by Man Upstairs
My companion stopped abruptly. He passed a handkerchief over his forehead. With a quick movement he reached for his glass of liqueur brandy and drained it at a gulp.
"Monsieur," he said, "you will not wish me to describe the scene? There is no need for me-hein?-to be Zolaesque. You can imagine?"
"She chucked you?" In moments of emotion it is the simplest language that comes to the lips.
He nodded.
"And married Captain Bassett?"
He nodded again.
"And your uncle?" I said. "How did he take it?"
He sighed.
"There was once more," he said, "blooming row, monsieur."
"He washed his hands of you?"
"Not altogether. He was angry, but he gave me one more chance. I am still 'is dear brother's child, and he cannot forget it. An acquaintance of his, a man of letters, a M. Paul Sartines, was in need of a secretary. The post was not well paid, but it was permanent. My uncle insist that I take it. What choice? I took it. It is the post which I still 'old."
He ordered another liqueur brandy and gulped it down.
"The name is familiar to you, monsieur? You 'ave 'eard of M. Sartines?"
"I don't think I have. Who is he?"
"He is a man of letters, a savant. For five years he has been occupied upon a great work. It is with that that I assist him by collecting facts for 'is use. I 'ave spent this afternoon in the British Museum collecting facts. To-morrow I go again. And the next day. And again after that. The book will occupy yet another ten years before it is completed. It is his great work."
"It sounds as if it was," I said. "What's it about?"
He signalled to the waiter.
"Garçon, one other liqueur brandy. The book, monsieur, is a ''Istory of the Cat in Ancient Egypt.' "
Ruth in Exile
The clock struck five-briskly, as if time were money. Ruth Warden got up from her desk and, having put on her hat, emerged into the outer office where M. Gandinot received visitors. M. Gandinot, the ugliest man in Roville-sur-Mer, presided over the local mont-de-piété, and Ruth served him, from ten to five, as a sort of secretary-clerk. Her duties, if monotonous, were simple. They consisted of sitting, detached and invisible, behind a ground-glass screen, and entering details of loans in a fat book. She was kept busy as a rule, for Roville possesses two casinos, each offering the attraction of petits chevaux, and just round the corner is Monte Carlo. Very brisk was the business done by M. Gandinot, the pawnbroker, and very frequent were the pitying shakes of the head and clicks of the tongue of M. Gandinot, the man; for in his unofficial capacity Ruth's employer had a gentle soul, and winced at the evidences of tragedy which presented themselves before his official eyes.
He blinked up at Ruth as she appeared, and Ruth, as she looked at him, was conscious, as usual, of a lightening of the depression which, nowadays, seemed to have settled permanently upon her. The peculiar quality of M. Gandinot's extraordinary countenance was that it induced mirth-not mocking laughter, but a kind of smiling happiness. It possessed that indefinable quality which characterises the Billiken, due, perhaps, to the unquenchable optimism which shone through the irregular features; for M. Gandinot, despite his calling, believed in his fellow-man.
"You are going, mademoiselle?"
As Ruth was wearing her hat and making for the door, and as she always left at this hour, a purist might have considered the question superfluous; but M. Gandinot was a man who seized every opportunity of practising his English.
"You will not wait for the good papa who calls so regularly for you?"
"I think I won't to-day, M. Gandinot. I want to get out into the air. I have rather a headache. Will you tell my father I have gone to the Promenade?"
M. Gandinot sighed as the door closed behind her. Ruth's depression had not escaped his notice. He was sorry for her. And not without cause, for Fate had not dealt too kindly with Ruth.
It would have amazed Mr. Eugene Warden, that genial old gentleman, if, on one of those occasions of manly emotion when he was in the habit of observing that he had been nobody's enemy but his own, somebody had hinted that he had spoiled his daughter's life. Such a thought had never entered his head. He was one of those delightful, irresponsible, erratic persons whose heads thoughts of this kind do not enter, and who are about as deadly to those whose lives are bound up with theirs as a Upas tree.
