Bean had once attended a magician's entertainment and there suffered
vicariously the agony endured by one of his volunteer assistants.
Suavely the entertainer begged the help of "some kind gentleman from the
audience." He was insistent, exerting upon the reluctant ones the
pressure of his best platform manner.
When the pause had grown embarrassing, a shamed looking man slouched
forward from an aisle seat amid hearty cheers. He ascended the carpeted
runway from aisle to stage, stumbled over footlights and dropped his
hat. Then the magician harried him to the malicious glee of the
audience. He removed playing-cards, white rabbits and articles of
feminine apparel from beneath the coat of his victim. He seated him in a
chair that collapsed. He gave him a box to hold and shocked him
electrically. He missed his watch and discovered it in the abused man's
pocket. And when the ordeal was over the recovered hat was found to
contain guinea-pigs. The kind gentleman from the audience had been shown
to be transcendently awkward, brainless, and to have a mania for petty
thievery. With burning face and falling glance, he had stumbled back to
his seat, where a lady who had before exhibited the public manner of
wife to husband toward him, now pretended that he was an utter and
offensive stranger.
Bean, I say, had once suffered vicariously with this altruistic dolt.
His suffering now was not vicarious. For three days he endured on the
raw of his own soul tortures even more ingeniously harrowing.
To be shut up for three hours a day with Breede was bad enough, but
custom had a little dulled his sensitiveness to this. And he could look
Breede over and write down in beautiful shorthand what he thought of
him.
But the other Breedes!
Mrs. Breede, a member of one of the very oldest families in Omaha, he
learned, terrified him exceedingly. She was an advanced dresser--he had
to admit that--but she was no longer beautiful. She was a plucked rose
that had been too long kept; the petals were rusting, crumpling at the
edges. He wondered if Breede had ever wished to be wrecked on a desert
island with her. She surveyed Bean through a glass-and-gold weapon with
a long handle, and on the two subsequent occasions when she addressed
him called him Mr. Brown. Once meeting him in the hall, she seemed to
believe that he had been sent to fix the telephone.
And the flapper's taller sister of the languishing glance--how quickly
had she awakened him from that golden dream of the low-lying atoll and
the wrecked ship in a far sea. She _did_ flirt with "any one," no doubt
about that. She adroitly revealed to Bean an unshakable conviction that
he was desperately enamoured of her, and that it served him right for a
presumptuous nobody. She talked to him, preened herself in his gaze, and
maddened him with a manner of deadly roguishness. Then she flew to exert
the same charm upon any one of the resplendent young men who were
constantly riding over or tooting over in big black motor-cars. They
were young men who apparently had nothing to do but "go in" for
things--riding, tennis, polo, golf. To all of them she was the
self-confident charmer; just the kind of a girl to make a fool of you
and tell about it.
Twenty-four hours after her first assault upon him he was still wrecking
the ship at the entrance to that lagoon, but now he watched the big
sister go down for the third time while he placidly rescued a stoker to
share his romantic isolation.
The flapper and Grandma, the Demon, were even more objectionable, and,
what was worse, they alarmed him. Puzzled as to their purpose, he knew
not what defence to make. He was swept on some secret and sinister
current to an end he could not divine.
The flapper lay in wait for him at all hours when he might appear. Did
he open a door, she lurked in the corridor; did he seek refuge in the
gloom of the library, she arose to confront him from its dimmest nook;
did he plan a masterly escape by a rear stairway, she burst upon him
from the ambush of some exotic shrub to demand which way he had thought
of going. He had never thought of a way that did not prove to have been
her own. The creature was a leech! If she had only talked, he believed
that he could have thrown her off. But she would not talk. She merely
walked beside him insatiably. Sometimes he thought he could detect a
faint anxiety in the look she kept upon him, but, mostly, it was the
look of something calm, secure, ruthless. Something! It unnerved him.
It was usually probable that Grandma, the Demon, would join them, the
silver cigarette case dangling at her girdle. Then was he sorely beset.
They would perhaps talk about him over his head, discuss his points as
if he were some new beast from the stables.
"I tell you, he's over an inch taller than I am," announced the flapper.
"U-u-mm!" replied Grandma, measuring Bean's stature with narrowed eye.
"U-u-mm!"
"You show her!" commanded flapper, in a louder voice, as if she believed
him deaf. She grasped his arm and whirled him about to stand with his
back to hers.
