The Last Drive and Other Stories

Two Kisses

This romance was the only Stout story to appear in Breezy Stories, which was published by the C. H. Young Publishing Company, the same publisher as Young’s Magazine, from which it was spun off. Though it is largely forgotten today, a pulp historian describes Breezy Stories as “one of the most successful fiction anthologies in the history of American magazines.”

It is difficult nowadays to write a story about a princess, because no one believes in them anymore. Formerly it was all right to begin, “Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess,” and a thousand ears would open for you. But if anyone should try it now he would probably be brought up with the socialistic statement, “By July 15th, 1942, there will be no kings, and therefore no princesses, left in the world.” Or, what would be still worse, by the realistic query, “Did she have indigestion?” It is the modern spirit, and it is called “getting to the bottom of things.”

Anyway, Veronica Tellon was a modern princess. She lived in the winter in a palace in a great city, and in the summer in another palace in a smaller city by the sea. She had beautiful clothes and a checkbook that replenished itself automatically, like the fabulous pitcher, as soon as she emptied it: she never went anywhere unless in a luxurious automobile or private car, and every necessary action except breathing and swallowing food was performed for her by servants.

Her person was neither beautiful nor plain. Her neat, medium-sized figure was raised to distinction by the art of the dressmaker; she had an interesting face, with eyes a little too large for the delicate and well-formed nose and mouth, and the contrast between her mass of dark hair and white transparent skin was somewhat startling. She was aware of the latter fact and took advantage of it now and then to make an impression. Even princesses are not above a projection of personality now and then, especially when they are only a year or two beyond twenty.

Miss Tellon sat in front of her dressing-table mirror one evening uttering blasphemies against herself. Her mode of expression was inelegant and forcible.

“Absurd little fool!” she said aloud to the reflection in the mirror.

Then, after an interval of silence, she turned to the waiting-maid who hovered in the background.

“Jennie,” she declared resolutely, “you may take this off. I am not going down this evening.”

There seemed to be something remarkable in this statement, for the maid’s pretty little round eyes opened in astonishment. Then, quickly aware of her involuntary impertinence, she lowered her lashes and murmured in acquiescence:

“Very well, mademoiselle.”

Her mistress looked at her for a moment, then burst into laughter.

“It amused even you,” she observed with bitter amusement. “It would be amazing, wouldn’t it, if I dared to act as I please. Of course I’m going down. Here, fasten this pin.”

Jennie snapped the brooch in place, added a last touch here and there, and Miss Tellon’s toilet was completed. She arose with a sigh, patted her hair on the sides, looked again in the mirror and left for the drawing-room.

She found it full of men and women conversing in the jerky, desultory manner of those momentarily expecting interruption — in this instance, the call to dinner. She knew them all, from her father and mother down to little Lucille Cowan, who had had her coming-out dance at Sherry’s two nights before. There was old Morton Crevel, associated with Veronica’s father in the Street, and his wife; Sir Upton Macleod and Lady Macleod; the two Payne girls; Tommie DuMont and his Russian cousin with the explosive name; Albert Crevel, whose approaching marriage with Miss Veronica Tellon was looked forward to as the most important nuptial event of the season; and, to finish, two or three other young ladies and half a dozen scientists, authors and musicians — for Mrs. Henry Tellon ran to celebrities.

At dinner Miss Tellon found herself between Tommie DuMont and his Russian cousin, and directly across the table from Albert Crevel, her fiancé. Thus she could not avoid looking at him, nor did she want to; she was glad of the opportunity. Throughout the weary succession of courses she kept her eyes on him without seeming to do so; what she saw was a good-looking young fellow with premature lines of experience around the fine dark eyes, a straight, ordinary nose above full lips, and a firm round chin. But the thought in her mind was this, that she saw nothing more. And isn’t a girl supposed to see something more than a mere set of passable human features in the face of the man she is about to marry?

This was one of the questions, though not the most important, that Miss Tellon was asking herself as she rose with the other members of her sex to leave the men to their cigars. But in the drawing-room little Lucille Cowan claimed her to talk over her party, and they were still discussing gowns and favors when the men entered half an hour later.

“Talking shop?” came Albert Crevel’s voice.

Lucille looked up.

“How mean of you!” she giggled. “Oh, I know what you mean.”

“It doesn’t matter,” replied Crevel, seating himself. “I’ll be glad to listen anyway. Old Mannerton’s been riding around the dining-room on the Will-to-Live and anything would entertain me after that.”

