The Last Drive and Other Stories

Second Edition

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

Harry 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.

“I wonder what kind of fellow this Gowanton is,” he said to his pillow, and turned over and went to sleep.

The next day, Sunday, he and his old friend Andrew sat on the porch and talked over old times while the mother and daughter went to church. In the afternoon they motored into the country. Sackerville sat in front beside the grocer, who drove, while the tonneau was occupied by Mrs. Beach, Melissa and Melissa’s fiancé.

Mr. Gowanton was a fat, red-faced young man without any neck, very jolly and talkative. He laughed continually, with or without reason, in a high thin falsetto, and his conversation consisted entirely of personal recollections of the most irrelevant nature.

“Regular fool. Sorry he got Melly,” said Andrew Beach in a hoarse aside to his friend.

Sackerville nodded, smiling.

When they got back from the ride Gowanton stayed to dine with the family, as a matter of course. At the table his jollity was more in evidence than ever, until, by a chance remark of his host’s, he discovered that Sackerville was the man who built the Tsing-Tso Railroad. Then he began talking construction and equipment, and displayed an insight and knowledge of the subject really surprising in a country capitalist. Sackerville warmed and by degrees allowed himself to be drawn into a recital of his varied adventures.

“Great stuff,” said Gowanton, chewing, “but it won’t pay dividends.”

“Military road,” observed the grocer sententiously.

“No doubt it’s exciting,” put in Mrs. Beach, “but it is so unsettling. One must have a home and a position in society. Going all over the world like that — no permanence—”

“Sort of superior vagabondange?” smiled Sackerville, who had been trying for an hour to meet Melissa’s eyes. “Yes, of course, such a life has its disadvantages. A man gets so he lives mostly in his dreams, as far as sentiment is concerned. Like a friend of mine, an army officer in India. He had a dream one night, sort of an apparition. It was the face of a girl, very beautiful, as he described her to me once, and he kept seeing that face for years. It took him entirely and he got superstitious about it. He fancied himself in love with her; he could not believe it was only a vision, and he would have nothing to do with any woman. For ten years he remained faithful to that shadow of a dream. Then he went home to England on leave, and he met her at a dinner in London — the eyes, the hair, the face, the voice, everything the same. She was married to another man.”

“Oh, how awful!” cried Melissa.

“Of course, being an officer and a gentleman, he could say nothing,” commented Mrs. Beach.

“What did he do?” demanded the grocer.

“He killed the husband and took her out to India,” said Sackerville calmly.

And he looked into Melissa’s eyes, to find them startled and a little skeptical but filled with a strange friendliness.

That night he lay awake again, thinking, and slept with a smile.

The next morning he was up early, but he appeared to have nothing in particular to do, for he accepted the grocer’s invitation to go downtown with him and look over the store and warehouse.

“We’ll come home for lunch,” said Andrew Beach. “This afternoon I have to go to the church and practice giving my daughter to that Gowanton. Rehearse a wedding! Tomfoolery! Well, it’ll all be over tomorrow noon. She’ll be married then. Crazy to leave your old daddy, are you, Melly? Come on, Harry, the car’s waiting.”

But when he had spent three hours gazing at rows of boxes of tomatoes, sardines, soup, cheese, and a thousand other things, and the time came to go to lunch, Sackerville said he would prefer to remain downtown. Nor would he meet his host later at the church, where the wedding was to be rehearsed.

“Don’t blame you,” said Andrew Beach. “Damn nonsense. Wish you’d let me leave the car for you.”

Sackerville declined this offer again and set off afoot. All afternoon he roamed over the city alone, searching landmarks of his youth; and now and then he would meet a face that lookd familiar and yet strange, awakening a memory that had lain dormant for many years. He found nothing that attracted or moved him, and his thoughts were really of Melissa, who was to be married to John Gowanton at noon of the following day. He still felt the strangeness of having seen her and spoken to her in her youth and fresh beauty, just as she had so often appeared to his fancy; there seemed to be something fantastic about it. How beautiful she was! What unbelievable luck!

“If I had been four days later—” he thought, and grew pale.

