and her fingers were pressed nervously against the skirt of her black, clinging gown; her shoulders and arms were bare and startlingly white, and her golden hair assumed a striking luminosity in the glare of the spotlight. It was an effective picture, and a slight ripple of applause ran over the immense room.

She began to sing. It was easy enough to see that she was new to the cabaret. She made no flowing gestures, she did not roll her eyes, she did not even clasp her hands over her heart when she sang of love; she merely stood still and sang, in a tender and sweet voice, two verses and two choruses of a silly song. Once, toward the end of the second verse, she faltered and nearly stopped, with an appearance of sudden agitations; but she avoided catastrophe. It was probably her physical attractiveness that earned the burst of applause that followed — whereupon she repeated the chorus and retired with a little smile and a bow.

“Not so rotten,” said the fat man graciously, turning to his companions at the table. “A little bit of the pose à la country lyceum, but all she needs is some action. Did you see her stumble when some guy winked at her or something? She’ll get over that. Lord, when I think of Mawsey! Take it from me, old Snyder knew what she was here for. That kind don’t get away with it for nothing. Was you here, Bronson, the night she — what’s the matter, man? You’re white as a ghost! What’s the matter?”

Bronson’s sallow countenance had lost every vestige of color, and he was gazing at the empty platform with a vacant, dull state that was almost terrifying.

“What’s the matter?” Claire and the fat man repeated together in surprise.

Bronson drew himself together with an apparent effort, shifting his gaze uncertainly, while a sudden flow of color came to his cheeks.

“I don’t know,” he stammered finally. “Something funny — I guess it’s my stomach — I don’t feel well. Very sudden. I... I’ll be back soon.”

And he rose abruptly, with a nod, and began to make his way through the maze of tables and chairs to a café for men at the other end. When he had reached it he found a chair in a secluded corner and sank down, burying his face in his hands. Soon he lifted his head, and for a long time he sat looking at nothing with strained, suffering eyes. Now and then he would sigh deeply, and his chin would sink slowly on his chest; then he would pull himself up with a start and resume his vacant stare. He seemed half dazed.

“I wonder,” he murmured aloud, suddenly, “if Dibby has taken her out. I suppose he has.”

He stood up to look through the glass partition over the heads of the diners in the main room. His eyes sought the table he had left half an hour before: it was empty. Evidently Claire and the fat man had gone off together. Bronson reentered the room and made his way down the aisles. As he passed he heard whispers on either side: “That’s him. That’s the dancer.” He did not stop till he had reached the left of the platform, at the rear, where several small tables were gathered together in a group.

At one of these tables, over against the wall, a young woman with golden hair and bare arms and shoulders was sitting alone, with her chin resting on her hands and her eyes downcast. It was the new soprano.

For a long minute Bronson stood looking at her in silence, while the color came and went in his sallow face. Then suddenly he shook himself, took a quick step forward, and touched her on the arm.

“Rina,” he said, in a strange, suppressed voice.

She started and looked up, and as she caught sight of him an expression of amazed recognition came into her eyes.

“Harry!” she exclaimed in so loud a tone that those at near-by tables glanced over curiously.

“Yes; it is I.” Bronson paused a moment, then, moving slowly and deliberately, seated himself at the other side of the little table and crossed his arms on the cloth. “Quite a surprise, isn’t it? It was for me, a little while ago, when I saw you come on the platform.”

“It is — yes,” stammered the young woman, looking from one side to the other to avoid meeting his eyes. She seemed terribly embarrassed. “I didn’t know you were in New York,” she observed lamely.

The corners of Bronson’s mouth were twisted into something like a smile. “No,” he said slowly; “I suppose you didn’t. You wouldn’t, you know. But that isn’t — that doesn’t matter.” He broke off and gazed at her for a moment in silence, then said abruptly:

“What are you doing here?”

“Why” — she gave a little uneasy laugh — “you see — working.”

“When did you leave Granton?”

“A month ago.”

“Have you been here ever since?”

“Yes.”

“Singing?”

“Trying to. This is my first job.”

“Where’s Guilford?”

“I don’t know. He is— He is—”

The answer wouldn’t come. Bronson waited a moment, then continued abruptly:

“Didn’t you marry him?”

There was another pause, longer than before. The young woman sat motionless, with her eyes on the table, giving no sign that she had heard. Bronson was fingering a napkin nervously; his face was very white. He called a waiter and ordered some Scotch, telling him to hurry, then turned to the young woman and repeated his question in a voice that trembled.

“Didn’t you marry him?”

Another pause; then suddenly she looked up and met his eyes for the first time. Her face, too, was white.

“No,” she said slowly and distinctly; “I didn’t. He... he jilted me.”

Bronson straightened up with a movement of surprise, then the twisted smile appeared again on his lips.

“What?” he said. “What? You don’t mean—”

“Yes; I mean just that.” She leaned forward. “Harry, I want to tell you—”

“Wait a minute, Rina. Where the deuce — oh, there he is!.. Here, waiter! Yes; that’s right. No, leave the bottle here.”

He tipped the bottle till his glass was three-fourths full of amber liquid, then lifted it and drained it to the bottom, while a slight shiver passed over him. Almost immediately the color came to his cheeks. He turned to the young woman.

“Now go on, Rina. You say you didn’t marry him?”

“No, I didn’t. And I’m glad, Harry, I’m glad. No, wait till I tell you. I never liked him — really. I’ve wanted to tell you so. It was because he was rich, and I’d always been so poor, and you were poor, and I hated Granton — I’ve wanted to tell you—”

Her tongue was loosened now; the words would not come fast enough. She leaned forward, looking into Bronson’s eyes, and spoke rapidly, disconnectedly, as one who feels the pressure of time.

“I was selfish and mean, but you don’t know what those things — money, and living in New York, and all that — are to a girl. That night, the night you left — it will be a year tomorrow — I cried myself to sleep. I didn’t lie when I said I... cared for you. No, I didn’t, Harry. If you had only stayed!

“But you went away — I didn’t know where — and then he... he began — I don’t know, but after a while he went away, back home, to New York. I didn’t care. I wanted you. I didn’t know where you were. I stood it in Granton as long as I could, and then I ran away and came here. There! I wanted to tell you, and ask you — to forgive me.”

She halted. Bronson did not speak. Instead, he filled his glass again with whiskey, and emptied it. When he looked up the crooked smile on his face was more pronounced than before; it was almost a distortion. And when he spoke it was to ask a question in a curious tone of detachment:

“When did Guilford leave?”

“Why, in August, I think. Yes. But, Harry, listen—”

“Have you seen him since?”

“Yes.” A look of annoyance and distaste flashed into her eyes. “I saw him tonight.”

“Tonight!”

“Yes. Here. In this room. He was sitting at a table on the other side; I saw him while I was singing. He saw me, too, and sent me this.”

She handed a little white card across the table. He took it and read:

Below this was written in pencil:

Bronson gazed at the writing in silence for a minute, then looked up at her with his crooked smile.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose you’re going.”

The girl did not reply. Instead she took the card and tore it into bits, making a little heap on the plate in front of her. “Harry,” she said in a tone that was almost a whisper. And as he remained silent she repeated: “Harry. Harry, I never want to see him again. Don’t you know — what I’ve told you?”

“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.