"There!" said the flapper tensely, her eyes staring ahead. "There!"
"You're scrooching!" accused the Demon.
"Not a bit!--and see how square his shoulders are!" She turned to point
out this grace of the animal.
"Ever take any drugs? Ever get any habits like that?" queried the Demon.
Plainly Bean's confession to an unusual virtue had aroused her
suspicion. He might be a drug fiend!
He faltered wretchedly, wishing Breede would send for him.
"I--well, I used to be made to take sulphur and molasses every
spring ... but I never kept it up after I left home."
"Hum!" said the old lady, looking as if he could tell a lot more if he
chose.
She gripped one of his biceps. He was not ashamed of these. The night
and morning drill with that home exerciser had told, even though he was
not yet so impressive as the machine's inventor, who, in magazine
advertisements, looked down so fondly upon his own flexed arm.
"For goodness' sake!" exclaimed the Demon respectfully.
Bean thrilled at this, feeling like a primitive brute of the cave times,
accustomed to subduing women by force.
After that they seemed tacitly to agree that they would pretend to show
him over the "grounds." Bean hated the grounds, which were worried to
the last square inch into a chilling formality, and the big glass
conservatory was stifling, like an overcrowded, overheated auditorium.
And he knew they were "drawing him out." They looked meaningly at each
other whenever he spoke.
They questioned him about his early life, but learned only that his
father had been "engaged in the express business." He was ably reticent.
Did he believe that women ought to be classed legally with drunkards,
imbeciles and criminals? He did not, if you came down to that. Let them
vote if they wanted to. He had other things to think about, more
important. He didn't care much, either way. Voting didn't do any good.
He had taken the ideal attitude to enrage the woman suffragist. She will
respect opposition. Careless indifference she cannot brook. Grandma
opened upon him and battered him to a pulpy mass. Within the half hour
he was supinely promising to remind her to give him a badge before he
left; and there was further talk of his marching at the next parade as a
member of the Men's League for Woman's Suffrage, or, at the very least,
in the column of Men Sympathizers.
He wondered, wondered! Were they trying to assure themselves that he was
a fit man to be in the employ of old Breede? He could imagine it of
them; as soon as they thought about voting they began to interfere in a
man's business. Yet this suspicion slept when he was with the flapper
alone. Sometimes he was conscious of liking very much to be with her. He
decided that this was because she didn't talk.
The evening of his last day came. Breede, in a burst of garrulity, had
said: "Had enough this; go town to-morrow!" The flapper, and even the
Demon, had seemed to be stirred by the announcement. He resolved to be
more than ever on his guard. But they caught him fairly in the open.
"How do you like his hair parted that way in the middle?" demanded the
flapper, with the calculating eye of one who ponders changes in a
dwelling-house.
"U-u-mm!" considered the Demon gravely. "Not bad. Still, perhaps--!"
"Exactly what I was thinking!" said the flapper cordially. Then, to
Bean, her tone slightly raised:
"Which way?"
"Got to get off a bunch of telegrams," lied Bean.
"Oh, all right! We'll wait for you," said the flapper. "Right there,"
she added, pointing to the most expensive pergola on the place.
In the dusk of an hour later he slunk stealthily down a rear stairway
and made a cautious detour into the grounds. He earnestly meant to keep
far from that pergola. Wait for him, would they? Well, he'd show them!
Always spying on a man; _hounding_ him! What business was it of theirs
whether he had habits or not ... any kind of habits?
But he was to find himself under a spell such as is said to bring the
weak-willed bird to the serpent's maw. His traitorous feet dragged him
toward the trap. The odour of a cigarette drew his revolted nostrils. He
could hear the murmurous duet.
Talking about him! Of course! He would like to break in on them and for
a little while be a certain Corsican upstart in one of his most
objectionable moods. That would take them down a bit. But, instead, he
became something entirely different. With the stealth of the red Indian
he effaced himself against a background of well-groomed shrubbery and
crept toward the murmur. At last he could hear words above the beating
of his heart.
"How can you _know_?" the Demon was saying. "A child of your age?"
The flapper's tone was calm and confident as one who relates a
phenomenon that has become a commonplace.
"I knew it the very first second I ever saw him--something went over me
just like that--I can't tell how, but I knew."
"Well, how can you know about him?"
"Oh, him!" The words implied that the flapper had waved a deprecating
hand. "Why, I know about him in just the same way; you can't tell how.
It comes over you!"