a rain-washed world, smelling sweet as a wet rose, a cloudless sky delicately blue, and a swollen stream tumbling and foaming under the bridge—of these mr. eddie brandes was agreeably conscious as he stepped out on the verandah after breakfast, and, unclasping a large gold cigar case, inserted a cigar between his teeth.
he always had the appearance of having just come out of a broadway barber shop with the visible traces of shave, shampoo, massage, and manicure patent upon his person.
his short, square figure was clothed in well-cut blue serge; a smart straw hat embellished his head, polished russet shoes his remarkably small feet. on his small fat fingers several heavy rings were conspicuous. and the odour of cologne exhaled from and subtly pervaded the ensemble.
across the road, hub-deep in wet grass and weeds, he could see his wrecked runabout, glistening with raindrops.
he stood for a while on the verandah, both hands shoved deep into his pockets, his cigar screwed into his cheek. from time to time he jingled keys and loose coins in his pockets. finally he sauntered down the steps and across the wet road to inspect the machine at closer view.
contemplating it tranquilly, head on one side and his left eye closed to avoid the drifting cigar smoke, 61he presently became aware of a girl in a pink print dress leaning over the grey parapet of the bridge. and, picking his way among the puddles, he went toward her.
“good morning, miss carew,” he said, taking off his straw hat.
she turned her head over her shoulder; the early sun glistened on his shiny, carefully parted hair and lingered in glory on a diamond scarf pin.
“good morning,” she said, a little uncertainly, for the memory of their first meeting on the bridge had not entirely been forgotten.
“you had breakfast early,” he said.
“yes.”
he kept his hat off; such little courtesies have their effect; also it was good for his hair which, he feared, had become a trifle thinner recently.
“it is beautiful weather,” said mr. brandes, squinting at her through his cigar smoke.
“yes.” she looked down into the tumbling water.
“this is a beautiful country, isn’t it, miss carew?”
“yes.”
with his head a little on one side he inspected her. there was only the fine curve of her cheek visible, and a white neck under the chestnut hair; and one slim, tanned hand resting on the stone parapet.
“do you like motoring?” he asked.
she looked up:
“yes.... i have only been out a few times.”
“i’ll have another car up here in a few days. i’d like to take you out.”
she was silent.
“ever go to saratoga?” he inquired.
“no.”62
“i’ll take you to the races—with your mother. would you like to go?”
she remained silent so long that he became a trifle uneasy.
“with your mother,” he repeated, moving so he could see a little more of her face.
“i don’t think mother would go,” she said.
“would she let you go?”
“i don’t think so.”
“there’s nothing wrong with racing,” he said, “if you don’t bet money on the horses.”
but rue knew nothing about sport, and her ignorance as well as the suggested combination of saratoga, automobile, and horse racing left her silent again.
brandes sat down on the parapet of the bridge and held his straw hat on his fat knees.
“then we’ll make it a family party,” he said, “your father and mother and you, shall we? and we’ll just go off for the day.”
“thank you.”
“would you like it?”
“yes.”
“will you go?”
“i—work in the mill.”
“every day?”
“yes.”
“how about sunday?”
“we go to church.... i don’t know.... perhaps we might go in the afternoon.”
“i’ll ask your father,” he said, watching the delicately flushed face with odd, almost sluggish persistency.
his grey-green eyes seemed hypnotised; he appeared unable to turn them elsewhere; and she, gradually 63becoming conscious of his scrutiny, kept her own eyes averted.
“what were you looking at in the water?” he asked.
“i was looking for our boat. it isn’t there. i’m afraid it has gone over the dam.”
“i’ll help you search for it,” he said, “when i come back from the village. i’m going to walk over and find somebody who’ll cart that runabout to the railroad station.... you’re not going that way, are you?” he added, rising.
“no.”
“then––” he lifted his hat high and put it on with care—“until a little later, miss carew.... and i want to apologise for speaking so familiarly to you yesterday. i’m sorry. it’s a way we get into in new york. broadway isn’t good for a man’s manners.... will you forgive me, miss carew?”
embarrassment kept her silent; she nodded her head, and finally turned and looked at him. his smile was agreeable.
she smiled faintly, too, and rose.
“until later, then,” he said. “this is the gayfield road, isn’t it?”
“yes.”
she turned and walked toward the house; and as though he could not help himself he walked beside her, his hat in his hand once more.
