Mrs. Crofut certainly lived in a very fine house. If it had any faults at all, it was that the paint lacked freshness and that it was too closely hemmed in by a business college on one side and an undertaking establishment on the other. But apart from that, Brush agreed, it was a very fine home. It rose above the street in a mass of towers and gables and bays and porches. It had not always belonged to Mrs. Crofut—though the Crofuts were a very old family—because the horse-block on the curb said Adams. For some reason a dilapidated electric signboard lay half hidden in the rhododendron bushes; it said: THE RIVIERA. CUISINE FRANÇAISE. The boys entered without ringing the bell, and Brush found himself in a dark hall. He was curious about everything and, pushing aside some reed portières at the left, he saw a large room filled with small tables, as though it had once been a restaurant.
“Well, boys, how are you?” said a large, honest voice emerging from the back of the hall. “This is fine.”
“Mrs. Crofut,” said Herb, “I want you to shake hands with George Brush, the singer.”
“It’s a pleasure; and let me tell you we’ve been looking forward to it a lot. I declare, my daughters have been dolling up for hours. Let’s go and sit in the day parlor until my girls come down,” she said, alluding to a whispering and twittering of joyous young voices upstairs. Brush glanced up the great staircase, past the stained-glass window, and saw a laughing face peering down between the posts of the balustrade. “Come in here and tell me what you’ve all been doing with yourselves.”
Mrs. Crofut sat down with casual elegance in a huge rattan chair and beckoned them to seats about her. She had a fine large red face surmounted by a carefully built up head of yellow hair. A row of small yellow curls crossed her forehead. She wore a black silk shirtwaist covered with jet beads, and a gold watch was pinned over her lungs. She was an enormous woman, but her waist was remarkably small and she carried her vast bulk with a constant attention to grace. Brush liked her at once and could scarcely take his eyes off her. She was joined a few minutes later by a tall thin girl, likewise with yellow hair.
“This is my girl Lily. . . . Aren’t you the bold one! . . . This is Lily, Mr. Brush.”
Lily stood squirming and giggling by her mother’s chair, staring at Brush.
“Lily’s the musical one,” continued Mrs. Crofut. “Very sweet voice.”
Serious conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a military parade of five more young ladies. They were all of about the same age, sixteen to eighteen, and were very shy and modest. One was a tall dark girl of foreign origin. All of them had one trait in common, a certain vagueness in the eyes, as though it were difficult to focus the glance on a single object. Introductions were not easily gotten over with. There was much staring and blushing and suppressed giggling.
“You have a lot of daughters, Mrs. Crofut, I’ll say,” said Brush.
“Lord! have I! And this isn’t all, by any means, is it, Herbert? The fact is the older girls are eating by themselves upstairs; this is just what I call my kindergarten. You see, Mr. Brush,” she said, with intimate complicity, “perhaps they aren’t all my daughters; some of them merely make their home with me for the time being. Dolores there is a Cuban girl. Dinner’s ready now, so let’s go in. Go in, go in, girls. What’s the matter with you today? They’re as nervous as witches about meeting you, Mr. Brush, that’s a fact. They’re not themselves.”
The company passed through several sitting-rooms and came to a large dining-room at the back of the house. Mrs. Crofut stood behind her chair and directed matters in a large way. “There are thirteen of us,” she said, “so May has to sit at a table by herself. We drew lots and May’s the goat.” May, blushing with confusion and pleasure, seated herself in the bay window and took a drink of water. “Now, Mr. Brush, by rights, you ought to sit by me, but I’m just an old woman and I’m going to set you down among my girls. The girls all want to sit by you and I’m not going to show any favoritism, so suit yourself. I see Herb’s going to sit by Gladys, as usual.”