It was an aimless afternoon, except for one errand which he performed at the city hall about four o’clock, in a dingy little room with a sign: “Marriage Licenses,” over the door. Sackerville walked to the desk and asked for a license for the marriage of Henry Sackerville and Melissa Beach.

“What!” said the astonished clerk, a sharp-nosed young man who knew things. ‘Why, Miss Beach is to be married—”

“Listen,” Sackerville interrupted. “This is a joke. I’m going to play a joke on Gowanton. I ask for the license. It’s your business to make it out.”

With a meaning look at the sharp-nosed young man he pushed a ten-dollar bill across the counter, and five minutes later departed with the license in his pocket.

That evening at the dinner table the talk was all of the wedding. They discussed the rehearsal, which Mrs. Beach declared had gone off beautifully. Even Dan Harrison, the best man — by the way, Sackerville would remember Dan Harrison as an old classmate — even he had seemed for once to lose some of his awkwardness. If only it went as well tomorrow!

“I hope John behaves himself tonight and retires early,” said Mrs. Beach. “He is so... so popular. Melissa, you must go to bed right after dinner and get some rest. I’m sure I don’t know how we’ve stood it all. Did you see Mrs. Carroll’s gift, Mr. Sackerville? So tasteful and rich! You should be a very happy woman, Melissa, so many friends—”

The end of dinner stopped her. The men went out on the porch to smoke their cigars, and for once Andrew Beach was silent, as befitted a man who was to lose his only daughter on the morrow. It was barely nine o’clock when Sackerville arose to go to his room, saying that his long walk had made him sleepy.

“I’m going to turn in, too,” said Andrew Beach, following him. “I hope I can sleep.”

“If only she’s happy—” said the grocer, parting from his guest at the head of the stairs.

But Sackerville did not go to bed when he entered his room. Instead, he sat down on a chair near the window and lit another cigar. It was a long black cigar and took some time to smoke, but when it was finished he lit another. Though the window was open, few sounds entered in that quiet residential district. Now and then an automobile passed, and occasionally the jangle of a streetcar could be heard at a distance. Sackerville kept looking at his watch, and when it said eleven o’clock he arose, threw away his third cigar, went to the door of his room and opened it.

The hall was quite dark, but he knew his position. At the further end, some distance away, was the room of the grocer and his wife, who, he hoped, were both sound asleep. In the other direction, across the hall, was another door; he stepped forward, groping along the wall — it ought to be about here — ah! He raised his hand and tapped softly on the panel. After a pause he tapped again, a little louder.

A slight movement, a barely audible rustle, sounded within the room, then footsteps. A voice came:

“Is it you, Mother?”

“No. It is I... Sackerville.”

There was a startled exclamation quickly suppressed, and the door opened a little.

“What — what is it?” came a voice through the crack.

“I want to talk to you. I knew you would be awake. Will you come downstairs?”

“Oh... why... I... I can’t!”

“You must. Only a minute. I will be in the library.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sackerville turned and groped his way back through the hall to the stairs. He tiptoed silently down to the library, where he switched on the electric pedestal lamp, then went to the windows and drew the shades. He sat down on a chair, then got up again and began pacing silently up and down; he could hear his watch ticking in his pocket. He had a curious feeling, not exactly impatience; the minutes seemed to hang in the silent air. Then, hearing a noise at the door, he turned quickly.

“Ah,” he said, “I knew you would come.”

Melissa looked at him from the door. She wore a house-dress of pale green, caught at the throat with a silk cord and a girdle at the waist; and the soft dull glow of her hair seemed to melt into the dim light so that her face was a spot of intense whiteness in a somber frame. She was more beautiful than any vision could have been.

“And how — how did you know that?” she asked, between a whisper and a murmur.

Sackerville smiled. “Curiosity will do anything,” he said. “Won’t you come in so I can close the door? We mustn’t wake anyone.”

“But I am not sure I want to come in.”

“Yes, you do. Come.”

And as she took a step forward he went to the door and closed it noiselessly, then took her hand and led her to the divan in the windows.

“This is — I was never so imprudent in my life,” said Melissa. “What is it? What’s the matter with me? What do you want?”

