“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?”
“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 then, 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.”
“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.”
“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! I 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. “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.
CHAPTER VII
OBSESSION
By the end of the week Brandes had done much to efface any unpleasant impression he had made on Ruhannah Carew.
The girl had never before had to do with any mature man. She was therefore at a disadvantage in every way, and her total lack of experience emphasised the odds.
Nobody had ever before pointedly preferred her, paid her undivided attention; no man had ever sought her, conversed with her, deferred to her, interested himself in her. It was entirely new to her, this attention which Brandes paid her. Nor could she make any comparisons between this man and other men, because she knew no other men. He was an entirely novel experience to her; he had made himself interesting, had proved amusing, considerate, kind, generous, and apparently interested in what interested her. And if his unfeigned preference for her society disturbed and perplexed her, his assiduous civilities toward her father and mother were gradually winning from her far more than anything he had done for her.
His white-faced, odd little friend had gone; he himself had taken quarters at the Gayfield House, where a car like the wrecked one was stabled for his use.
He had already taken her father and mother and herself everywhere within motoring distance; he had accompanied them to church; he escorted her to the movies; he walked with her in the August evenings after supper, rowed her about on the pond, fished from the bridge, told her strange stories in the moonlight on the verandah, her father and mother interested and attentive.
For the career of Mr. Eddie Brandes was capable of furnishing material for interesting stories if carefully edited, and related with discretion and circumspection. He had been many things to many men — and to several women — he had been a tinhorn gambler in the Southwest, a miner in Alaska, a saloon keeper in Wyoming, a fight promoter in Arizona. He had travelled profitably on popular ocean liners until requested to desist; Auteuil, Neuilly, Vincennes, and Longchamps knew him as tout, bookie, and, when fitfully prosperous, as a plunger. Epsom knew him once as a welcher; and knew him no more.
He had taken a comic opera company through the wheat-belt — one way; he had led a burlesque troupe into Arizona and had traded it there for a hotel.
“When Eddie wants to talk,” Stull used to say, “that smoke, Othello, hasn’t got nothing on him.”
However, Brandes seldom chose to talk. This was one of his rare garrulous occasions; and, with careful self-censorship, he was making an endless series of wonder-tales out of the episodes and faits divers common to the experience of such as he.
So, of moving accidents by flood and field this man had a store, and he contrived to make them artistically innocuous and perfectly fit for family consumption.
Further, two of his friends motored over from Saratoga to see him, were brought to supper at the Carews’; and they gave him a clean bill of moral health. They were, respectively, “Doc” Curfoot — suave haunter of Peacock Alley and gentleman “capper” — whom Brandes introduced as the celebrated specialist, Doctor Elbert Curfoot — and Captain Harman Quint, partner in “Quint’s” celebrated temple of chance — introduced as the distinguished navigating officer which he appeared to be. The steering for their common craft, however, was the duty of the eminent Doc.
They spent the evening on the verandah with the family; and it was quite wonderful what a fine fellow each turned out to be — information confidentially imparted to the Reverend Mr. Carew by each of the three distinguished gentlemen in turn.
Doc Curfoot, whose business included the ability to talk convincingly on any topic, took the Reverend Mr. Carew’s measure and chose literature; and his suave critique presently became an interesting monologue listened to in silence by those around him.
Brandes had said, “Put me in right, Doc,” and Doc was accomplishing it, partly to oblige Brandes, partly for practice. His agreeable voice so nicely pitched, so delightfully persuasive, recapitulating all the commonplaces and cant phrases concerning the literature of the day, penetrated gratefully the intellectual isolation of these humble gentlepeople, and won very easily their innocent esteem. With the Reverend Mr. Carew Doc discussed such topics as the influence on fiction of the ethical ideal. With Mrs. Carew Captain Quint exchanged reminiscences of travel on distant seas. Brandes attempted to maintain low-voiced conversation with Rue, who responded in diffident monosyllables to his advances.
* * * * *
Brandes walked down to their car with them after they had taken their leave.
“What’s the idea, Eddie?” inquired Doc Curfoot, pausing before the smart little speeder.
“It’s straight.”
“Oh,” said Doc, softly, betraying no surprise — about the only thing he never betrayed. “Anything in it for you, Eddie?”
“Yes. A good girl. The kind you read about. Isn’t that enough?”
“Minna chucked you?” inquired Captain Quint.
“She’ll get her decree in two or three months. Then I’ll have a home. And everything that you and I are keeps out of that home, Cap. See?”
“Certainly,” said Quint. “Quite right, Eddie.”
Doc Curfoot climbed in and took the wheel; Quint followed him.
“Say,” he said in his pleasant, guarded voice, “watch out that Minna don’t double-cross you, Eddie.”
“How?”
“ — Or shoot you up. She’s some schutzen-fest, you know, when she turns loose — —”
“Ah, I tell you she wants the divorce. Abe Grittlefeld’s crazy about her. He’ll get Abe Gordon to star her on Broadway; and that’s enough for her. Besides, she’ll marry Maxy Venem when she can afford to keep him.”
“You never understood Minna Minti.”
“Well, who ever understood any German?” demanded Brandes. “She’s one of those sour-blooded, silent Dutch women that make me ache.”
Doc pushed the self-starter; there came a click, a low humming. Brandes’ face cleared and he held out his square-shaped hand:
“You fellows,” he said, “have put me right with the old folks here. I’ll do the same for you some day. Don’t talk about this little girl and me, that’
s all.”
“All the same,” repeated Doc, “don’t take any chances with Minna. She’s on to you, and she’s got a rotten Dutch disposition.”
“That’s right, Doc. And say, Harman,” — to Quint— “tell Ben he’s doing fine. Tell him to send me what’s mine, because I’ll want it very soon now. I’m going to take a month off and then I’m going to show Stein how a theatre can be run.”
“Eddie,” said Quint, “it’s a good thing to think big, but it’s a damn poor thing to talk big. Cut out the talk and you’ll be a big man some day.”
The graceful car moved forward into the moonlight; his two friends waved an airy adieu; and Brandes went slowly back to the dark verandah where sat a young girl, pitifully immature in mind and body — and two old people little less innocent for all their experience in the ranks of Christ, for all the wounds that scarred them both in the over-sea service which had broken them forever.
“A very handsome and distinguished gentleman, your friend Dr. Curfoot,” said the Reverend Mr. Carew. “I imagine his practice in New York is not only fashionable but extensive.”
“Both,” said Brandes.
“I assume so. He seems to be intimately acquainted with people whose names for generations have figured prominently in the social columns of the New York press.”
“Oh, yes, Curfoot and Quint know them all.”
Which was true enough. They had to. One must know people from whom one accepts promissory notes to liquidate those little affairs peculiar to the temple of chance. And New York’s best furnished the neophytes for these rites.
“I thought Captain Quint very interesting,” ventured Ruhannah. “He seems to have sailed over the entire globe.”
“Naval men are always delightful,” said her mother. And, laying her hand on her husband’s arm in the dark: “Do you remember, Wilbour, how kind the officers from the cruiser Oneida were when the rescue party took us aboard?”
“God sent the Oneida to us,” said her husband dreamily. “I thought it was the end of the world for us — for you and me and baby Rue — that dreadful flight from the mission to the sea.”
His bony fingers tightened over his wife’s toilworn hand. In the long grass along the creek fireflies sparkled, and their elfin lanterns, waning, glowing, drifted high in the calm August night.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 810