The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
about him now. It's his accusing manner.'
'I've tried to analyse that manner. I believe it's the spectacles.'
'It's frightful when he looks at you; you think of all the wrong things
you have ever done or ever wanted to do.'
'Does he have that effect on you?' he said, excitedly. 'Why, that
exactly describes what I feel.'
The affinities looked at one another.
She was the first to speak.
'We always did think alike on most things, didn't we?' she said.
'Of course we did.'
He shifted his chair forward.
'It was all my fault,' he said. 'I mean, what happened.'
'It wasn't. It--'
'Yes, it was. I want to tell you something. I don't know if it will
make any difference now, but I should like you to know it. It's this.
I've altered a good deal since I came to London. For the better, I
think. I'm a pretty poor sort of specimen still, but at least I don't
imagine I can measure life with a foot-rule. I don't judge the world
any longer by the standards of a country town. London has knocked some
of the corners off me. I don't think you would find me the Bean type
any longer. I don't disapprove of other people much now. Not as a
habit. I find I have enough to do keeping myself up to the mark.'
'I want to tell you something, too,' she said. 'I expect it's too late,
but never mind. I want you to hear it. I've altered, too, since I came
to London. I used to think the Universe had been invented just to look
on and wave its hat while I did great things. London has put a large
piece of cold ice against my head, and the swelling has gone down. I'm
not the girl with ambitions any longer. I just want to keep employed,
and not have too bad a time when the day's work is over.'
He came across to where she sat.
'We said we would meet as strangers, and we do. We never have known
each other. Don't you think we had better get acquainted?' he said.
There was a respectful tap at the door.
'Come in?' snapped Mr Ferguson. 'Well?' Behind the gold-rimmed
spectacles of Master Bean there shone a softer look than usual, a look
rather complacent than disapproving.
'I must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. I am no longer in your
employment, but I do hope that in the circumstances you will forgive
my entering your private office. Thinking over our situation just now
an idea came to me by means of which I fancy we might be enabled to
leave the building.'
'What!'
'It occurred to me, sir, that by telephoning to the nearest
police-station--'
'Good heavens!' cried Mr Ferguson.
Two minutes later he replaced the receiver.
'It's all right,' he said. 'I've made them understand the trouble.
They're bringing a ladder. I wonder what the time is? It must be about
four in the morning.'
Master Bean produced a Waterbury watch.
'The time, sir, is almost exactly half past ten.'
'Half past ten! We must have been here longer than three hours. Your
watch is wrong.'
'No, sir, I am very careful to keep it exactly right. I do not wish to
run any risk of being unpunctual.'
'Half past ten!' cried Mr Ferguson. 'Why, we're in heaps of time to
look in at the Savoy for supper. This is great. I'll phone them to keep
a table.'
'Supper! I thought--'
She stopped.
'What's that? Thought what?'
'Hadn't you an engagement for supper?'
He stared at her.
'Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not.'
'I thought you said you were taking Miss Templeton--'
'Miss Temp--Oh!' His face cleared. 'Oh, there isn't such a person. I
invented her. I had to when you accused me of being like our friend the
Miasma. Legitimate self-defence.'
'I do not wish to interrupt you, sir, when you are busy,' said Master
Bean, 'but--'
'Come and see me tomorrow morning,' said Mr Ferguson.
* * * * *
'Bob,' said the girl, as the first threatening mutters from the
orchestra heralded an imminent storm of melody, 'when that boy comes
tomorrow, what are going to do?'
'Call up the police.'
'No, but you must do something. We shouldn't have been here if it
hadn't been for him.'
'That's true!' He pondered. 'I've got it; I'll get him a job with
Raikes and Courtenay.'
'Why Raikes and Courtenay?'
'Because I have a pull with them. But principally,' said Mr Ferguson,
with a devilish grin, 'because they live in Edinburgh, which, as you
are doubtless aware, is a long, long way from London.'
He bent across the table.
'Isn't this like old times?' he said. 'Do you remember the first time I
ever ki--'
Just then the orchestra broke out.
THE GOOD ANGEL
Any man under thirty years of age who tells you he is not afraid of an
English butler lies. He may not show his fear. Outwardly he may be
brave--aggressive even, perhaps to the extent of calling the great man
'Here!' or 'Hi!' But, in his heart, when he meets that, cold, blue,
introspective eye, he quakes.
The effect that Keggs, the butler at the Keiths', had on Martin
Rossiter was to make him feel as if he had been caught laughing in a
cathedral. He fought against the feeling. He asked himself who Keggs
was, anyway; and replied defiantly that Keggs was a Menial--and an
overfed Menial. But all the while he knew that logic was useless.
When the Keiths had invited him to their country home he had been
delighted. They were among his oldest friends. He liked Mr Keith. He
liked Mrs Keith. He loved Elsa Keith, and had done so from boyhood.
But things had gone wrong. As he leaned out of his bedroom window at
the end of the first week, preparatory to dressing for dinner, he was
more than half inclined to make some excuse and get right out of the
place next day. The bland dignity of Keggs had taken all the heart out
of him.
Nor was it Keggs alone who had driven his thoughts towards flight.
Keggs was merely a passive evil, like toothache or a rainy day. What
had begun actively to make the place impossible was a perfectly
pestilential young man of the name of Barstowe.
