The Last Drive and Other Stories

“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.”