They talked, but Veronica was silent. She was telling herself that Crevel had come over to them only because he thought it was the proper thing to do, and she was irritated by his presence; the sound of his voice annoyed her. She even allowed a smile of bitterness to appear on her lips, then, remembering that other people saw such things and made gossip of them, she speedily erased it. Her attention was caught by a movement in the opposite corner of the room, and presently she saw a man with a violin under his arm emerge from the group and walk toward the piano. It was the celebrated virtuoso Cammini, who was to play for them.

In another moment she was under the spell of his music, and it was with a feeling of gratitude that she gave herself up to his caress of the emotions. Listening with lowered head and downcast eyes, she was filled with a sense of something indefinable, of freedom and joy combined with a painful restlessness, and she felt the tears come to her eyes, then, as the music came to an end and a sound of politely subdued applause ran over the room, an indecipherable, powerful longing arose in her breast and threatened to choke her. She raised her head to look at the musician. He was a young man, not older than herself, with white face and black hair and eyes that glowed.

“It is certain that he has loved,” thought Veronica. “Or, at least, that he can love. And why not me? It can’t be that one must be superior to inspire it. Why haven’t I the strength to do what I want to do? Weak little fool!”

She began to study the musician as he stood talking with his accompanist. “Of course he would have the face of a poet,” she said to herself. “He has love, and he has his art, and I... I have a checkbook. And that is why I can never, never know.”

Lucille’s voice sounded behind her:

“Yes, it’s frightful. Mamma says they are getting quite too independent. Cammini refuses to play for anything less than a thousand dollars, and they say he makes a hundred thousand a year. Just think of it! Papa says it’s the income of two million.”

Then Crevel’s good-humored reply:

“Well, isn’t it worth it?”

Miss Tellon turned away in disgust. Perhaps they were right, but why should she be reminded of it at the moment? She looked at Cammini. A thousand dollars a night! A hundred thousand a year! Why, he was a man of wealth, like her father. No doubt his daughter, if he should have any, would be forced into a marriage of convenience just as she, Veronica Tellon, was. Either that or a miserable fortune hunter. Was there no poetry or love left in the world?

When Cammini drew his bow across the strings again, the music had lost all magic for her. Throughout the evening she was moody and restless; she even allowed herself to be openly rude to Albert Crevel; and when the guests were gone she sought her room only to lie awake until dawn.

The middle of the following afternoon found her in the library reading a novel. She had reached page one hundred and seventy-three, where the hero first tells the heroine that he already has a wife, and she was therefore deeply absorbed in the story, when she suddenly became aware that something was annoying her. She frowned and tried to read on, but the annoyance deepened. What could it be? She looked up and opened her ears, and recognized the disturbing sound.

“Who is that at the piano?” she demanded in a tone of irritation, turning to her mother’s secretary at a desk.

“Man tuning it,” replied that lady, who was a Woman’s Rights advocate and therefore would not add, “Miss Tellon,” as a respectful secretary should.

Veronica returned to her book, but found it impossible to go on. The monotonously repeated notes, cccc, eeee, gggg, jangled in her ears. Then the thought of the piano brought Cammini to her mind, Cammini brought the night before, and that brought Albert Crevel. And the thought of Albert Crevel, and others associated with him, had made her miserable the past six months — a crescendo of suffering. She arose suddenly with an impatient gesture, threw down her book and strolled aimlessly into the drawing room.

The piano-tuner did not even turn as she entered; probably he did not hear her. He had removed the top of the instrument and was busy banging keys and doing something with a wrench inside. Miss Tellon, impelled by a foolish and perverse felling of anger, approached and addressed him sharply:

“Is it necessary to make so much noise?”

He turned in surprise and looked at her.

“Sure. Awful, ain’t it?” he said cheerfully, and went to work again.

Completely disarmed, Miss Tellon stood and watched him for some time in silence. Then she sat down on a chair and continued to watch him. He was a rather good-looking young man with wavy blond hair, laughing blue eyes and a boyish face. She couldn’t tell much about his mouth because it was screwed to one side with intentness as he listened to the noises he was producing, but she saw that his lips were full of color, as was indeed his whole face. She smiled as the thought struck her that he was just such a person as the philosopher had in mind when he called man “the animal with red cheeks.”

She amused herself with speculations concerning him. Was he married? Probably not. On second thought, certainly not. How old was he? Um — between twenty-five and twenty-six. What nationality was he? German-Swedish or Swedish-American or German. What was his home like? But here she failed utterly. She tried to picture a flat, but she knew very little about them; she had never been in one. She was trying to decide whether or not his father and mother were living when she suddenly became aware that he had stopped banging the keys and was putting on the top. That finished, he gathered his tools together and stuffed them in a little black leather case and picked up his hat.