In the memory of his oldest acquaintance, Ruth's father had never done anything but drift amiably through life. There had been a time when he had done his drifting in London, feeding cheerfully from the hand of a longsuffering brother-in-law. But though blood, as he was wont to remark while negotiating his periodical loans, is thicker than water, a brother-in-law's affection has its limits. A day came when Mr. Warden observed with pain that his relative responded less nimbly to the touch. And a little while later the other delivered his ultimatum. Mr. Warden was to leave England, and stay away from England, to behave as if England no longer existed on the map, and a small but sufficient allowance would be made to him. If he declined to do this, not another penny of the speaker's money would he receive. He could choose.
He chose. He left England, Ruth with him. They settled in Roville, that haven of the exile who lives upon remittances.
Ruth's connection with the mont-de-piété had come about almost automatically. Very soon after their arrival it became evident that, to a man of Mr. Warden's nature, resident a stone's-throw distant from two casinos, the small allowance was not likely to go very far. Even if Ruth had not wished to work, circumstances would have compelled her. As it was, she longed for something to occupy her, and, the
vacancy at the mont-de-piété occurring, she had snatched at it. There was a certain fitness in her working there. Business transactions with that useful institution had always been conducted by her, it being Mr. Warden's theory that Woman can extract in these crises just that extra franc or two which is denied to the mere male. Through constantly going round, running across, stepping over, and popping down to the mont-de-piété she had established almost a legal claim on any post that might be vacant there.
And under M. Gandinot's banner she had served ever since.
Five minutes' walk took her to the Promenade des Anglais, that apparently endless thoroughfare which is Roville's pride. The evening was fine and warm. The sun shone gaily on the white-walled houses, the bright Gardens, and the two gleaming casinos. But Ruth walked listlessly, blind to the glitter of it all.
Visitors who go to Roville for a few weeks in the winter are apt to speak of the place, on their return, in a manner that conveys the impression that it is a Paradise on earth, with gambling facilities thrown in. But, then, they are visitors. Their sojourn comes to an end. Ruth's did not.
A voice spoke her name. She turned, and saw her father, dapper as ever, standing beside her.
"What an evening, my dear!" said Mr. Warden. "What an evening! Smell the sea!"
Mr. Warden appeared to be in high spirits. He hummed a tune and twirled his cane. He chirruped frequently to Bill, the companion of his walks abroad, a wiry fox-terrier of a demeanour, like his master's, both jaunty and slightly disreputable. An air of gaiety pervaded his bearing.
"I called in at the mont-de-piété but you had gone. Gandinot told me you had come here. What an ugly fellow that Gandinot is! But a good sort. I like him. I had a chat with him."
The high spirits were explained. Ruth knew her father. She guessed, correctly, that M. Gandinot, kindest of pawn-brokers, had obliged, in his unofficial capacity, with a trifling loan.
"Gandinot ought to go on the stage," went on Mr. Warden, pursuing his theme. "With that face he would make his fortune. You can't help laughing when you see it. One of these days-"
He broke off. Stirring things had begun to occur in the neighbourhood of his ankles, where Bill, the fox- terrier, had encountered an acquaintance, and, to the accompaniment of a loud, gargling noise, was endeavouring to bite his head off. The acquaintance, a gentleman of uncertain
breed, equally willing, was chewing Bill's paw with the gusto of a gourmet. An Irish terrier, with no personal bias towards either side, was dancing round and attacking each in turn as he came uppermost. And two poodles leaped madly in and out of the melée, barking encouragement.
It takes a better man than Mr. Warden to break up a gathering of this kind. The old gentleman was bewildered. He added his voice to the babel, and twice smote Bill grievously with his cane with blows intended for the acquaintance, but beyond that he effected nothing. It seemed probable that the engagement would last till the combatants had consumed each other, after the fashion of the Kilkenny cats, when there suddenly appeared from nowhere a young man in grey.
