The Last Drive and Other Stories

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.