“Just to talk with you.” Sackerville sat down beside her. “You are to be married tomorrow, so I won’t have another chance. I suppose this strikes you as — well — a little unconventional?”

“A little,” said Melissa with a smile. She looked at him. “Yes, it was curiosity. And you — you just wanted to see if I would come. Wasn’t that it? Well, I did, and now—”

She started to rise.

“No. Wait. I want to ask you a question first. Are you in love with Gowanton?”

Melissa sat down again, with a little startled exclamation, and turned eyes of amazement on him. It was an absurd, incredible question from a man she had barely met, a stranger; she must protest, she must assert her dignity... But his eyes were on hers, and they were certainly not impertinent...

“I am going to marry him,” was what she said.

“I know. That would be enough for most men, but not for me. Of course, you don’t love him. You are being married off, that’s all. That’s why I think I have a right— Do you remember the story I told last night of my friend the army officer? Well, that was me. It is your face that has haunted me for ten years. Only I didn’t know you were quite so beautiful. I’m not making love to you, I’m just telling you the facts. And since it will be too late tomorrow, won’t you do this for me? Won’t you talk with me frankly and honestly, like old friends, just for five minutes?”

“But this — no — I can’t believe—” said Melissa breathlessly.

“You must. You’re only a girl; you haven’t realized some things, their seriousness. I know you don’t love Gowanton. Of course, you don’t love me either; but I love you and I want you. As far as your promise is concerned, I don’t give a hang for it; that’s up to your mother. She’s arranged it; let her get out of it. It amounts to this, do you care for Gowanton more than you do for me? Of course, I’m a stranger; you don’t know me; but do you know him any better, really? Do you care for him even a little bit? Tell me.”

There was no reply. Melissa sat looking straight ahead, with her fingers playing nervously with the silken cord at her throat. Suddenly her head fell forward and she covered her face with her hands. There was a long silence. Sackerville could see her white neck curving under the pale green of her dress, and her great mass of hair like a cushion on her lap. The ticking of the clock could be heard from the hall, through the closed door. He sat without moving, waiting, for a long time; then he put out his hand and touched her shoulder. She shivered all over and sprang to her feet.

“That was exactly what was the matter with me,” she said slowly, in a trembling voice. “That was why — but I didn’t know it till tonight. And now it is too late.”

She glided to the door and opened it.

“No,” she said without turning her head, “no, I don’t love him.”

She disappeared in the darkness.

Here is a scene of activity; seven or eight servants running around, preparing everything from a hot iron to a wedding breakfast; six bridesmaids dodging in and out of every conceivable sort of errands, or none at all; Mrs. Beach holding on to her daughter by a long something and yelling frantically for pins; Andrew Beach roaming around the halls in a cloud of cigar smoke swearing under his breath and looking at his watch every two minutes. And it still lacked an hour and a quarter till noon, which was the time set for the wedding at the church twelve blocks away.

Andrew Beach was just seating himself on the porch in the vain hope of escaping from the turmoil for a few minutes when his friend Sackerville appeared from somewhere and said calmly:

“I’ve just telephoned Gowanton that you want to speak to him. He’s coming right over. It would be best to take him up to my room, out of the way.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded the grocer, leaping to his feet. “Are you crazy, too? I don’t want to see Gowanton. What’s he coming here for?”

“No, but I do,” replied Sackerville. “Take it easy, Andy. I’ll explain to you shortly. There’s something I want to say to you and Gowanton together. He’ll probably come in his car; he ought to be here— There he comes now!”

A big gray limousine had appeared down the street, and soon it drew up at the front curb to deposit Mr. John Gowanton, redder than ever, on the brick walk. He looked stiffer than usual, too, but that was merely the effect of his very new clothes.

“What is it, what is it?” he puffed, ascending the porch. “Good morning, Mr. Beach, Mr. Sackerville. Is there anything the matter— Melissa—”

Andrew Beach was flustered himself, but he managed to follow Sackerville’s instructions and lead the way upstairs to the guest-room. They met three or four servants and a bridesmaid or two in the halls, but no one noticed the bridegroom’s presence. Sackerville placed chairs for Mr. Beach and Mr. Gowanton, then seated himself on the edge of the bed.

“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!