“i like this place,” he said. “i wonder if there is a hotel in gayfield.”
“the gayfield house.”
“is it very bad?” he asked jocosely.
she seemed surprised. it was considered good, she thought.
with a slight, silent nod of dismissal she crossed the 64road and went into the house, leaving him standing beside his wrecked machine once more, looking after her out of sluggish eyes.
presently, from the house, emerged stull, his pasty face startling in its pallor under the cloudless sky, and walked slowly over to brandes.
“well, ben,” said the latter pleasantly, “i’m going to gayfield to telegraph for another car.”
“how soon can they get one up?” inquired stull, inserting a large cigar into his slitted mouth and lighting it.
“oh, in a couple of days, i guess. i don’t know. i don’t care much, either.”
“we can go on to saratoga by train,” suggested stull complacently.
“we can stay here, too.”
“what for?”
brandes said in his tight-lipped, even voice:
“the fishing’s good. i guess i’ll try it.” he continued to contemplate the machine, but stull’s black eyes were turned on him intently.
“how about the races?” he asked. “do we go or not?”
“certainly.”
“when?”
“when they send us a car to go in.”
“isn’t the train good enough?”
“the fishing here is better.”
stull’s pasty visage turned sourer:
“do you mean we lose a couple of days in this god-forsaken dump because you’d rather go to saratoga in a runabout than in a train?”
“i tell you i’m going to stick around for a while.”
“for how long?”65
“oh, i don’t know. when we get our car we can talk it over and––”
“ah,” ejaculated stull in disgust, “what the hell’s the matter with you? is it that little skirt you was buzzing out here like you never seen one before?”
“how did you guess, ben?” returned brandes with the almost expressionless jocularity that characterised him at times.
“that little red-headed, spindling, freckled, milk-fed mill-hand––”
“funny, ain’t it? but there’s no telling what will catch the tired business man, is there, ben?”
“well, what does catch him?” demanded stull angrily. “what’s the answer?”
“i guess she’s the answer, ben.”
“ah, leave the kid alone––”
“i’m going to have the car sent up here. i’m going to take her out. go on to saratoga if you want to. i’ll meet you there––”
“when?”
“when i’m ready,” replied brandes evenly. but he smiled.
stull looked at him, and his white face, soured by dyspepsia, became sullen with wrath. at such times, too, his grammar suffered from indigestion.
“say, eddie,” he began, “can’t no one learn you nothin’ at all? how many times would you have been better off if you’d listened to me? every time you throw me you hand yourself one. now that you got a little money again and a little backing, don’t do anything like that––”
“like what?”
“like chasin’ dames! don’t act foolish like you done in chicago last summer! you wouldn’t listen to me 66then, would you? and that denver business, too! say, look at all the foolish things you done against all i could say to save you—like backing that cowboy plug against battling jensen!—like taking that big hunk o’ beef, walstein, to san antonio, where kid o’rourke put him out in the first! and everybody’s laughing at you yet! ah––” he exclaimed angrily, “somebody tell me why i don’t quit you, you big dill pickle! i wish someone would tell me why i stand for you, because i don’t know.... and look what you’re doing now; you got some money of your own and plenty of syndicate money to put on the races and a big comish! you got a good theayter in town with morris stein to back you and everything—and look what you’re doing!” he ended bitterly.
brandes tightened his dental grip on his cigar and squinted at him good-humouredly.
“say, ben,” he said, “would you believe it if i told you i’m stuck on her?”
“ah, you’d fall for anything. i never seen a skirt you wouldn’t chase.”
“i don’t mean that kind.”
“what kind, then?”
“this is on the level, ben.”
“what! ah, go on! you on the level?”
“all the same, i am.”
“you can’t be on the level! you don’t know how.”
“why?”
“you got a wife, and you know damn well you have.”
“yes, and she’s getting her divorce.”
stull regarded him with habitual and sullen distrust.
“she hasn’t got it yet.”
“she’ll get it. don’t worry.”
“i thought you was for fighting it.”67
“i was going to fight it; but––” his slow, narrow, greenish eyes stole toward the house across the road.
“just like that,” he said, after a slight pause; “that’s the way the little girl hit me. i’m on the level, ben. first skirt i ever saw that i wanted to find waiting dinner for me when i come home. get me?”
“i don’t know whether i do or not.”
