The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
Promenade which she always took after leaving the _mont-de-piete_,
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
judgement 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.
Mr Vince put this feeling into words for her. He had a maddening habit
of discussing the progress of his courtship in the manner of an
impartial lecturer.
'I am making headway,' he observed. 'The fact that we cannot meet
without your endeavouring to plant a temperamental left jab on my
spiritual solar plexus encourages me to think that you are beginning at
last to understand that we are affinities. To persons of spirit like
ourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm
foundation of almost incessant quarrelling. The most beautiful line in
English poetry, to my mind, is, "We fell out, my wife and I." You would
be wretched with a husband who didn't like you to quarrel with him. The
position of affairs now is that I have become necessary to you. If I
went out of your life now I should leave an aching void. You would
still have that beautiful punch of yours, and there would be nobody to
exercise it on. You would pine away. From now on matters should, I
think, move rapidly. During the course of the next week I shall
endeavour to propitiate you with gifts. Here is the first of them.'
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it her. It was a
pencil-sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. Even Ruth
could appreciate that--and she was a prejudiced observer, for the
sketch was a caricature of herself. It represented her, drawn up to her
full height, with enormous, scornful eyes and curling lips, and the
artist had managed to combine an excellent likeness while accentuating
everything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normal
expression of scorn and discontent.
'I didn't know you were an artist, Mr Vince,' she said, handing it
back.
'A poor amateur. Nothing more. You may keep it.'
'I have not the slightest wish to keep it.'
'You haven't?'
'It is not in the least clever, and it is very impertinent of you to
show it to me. The drawing is not funny. It is simply rude.'
'A little more,' said Mr Vince, 'and I shall begin to think you don't
like it. Are you fond of chocolates?'
Ruth did not answer.
'I am sending you some tomorrow.'
'I shall return them.'
'Then I shall send some more, and some fruit. Gifts!' soliloquized Mr
Vince. 'Gifts! That is the secret. Keep sending gifts. If men would
only stick to gifts and quarrelling, there would be fewer bachelors.'
On the morrow, as promised, the chocolates arrived, many pounds of them
in a lordly box. The bludgeoning of fate had not wholly scotched in
Ruth a human weakness for sweets, and it was with a distinct effort
that she wrapped the box up again and returned it to the sender. She
went off to her work at the _mont-de-piete_ with a glow of
satisfaction which comes to those who exhibit an iron will in trying
circumstances.
And at the _mont-de-piete_ there occurred a surprising incident.
Surprising incidents, as Mr Vince would have said, are the zero on the
roulette-board of life. They pop up disturbingly when least expected,
confusing the mind and altering pre-conceived opinions. And this was a
very surprising incident indeed.
Ruth, as has been stated, sat during her hours of work behind a
ground-glass screen, unseen and unseeing. To her the patrons of the
establishment were mere disembodied voices--wheedling voices, pathetic
voices, voices that protested, voices that hectored, voices that
whined, moaned, broke, appealed to the saints, and in various other
ways endeavoured to instil into M. Gandinot more spacious and princely
views on the subject of advancing money on property pledged. She was
sitting behind her screen this morning, scribbling idly on the
blotting-pad, for there had been a lull in the business, when the door
opened, and the polite, 'Bonjour, monsieur,' of M. Gandinot announced
the arrival of another unfortunate.
And then, shaking her like an electric shock, came a voice that she
knew--the pleasant voice of Mr Vince.
The dialogues that took place on the other side of the screen were
often protracted and always sordid, but none had seemed to Ruth so
interminable, so hideously sordid, as this one.
Round and round its miserable centre--a silver cigarette-case--the
dreary argument circled. The young man pleaded; M. Gandinot, adamant in
his official role, was immovable.
Ruth could bear it no longer. She pressed her hands over her burning
ears, and the voices ceased to trouble her.
And with the silence came thought, and a blaze of understanding that
flashed upon her and made all things clear. She understood now why she
had closed her ears.