Brush did not stop to pick and choose. He found himself between the Cuban girl and a girl called Ruth. Ruth was a soft-eyed girl with brown hair. She wore a simple white dress and scarcely dared raise her eyes from her plate. A number of awkward silences fell during the soup. There was a good deal of unabashed staring. Brush felt he had never seen so many beautiful, quiet girls in one place before. Mrs. Crofut drank her soup with great refinement; with one bejeweled hand she pressed a corner of her napkin to her bosom. From time to time she sipped from a tumbler containing a tonic. As the plates were being removed, anticipation could no longer contain itself and the quartet was called upon for a number. They linked their arms about one another’s necks, cleared their throats, frowning, and entered upon “How can I bear to leave thee?” The reception was all that vanity could desire. They followed it with “Wasting in despair,” leading up to the famous specialty cadence. The hostesses were lost in admiration and were greatly solemnized. There was no giggling after that. The quartet sat down, itself filled with awe, and the girls almost shuddered to find themselves seated next to so much achievement. Mrs. Crofut collected herself first:
“Have you lived long in these parts, Mr. Brush?” she asked.
“No. My home is in Michigan.”
“You don’t say! I had a friend . . . Did you ever know a Mr. Pasternak there? He was engaged in the lumber business. He was very well off, really very well off.”
“I . . . I don’t remember him now.”
“You don’t? Well, he was a perfect gentleman and I believe, as I say, very well off. It was lumber, I remember now. His name was Jules,—Jules Pasternak.” Whereupon she leaned far back in her chair and laughed long and heartily. “Oh,” she concluded, wiping her eyes, “I hadn’t thought of him for years.”
No further information was offered about Mr. Pasternak, but his warming image had passed through the room and henceforth there were no more alarming silences at the table. Lily was sent to push back the curtains at the window.
“Very lovely girl, isn’t she?” said Mrs. Crofut.
“Yes indeed,” said Brush.
“Lovely girl. She was on the stage for a while.”
“Was she?” asked Brush, looking at her with even greater interest. “Was she ever in anything by Shakespeare?”
Lily looked timidly at Mrs. Crofut. “Speak up, dearie. Were you?”
The answer was almost inaudible, but it was “No.”
“I guess Mayme would know more about that,” continued Mrs. Crofut. “Mayme’s a great reader. Nose always in a book. Mayme’s our red-head.”
Mayme’s red head was turned by this praise; she was suddenly seized by a desire to show off. In a high voice rendered hoarse by nervousness she screamed, “I read a story by him just the other day.”
“Really,” said Brush. “Did he write other things besides theater plays?”
“Shakespeare?” cried Mrs. Crofut, eager to support her daughter. “Why, he wrote every kind of thing. We’ve got one of his upstairs. Gladys, you’re by the door. Run upstairs and get the books.”
Her glance rested on Gladys’ back as she left the table. “I like that type don’t you? Very pretty girl.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Brush.
“Lovely girl,” repeated Mrs. Crofut.
Gladys returned with the books and went back for another that had fallen on the stairs. Their title pages were anxiously consulted. Everyone laughed at the thought that Shakespeare could have had a hand in “The Care and Feeding of Infants” or a bound volume of Ainslee’s Magazine for 1903. September Morn at Atlantic City gave no author’s name and Barriers Burned Away was attributed to E. P. Roe.
“There!” cried Mrs. Crofut, tapping the back of the novel with a jeweled forefinger. “I could have sworn that was by Shakespeare. I don’t know how we could have come to make a mistake like that.” Whereupon she went into gales of laughter, politely flinging her napkin over her face while she laughed. The girls laughed softly, proud to see their mother thus at her best; their doe’s eyes passed softly from face to face, making sure that everyone was appreciating it.
“Well,” she said, finally, “I guess we all like a good play. Mr. Shore, did you ever see Lillian Russell? . . . Sit up straight, Pearl.”
“No,” said Brush, as soon as he realized that he was being addressed, “I don’t think I ever did.”
“Oh, she was fine! Beautiful girl.”