The world is divided into those who can stop dog-fights and those who cannot. The young man in grey belonged to the former class. Within a minute from his entrance on the scene the poodles and the Irish terrier had vanished; the dog of doubtful breed was moving off up the hill, yelping, with the dispatch of one who remembers an important appointment, and Bill, miraculously calmed, was seated in the centre of the Promenade, licking honourable wounds.
Mr. Warden was disposed to effervesce with gratitude. The scene had shaken him, and there had been moments when he had given his ankles up for lost.
"Don't mention it," said the young man. "I enjoy arbitrating in these little disputes. Dogs seem to like me and trust my judgment. I consider myself a sort of honorary dog."
"Well, I am bound to say, Mr.-?"
"Vince-George Vince."
"My name is Warden. My daughter."
Ruth inclined her head, and was conscious of a pair of very penetrating brown eyes looking eagerly into hers in a manner which she thoroughly resented. She was not used to the other sex meeting her gaze and holding it as if confident of a friendly welcome. She made up her mind in that instant that this was a young man who required suppression.
"I've seen you several times out here since I arrived, Miss Warden," said Mr. Vince. "Four in all," he added, precisely.
"Really?" said Ruth.
She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished with him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.
As they approached the casino restlessness crept into Mr. Warden's manner. At the door he stopped and looked at Ruth.
"I think, my dear-" he said.
"Going to have a dash at the petits chevaux?" inquired Mr. Vince. "I was there just now. I have an infallible system."
Mr. Warden started like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet.
"Only it's infallible the wrong way," went on the young man. "Well, I wish you luck. I'll see Miss Warden home."
"Please don't trouble," said Ruth, in the haughty manner which had frequently withered unfortunate fellow- exiles in their tracks.
It had no such effect on Mr. Vince.
"I shall like it," he said.
Ruth set her teeth. She would see whether he would like it.
They left Mr. Warden, who shot in at the casino door like a homing rabbit, and walked on in silence, which lasted till Ruth, suddenly becoming aware that her companion's eyes were fixed on her face, turned her head, to meet a gaze of complete, not to say loving, admiration. She flushed. She was accustomed to being looked at admiringly, but about this particular look there was a subtle quality that distinguished it from the ordinary-something proprietorial.
Mr. Vince appeared to be a young man who wasted no time on conventional conversation-openings.
"Do you believe in affinities, Miss Warden?" he said.
"No," said Ruth.
"You will before we've done," said Mr. Vince, confidently. "Why did you try to snub me just now?"
"Did I?"
"You mustn't again. It hurts me. I'm a sensitive man. Diffident. Shy. Miss Warden, will you marry me?"
Ruth had determined that nothing should shake her from her icy detachment, but this did. She stopped with a gasp, and stared at him.
Mr. Vince reassured her.
"I don't expect you to say 'Yes.' That was just a beginning-the shot fired across the bows by way of warning. In you, Miss Warden, I have found my affinity. Have you ever considered this matter of affinities? Affinities are the-the-Wait a moment."
He paused, reflecting.
"I-" began Ruth.
" 'Sh!" said the young man, holding up his hand.
Ruth's eyes flashed. She was not used to having " 'Sh!" said to her by young men, and she resented it.
"I've got it," he declared, with relief. "I knew I should, but these good things take time. Affinities are the zero on the roulette-board of life. Just as we select a number on which to stake our money, so do we select a type of girl whom we think we should like to marry. And just as zero pops up instead of the number, so does our affinity come along and upset all our preconceived notions on the type of girl we should like to marry."
"I-" began Ruth again.
"The analogy is in the rough at present. I haven't had time to condense and polish it. But you see the idea. Take my case, for instance. When I saw you a couple of days ago I knew in an instant that you were my affinity. But for years I had been looking for a woman almost your exact opposite. You are dark. Three days ago I couldn't have imagined myself marrying anyone who was not fair. Your eyes are grey. Three days ago my preference for blue eyes was a byword. You have a shocking temper. Three days ago-"
"Mr. Vince!"
"There!" said that philosopher, complacently. "You stamped. The gentle, blue-eyed blonde whom I was looking for three days ago would have drooped timidly. Three days ago my passion for timid droopers amounted to an obsession."