Miss Tellon spoke abruptly:

“Would you mind telling me your name?”

He turned in surprise, and after a moment answered simply:

“Carlsen. George Carlsen.”

“Oh,” said Veronica. Then, “You are a Swede, I suppose.”

“Yes,” smiled the young man, with his blue eyes on her.

“You must excuse me,” observed Miss Tellon with a touch of confusion, “but I was wondering about you.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Carlsen. And seeming to regard this remark as an invitation to remain, he put down his leather case and seated himself on the piano bench.

“I’m always glad to talk to the ladies,” he observed amiably.

Miss Tellon managed not to smile.

“It is a very estimable quality in a gentleman,” she said.

“Sure. And valuable, too, in my line. They all like it, especially the married ones. Lord, how they sit and toss it out! The young ones too sometimes.”

“It must be very interesting.”

“That depends. It is once in a while, like with you, for instance. I could listen to you all day. When you came in the room I said to myself, ‘Open your eyes, Georgie.’ But I made a bet with myself you wouldn’t say a word. You notice I didn’t wait for a second invitation.”

This time Miss Tellon could not repress the smile.

“You are very flattering,” she said, vastly amused.

“Not yet,” denied Mr. Carlsen emphatically, crossing his legs and leaning back against the piano. “That’s what they all say when they know they’ve got the looks. I read somewhere that a woman is always picking on her strongest point just to call attention to it. Ten to one you’re saying something mean about your hair every five minutes just because you know it’s beautiful. I never saw such beautiful hair.”

“Really—” began Miss Tellon, feeling that this was about enough; but he ruthlessly interrupted her.

“Come off now, you know it is. Looks just like some great actress — I forget her name — saw her in the movies the other night. Most beautiful actress on the stage. That’s where you ought to be.”

“What—?”

“On the stage. Sure you ought. You know, that’s a thing I can’t understand. Here you are, taking orders from somebody not a bit better than you are, waiting on table or combing hair or whatever you do, making maybe ten or twelve dollars a week, and you might just as well be a Sarah Bernhardt or an Eva Tanguay. They both started in the chorus. Where’s the sense in it? Anybody could see that you’re the kind that’s got it in you. I saw it the first minute. As soon as you come in the door I said to myself, ‘Take a peek, Georgie.’ On the square.”

Miss Tellon, at the same moment that she understood his audacity, felt greatly relieved. It was not that she, a princess, was pleased at being mistaken for a servant; she merely felt that what had been an inexcusable disregard of her dignity was become a legitimate amusement. What tremendous fun! She tried to bring a silly smile to her lips; she conceived that under such circumstances a maidservant would always wear a silly smile — of encouragement.

“By the way,” Mr. Carlsen was saying, and his tone seemed to indicate that the time had come for serious business, “you haven’t told me your name.”

“No, I haven’t,” she replied stupidly.

“Well—” he observed meaningly.

“Jennie Bellay,” said Veronica, her invention failing her, and reflecting that it wouldn’t do Jennie any harm.

“Ah, Bellay!” said Mr. Carlsen as though he had been expecting that all along. “Pretty name. You don’t mind if I call you Jennie, do you?”

“Well — you see, I don’t know you—”

“That’s all right. What’s the use of being unfriendly? I like that name, Jennie. I suppose you go out sometimes of evenings?”

“Sometimes — yes.”

“Ever go to the shows?”

“Why — yes.”

Miss Tellon felt that she was playing her part miserably, but she managed to preserve the silly smile.

“They’ve got on a beauty down at the Stuyvesant now,” went on Mr. Carlsen with increasing enthusiasm. “I don’t suppose you’d care to see it?”

“Why — I don’t know—”

“We could go down any night this week — any night you’re off. What do you say we go?”

“But why do you want me to go?”

“Because I like you,” said Mr. Carlsen promptly. “You ought to know that — how could I help it? I don’t go around with my eyes shut. I’m not blind. I like you fine, and I want to like you better. Believe me, it won’t be a hard job. When shall we go?”

“I’m not sure I can go,” Veronica replied weakly.

“Oh, I guess you can. Why not? Shall I get tickets for Thursday night? I—”

He stopped abruptly, looking at her curiously as though he had just thought of something, then suddenly got up and stood by her chair, in front, quite close.

“Look here,” he said, leaning down and speaking in a new tone, “don’t you think I like you?”

“Why — I don’t know—” stammered Veronica.