Lily’s voice was raised in a sudden scream. “Ma looks just like her.” The other girls burst out into shrill corroboration. Lily continued: “Her room’s-covered-with-pictures-of-her. Ma-tells-us-all-about-her. Ma looks-just-like-her.”
Mrs. Crofut lowered her eyes. “Well, people did use to say . . . but, of course, it was just foolishness. But let me tell you she was a very fine actress, and I may say, a very fine woman.” Then lowering her voice and looking solemnly into Brush’s eyes, she added, in a tone implying that only he would understand all the implications of her remark, “I never heard a word, not a word, against her reputation.”
“That’s fine,” said Brush, deeply impressed.
Mrs. Crofut made a rapid transition to the conversational tone. “Herb,” she said, “you haven’t been around to see me lately. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
“It’s the depression,” said Herb. “Now I have to go to George Washington Park.”
Mrs. Crofut threw up her chin loftily. “Well, be common if you want to. It’s none of my business.”
Herb made an answer that Brush did not understand.
“Now, boys, none of that,” replied the hostess. “Eat your dinner. Just good clean fun today. We’re having a good time. Just eat your dinner.”
This was the first of a number of strange things that began to happen. Brush became more and more confused, but pinning his faith on Mrs. Crofut, whom he liked with increasing force, he bore up as best he could. A policeman sauntered into the room without removing his hat. He was greeted by cries of “Hello, Jimmy.” He took a certain liberty with one of the young ladies sitting near him.
“Now don’t go behaving like that, Jimmy,” said Mrs. Crofut. “There’s a surprise package for you in the kitchen.”
“You don’t say,” said Jimmy, and disappeared from the scene.
The next unexpected thing was caused by Dolores. Brush had tried to engage her in conversation several times. On each occasion she had raised sullen eyes to his face for a moment, muttered a few words, and returned to her meal. The third time, however, she rose abruptly to her feet, overturning the chair behind her, and slapped him smartly across the face. She then ran to the door, turned, hissed and spat in his direction, and ran down the perspective of drawing-rooms.
Mrs. Crofut was horrified. She rose and followed Dolores through the room, screaming: “Go upstairs, Dolores. Go upstairs, you slut. You’re a nasty slut. I’ll give you something to learn you a lesson!” Then returning breathless to her place, she said: “Why, Mr. Shore, I’m so ashamed I don’t know what to say. Imagine a thing like that! Here we were, having a nice home-like Sunday dinner, and that girl has to behave like that! However, don’t give it another thought. These things will happen. Now we’ll forget all about it. Tchk-tchk! You see, Mr. Shore, I have my troubles, like every one else.”
“Yes,” said Brush. “But you have what they call a silver lining. I never saw a home with so many nice and good-looking girls in it.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Crofut, sitting up very straight and getting a little more ruddy. “That’s a real compliment coming from a great singer like you. I do think they’re pretty nice girls, if I do say so myself.”
“Wow!” cried Morrie, and bent his head to the floor, coughing and choking.
Mrs. Crofut rose, trembling with rage. “Now you behave yourself, young man. I don’t care what you think and I don’t like the way you’re laughing. I don’t care what you think. Answer me! Do I, or do I not, keep a careful eye on my girls? Do I, girls?”
“Yes, ma,” said six tinkly voices.
“Answer me, Morrie!”
“Aw, ma, you get me wrong,” said Morrie. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at Brush here.”
“Well, if you had the gentlemanliness that he has, you wouldn’t be making a fool of yourself in public places. Here we are, all friends, eating together and . . . and you have to bring in ideas like that. It doesn’t give a very good idea of the home you come from, I must say.”
“Mrs. Crofut,” said Brush, “I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. He’s a very fine fellow, and I don’t mind if he laughs at me.”
