by Man Upstairs
"Not to me," he said. "She's here now, and all the time."
He stepped away and picked up the sheaf of papers which he had dropped at Peggy's entrance. Peggy laughed.
"Good night, Georgie boy," she said. "I mustn't keep you up any more, or you'll be late in the morning. And what would the bank do then? Smash or something, I guess. Good night, Georgie! See you again one of these old evenings."
"Good night, Peggy!"
The door closed behind her. He heard her footsteps hesitate, stop, and then move quickly on once more.
III
He saw much of her after this first visit. Gradually it became an understood thing between them that she should look in on her return from the theatre. He grew to expect her, and to feel restless when she was late. Once she brought the cigarette-loving Gladys with her, but the experiment was not a success. Gladys was languid and rather overpoweringly refined, and conversation became forced. After that, Peggy came alone.
Generally she found him working. His industry amazed her.
"Gee, George," she said one night, sitting in her favourite place on the table, from which he had moved a little pile of manuscript to make room for her. "Don't you ever let up for a second? Seems to me you write all the time."
Rutherford laughed.
"I'll take a rest," he said, "when there's a bit more demand for my stuff than there is at present. When I'm in the twenty-cents-a-word class I'll write once a month, and spend the rest of my time travelling."
Peggy shook her head.
"No travelling for mine," she said. "Seems to me it's just cussedness that makes people go away from Broadway when they've got plunks enough to stay there and enjoy themselves."
"Do you like Broadway, Peggy?"
"Do I like Broadway? Does a kid like candy? Why, don't you?"
"It's all right for the time. It's not my ideal."
"Oh, and what particular sort of little old Paradise do you hanker after?"
He puffed at his pipe, and looked dreamily at her through the smoke.
"Way over in England, Peggy, there's a county called Worcestershire. And somewhere near the edge of that there's a grey house with gables, and there's a lawn and a meadow and a shrubbery, and an orchard and a rose-garden, and a big cedar on the terrace before you get to the rose-garden. And if you climb to the top of that cedar, you can see the river through the apple trees in the orchard. And in the distance there are the hills. And-"
"Of all the rube joints!" exclaimed Peggy, in deep disgust. "Why, a day of that would be about twenty- three hours and a bit too long for me. Broadway for mine! Put me where I can touch Forty-Second Street without overbalancing, and then you can leave me. I never thought you were such a hayseed, George."
"Don't worry, Peggy. It'll be a long time, I expect, before I go there. I've got to make my fortune first."
"Getting anywhere near the John D. class yet?"
"I've still some way to go. But things are moving, I think. Do you know, Peggy, you remind me of a little Billiken, sitting on that table?"
"Thank you, George. I always knew my mouth was rather wide, but I did think I had Billiken to the bad. Do you do that sort of Candid Friend stunt with her?" She pointed to the photograph on the mantelpiece. It was the first time since the night when they had met that she had made any allusion to it. By silent agreement the subject had been ruled out between them. "By the way, you never told me her name?"
"Halliday," said Rutherford, shortly.
"What else?"
"Alice."
"Don't bite at me, George! I'm not hurting you. Tell me about her. I'm interested. Does she live in the grey house with the pigs and chickens and all them roses, and the rest of the rube outfit?"
"No."
"Be chummy, George. What's the matter with you?"
"I'm sorry, Peggy," he said. "I'm a fool. It's only that it all seems so damned hopeless! Here am I, earning about half a dollar a year, and-Still, it's no use kicking, is it? Besides, I may make a home-run with my writing one of these days. That's what I meant when I said you were a Billiken, Peggy. Do you know, you've brought me luck. Ever since I met you, I've been doing twice as well. You're my mascot."
"Bully for me! We've all got our uses in the world, haven't we? I wonder if it would help any if I was to kiss you, George?"
"Don't you do it. One mustn't work a mascot too hard."
She jumped down, and came across the room to where he sat, looking down at him with the round, grey eyes that always reminded him of a kitten's.
"George!"
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing!"
She turned away to the mantelpiece, and stood gazing at the photograph, her back towards him.
"George!"
"Hullo?"
"Say, what colour eyes has she got?"
"Grey."
"Like mine?"
"Darker than yours."
"Nicer than mine?"
"Don't you think we might talk about something else?"
She swung round, her fists clenched, her face blazing.
"I hate you!" she cried. "I do! I wish I'd never seen you! I wish-"
She leaned on the mantelpiece, burying her face in her arms, and burst into a passion of sobs. Rutherford leaped up, shocked and helpless. He sprang to her, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Peggy, old girl-"
She broke from him.
"Don't you touch me! Don't you do it! Gee, I wish I'd never seen you!"
She ran to the door, darted through, and banged it behind her.
Rutherford remained where he stood, motionless. Then, almost mechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe.
Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. She was pale, and her eyes were red. She smiled-a pathetic little smile.
"Peggy!"
He took a step towards her.
She held out her hand.
"I'm sorry, George. I feel mean."
"Dear old girl, what rot!"
"I do. You don't know how mean I feel. You've been real nice to me, George. Thought I'd look in and say I was sorry. Good night, George!"
On the following night he waited, but she did not come. The nights went by, and still she did not come. And one morning, reading his paper, he saw that The Island of Girls had gone west to Chicago.
IV
Things were not running well for Rutherford. He had had his vacation, a golden fortnight of fresh air and sunshine in the Catskills, and was back in Alcala, trying, with poor success, to pick up the threads of his work. But though the Indian Summer had begun, and there was energy in the air, night after night he sat idle in his room; night after night went wearily to bed, oppressed with a dull sense of failure. He could not work. He was restless. His thoughts would not concentrate themselves. Something was wrong; and he knew what it was, though he fought against admitting it to himself. It was the absence of Peggy that had brought about the change. Not till now had he realized to the full how greatly her visits had stimulated him. He had called her laughingly his mascot; but the thing was no joke. It was true. Her absence was robbing him of the power to write.
He was lonely. For the first time since he had come to New York he was really lonely. Solitude had not hurt him till now. In his black moments it had been enough for him to look up at the photograph on the mantelpiece, and instantly he was alone no longer. But now the photograph had lost its magic. It could not hold him. Always his mind would wander back to the little, black-haired ghost that sat on the table, smiling at him, and questioning him with its grey eyes.
And the days went by, unvarying in their monotony. And always the ghost sat on the table, smiling at him.
With the Fall came the re-opening of the theatres. One by one the electric signs blazed out along Broadway, spreading the message that the dull days were over, and New York was itself again. At the Melody, where ages ago The Island of Girls had run its light-hearted course, a new musical piece was in rehearsal.
Alcala was full once more. The nightly snatches of conversation outside his door had recommenced. He listened for her voice, but he never heard it.
He sat up, waiting, into the small hours, but she did not come. Once he had been trying to write, and had fallen, as usual, to brooding-there was a soft knock at the door. In an instant he had bounded from his chair, and turned the handle. It was one of the reporters from upstairs, who had run out of matches. Rutherford gave him a handful. The reporter went out, wondering what the man had laughed at.
There is balm in Broadway, especially by night. Depression vanishes before the cheerfulness of the great white way when the lights are lit and the human tide is in full flood. Rutherford had developed of late a habit of patrolling the neighbourhood of Forty-Second Street at theatre-time. He found it did him good. There is a gaiety, a bonhomie, in the atmosphere of the New York streets. Rutherford loved to stand on the sidewalk and watch the passers-by, weaving stories round them.
One night his wanderings had brought him to Herald Square. The theatres were just emptying themselves. This was the time he liked best. He drew to one side to watch, and as he moved he saw Peggy.
She was standing at the corner, buttoning a glove. He was by her side in an instant.
"Peggy!" he cried.
She was looking pale and tired, but the colour came back to her cheeks as she held out her hand. There was no trace of embarrassment in her manner; only a frank pleasure at seeing him again.
Where have you been?" he said. "I couldn't think what had become of you."
She looked at him curiously.
"Did you miss me, George?"
"Miss you? Of course I did. My work's been going all to pieces since you went away."
"I only came back last night. I'm in the new piece at the Madison. Gee, I'm tired, George! We've been rehearsing all day."
He took her by the arm.
"Come along and have some supper. You look worn out. By Jove, Peggy, it's good seeing you again! Can you walk as far as Rector's. or shall I carry you?"
"Guess I can walk that far. But Rector's? Has your rich uncle died and left you a fortune, George?"
"Don't you worry, Peggy. This is an occasion. I thought I was never going to see you again. I'll buy you the whole hotel, if you like."
"Just supper'll do, I guess. You're getting quite the rounder, George."
"You bet I am. There are all sorts of sides to my character you've never so much as dreamed of."
They seemed to know Peggy at Rector's. Paul, the head waiter, beamed upon her paternally. One or two men turned and looked after her as she passed. The waiters smiled slight but friendly smiles. Rutherford, intent on her, noticed none of these things.
Despite her protests, he ordered an elaborate and expensive supper. He was particular about the wine. The waiter, who had been doubtful about him, was won over, and went off to execute the order, reflecting that it was never safe to judge a man by his clothes, and that Rutherford was probably one of these eccentric young millionaires who didn't care how they dressed.
"Well?" said Peggy, when he had finished.
"Well?" said Rutherford.
"You're looking brown, George."
"I've been away in the Catskills."
"Still as strong on the rube proposition as ever?"
"Yes. But Broadway has its points, too."
"Oh, you're beginning to see that? Gee, I'm glad to be back. I've had enough of the Wild West. If anybody ever tries to steer you west of Eleventh Avenue, George, don't you go. There's nothing doing. How have you been making out at your writing stunt?"
"Pretty well. But I wanted you. I was lost without my mascot. I've got a story in this month's Wilson's. A long story, and paid accordingly. That's why I'm able to go about giving suppers to great actresses."
"I read it on the train," said Peggy. "It's dandy. Do you know what you ought to do, George? You ought to turn it into a play. There's a heap of money in plays."
"I know. But who wants a play by an unknown man?"
"I know who would want Willie in the Wilderness, if you made it into a play, and that's Winfield Knight. Ever seen him?"
