by Man Upstairs
"You were, were you?"
"I was."
"Oh?"
Mr. Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs.
"Well," he said, "it's off. You can take that as coming from an authoritative source. No wedding-bells for you."
Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bitter smile curving his expressive lips.
"And no Meredith ball for you!" he cried.
Mr. Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger into him.
"What?" he shouted.
Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence.
"Come, come," said Mr. Rackstraw, "you wouldn't let a little private difference like that influence you in a really important thing like this football match, would you?"
"I would."
"You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?"
"Every time."
"Her white-haired old father?"
"The colour of his hair would not affect me."
"Nothing would move you?"
"Nothing."
"Then, by George, you're just the son-in-law I want. You shall marry Isabel; and I'll take you into partnership in my business this very day. I've been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you for years. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout. My boy, we'll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City has ever seen. Shake hands."
For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, and he spoke.
"Mr. Rackstraw," he said, "I cannot deceive you."
"That won't matter," said the enthusiastic old man. "I bet you'll be able to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we'll be the greatest-"
"My name is not Jones."
"Nor is mine. What does that matter?"
"My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son of the Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views-"
"Nonsense, nonsense," said Mr. Rackstraw. "What are political views compared with the chance of getting a goalkeeper like you into the family? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but I didn't know who you were then."
"I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos," said Clarence, eyeing him doubtfully.
"Then I'll be one too," cried Mr. Rackstraw. "I own I've set my face against it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I'll ring up the Prime Minister on the 'phone to-morrow, and buy a title myself."
Clarence's last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man's hand, outstretched to meet his.
Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I am at my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.
Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A lady is coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It is Isabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the same stately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail long ago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs the child stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case.
"Wah?" he says.
"That?" said Isabel. "That is the ball Mr. Meredith used to play with when he was a little boy."
She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to her lip.
"Hush!" she says. "We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy in there cornering wheat."
And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden.
In Alcala
In Alcala, as in most of New York's apartment houses, the schedule of prices is like a badly rolled cigarette-thick in the middle and thin at both ends. The rooms half-way up are expensive; some of them almost as expensive as if Fashion, instead of being gone for ever, were still lingering. The top rooms are cheap, the ground-floor rooms cheaper still.
Cheapest of all was the hall-bedroom. Its furniture was of the simplest. It consisted of a chair, another chair, a worn carpet, and a folding-bed. The folding-bed had an air of depression and baffled hopes. For years it had been trying to look like a bookcase in the daytime, and now it looked more like a folding- bed than ever. There was also a plain deal table, much stained with ink. At this, night after night, sometimes far into the morning, Rutherford Maxwell would sit and write stories. Now and then it happened that one would be a good story, and find a market.
Rutherford Maxwell was an Englishman, and the younger son of an Englishman; and his lot was the lot of the younger sons all the world over. He was by profession one of the numerous employees of the New Asiatic Bank, which has its branches all over the world. It is a sound, trustworthy institution, and steady-going relatives would assure Rutherford that he was lucky to have got a berth in it. Rutherford did not agree with them. However sound and trustworthy, it was not exactly romantic. Nor did it err on the side of over-lavishness to those who served it. Rutherford's salary was small. So were his prospects-if he remained in the bank. At a very early date he had registered a vow that he would not. And the road that led out of it for him was the uphill road of literature.
He was thankful for small mercies. Fate had not been over-kind up to the present, but at least she had dispatched him to New York, the centre of things, where he would have the chance to try, instead of to some spot off the map. Whether he won or lost, at any rate he was in the ring, and could fight. So every night he sat in Alcala, and wrote. Sometimes he would only try to write, and that was torture.
There is never an hour of the day or night when Alcala is wholly asleep. The middle of the house is a sort of chorusgirl belt, while in the upper rooms there are reporters and other nightbirds. Long after he had gone to bed, Rutherford would hear footsteps passing his door and the sound of voices in the passage. He grew to welcome them. They seemed to connect him with the outer world. But for them he was alone after he had left the office, utterly alone, as it is possible to be only in the heart of a great city. Some nights he would hear scraps of conversations, at rare intervals a name. He used to build up in his mind identities for the owners of the names. One in particular, Peggy, gave him much food for thought. He pictured her as bright and vivacious. This was because she sang sometimes as she passed his door. She had been singing when he first heard her name. "Oh, cut it out, Peggy," a girl's voice had said. "Don't you get enough of that tune at the theatre?" He felt that he would like to meet Peggy.