Mrs. Crofut sat down slowly, still glaring at Morrie. A shocked silence fell upon the group. The girls sat with lowered eyes; one of them cried for a moment and then hurriedly brushed away her tears. But the affair had not blown over. Mrs. Crofut rose again and, pointing emotionally at Morrie, said:
“Come, tell me! What did you mean by that laugh? I won’t have things like that said about me. I won’t have it. Either I’m like a mother to these girls, or I’m not. Do I keep an eye on them, or don’t I?”
Suddenly Herb’s voice, flat and contemptuous, said: “Quit the high horse, ma. Who do you think you are?”
Now Brush stood up in his place, white with rage: “Herb, if you try that kind of thing I’ll take you right out and turn the hose on you. I didn’t know you were so crude. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re fit to associate with people that live in homes.—Excuse me, Mrs. Crofut, and I apologize for him, too.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Shore,” said Mrs. Crofut, who had sunk back into her chair and was sniveling into her tonic. “I don’t expect any decency from a fellow like that, I’m sure.”
“Come on,” said Herb, “come on and fight it out, you goddamn simp, you. Come on outdoors and fight it out.”
“There’s no use your fighting with me, Herb. You’re as weak as water. Your cigarettes have done for you. You saw that last night.”
Bat went over to Herb. “Sit down, Herb. Sit down. We’ll tell him later. It’s all right. We’ll tell him later.”
This altercation was followed with the liveliest interest by the young ladies. It brought the colored cook to the door, where she stood meditatively picking her teeth. When it blew over there was a general air of disappointment in the room.
Brush said, gravely: “I guess the best of friends quarrel every now and then. It doesn’t mean that they’re any the worse persons; it only means that human nature isn’t raised up yet to what we hope it’s going to be. I’m really fond of Herb and I’m sorry I spoke to him that way. Sometime the day’s coming when there aren’t going to be any quarrels, because in my opinion the world’s getting better and better. And in spite of this little thing that’s happened, today has been an example of it. I want to thank you very much for taking me into your home this way. Most of my life is spent on trains and in hotels and I appreciate it; so I want to do something for you in return. Generally, I don’t believe in going to the theater, and especially not on Sundays. But I think I know when to make an exception, and can see when nobody’s really harmed by it. I want to invite you all as my guests to the movie around the corner that opens at four o’clock.”
“Well, now,” said Mrs. Crofut, “that’s real nice of you. Girls, would you like to go to the movies with Mr.—”
“Brush.”
“With Mr. Brush?”
There were squeals of enthusiasm.
“Now, Mr. Brush, I can’t go myself, but my girls accept with pleasure. Let me whisper in your ear a minute. Mr. Brush, I don’t want the girls to be any expense to you. I’ll give them each some pocket money and they’ll pay their own. You can pay for one, if you like.”
“But, Mrs. Crofut, I asked them. I want to pay for them.”
“No, no. I know better. All boys your age have quite a time making two ends meet. You save your money.”
Brush submitted to this arrangement and presently he was proceeding down the street in a twitter of young feminine voices. His companions walked with an exaggerated primness, waving their hips delicately from side to side. They all talked at once, each trying to get his agreement to any thought that occurred to her.
Everything interested them. They followed closely an educational reel depicting the Vale of Cashmere, and another that showed a Boy Scout congress and a train wreck. The President of the country spoke a few words and they all agreed he was a very nice man. The principal picture on the program was pathetic, and they all cried happily and generously. Brush’s handkerchief passed back and forth among them. It was about a beautiful girl threatened by the dangers that lurk in great cities. It was full of suspense. The girls sitting beside Brush insisted on clinging to him; he found himself holding two hot convulsed hands on his knees. When Brush returned the girls to their home each one in turn flung her arms about his neck and printed rouge on his cheeks. Each declared she had enjoyed it very much and would be waiting for him to come again. She’d be waiting.
Brush was so dizzy with well-being that he was obliged to take a long walk to calm himself. “It just goes to show my favorite theory that the world’s full of wonderful people,” he said to himself, “if you know where to look.” When he returned to Queenie’s it was almost nine o’clock. The disarray on the scrubbed top floor had begun again. The rooms were billowing with Sunday papers. The tenants sat about with their heels above the level of their heads. They were in a sour humor.
