The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
dinner-table,' said the butler, with a touch of reproof. 'If I might
speak now, sir?'
Mr Keith clutched at his forehead.
'Heavens above! Do you want a signed permit to tell me where my
daughter is? Get on, man, get on!'
'I think it 'ighly possible, sir, that Miss Elsa and Mr Barstowe may be
on the hisland in the lake, sir.' About half a mile from the house was
a picturesque strip of water, some fifteen hundred yards in width and a
little less in length, in the centre of which stood a small and densely
wooded island. It was a favourite haunt of visitors at the house when
there was nothing else to engage their attention, but during the past
week, with shooting to fill up the days, it had been neglected.
'On the island?' said Mr Keith. 'What put that idea into your head?'
'I 'appened to be rowing on the lake this morning, sir. I frequently
row of a morning, sir, when there are no duties to detain me in the
'ouse. I find the hexercise hadmirable for the 'ealth. I walk briskly
to the boat-'ouse, and--'
'Yes, yes. I don't want a schedule of your daily exercises. Cut out the
athletic reminiscences and come to the point.'
'As I was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, I 'appened to see a
boat 'itched up to a tree on the hisland. I think that possibly Miss
Elsa and Mr Barstowe might 'ave taken a row out there. Mr Barstowe
would wish to see the hisland, sir, bein' romantic.'
'But you say you saw the boat there this morning?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. What's kept
them all this while?'
'It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have 'eld. Mr Barstowe,
if I might say so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literary pussons,
and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied.
Or'--his eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment on
Martin's--'some party might 'ave come along and huntied it a-puppus.'
'Untied it on purpose?' said Mr Keith. 'What on earth for?'
Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as one who, realizing his
limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of human
actions.
'I thought it right, sir, to let you know,' he said.
'Right? I should say so. If Elsa has been kept starving all day on that
island by that long-haired--Here, come along, Martin.'
He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a moment
gazing fixedly at the butler.
'I 'ope, sir,' said Keggs, cordially, 'that my hinformation will prove
of genuine hassistance.'
'Do you know what I should like to do to you?' said Martin slowly.
'I think I 'ear Mr Keith calling you, sir.'
'I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and--'
'There, sir! Didn't you 'ear 'im then? Quite distinct it was.'
Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What could
you do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with Westminster
Abbey.
'I should 'urry, sir,' suggested Keggs, respectfully. 'I think Mr Keith
must have met with some haccident.'
His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up he found his host
seated on the ground in evident pain.
'Twisted my ankle in a hole,' he explained, briefly. 'Give me an arm
back to the house, there's a good fellow, and then run on down to the
lake and see if what Keggs said is true.'
Martin did as he was requested--so far, that is to say, as the first
half of the commission was concerned. As regarded the second, he took
it upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr Keith to his
room, he put the fitting-out of the relief ship into the good hands of
a group of his fellow guests whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa's
feelings towards her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude; but it
might, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her to
connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martin
had once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. He had
been on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with his
sufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa's
frame of mind would be uncommonly like that dog's.
The rescue-party set off. Martin lit a cigarette, and waited in the
porch.
It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he
was lighting his fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness the
sound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted:
'It's all right. We've found them.'
Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.
* * * * *
Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and a
day had passed since she had taken to her bed.
'How are you feeling today, dear?'
'Has he gone, mother?'
'Who?'
'Mr Barstowe?'
'Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his
publisher in London.'
'Then I can get up,' said Elsa, thankfully.
'I think you're a little hard on poor Mr Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an
accident, you know. It was not his fault that the boat slipped away.'
'It was, it was, it _was_!' cried Elsa, thumping the pillow
malignantly. 'I believe he did it on purpose, so that he could read me
his horrid poetry without my having a chance to escape. I believe
that's the only way he can get people to listen to it.'
'But you used to like it, darling. You said he had such a musical
voice.'
'Musical voice!' The pillow became a shapeless heap. 'Mother, it was
like a nightmare! If I had seen him again I should have had hysterics.
It was _awful_! If he had been even the least bit upset himself I
think I could have borne up. But he _enjoyed_ it! He _revelled_
in it! He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and Shelley's
_Epipsychidion_, whatever that is; and he prattled on and on and
read and read till my head began to split. Mother'--her voice sank to
a whisper--'I hit him!'
'Elsa!'
'I did!' she went on, defiantly. 'I hit him as hard as I could, and
he--he'--she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter--'he tripped
over a bush and fell right down; and I wasn't a bit ashamed. I didn't
think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. And
it stopped him talking.'
'But, Elsa, _dear_! Why?'
'The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky
looked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said so
to him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn't see the
resemblance. And I asked him if he wasn't starving. And he said no,
because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And that
was when I hit him.'
'Elsa!'
'Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I'll get
up. It looks lovely out.'
Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs Keith had assured
him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tired,
but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could
reach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard
his name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near
the terrace.
'Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the guns?' she said.
'I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were.'
'How nice of you! Why don't you sit down?'
'May I?'
Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.
'You know, you're a very restful person, Martin. You're so big and
outdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so
lazy.'
Martin took the magazine.
'What shall I read? Here's a poem by--'
Elsa shuddered.
'Oh, please, no,' she cried. 'I couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what I
should love--the advertisements. There's one about sardines. I started
it, and it seemed splendid. It's at the back somewhere.'
'Is this it--Langley and Fielding's sardines?'
'That's it.'
Martin began to read.
'"Langley and Fielding's sardines. When you want the daintiest, most
delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, 'Langley and Fielding's,
please!' You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian smoked
sardines, packed in the purest olive oil."'
Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasure
curving her mouth.
'Go on,' she said, dreamily.
'"Nothing nicer."' resumed Martin, with an added touch of eloquence as
the theme began to develop, '"for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Probably
your grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Price
fivepence per tin. The best sardines and the best oil!"'
'Isn't it _lovely_?' she murmured.
Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes.
'Don't stop reading,' she said. 'I never heard anything so soothing.'
'Elsa!'
He bent towards her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing.
'Elsa, I--'
'Mr Keith,' said a quiet voice, 'desired me to say--'
Martin started away. He glared up furiously. Gazing down upon them
stood Keggs. The butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence.
'Mr Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa would
come and sit with him for a while.'
'I'll come at once,' said Elsa, stepping from the hammock.
The butler bowed respectfully and turned away. They stood watching him
as he moved across the terrace.
'What a saintly old man Keggs looks,' said Elsa. 'Don't you think so?
He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything he
shouldn't. I wonder if he ever has?'
'I wonder!' said Martin.
'He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when he
came up?'
POTS O'MONEY
Owen Bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr Sheppherd, and
with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and
twiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before the
influence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and Suburban
Bank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average of
thirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged by
the astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurred
that, if you have got to have young men to chant 'We are merry and gay,
tra-la, for this is Bohemia,' in the Artists' Ball scene, you might
just as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He had
not been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-class
cricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to a
googly bowler who had done well in the last Varsity match; but he had
been one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which is
known as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr Sheppherd
that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found
himself suffering exactly the same symptoms.
From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his
income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two
hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his
failures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took
the heart out of him. Mr Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavy
father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as
he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical.
Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever
happened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the second
minute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing through
the air, urged by Mr Sheppherd's boot, his transit indicated by a
dotted line and a few stars.
Mr Sheppherd's manner was inclined to bleakness.
'This is most unfortunate,' he said. 'Most unfortunate. I have my
daughter's happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father.' He
paused. 'You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that
your uncle--? Surely, with his influence--?'
'My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished