The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
he had just made a rather good investment. But released from the spell
of his brother-in-law's personal magnetism, Mr Blatherwick was apt to
brood. He was brooding now. Why, he was asking himself morosely, should
he be harassed by this Bertie? It was not as if Bertie was penniless.
He had a little income of his own. No, it was pure lack of
consideration. Who was Bertie that he--
At this point in his meditations Violet entered with the after-dinner
coffee and the evening post.
Mr Blatherwick took the letters. There were two of them, and one he
saw, with a rush of indignation, was in the handwriting of his
brother-in-law. Mr Blatherwick's blood simmered. So the fellow thought
he could borrow by post, did he? Not even trouble to pay a visit, eh?
He tore the letter open, and the first thing he saw was a cheque for
five pounds.
Mr Blatherwick was astounded. That a letter from his brother-in-law
should not contain a request for money was surprising; that it should
contain a cheque, even for five pounds, was miraculous.
He opened the second letter. It was short, but full of the finest,
noblest sentiments; to wit, that the writer, Charles J. Pickersgill,
having heard the school so highly spoken of by his friend, Mr Herbert
Baxter, would be glad if Mr Blatherwick could take in his three sons,
aged seven, nine, and eleven respectively, at the earliest convenient
date.
Mr Blatherwick's first feeling was one of remorse that even in thought
he should have been harsh to the golden-hearted Bertie. His next was
one of elation.
Violet, meanwhile, stood patiently before him with the coffee. Mr
Blatherwick helped himself. His eye fell on Violet.
Violet was a friendly, warm-hearted little thing. She saw that Mr
Blatherwick had had good news; and, as the bearer of the letters which
had contained it, she felt almost responsible. She smiled kindly up at
Mr Blatherwick.
Mr Blatherwick's dreamy hazel eye rested pensively upon her. The major
portion of his mind was far away in the future, dealing with visions of
a school grown to colossal proportions, and patronized by millionaires.
The section of it which still worked in the present was just large
enough to enable him to understand that he felt kindly, and even almost
grateful, to Violet. Unfortunately it was too small to make him see how
wrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way across the coffee
tray just as James Datchett walked into the room.
James paused. Mr Blatherwick coughed. Violet, absolutely unmoved,
supplied James with coffee, and bustled out of the room.
She left behind her a somewhat massive silence.
Mr Blatherwick coughed again.
'It looks like rain,' said James, carelessly.
'Ah?' said Mr Blatherwick.
'Very like rain,' said James.
'Indeed!' said Mr Blatherwick.
A pause.
'Pity if it rains,' said James.
'True,' said Mr Blatherwick.
Another pause.
'Er--Datchett,' said Mr Blatherwick.
'Yes,' said James.
'I--er--feel that perhaps--'
James waited attentively.
'Have you sugar?'
'Plenty, thanks,' said James.
'I shall be sorry if it rains,' said Mr Blatherwick.
Conversation languished.
James laid his cup down.
'I have some writing to do,' he said. 'I think I'll be going upstairs
now.'
'Er--just so,' said Mr Blatherwick, with relief. 'Just so. An excellent
idea.'
* * * * *
'Er--Datchett,' said Mr Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.
'Yes?' said James.
A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had broken
through the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received on
the previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letter
from the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certain
passages indicated in the margin.
'I have--ah--unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf,' said Mr
Blatherwick.
'Yes?' said James. He had missed Adolf's shining morning face.
'Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with a
malicious--er--fabrication respecting yourself which I need
not--ah--particularize.'
James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one's
bosom.
'Why, I've been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately.
No sense of gratitude, these foreigners,' he said, sadly.
'So I was compelled,' proceeded Mr Blatherwick, 'to--in fact, just so.'
James nodded sympathetically.
'Do you know anything about West Australia?' he asked, changing the
subject. 'It's a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going there
at one time.'
'Indeed?' said Mr Blatherwick.
'But I've given up the idea now,' said James.
THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE
Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a
large white statue, labelled 'Our City', the figure of a woman in
Grecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it
for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was
faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjuror in
evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of
goldfish. For that, above all else, is New York's speciality. It
changes.
Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when she
received Eddy Moore's letter containing the information that he had
found her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it had
changed Mary Hill quite remarkably.
Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations from
Dunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, young
men born there follow in their father's footsteps, working on the
paternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daring
spirit will break away, but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only of
the younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to make
their fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies of
the village sages, had prospered.
Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights. All she
demanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her a
living wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting and
shorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and the
romance of things; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows,
and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York's at that
moment had said 'Huh!' This had damped Mary. She saw that there were
going to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly on
Eddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a church
festival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhaps
he was still willing to do that--she had not inquired--but, at any
rate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He had
been very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, and
said he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a man
at lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went by
and she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled,
and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed her
outlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merely
frightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazed
helplessness.
But it was not until Eddy's letter came that she realized the
completeness of the change. On 1 May she would have thanked Eddy
politely for his trouble, adding, however, that she would really prefer
not to meet poor Joe again. On 16 May she welcomed him as something
Heaven-sent. The fact that she was to be employed outweighed a
thousand-fold the fact that her employer was to be Joe.
It was not that she disliked Joe. She was sorry for him.
She remembered Joe, a silent, shambling youth, all hands, feet, and
shyness, who had spent most of his spare time twisting his fingers and
staring adoringly at her from afar. The opinion of those in the social
whirl of Dunsterville had been that it was his hopeless passion for her
that had made him fly to New York. It would be embarrassing meeting him
again. It would require tact to discourage his silent worshipping
without wounding him more deeply. She hated hurting people.
But, even at the cost of that, she must accept the post. To refuse
meant ignominious retreat to Dunsterville, and from that her pride
revolted. She must revisit Dunsterville in triumph or not at all.
Joe Rendal's office was in the heart of the financial district,
situated about half-way up a building that, to Mary, reared amidst the
less impressive architecture of her home-town, seemed to reach nearly
to the sky. A proud-looking office-boy, apparently baffled and
mortified by the information that she had an appointment, took her
name, and she sat down, filled with a fine mixed assortment of
emotions, to wait.
For the first time since her arrival in New York she felt almost easy
in her mind. New York, with its shoving, jostling, hurrying crowds; a
giant fowl-run, full of human fowls scurrying to and fro; clucking,
ever on the look-out for some desired morsel, and ever ready to swoop
down and snatch it from its temporary possessor, had numbed her. But
now she felt a slackening of the strain. New York might be too much for
her, but she could cope with Joe.
The haughty boy returned. Mr Rendal was disengaged. She rose and went
into an inner room, where a big man was seated at a desk.
It was Joe. There was no doubt about that. But it was not the Joe she
remembered, he of the twisted ringers and silent stare. In his case,
New York had conjured effectively. He was better-looking, better-dressed,
improved in every respect. In the old days one had noticed the hands
and feet and deduced the presence of Joe somewhere in the background.
Now they were merely adjuncts. It was with a rush of indignation that
Mary found herself bucolic and awkward. Awkward with Joe! It was an
outrage.
His manner heightened the feeling. If he had given the least sign of
embarrassment she might have softened towards him. He showed no
embarrassment whatever. He was very much at his ease. He was cheerful.
He was even flippant.
'Welcome to our beautiful little city,' he said.
Mary was filled with a helpless anger. What right had he to ignore the
past in this way, to behave as if her presence had never reduced him to
pulp?
'Won't you sit down?' he went on. 'It's splendid, seeing you again,
Mary. You're looking very well. How long have you been in New York?
Eddy tells me you want to be taken on as a secretary. As it happens,
there is a vacancy for just that in this office. A big, wide vacancy,
left by a lady who departed yesterday in a shower of burning words and
hairpins. She said she would never return, and between ourselves, that
was the right guess. Would you mind letting me see what you can do?
Will you take this letter down?'
Certainly there was something compelling about this new Joe. Mary took
the pencil and pad which he offered--and she took them meekly. Until
this moment she had always been astonished by the reports which
filtered through to Dunsterville of his success in the big city. Of
course, nobody had ever doubted his perseverance; but it takes
something more than perseverance to fight New York fairly and squarely,
and win. And Joe had that something. He had force. He was sure of
himself.
'Read it please,' he said, when he had finished dictating. 'Yes, that's
all right. You'll do.'
For a moment Mary was on the point of refusing. A mad desire gripped
her to assert herself, to make plain her resentment at this revolt of
the serf. Then she thought of those scuttling, clucking crowds, and her
heart failed her.
'Thank you,' she said, in a small voice.
As she spoke the door opened.
'Well, well, well!' said Joe. 'Here we all are! Come in, Eddy. Mary