Poverty is an acid which reacts differently on differing natures. It
had reduced Mr Eugene Warden's self-respect to a minimum. Ruth's it had
reared up to an abnormal growth. Her pride had become a weed that ran
riot in her soul, darkening it and choking finer emotions. Perhaps it
was her father's naive stratagems for the enmeshing of a wealthy
husband that had produced in her at last a morbid antipathy to the
idea of playing beggar-maid to any man's King Cophetua. The state of
mind is intelligible. The Cophetua legend never has been told from the
beggar-maid's point of view, and there must have been moments when, if
a woman of spirit, she resented that monarch's somewhat condescending
attitude, and felt that, secure in his wealth and magnificence, he had
taken her grateful acquiescence very much for granted.
This, she saw now, was what had prejudiced her against George Vince.
She had assumed that he was rich. He had conveyed the impression of
being rich. And she had been on the defensive against him accordingly.
Now, for the first time, she seemed to know him. A barrier had been
broken down. The royal robes had proved tinsel, and no longer disguised
the man she loved.
A touch on her arm aroused her. M. Gandinot was standing by her side.
Terms, apparently had been agreed upon and the interview concluded, for
in his hand was a silver cigarette-case.
'Dreaming, mademoiselle? I could not make you hear. The more I call to
you, the more you did not answer. It is necessary to enter this loan.'
He recited the details and Ruth entered them in her ledger. This done,
M. Gandinot, doffing his official self, sighed.
'It is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office. How he would
not take no for an answer, that young man, recently departed. A
fellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle. You would say, "What does this
young man, so well-dressed, in a _mont-de-piete_?" But I know
better, I, Gandinot. You have an expression, you English--I heard it in
Paris in a cafe, and inquired its meaning--when you say of a man that he
swanks. How many young men have I seen here, admirably dressed--rich,
you would say. No, no. The _mont-de-piete_ permits no secrets. To
swank, mademoiselle, what is it? To deceive the world, yes. But not the
_mont-de-piete_. Yesterday also, when you had departed, was he
here, that young man. Yet here he is once more today. He spends his
money quickly, alas! that poor young swanker.'
When Ruth returned home that evening she found her father in the
sitting-room, smoking a cigarette. He greeted her with effusion, but
with some uneasiness--for the old gentleman had nerved himself to a
delicate task. He had made up his mind tonight to speak seriously to
Ruth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to Mr Vince. The
more he saw of that young man the more positive was he that this was
the human gold-mine for which he had been searching all these weary
years. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on the
forehead, and began to speak.
It had long been Mr Warden's opinion that, if his daughter had a fault,
it was a tendency towards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenient
frankness. She had not that tact which he would have liked a daughter
of his to possess. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. She
was at times painfully blunt.
This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interrupted
him with a question.
'What makes you think Mr Vince is rich, father?' she asked.
Mr Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr Vince's opulence had not
entered into his discourse. He had carefully avoided it. The fact that
he was thinking of it and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it,
and that he knew that Ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. The
question was not in order, and it embarrassed him.
'I--why--I don't--I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubt
that he has ample--'
'He is quite poor.'
Mr Warden's jaw fell slightly.
'Poor? But, my dear, that's absurd!' he cried. 'Why, only this
evening--'
He broke off abruptly, but it was too late.
'Father, you've been borrowing money from him!'
Mr Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, but
he altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he had
every quality but one. He had come to look on her perspicacity in this
matter as a sort of second sight. It had frequently gone far to
spoiling for him the triumph of success.
'And he has to pawn things to live!' Her voice trembled. 'He was at the
_mont-de-piete_ today. And yesterday too. I heard him. He was
arguing with M. Gandinot--haggling--'
Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was too
raw and vivid.
Mr Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, but
chief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a very
fortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware,
also, of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful young
man who had fraudulently imitated a gold-mine with what might have been
disastrous results.
The door opened and Jeanne, the maid-of-all-work, announced Mr Vince.