"I saw him in The Outsider. He's clever."
"He's It, if he gets a part to suit him. If he doesn't, he don't amount to a row of beans. It's just a gamble. This thing he's in now is no good. The part doesn't begin to fit him. In a month he'll be squealing for another play, so's you can hear him in Connecticut."
"He shall not squeal in vain," said Rutherford. "If he wants my work, who am I that I should stand in the way of his simple pleasures? I'll start on the thing to-morrow."
"I can help you some too, I guess. I used to know Winfield Knight. I can put you wise on lots of things about him that'll help you work up Willie's character so's it'll fit him like a glove."
Rutherford raised his glass.
"Peggy," he said, "you're more than a mascot. You ought to be drawing a big commission on everything I write. It beats me how any of these other fellows ever write anything without you there to help them. I wonder what's the most expensive cigar they keep here? I must have it, whatever it is. Noblesse oblige. We popular playwrights mustn't be seen in public smoking any cheap stuff."
It was Rutherford's artistic temperament which, when they left the restaurant, made him hail a taxi-cab. Taxi-cabs are not for young men drawing infinitesimal salaries in banks, even if those salaries are supplemented at rare intervals by a short story in a magazine. Peggy was for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused to countenance such an anti-climax.
Peggy nestled into the corner of the cab, with a tired sigh, and there was silence as they moved smoothly up Broadway.
He peered at her in the dim light. She looked very small and wistful and fragile. Suddenly an intense desire surged over him to pick her up and crush her to him. He fought against it. He tried to fix his thoughts on the girl at home, to tell himself that he was a man of honour. His fingers, gripping the edge of the seat, tightened till every muscle of his arm was rigid.
The cab, crossing a rough piece of road, jolted Peggy from her corner. Her hand fell on his.
"Peggy!" he cried, hoarsely.
Her grey eyes were wet. He could see them glisten. And then his arms were round her, and he was covering her upturned face with kisses.
The cab drew up at the entrance to Alcala. They alighted in silence, and without a word made their way through into the hall. From force of habit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot of the stairs. There was one letter in his pigeon-hole.
Mechanically he drew it out; and, as his eyes fell on the handwriting, something seemed to snap inside him.
He looked at Peggy, standing on the bottom stair, and back again at the envelope in his hand. His mood was changing with a violence that left him physically weak. He felt dazed, as if he had wakened out of a trance.
With a strong effort he mastered himself. Peggy had mounted a few steps, and was looking back at him over her shoulder. He could read the meaning now in the grey eyes.
"Good night, Peggy," he said in a low voice. She turned, facing him, and for a moment neither moved.
"Good night!" said Rutherford again.
Her lips parted, as if she were about to speak, but she said nothing.
Then she turned again, and began to walk slowly upstairs.
He stood watching her till she had reached the top of the long flight. She did not look back.
V
Peggy's nightly visits began afresh after this, and the ghost on the table troubled Rutherford no more. His restlessness left him. He began to write with a new vigour and success. In after years he wrote many plays, most of them good, clear-cut pieces of work, but none that came from him with the utter absence of labour which made the writing of Willie in the Wilderness a joy. He wrote easily, without effort. And always Peggy was there, helping, stimulating, encouraging.
Sometimes, when he came in after dinner to settle down to work, he would find a p
iece of paper on his table covered with her schoolgirl scrawl. It would run somewhat as follows:
"He is proud of his arms. They are skinny, but he thinks them the limit. Better put in a shirt-sleeve scene for Willie somewhere.
"He thinks he has a beautiful profile. Couldn't you make one of the girls say something about Willie having the goods in that line?
"He is crazy about golf.
"He is proud of his French accent. Couldn't you make Willie speak a little piece in French?"
"He" being Winfield Knight.
And so, little by little, the character of Willie grew, till it ceased to be the Willie of the magazine story, and became Winfield Knight himself, with improvements. The task began to fascinate Rutherford. It was like planning a pleasant surprise for a child. "He'll like that," he would say to himself, as he wrote in some speech enabling Willie to display one of the accomplishments, real or imagined, of the absent actor. Peggy read it, and approved. It was she who suggested the big speech in the second act where Willie described the progress of his love affair in terms of the golf-links. From her, too, came information as to little traits in the man's character which the stranger would not have suspected.
As the play progressed Rutherford was amazed at the completeness of the character he had built. It lived. Willie in the magazine story might have been anyone. He fitted into the story, but you could not see him. He had no real individuality. But Willie in the play! He felt that he would recognize him in the street. There was all the difference between the two that there is between a nameless figure in some cheap picture and a portrait by Sargent. There were times when the story of the play seemed thin to him, and the other characters wooden, but in his blackest moods he was sure of Willie. All the contradictions in the character rang true: the humour, the pathos, the surface vanity covering a real diffidence, the strength and weakness fighting one another.
"You're alive, my son," said Rutherford, admiringly, as he read the sheets. "But you don't belong to me."
At last there came the day when the play was finished, when the last line was written, and the last possible alteration made; and, later, the day when Rutherford, bearing the brown-paper-covered package under his arm, called at the Players' Club to keep an appointment with Winfield Knight.