“Well I do, and I’ll prove it,” he replied gaily.

And the next thing Miss Tellon knew an arm was passed around her neck and a pair of firm lips were planted on hers. Mr. Carlsen was no bungler. He did the thing expertly, firmly and thoroughly. There was no roughness in it, but nevertheless his encircling arm held her as in a vise. This exhibition of the oldest art in the world lasted while a watch would tick off five seconds.

“When shall we—” he began to murmur in her ear. But she, feeling herself partially released, sprang to her feet and stood trembling violently, with her face a flaming red all over.

“Oh—” she gasped, “I... you... you—”

Then a shadow caught her eyes, and she glanced at the door in time to see Albert Crevel enter. Carlsen, seeing her look, turned.

Mr. Crevel, dressed irreproachably in a dark walking-coat and gray trousers, advanced toward them with the easy familiarity of one at home.

Veronica heard his greeting but was unable to reply, and she saw him standing before her with a puzzled smile on his lips.

“What—” he began, looking at Carlsen.

Veronica made a great effort.

“It is just — just the piano-tuner.”

She added turning to the other:

“You have finished, I believe?”

Mr. Carlsen was already picking up his hat and leather case. Whether he realized his horrible mistake is an open question; he may or may not have become aware that he had kissed a princess. Certain it is that he retained all his presence of mind, for as he straightened himself and turned after picking up his hat he sent a deliberate wink, superbly executed, straight at Miss Tellon.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, and departed.

They watched him to the door. Then they turned to look at each other. Veronica’s face was still a little flushed, but she had regained control of herself.

“Well!” said Crevel with emphasis. “What’s all this? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she replied coolly, setting herself on the piano bench.

“But you were positively flustered,” he insisted. “What did he do? Was he impudent?”

She smiled faintly.

“Oh, no. We disagreed, that was all.”

“Ah! I see.”

He remained standing for a moment, looking at her, then sat down on the chair she had left shortly before. There was an uncomfortable silence. Veronica kept her eyes turned from him; a thousand mad thoughts were rushing through her brain, all the more confused because of her burning lips. She wanted to rub them with her handkerchief, but somehow could not. She was aware that Crevel was looking at her, and she felt a strain, a high tension, in the atmosphere.

Suddenly she turned and met his gaze.

“Albert,” she said, “I can’t marry you.”

It was impulse that spoke, but as she heard the words coming from her mouth she experienced a feeling of divine relief. Then unbounded wonder. Where had she found the strength to utter them? For many months she had been trying to say just those five words; what drove them forth now? The kiss of a piano-tuner? Well, why not? Let us be thankful for anything that brings freedom with it! As for Crevel, of course he was shocked, astounded; he would refuse to believe her. She didn’t know him very well, but she rather expected an explosion.

But he said absolutely nothing; he made no sound or movement, but merely sat and looked at her, though his eyes narrowed a little. It was she who was amazed. Hadn’t he heard her? Surely he had. And finally he spoke.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that for six months,” he said calmly.

Astonishment—!

“But you took long enough to get to it,” he went on, seeing that she was speechless. “Only two weeks before the wedding. That makes it inconvenient.”

“You expected it!” gasped Veronica.

“Of course.”

“But why — I can’t believe—”

“My dear Veronica, I’m no fool. You have never wanted to marry me. And I knew you had the courage to say so, so it was merely a matter of time. But, by Jove, I’ve been frightened lately. I was afraid you were going to wait till we were actually at the altar — I was, really. That would have been awful. For of course we would have had to call it off.”

Veronica was too amazed to speak.

“But why—” she stammered.

“Well?”

“Aren’t you going — to insist on it?”

“On what?”

“On my marrying you.”

“Good heavens, no!”

He smiled at her. His sincerity was unmistakable. She couldn’t understand it. But what was it she couldn’t understand? Oh, yes. She put the question:

“Then why didn’t you — call it off — yourself?”

It was Crevel’s turn to hesitate and search for words. He seemed suddenly stricken with a terrible embarrassment. The smile left his lips.

“I don’t think I can tell you that,” he said finally.

“Why not?”

“Well, I will.” He took a breath. “You will probably laugh, but I can stand it.”

Another breath.

“Because I love you.”

Then he went on hurriedly, “You won’t understand, but I’ll try to explain. I’ve thought you knew all along, the past month or so. I do love you. The funny part of it is, I know just when it began, the very day and hour. It was when I first saw that you didn’t want to marry me, one day last July at Newport.”

Veronica glanced at him. She remembered that day very well, but she hadn’t supposed he did. This began to sound interesting.