Ruth did not reply. It was useless to bandy words with one who gave such clear evidence of being something out of the common run of word-bandiers. No verbal attack could crush this extraordinary young man. She walked on, all silence and stony profile, uncomfortably conscious that her companion was in no way abashed by the former and was regarding the latter with that frank admiration which had made itself so obnoxious to her before, until they reached their destination. Mr. Vince, meanwhile, chatted cheerfully, and pointed out objects of interest by the wayside.
At the door Ruth permitted herself a word of farewell.
"Good-bye," she said.
"Till to-morrow evening," said Mr. Vince. "I shall be coming to dinner."
Mr. Warden ambled home, very happy and contented, two hours later, with half a franc in his pocket, this comparative wealth being due to the fact that the minimum stake permitted by the Roville casino is just double that sum. He was sorry not to have won, but his mind was too full of rosy dreams to permit of remorse. It was the estimable old gentleman's dearest wish that his daughter should marry some rich, open-handed man who would keep him in affluence for the remainder of his days, and to that end he was in the habit of introducing to her notice any such that came his way. There was no question of coercing Ruth. He was too tender-hearted for that. Besides, he couldn't. Ruth was not the sort of girl who is readily coerced. He contented himself with giving her the opportunity to inspect his exhibits. Roville is a sociable place, and it was not unusual for him to make friends at the casino and to bring them home, when made, for a cigar. Up to the present, he was bound to admit, his efforts had not been particularly successful. Ruth, he reflected sadly, was a curious girl. She did not show her best side to these visitors. There was no encouragement in her manner. She was apt to frighten the unfortunate exhibits. But of this young man Vince he had brighter hopes. He was rich. That was proved by the very handsome way in which he had behaved in the matter of a small loan when, looking in at the casino after parting from Ruth, he had found Mr. Warden in sore straits for want of a little capital to back a brand-new system which he had conceived through closely observing the run of the play. He was also obviously attracted by Ruth. And, as he was remarkably presentable-indeed, quite an unusually good- looking young man-there seemed no reason why Ruth should not be equally attracted by him. The world looked good to Mr. Warden as h
e fell asleep that night.
Ruth did not fall asleep so easily. The episode had disturbed her. A new element had entered her life, and one that gave promise of producing strange by-products.
When, on the following evening, Ruth returned from the stroll on the Promenade which she always took after leaving the mont-de-piété, with a feeling of irritation towards things in general, this feeling was not diminished by the sight of Mr. Vince, very much at his ease, standing against the mantelpiece of the tiny parlour.
"How do you do?" he said. "By an extraordinary coincidence I happened to be hanging about outside this house just now, when your father came along and invited me in to dinner. Have you ever thought much about coincidences, Miss Warden? To my mind, they may be described as the zero on the roulette- board of life."
He regarded her fondly.
"For a shy man, conscious that the girl he loves is inspecting him closely and making up her mind about him," he proceeded, "these unexpected meetings are very trying ordeals. You must not form your judgment of me too hastily. You see me now, nervous, embarrassed, tongue-tied. But I am not always like this. Beneath this crust of diffidence there is sterling stuff, Miss Warden. People who know me have spoken of me as a little ray of sun-But here is your father."
Mr. Warden was more than usually disappointed with Ruth during dinner. It was the same old story. So far from making herself pleasant to this attractive stranger, she seemed positively to dislike him. She was barely civil to him. With a sigh Mr. Warden told himself that he did not understand Ruth, and the rosy dreams he had formed began to fade.
Ruth's ideas on the subject of Mr. Vince as the days went by were chaotic. Though she told herself that she thoroughly objected to him, he had nevertheless begun to have an undeniable attraction for her. In what this attraction consisted she could not say. When she tried to analyse it, she came to the conclusion that it was due to the fact that he was the only element in her life that made for excitement. Since his advent the days had certainly passed more swiftly for her. The dead-level of monotony had been broken. There was a certain fascination in exerting herself to suppress him, which increased daily as each attempt failed.