“Well, baby,” said Herb, “you had a great time, eh?”
“I certainly did.”
Herb asked an obscene question. It was taken up and furthered by the others.
Brush stared at them in consternation: “You fellows promised not to pull that kind of thing.”
“All promises are off,” said Herb.
Brush stood still for a moment, then dragged his suitcase out of the cupboard and began packing.
“You’ve had a pretty good two days,” said Herb, “all told. Pretty good for you. You got so cock-eyed drunk on Saturday that you puked on the War Memorial, and on Sunday you raped a whole cat-house. Pretty fast, kid, pretty fast.”
Brush raised his eyes and looked at him, but said nothing. Herb let him have it again.
“That’s not true,” said Brush.
“Not true? What do you know about it? Gad! you’re the simplest galoot in the world. You’re so simple, you stink.”
Kneeling by his suitcase, Brush scarcely raised his eyes. “Were those . . . fallen women?”
“Fallen? You couldn’t get’m more fallen.”
“Herb, you promised there was no catch in it!”
“All promises went out with daylight-saving time,” said Herb, dryly. He flung out the pages of his newspaper and went on reading. The room was silent. Brush, began to cry. He jumped up with sudden passion: “It can’t be true. They weren’t. You fellows don’t know what you’re talking about. I say they’re perfectly all right and that’s the kind of thing I don’t make any mistake about. You fellows can’t say things like that to me, just because you . . . Listen, Herb, it can’t be true.”
“It’s gotta be true,” said Herb, coldly scanning the headlines.
Brush marched wildly up and down the room. Suddenly, with a shout, he picked up a chair and, pointing the four legs horizontally before him, crashed them through the window-pane.
Louis whistled. “Tz-tz-tz! Naughty!” he said.
Brush stood by the window, looking out over the housetops. “You fellows pretend you don’t know what it’s all about, but you know. You’re just pretending. You spend your whole life pretending it’s not serious. . . . I wish I were there talking to them now. . . . I’m glad I went, I thank you very much.”
Herb arose and, hitching up his pants, took his place in the middle of the room. “Take off your coat,” he said. “I’ve got an account to settle with you. Come on, take off your coat and fight it out.”
“I don’t fight, Herb. Hit me, if you like.”
“You’ll fight. You’ll fight, all right,” said Herb, advancing.
Brush raised his arms passively to defend himself. The others joined in. They drew him down and stamped on him. In a paroxysm of hatred they kicked him and threw him downstairs and left him on the pavement. Louie curtly telephoned his hospital, and the ambulance took him away, unconscious.
The next morning Queenie called on him in his ward. She entered, ill at ease in hat and gloves, and casting alarmed glances about her. Catching sight of Brush’s head, almost entirely bound with bandages, she crossed herself, then sat down and gazed at him. Brush smiled at her, sadly.
“Here’s your suitcase and purse, Mr. Brush. It musta fallen out of your pocket some way. They told me to bring it to you.”
“Thanks, Queenie.”
“Are you in any pain, Mr. Brush?”
“No.”
“Why, you look all knocked about. What did you do to’m to make’m all set on you like that? I knew they were wild boys, but I didn’t think they’d try to break your bones, Mr. Brush.”
Brush did not answer.
Queenie began to cry. “I told’m to pack up their things and go. I told’m I didn’t want no hoodlums like that in my house. I told’m to get right out.”
“No, no, Queenie. You let them stay. I’ll explain to you some day.” There was a pause. “Are they packing, Queenie?”
“I told’m to, but I guess they aren’t packing very fast. They just told me to shut up and get out. But I’ll let ’em stay if you say so, Mr. Brush. With these hard times I don’o’ who I’d find. Mrs. Kubinsky—lives next door—’s had four rooms empty ever since August.”