June came, and July, making an oven of New York, bringing close, scorching days, and nights when the pen seemed made of lead; and still Rutherford worked on, sipping ice-water, in his shirt-sleeves, and filling the sheets of paper slowly, but with a dogged persistence which the weather could not kill. Despite the heat, he was cheerful. Things were beginning to run his way a little now. A novelette, an airy trifle, conceived in days when the thermometer was lower and it was possible to think, and worked out almost mechanically, had been accepted by a magazine of a higher standing than those which hitherto had shown him hospitality. He began to dream of a holiday in the woods. The holiday spirit was abroad. Alcala was emptying itself. It would not be long before he too would be able to get away.
He was so deep in his thoughts that at first he did not hear the knocking at the door. But it was a sharp, insistent knocking, and forced itself upon his attention. He got up and turned the handle.
Outside in the passage was standing a girl, tall and sleepy-eyed. She wore a picture-hat and a costume the keynote of which was a certain aggressive attractiveness. There was no room for doubt as to which particular brand of scent was her favourite at the moment.
She gazed at Rutherford dully. Like Banquo's ghost, she had no speculation in her eyes. Rutherford looked at her inquiringly, somewhat conscious of his shirt-sleeves.
"Did you knock?" he said, opening, as a man must do, with the inevitable foolish question.
The apparition spoke.
"Say," she said, "got a cigarette?"
"I'm afraid I haven't," said Rutherford, apologetically. "I've been smoking a pipe. I'
m very sorry."
"What?" said the apparition.
"I'm afraid I haven't."
"Oh!" A pause. "Say, got a cigarette?"
The intellectual pressure of the conversation was beginning to be a little too much for Rutherford. Combined with the heat of the night it made his head swim.
His visitor advanced into the room. Arriving at the table, she began fiddling with its contents. The pen seemed to fascinate her. She picked it up and inspected it closely.
"Say, what d'you call this?" she said.
"That's a pen," said Rutherford, soothingly. "A fountainpen."
"Oh!" A pause. "Say, got a cigarette?"
Rutherford clutched a chair with one hand, and his forehead with the other. He was in sore straits.
At this moment Rescue arrived, not before it was needed. A brisk sound of footsteps in the passage, and there appeared in the doorway a second girl.
"What do you think you're doing, Gladys?" demanded the new-comer. "You mustn't come butting into folks' rooms this way. Who's your friend?"
"My name is Maxwell," began Rutherford eagerly.
"What say, Peggy?" said the seeker after cigarettes, dropping a sheet of manuscript to the floor.
Rutherford looked at the girl in the doorway with interest. So this was Peggy. She was little, and trim of figure. That was how he had always imagined her. Her dress was simpler than the other's. The face beneath the picture-hat was small and well-shaped, the nose delicately tip-tilted, the chin determined, the mouth a little wide and suggesting good-humour. A pair of grey eyes looked steadily into his before transferring themselves to the statuesque being at the table.
"Don't monkey with the man's inkwell, Gladys. Come along up to bed."
"What? Say, got a cigarette?"
"There's plenty upstairs. Come along."
The other went with perfect docility. At the door she paused, and inspected Rutherford with a grave stare.
"Good night, boy!" she said, with haughty condescension.
"Good night!" said Rutherford.
"Pleased to have met you. Good night."
"Good night!" said Rutherford.
"Good night!"
"Come along, Gladys," said Peggy, firmly.
Gladys went.
Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, feeling a little weak. He was not used to visitors.
II
He had lit his pipe, and was re-reading his night's work preparatory to turning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time time there was no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallest noise.
"Come in!" he cried.
It was Peggy.
Rutherford jumped to his feet.
"Won't you-?" he began, pushing the chair forward.
She seated herself with composure on the table. She no longer wore the picture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusion that the change was an improvement.
"This'll do for me," she said. "Thought I'd just look in. I'm sorry about Gladys. She isn't often like that. It's the hot weather."
"It is hot," said Rutherford.
"You've noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for Sherlock Holmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?"
"Good heavens, no! Why?"
"She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn't thought to get another. She's a good girl really, only she gets like that sometimes in the hot weather." She looked round the room for a moment, then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. "What did you say your name was?" she asked.
"Rutherford Maxwell."
"Gee! That's going some, isn't it? Wants amputation, a name like that. I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like-what's it? Rutherford? got it-to go through the world with. Haven't you got something shorter-Tom, or Charles, or something?"
"I'm afraid not."
The round, grey eyes fixed him again.
"I shall call you George," she decided at last.
"Thanks, I wish you would," said Rutherford.
"George it is, then. You can call me Peggy. Peggy Norton's my name."
"Thanks, I will."
"Say, you're English, aren't you?" she said.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"You're so strong on the gratitude thing. It's 'Thanks, thanks,' all the time. Not that I mind it, George."
"Thanks. Sorry. I should say, 'Oh, you Peggy!"'
She looked at him curiously.
