Delphi complete works of.., p.106
Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 106
Megaera became more or less a member of the household, although her vagrant ways made it impossible to count on her presence. Twice she had taken Mr. Hawk to the grotto in the woods, and on the latter occasion Daffy had been brought along to admire the stone dog. Mr. Turner profited by the cementing of the unconventional relation between the two houses. He was provided with wine, food, and raiment and a supply of ready money with which he made various little purchases through the agency of a mysterious friend who later turned out to be the proprietor of a still. He throve and prospered and quarrelled a little less frequently with his daughter. So, considering everything impartially, it would seem that when Megaera swung a slim leg over Mr. Hawk’s window ledge she was acting in the best interests of everyone concerned. The conventional demands of the community were more or less satisfied by the shallow deception of foisting Megaera upon it as a visiting school friend of Daphne’s. Often with murder in her heart, Mrs. Lambert found herself conversing with neighbors about her daughter’s sweet young friend and how delighted she was they could be together for the remainder of the season, if not longer, a possibility she very much feared.
Events marched.
This evening Megaera and Mr. Hawk were returning from the village after the consumption by that young lady of several ice-cream sodas. Where the pavements yield to grass they encountered the charming and voluble Mrs. Wetmore Brightly, looking more possible and cosmetic than ever. After she had finished congratulating herself on her good fortune she announced the fact that she had been simply dying to meet Megaera ever since she had seen her in church.
“You’re such a beautiful creature, my dear,” she said. “I’m sure you must be such company for Mr. Hawk’s delightful niece — or shall I call you Hunter?”
The eyes came in very effectively here. Meg hated the woman from that moment, and knowing herself as she did, she naturally suspected the purity of the other’s motives. Her intuition was amply justified in this, for Mrs. Brightly’s motives were notoriously low. On her part, Mrs. Brightly regarded the official report concerning the visit of Meg to Daffy as being nothing more than an entirely justifiable lie concocted on the spur of the moment to conceal a much more interesting situation.
“And now,” announced the lovely woman, “I’m going to ask you a special favor, one that I ask only extra special people.” Here her voice dropped to a note of confidence. “We are opening up Greenwood next week,” she continued. “I do wish you would come. You and my husband were once awfully thick.”
“Your husband is still awfully thick,” Mr. Hawk replied, “or is that why you’re opening up Greenwood? I didn’t know he was even sick.”
“Hunter, you’re such a cynical person,” Mrs. Brightly pouted, “and such a wicked one. Of course my husband isn’t sick. Our camp was named long before the cemetery. It’s been in the family for years.”
“Well, you’ve got nothing on the other Greenwood,” said Hawk. “Many a family’s been in it for years.”
“What a ghastly sense of humor you have,” exclaimed Mrs. Brightly. “But I’ll forgive even that if you’ll only say you’ll come — you and Miss Turner and your niece and an extra pair of pants.”
“Trousers,” corrected Mr. Hawk. “Women wear pants.”
“Panties,” replied Mrs. Brightly. “What do you know about it, anyway, you old bachelor? And you didn’t say I could call you Hunter. I have been — —”
“I know you have,” said Mr. Hawk. “Now that it’s become a habit, why not keep it up?”
“You’re so gracious,” observed Mrs. Brightly. “You may call me Tom.”
“Why that?” asked Mr. Hawk.
“A hangover from the days of my youth. I was once a great tomboy. The name stuck. I think it’s rather cute.”
“So do I,” agreed Meg, with a much too sweet smile.
“I don’t know a thing about it,” said Mr. Hawk, “but I do know this: if anyone called me Flo or Gracie or Glad I’d knock his damn block off. Don’t see why the same reasoning doesn’t apply both ways.”
“You’ve an exceptionally agreeable companion,” Mrs. Tom Brightly said, addressing her remark to Meg.
“Isn’t it?” replied the girl.
“Will you come?” asked the elder woman. “Say, yes.”
“No,” said Mr. Hawk promptly. “I’m afraid it can’t be done. I don’t go to riots. A good old-fashioned stag party is bad enough for me. The performers there get paid for their folly.”