“I couldn’t believe it at first,” he went on, “that I loved you. It seemed so absurd. I’d known you nearly all my life — that is, I’d been acquainted with you. You know how it was: they had it all fixed up for us to marry each other a long time ago. Then after I came of age I kept putting it off. I didn’t know you very well, and I didn’t like you. Neither did you like me, though I didn’t know it then. Finally I had to give in and I asked you to marry me. That was the tenth of last December.”

He paused. Veronica nodded, and he went on:

“So we were engaged. I thought about it as little as possible, and I saw you only when I had to, to keep up appearances. I began to think I hated you and I regarded it as a weakness, because I knew we were doing only what others do in our set. And besides, you — well, you—”

“I know,” said Veronica shortly. “I was sentimental. You needn’t remind me of it.”

“Then came that day at Newport. I was positively amazed to find that you hated me too. Conceit, I suppose, but you cured it. And it changed me entirely — I mean it changed you. You didn’t seem to be the same person. In a single hour, in one minute, I think, my hate was changed to love. I laughed at myself, I cursed myself, I went out on DuMont’s yacht with the Halloway crowd. I did everything, but the result was that when I saw you again I loved you more than ever.”

Veronica stirred uneasily. Her eyes were on the floor.

“So you see what a fix I was in,” Crevel continued. “As a matter of fact, I had some pretty bad times with myself. But I finally decided to leave it up to you. Several times I resolved to tell you — to try to show you — but every time you did or said something that sent me back to cover. It’s an impossible thing to tell a girl you love her after you’re engaged if you haven’t told her before. So I decided that if you went through with it perhaps it would be all right in the end. But I knew all the time that sooner or later you’d call it off. And you see,” he finished, “I was right.”

“It may be,” Veronica said in a low tone, as if to herself, in answer to her thoughts, “that you are merely — clever.”

“No. Because I am not asking you for anything. You must not misunderstand that. You must believe in my frankness, for I admit I am not giving up hope either. You have had no reason for disliking me except that you were engaged to me. Now, thank heaven, it’s all over, and I can take my chance.”

“Your chance—?”

“Of making you love me. I don’t want to marry you now. That’s past and forgotten. Thank God, you had the courage to do it! I couldn’t; I wanted you too much for that. Listen: You will understand — you will feel it better if you do something. Give me back my ring.”

As she heard the word Veronica glanced involuntarily at the solitaire diamond on the third finger of her left hand. Then, with a hasty, impulsive movement, she drew it off. There she stopped, and gazed at it as it lay in her palm, a symbol of misery and suffering, never to end. And now, merely by stretching out her hand, she could be rid of it forever.

She glanced at Crevel, a fugitive, wild glance, then down again at the ring.

“I think I must be crazy,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to give it to you.”

“But you must. Of course it doesn’t mean anything, but still you must give it to me. You will feel better then.”

“I know.” She paused. “But I don’t want to.”

He merely held out his hand. She did not move. He waited a moment, then rose to his feet and stood before her and spoke in a tone of impatience.

“This is absurd. We are acting like children. Come, give it to me.”

Still she did not move.

“Look here, Veronica,” he said, and his voice began to tremble a little. “You don’t by any chance imagine you love me, do you?”

“No,” she replied, without looking up.

“Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Do you?” He demanded. “Look at me.”

She raised her eyes as far as his chin.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” she said almost pathetically. “I thought I hated you, but now it all seems to be changed.” She appeared to recover herself a little. “The truth is I haven’t the slightest idea whether I want to marry you or not. Not the slightest idea.”

Crevel sat down, then got up. Suddenly he took a determined step forward.

“Look here,” he said in a new tone, “there’s a way of finding out. It won’t hurt you, at least.”

And the next thing Victoria knew an arm was passed around her neck and a pair of firm lips was planted on hers. Mr. Crevel also was no bungler. He did the thing expertly, firmly and thoroughly. There was no roughness in it, but nevertheless, his encircling arm held her as in a vise. This exhibition of the oldest art in the world lasted while a watch would tick off five seconds.

He released her and stepped back, his face pale as death.

“Now,” he said, “you will know — if you hate me—”

She did not speak, but she saw a quivering movement pass over her body from head to foot. Something fell from her hand and rolled on the floor, but neither of them moved. Then suddenly a tiny spot of color appeared on her cheeks and spread slowly, like the birth of a summer’s dawn, until her whole face and neck were suffused with a rosy flaming blush. More slowly still she raised her eyes to his.

It was half an hour later that they found the ring. They found it on the floor under the piano bench.