"How d'you like New York, George?"
"Fine-to-night."
"Been to Coney?"
"Not yet."
"You should. Say, what do you do, George?"
"What do I do?"
"Cut it out, George! Don't answer back as though we were a vaudeville team doing a cross-talk act. What do you do? When your boss crowds your envelope on to you Saturdays, what's it for?"
"I'm in a bank."
"Like it?"
"Hate it!"
"Why don't you quit, then?"
"Can't afford to. There's money in being in a bank. Not much, it's true, but what there is of it is good."
"What are you doing out of bed at this time of night? They don't work you all day, do they?"
"No; they'd like to, but they don't. I have been writing."
"Writing what? Say, you don't mind my putting you on the witness-stand, do you? If you do, say so, and I'll cut out the District Attorney act and talk about the weather."
"Not a bit, really, I assure you. Please ask as many questions as you like."
"Guess there's no doubt about your being English, George. We don't have time over here to shoot it off like that. If you'd have just said 'Sure!' I'd have got a line on your meaning. You don't mind me doing school-marm, George, do you? It's all for your good."
"Sure," said Rutherford, with a grin.
She smiled approvingly.
"That's better! You're Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. What were we talking about before we switched off on to the educational rail? I know-about your writing. What were you writing?"
"A story."
"For a paper?"
"For a magazine."
"What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girl whose life he saved, like you read?"
"That's the idea."
She looked at him with a new interest.
"Gee, George, who'd have thought it! Fancy you being one of the high-brows! You ought to hang out a sign. You look just ordinary."
"Thanks!"
"I mean as far as the grey matter goes. I didn't mean you were a bad looker. You're not. You've got nice eyes, George."
"Thanks."
"I like the shape of your nose, too."
"I say, thanks!"
"And your hair's just lovely!"
"I say, really. Thanks awfully!"
She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:
"You say you don't like the bank?"
"I certainly don't."
"And you'd like to strike some paying line of business?"
"Sure."
"Then why don't you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to a museum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That's what you are. You sit there just saying 'Thanks,' and 'Bai Jawve, thanks awf'lly,' while a girl's telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and you don't do a thing!"
Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"I'm sorry!" he said. "Slowness is our national failing, you know."
"I believe you."
"Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, by now. What do you do besides brightening up the dull evenings of poor devils of bank-clerks?"
"Give you three guesses."
"Stage?"
"Gee! You're the human sleuth all right, all right! It's a home-run every time when you get your deductive theories unlimbered. Yes, George; the stage it is. I'm an actorine-one of the pony ballet in The Island of Girls at the Melody. Seen our show?"
"Not yet. I'll go-to-morrow."
"Great! I'll let them know, so that they can have the awning out and the red carpet down. It's a cute little piece."
"So I've heard."
"Well, if I see you in front to-morrow, I'll give you half a smile, so that you shan't feel you haven't got your money's worth. Good night, George!"
"Good night, Peggy!"
She jumped down from the table. Her eye was caught by the photographs on the mantelpiece. She began to examine them.
"Who are these Willies?" she said, picking up a group.
"That is the football team of my old school. The lout with the sheepish smirk, holding the ball, is myself as I was before the cares of the world soured me."
Her eye wandered along the mantelpiece, and she swooped down on a cabinet photograph of a girl.
"And who's this, George?" she cried.
He took the photograph from her, and replaced it, with a curious blend of shyness and defiance, in the very centre of the mantelpiece. For a moment he stood looking intently at it, his elbows resting on the imitation marble.
"Who is it?" asked Peggy. "Wake up, George. Who's this?"
Rutherford started.
"Sorry," he said. "I was thinking about something."
"I bet you were. You looked like it. Well, who is she?"
"Eh! Oh, that's a girl."
Peggy laughed satirically.
"Thanks awf'lly, as you would say. I've got eyes, George."
"I noticed that," said Rutherford, smiling. "Charming ones, too."
"Gee! What would she say if she heard you talking like that!"
She came a step nearer, looking up at him. Their eyes met.
"She would say," said Rutherford, slowly: " 'I know you love me, and I know I can trust you, and I haven't the slightest objection to your telling Miss Norton the truth about her eyes. Miss Norton is a dear, good little sort, one of the best, in fact, and I hope you'll be great pals!' "
There was a silence.
"She'd say that, would she?" said Peggy, at last.
"She would."
Peggy looked at the photograph, and back again at Rutherford.
"You're pretty fond of her, George, I guess, aren't you?"
"I am," said Rutherford, quietly.
"George."
"Yes?"
"George, she's a pretty good long way away, isn't she?"
She looked up at him with a curious light in her grey eyes. Rutherford met her glance steadily.