Something sharp and painful was making its way into Hunter Hawk’s ribs.
“Accept,” gritted a low voice in his ear, or rather a low, gritty voice drifted up to his ear. “Accept, damn you, or I’ll drive this knife clear through your bladder.”
Mrs. Brightly, who had unexpectedly moved a pace to one side, suddenly turned pale.
“For God’s sake!” she cried out. “What are you doing, child? Don’t murder the man.”
Mr. Hawk smiled falsely. “She’s merely scratching my back,” he explained. “Can’t reach it myself. And by the way, I accept your jolly old invitation. My second thoughts are always best.”
“I’m glad,” said Mrs. Tom Brightly. “Does she always scratch your back with that desperate-looking blade?”
“She carries it for that express purpose,” said Mr. Hawk.
“My family has always carried knives,” said Meg, slipping the knife in a sheath attached to a startlingly well turned leg. “Good in cases of assaults and such. Lots of times a girl doesn’t feel like being assaulted.”
“I didn’t know,” murmured Mrs. Brightly. “The women of your family must have led such interesting lives.”
“I’m afraid they were a pretty hard lot,” Meg answered with a small smile. “I’m quite different. I’m really a very nice girl. You’d be surprised.”
“I’m sure I would,” Mrs. Tom replied with a world of meaning in her voice. “Then it’s all settled?”
“We’ll be there,” replied Mr. Hawk, “even though it kills me. So long, Tom.”
Mrs. Tom flashed them both a smile and turned down the street, her shapely body swaying to advantage. Mr. Hawk’s gaze followed her.
“Take your eyes off that,” amended Meg.
“Off what?” asked Mr. Hawk.
“You know very well what I mean. Take your eyes off it and keep your eyes off it, or there’ll be a whole lot of trouble. Just remember that.”
“I’ll do my best,” Hawk replied, his thoughts centered on the knife. “The only thing wrong with that leg of yours is that murderous weapon you carry on it. I never knew you toted a dagger.”
“You’ll find out lots of things about me before I’m through with you,” Meg commented darkly.
Mr. Hawk found scant comfort in this remark.
Greenwood was situated on a wooded hill. There was a tracery of pine boughs around the house, and a constant whispering could be heard from a breeze that moved among them. From a long wide veranda one looked down on a silver lake lying like a coin tossed among the trees. And from the veranda one could trace the graceful course of a smooth gravel road twisting leisurely down to the pavilion and boat house rising like a fairy palace from the waters of the lake. The wind seemed cooler on this hill than elsewhere, and the sun warmer and more friendly — the air sweeter and more stimulating to the lungs. The house was an ancient and immense structure. It dominated the landscape, thrust itself up through the trees, and scrutinized the countryside with a baronial eye. It was a mansion of many chambers — large, fragrant rooms, intimately associated with boughs and birds. Their windows framed the sky and were forever capturing for awhile little wind-blown clouds. Wild woods and terraced gardens lay below these windows. Huge wide-treaded stairs walked up through this house, their turnings watched by empty niches that had once held statues of unrivaled ugliness. The first step of this ample staircase, or the last, as the case may be, rested on the smooth, solid surface of an immense assembly room used for dancing, mass drinking, and associated revelry. It was a vast room with intimate corners, a place of windows, convenient tables, and divans that defied fatigue. In this huge hall one could enjoy life. The floor made a splendid place for crap games. Almost always, from midnight until dawn, dancing couples were forced to circle round groups of vociferating gamblers.
To-day Mrs. Tom Brightly, surrounded by a number of guests, was leveling a cocktail glass and gazing through its amber-colored contents at the Emperor as it made its way majestically up the drive. The Emperor was Mr. Hawk’s carry-all. He could never discover why he had bought this barge on wheels save for the fact that barring a van it was the largest motor-propelled vehicle he had ever seen. It was utterly out of proportion to his needs. There is something satisfying in being able to afford a thing for which one has no earthly use. It lends that meretricious touch to a purchase without which few pleasures can be fully savored.