“get this, then; she isn’t all over paint; she’s got freckles, thank god, and she smells sweet as a daisy field. ah, what the hell––” he burst out between his parted teeth “—when every woman in new york smells like a chorus girl! don’t i get it all day? the whole city stinks like a star’s dressing room. and i married one! and i’m through. i want to get my breath and i’m getting it.”
stull’s white features betrayed merely the morbid suffering of indigestion; he said nothing and sucked his cigar.
“i’m through,” repeated brandes. “i want a home and a wife—the kind that even a fly cop won’t pinch on sight—the kind of little thing that’s over there in that old shack. whatever i am, i don’t want a wife like me—nor kids, either.”
stull remained sullenly unresponsive.
“call her a hick if you like. all right, i want that kind.”
no comment from stull, who was looking at the wrecked car.
“understand, ben?”
“i tell you i don’t know whether i do or not!”
“well, what don’t you understand?”
“nothin’.... well, then, your falling for a kid like that, first crack out o’ the box. i’m honest; i don’t understand it.”68
“she hit me that way—so help me god!”
“and you’re on the level?”
“absolutely, ben.”
“what about the old guy and the mother? take ’em to live with you?”
“if she wants ’em.”
stull stared at him in uneasy astonishment:
“all right, eddie. only don’t act foolish till minna passes you up. and get out of here or you will. if you’re on the level, as you say you are, you’ve got to mark time for a good long while yet––”
“why?”
“you don’t have to ask me that, do you?”
“yes, i do. why? i want to marry her, i tell you. i mean to. i’m taking no chances that some hick will do it while i’m away. i’m going to stay right here.”
“and when the new car comes?”
“i’ll keep her humming between here and saratoga.”
“and then what?”
brandes’ greenish eyes rested on the car and he smoked in silence for a while. then:
“listen, ben. i’m a busy man. i got to be back in town and i got to have a wedding trip too. you know me, ben. you know what i mean. that’s me. when i do a thing i do it. maybe i make plenty of mistakes. hell! i’d rather make ’em than sit pat and do nothing!”
“you’re crazy.”
“don’t bet on it, ben. i know what i want. i’m going to make money. things are going big with me––”
“you tinhorn! you always say that!”
“watch me. i bet you i make a killing at saratoga! 69i bet you i make good with morris stein! i bet you the first show i put on goes big! i bet––”
“ah, can it!”
“wait! i bet you i marry that little girl in two weeks and she stands for it when i tell her later we’d better get married again!”
“say! talk sense!”
“i am.”
“what’ll they do to you if your wife makes a holler?”
“who ever heard of her or me in the east?”
“you want to take a chance like that?”
“i’ll fix it. i haven’t got time to wait for minna to shake me loose. besides, she’s in seattle. i’ll fix it so she doesn’t hear until she gets her freedom. i’ll get a license right here. i guess i’ll use your name––”
“what!” yelled stull.
“shut your face!” retorted brandes. “what do you think you’re going to do, squeal?”
“you think i’m going to stand for that?”
“well, then, i won’t use your name. i’ll use my own. why not? i mean honest. it’s dead level. i’ll remarry her. i want her, i tell you. i want a wedding trip, too, before i go back––”
“with the first rehearsal called for september fifteenth! what’s the matter with you? do you think stein is going to stand for––”
“you’ll be on hand,” said brandes pleasantly. “i’m going to paris for four weeks—two weeks there, two on the ocean––”
“you––”
“save your voice, ben. that’s settled.”
stull turned upon him a dead white visage distorted with fury:
“i hope she throws you out!” he said breathlessly. 70“you talk about being on the level! every level’s crooked with you. you don’t know what square means; a square has got more than four corners for you! go on! stick around. i don’t give a damn what you do. go on and do it. but i quit right here.”
both knew that the threat was empty. as a shadow clings to a man’s heels, as a lost soul haunts its slayer, as damnation stalks the damned, so had stull followed brandes; and would follow to the end. why? neither knew. it seemed to be their destiny, surviving everything—their bitter quarrels, the injustice and tyranny of brandes, his contempt and ridicule sometimes—enduring through adversity, even penury, through good and bad days, through abundance and through want, through shame and disgrace, through trickery, treachery, and triumph—nothing had ever broken the occult bond which linked these two. and neither understood why, but both seemed to be vaguely conscious that neither was entirely complete without the other.
“ben,” said brandes affably, “i’m going to walk over to gayfield. want to come?”
they went off, together.