The house-party at the Keiths had originally been, from Martin's
view-point, almost ideal. The rest of the men were of the speechless,
moustache-tugging breed. They had come to shoot, and they shot. When
they were not shooting they congregated in the billiard-room and
devoted their powerful intellects exclusively to snooker-pool, leaving
Martin free to talk undisturbed to Elsa. He had been doing this for
five days with great contentment when Aubrey Barstowe arrived. Mrs
Keith had developed of late leanings towards culture. In her town house
a charge of small-shot, fired in any direction on a Thursday
afternoon, could not have failed to bring down a poet, a novelist, or a
painter. Aubrey Barstowe, author of _The Soul's Eclipse_ and other
poems, was a constant member of the crowd. A youth of insinuating
manners, he had appealed to Mrs Keith from the start; and unfortunately
the virus had extended to Elsa. Many a pleasant, sunshiny Thursday
afternoon had been poisoned for Martin by the sight of Aubrey and Elsa
together on a distant settee, matching temperaments. The rest is too
painful. It was a rout. The poet did not shoot, so that when Martin
returned of an evening his rival was about five hours of soul-to-soul
talk up and only two to play. And those two, the after-dinner hours,
which had once been the hours for which Martin had lived, were pure
torture.
So engrossed was he with his thoughts that the first intimation he had
that he was not alone in the room was a genteel cough. Behind him,
holding a small can, was Keggs.
'Your 'ot water, sir,' said the butler, austerely but not unkindly.
Keggs was a man--one must use that word, though it seems grossly
inadequate--of medium height, pigeon-toed at the base, bulgy half-way
up, and bald at the apex. His manner was restrained and dignified, his
voice soft and grave.
But it was his eye that quelled Martin. That cold, blue,
dukes-have-treated-me-as-an-elder-brother eye.
He fixed it upon him now, as he added, placing the can on the floor.
'It is Frederick's duty, but tonight I hundertook it.'
Martin had no answer. He was dazed. Keggs had spoken with the proud
humility of an emperor compelled by misfortune to shine shoes.
'Might I have a word with you, sir?'
'Ye-e-ss, yes,' stammered Martin. 'Won't you take a--I mean, yes,
certainly.'
'It is perhaps a liberty,' began Keggs. He paused, and raked Martin
with the eye that had rested on dining dukes.
'Not at all,' said Martin, hurriedly.
'I should like,' went on Keggs, bowing, 'to speak to you on a somewhat
intimate subject--Miss Elsa.'
Martin's eyes and mouth opened slowly.
'You are going the wrong way to work, if you will allow me to say so,
sir.'
Martin's jaw dropped another inch.
'Wha-a--'
'Women, sir,' proceeded Keggs, 'young ladies--are peculiar. I have had,
if I may say so, certain hopportunities of observing their ways. Miss
Elsa reminds me in some respects of Lady Angelica Fendall, whom I had
the honour of knowing when I was butler to her father, Lord Stockleigh.
Her ladyship was hinclined to be romantic. She was fond of poetry, like
Miss Elsa. She would sit by the hour, sir, listening to young Mr Knox
reading Tennyson, which was no part of his duties, he being employed by
his lordship to teach Lord Bertie Latin and Greek and what not. You may
have noticed, sir, that young ladies is often took by Tennyson,
hespecially in the summertime. Mr Barstowe was reading Tennyson to Miss
Elsa in the 'all when I passed through just now. _The Princess_,
if I am not mistaken.'
'I don't know what the thing was,' groaned Martin. 'She seemed to be
enjoying it.'
'Lady Angelica was greatly addicted to _The Princess_. Young Mr
Knox was reading portions of that poem to her when his lordship come
upon them. Most rashly his lordship made a public hexpose and packed Mr
Knox off next day. It was not my place to volunteer advice, but I could
have told him what would happen. Two days later her ladyship slips away
to London early in the morning, and they're married at a
registry-office. That is why I say that you are going the wrong way to
work with Miss Elsa, sir. With certain types of 'igh spirited young lady
hopposition is useless. Now, when Mr Barstowe was reading to Miss Elsa
on the occasion to which I 'ave alluded, you were sitting by, trying to
engage her attention. It's not the way, sir. You should leave them
alone together. Let her see so much of him, and nobody else but him,
that she will grow tired of him. Fondness for poetry, sir, is very much
like the whisky 'abit. You can't cure a man what has got that by
hopposition. Now, if you will permit me to offer a word of advice, sir,
I say, let Miss Elsa 'ave all the poetry she wants.'
Martin was conscious of one coherent feeling at the conclusion of this
address, and that was one of amazed gratitude. A lesser man who had
entered his room and begun to discuss his private affairs would have
had reason to retire with some speed; but that Keggs should descend
from his pedestal and interest himself in such lowly matters was a
different thing altogether.
'I'm very much obliged--' he was stammering, when the butler raised a
deprecatory hand.
'My interest in the matter,' he said, smoothly, 'is not entirely
haltruistic. For some years back, in fact, since Miss Elsa came out, we
have had a matrimonial sweepstake in the servants' hall at each
house-party. The names of the gentlemen in the party are placed in a hat
and drawn in due course. Should Miss Elsa become engaged to any member
of the party, the pool goes to the drawer of his name. Should no
engagement occur, the money remains in my charge until the following
year, when it is added to the new pool. Hitherto I have 'ad the
misfortune to draw nothing but married gentlemen, but on this occasion