The Emperor was now transporting its owner, slumped behind the wheel, Meg curled up quite a little too close beside him, and Daffy trying to recline in the back in the arms of a young gentleman who looked upon her advances with disapproval and mistrust.
“He’s always protecting me from myself,” the young lady had complained of Cyril Sparks throughout the course of the trip. “Has a quaint idea that my neck was made only to swallow with.”
“You deserve to be hung by yours,” Mr. Sparks had growled. “Can’t you leave a fellow alone?”
“No,” had been the emphatic rejoinder, “I can’t. What is a fellow for if you’ve got to leave him alone? Might just as well have a mummy for a boy friend.”
Cyril Sparks was a large lad, horselike and rangy. A seemingly endless supply of arms and legs was attached to his body. He had a long, honest face, prominent cheek bones, and startlingly blue eyes, always a little troubled. Situations got the better of him. He seemed to jerk along through life on the minimum amount of words. Few persons suspected that behind those blue, perplexed eyes lay a world of acute and devastating observations. Little if anything escaped those eyes or failed to register a definite impression on the brain that directed them. He was interested in two things — Daffy and bugs. He knew no tricks and could play no games. Many miles a week he tramped and wandered. When Mack Sennett stopped producing his slapstick comedies a source of genuine enjoyment was removed from his life. He was one of Blotto’s warmest admirers, contending that a dog, to be so completely dumb, must necessarily possess some human attributes. His hair was red, and his father was rich. He himself seldom had more than a couple of dollars in his pocket at one time, but he had the happy faculty of being able to dig up money from the various women who dwelt in his house. His three brothers, all of whom were competent but essentially decent sorts, gave him large checks which he usually kept in his pockets until they became so soiled and dog eared the teller at the bank handled them with shrinking fingers. When he had money he spent it on presents, candy, nuts, books, and an especially vile brand of rum of which he was inordinately fond. He was always so distrait and inarticulate his family could tell he had been drinking and was pleased about it only when he was heard to croon wistfully to himself about some laddie who kept going away somewhere and never coming back. On such occasions his mother and his various aunts would smile sympathetically and hold their peace. His father never grew tired of quietly observing Cyril and trying to follow the workings of his mind. He realized that the boy, though very much a part of the household and more dependent on it than any other member of the family, nevertheless lived in a world entirely apart from the others. Recently Mr. Sparks had come to regard this son of his as a rather gifted animal that eluded classification. Hunter Hawk was fond of young Sparks, and, strange to say, Sparks lost much of his restraint in the presence of Mr. Hawk. The boy would converse with him long and laboriously, preferably over a bottle of something. Next to his rum, Cyril Sparks loved the ethyl alcohol he found in Mr. Hawk’s laboratory. Whenever he entered the place he would rove about with deceptive inconsequence until he had located a bottle labeled with the familiar C2 H5 OH. This satisfactorily accomplished, he was able to answer questions and exchange ideas with a surprising degree of intelligence. It was his hope that in time Daffy would take up the subject of marriage and perhaps make arrangements. Also he hoped that these arrangements would not include Mr. and Mrs. Lambert and the boy Junior. It was a puzzle to him how three people could be so thoroughly undesirable on all counts. Mrs. Lambert both despised and venerated him on account of the Sparks fortune.
“Don’t forget,” he now said anxiously to Mr. Hawk. “You said you’d get this Brightly woman to give us some bottles for our own use. Don’t like this punch-bowl business. Always step on some woman. It’s better to go up to one’s room and take off one’s coat and talk and drink — —”
“And spit and swear and tell bad stories,” supplied Daffy. “Wouldn’t you enjoy yourself even more if we hit you over the head with an ax at the start and put you to bed? The results would be about the same, only quicker.”
“An ax is hard, and it would hurt,” he answered reflectively. “It might do for once, but you couldn’t keep it up. No head could stand much of that sort of thing. No, I’m serious about those bottles. A lot of people fatigue me. Bottles in the room will be much the best.”
“In other words,” said Daphne, “you prefer to drink furiously with a few rather than foolishly with the flock.”
“Frantically,” amended Cyril. “Your alliteration remains intact.”
“Don’t worry about your private supply, my boy,” said Mr. Hawk in a large manner that Cyril greatly admired. “I’ll attend to that.”
“Do,” put in Meg sweetly. “And only that. Observe that leg.”
She gave her skirt a flip and displayed the businesslike dagger snugly sheathed against a sheer silk stocking.
“Ah, there!” cried Mrs. Tom from the veranda. “Crawl out of that hearse and join a live party.”
Hawk led his three charges up the gracious steps and accepted a cocktail, which he courteously passed to Megaera.
“Yum,” she mouthed avidly. “This is so much nicer than school, isn’t it, Daffy?”
Daffy, over the rim of her glass, agreed that it was.
“Well,” said Sparks, eying her drink critically and wishing it was composed entirely of alcohol, “here’s gobble, gobble.”
Down went the cocktails with admirable precision and dispatch.
“You four appear to be snappy drinkers,” Mrs. Tom observed. “I can tell by the way they went down that you’ll make fast friends here.”
“The faster the better,” said Mr. Hawk.
Meg was completely hidden from view by a circle of knickers and white flannels.
“I’m already meeting a few,” she said. “Call off your pack, Tommy. Haven’t these gentlemen ever seen a small woman before?”
She broke through the circle and joined her hostess just in time to hear her say, “You’re my neighbor, Hunter Hawk. Your room is next to mine. If you get frightened in the night by all these bad people just knock three times on the wall and I’ll send my husband in to keep you company.”
“That’s the most appalling anticlimax I’ve ever heard,” he replied. “Why not come yourself?”
“Why not be yourself?” Mrs. Tom replied. “But if you really do need me, just scrape on the wall very, very gently.”
Wetmore Brightly approached none too pleasantly.
“It had better be damn gently,” he rumbled. “I sleep with one ear open, Hunter.”
“Hello, there,” said Mr. Hawk. “Has your hand fully recovered the use of its pocket?”
Brightly’s face darkened.
“That’s far from funny,” he answered, “unless one has a sophomoric sense of humor.”
“Did you get much in the scramble?” asked Meg. “I made out fine, but dear Mr. Hawk, noble Mr. Hawk, made me return it later. It’s not often one gets such a chance.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Brightly, “I remember now. You’re the cute little thing with the busy hands. You snatched a coin right out from under mine.”
“It was fifty cents,” replied Meg quite seriously. “A nice bright new one. That’s a worth-while piece of change, fifty cents. Two of them make a dollar.”
Hunter Hawk took the avaricious young lady by the arm and forcibly led her down the veranda.
“Don’t,” he pleaded, “don’t go on in that horrid way about money. It sounds terrible coming from your sweet young lips, even if centuries of lies have slipped through them.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Meg, this time with sincere humility. “You can’t understand what money has meant to us. You see, it’s the hardest thing to get. We can’t work for it, and still at times we must have it. Once we had no need of money, but now, with our magic running low, it seems to stand for everything. The Little People have gotten a tough break in your so-called Christian Era. We are neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. You see how it is? You belong to me, but I don’t belong to you. I just keep on going, and sometime you’ll stop . . . come to an end . . . and I’ll go on raising hell, no doubt loving but yet not wanting to love . . . living yet fed-up with life.”
She flung herself down in a large leather chair and looked with unseeing eyes at the panorama stretched out before her. Through a French window leading into the great hall drifted a haunting and rather pathetic little air. Mimi was dying gracefully somewhere in a Vocalion, her tiny hands being quite frozen. The small, broken voice, poignantly sad because reminiscent of happier times, carried in its note of suffering a yearning still to live and to share the warmth of life. The sad voice was appealing directly to Megaera and the tall man looking down at her. Mimi, dying, her love story ended, was saying farewell to them. Meg’s large eyes, touched with a new depth and just a little frightened, were gazing into Hawk’s.
“I want to belong to you,” she said in a low voice that crept close to the man’s heart. “I want to end with you or before you. I don’t want to go on and on . . . hell raising and all that.”