Queenie’s tears were drying already. A giggle began to appear. “I declare you look funny with that rabbit’s ear on your head, Mr. Brush. I’m glad you’re in no pain.”
“This is the hospital Louie works in, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I saw’m in the hall when I come in. I declare he didn’t look natural in white pants and coat.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Oh . . . mostly hello.”
“When you go out I wish you’d tell him to come and see me for a minute.”
There was a pause.
“How’s Father Pasziewski, Queenie?”
“I told you, Mr. Brush. He seems pretty well again. Funny, your asking about him so much, because he always asks about you, too.”
Brush almost sat up. “Does he? . . . How?”
“Yes, I told him a lot about you once and he’s very interested in you.”
Brush lay back and looked at the ceiling. “The kidney trouble just got better of itself?” he asked, softly.
“They think now it was gall stones and they were melted down by drinking tea with some drops of the River Jordan in it. Mrs. Kramer was saving it for the christening of her grandchildren, but we think now maybe there aren’t going to be any grandchildren, so Father Pasziewski got the benefit of it.”
“Some day . . . tell Father Pasziewski I . . . I think of him a lot.”
“Yes, I will. Can I write a card for you to somebody, Mr. Brush?”
“No, Queenie . . . there’s nobody.”
Queenie went out. Later in the day Louie passed through the ward. Brush whistled to him.
Louie drew up beside the bed and whispered in his ear: “You give me the belches. Hurry up. What do you want?”
“Louie, sit down a minute. I want to ask you a question.”
“Well, hurry up about it. I’ve gotta go and get some arms and legs.”
“Louie, tell me what’s the matter with me?”
“You’ve no brains, that’s all. God didn’t give you any brains.”
“I know.” After a breath or two he looked at Louie. “What ought I to do about it?”
“Sure. Snap out of it. Get awake. Get wise to yourself.”
“Sure, I want to. I don’t know how to go about it, that’s all. . . . There must be something serious the matter with me, because that’s the third time people have suddenly hated me. . . . I must have some kind of brains, though, because I just got a raise, even in a panic year . . . and my grades were good at school; they were the best.”
Louie put his face close to Brush’s ear. “You’ll learn in time. I guess you’ll find your place in time, see? Only don’t come around us any more. We got our own ideas and our own lives all arranged, see? and we don’t like to be interrupted.”
“Did the fellows say that?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“All right. . . . So I suppose this is good-by. Only, listen. If ever you fellows change your minds and want to sing some more, drop me a line, will you?—Caulkins and Company.”
“Listen, George. You asked me what you could do. All right, listen. Get to be one of the fellas. Learn to drink, like anybody else. And leave other people’s lives alone. Live and let live. Live and let live. Everybody likes to be let alone. And run around with the women. You’re healthy, aintya? Enjoy life, see? You’re going to be dead a long time, believe me.”
Louie had not noticed that Brush was slowly rising to a sitting position. Brush’s voice now rose in an answer that grew to a shout in the full open ward:
“You can get away and stay away,” he cried. “If I ever became like you fellows I’d expect to be dead a long time. I may be cuckoo, perhaps I am; but I’d rather be crazy all alone than be sensible like you fellows are sensible. I’m glad I’m nuts. I don’t want to be different. Tell the fellows I’ll never change—”
“All right. Pipe down!”
“And if they want to have me back, they must have me as I am, only worse.”
By this time the nurse had run up with a hypodermic. “This is a mental case,” she exclaimed. “Help me, Louie. He ought to be in the annex. Hold his arm, Louie.”
“I’ll take it quietly, nurse. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
“You’ve gone and upset all the patients. Look at them staring at you!”
“I want to say just one more thing, nurse,” he said, and shouted after the departing Louie: “And if you must know, I’m not crazy. It’s the world that’s crazy. Everybody’s crazy except me; that’s what’s the matter. The whole world’s nuts.”