The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
over his head.
'Don't shoot,' he said. 'What's the matter?'
'What right had you to say that about Eddy? You know what I mean--about
Pearl Street.'
Joe laughed.
'Did you take a look at Pearl Street?'
Mary's anger blazed out.
'I didn't think you could be so mean and cowardly,' she cried. 'You
ought to be ashamed to talk about people behind their backs,
when--when--besides, if he's what you say, how did it happen that
you engaged me on his recommendation?'
He looked at her for an instant without replying. 'I'd have engaged
you,' he said, 'on the recommendation of a syndicate of forgers and
three-card-trick men.'
He stood fingering a pile of papers on the desk.
'Eddy isn't the only person who remembers the old days, Mary,' he said
slowly.
She looked at him, surprised. There was a note in his voice that she
had not heard before. She was conscious of a curious embarrassment and
a subtler feeling which she could not analyse. But before she could
speak, Harold, the office-boy, entered the room with a card, and the
conversation was swept away on a tidal wave of work.
* * * * *
Joe made no attempt to resume it. That morning happened to be one of
the earthquake, knock-about-sketch mornings, and conversation, what
there was of it, consisted of brief, strenuous remarks of a purely
business nature.
But at intervals during the day Mary found herself returning to his
words. Their effect on her mind puzzled her. It seemed to her that
somehow they caused things to alter their perspective. In some way Joe
had become more human. She still refused to believe that Eddy was not
all that was chivalrous and noble, but her anger against Joe for his
insinuations had given way to a feeling of regret that he should have
made them. She ceased to look on him as something wantonly malevolent,
a Thersites recklessly slandering his betters. She felt that there must
have been a misunderstanding somewhere and was sorry for it.
Thinking it over, she made up her mind that it was for her to remove
this misunderstanding. The days which followed strengthened the
decision; for the improvement in Joe was steadily maintained. The
indefinable something in his manner which had so irritated her had
vanished. It had been, when it had existed, so nebulous that words were
not needed to eliminate it. Indeed, even now she could not say exactly
in what it had consisted. She only knew that the atmosphere had
changed. Without a word spoken on either side it seemed that peace had
been established between them, and it amazed her what a difference it
made. She was soothed and happy, and kindly disposed to all men, and
every day felt more strongly the necessity of convincing Joe and Eddy
of each other's merits, or, rather, of convincing Joe, for Eddy, she
admitted, always spoke most generously of the other.
For a week Eddy did not appear at the office. On the eighth day,
however, he rang her up on the telephone, and invited her to lunch.
Later in the morning Joe happened to ask her out to lunch.
'I'm so sorry,' said Mary; 'I've just promised Eddy. He wants me to
meet him at Stephano's, but--' She hesitated. 'Why shouldn't we all
lunch together?' she went on, impulsively.
She hurried on. This was her opening, but she felt nervous. The subject
of Eddy had not come up between them since that memorable conversation
a week before, and she was uncertain of her ground.
'I wish you liked Eddy, Joe,' she said. 'He's very fond of you, and it
seems such a shame that--I mean--we're all from the same old town,
and--oh, I know I put it badly, but--'
'I think you put it very well,' said Joe; 'and if I could like a man to
order I'd do it to oblige you. But--well, I'm not going to keep harping
on it. Perhaps you'll see through Eddy yourself one of these days.'
A sense of the hopelessness of her task oppressed Mary. She put on her
hat without replying, and turned to go.
At the door some impulse caused her to glance back, and as she did so
she met his eye, and stood staring. He was looking at her as she had so
often seen him look three years before in Dunsterville--humbly,
appealingly, hungrily.
He took a step forward. A sort of panic seized her. Her fingers were on
the door-handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside.
She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed so
thoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness and
awkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, his
manner--everything had pointed to that. And now--it was as if those
three years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were--herself.
Had she altered? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her like
some physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her.
If only she could get away from them and think quietly--
And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy.
'Glad you could come,' he said. 'I've something I want to talk to you
about. It'll be quiet at Stephano's.'
She noticed, almost unconsciously, that he seemed nervous. He was
unwontedly silent. She was glad of it. It helped her to think.
He gave the waiter an order, and became silent again, drumming with
his fingers on the cloth. He hardly spoke till the meal was over and
the coffee was on the table. Then he leant forward.
'Mary,' he said, 'we've always been pretty good friends, haven't we?'
His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in them
that was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that there
was effort behind the smile.
'Of course we have, Eddy,' she said. He touched her hand.
'Dear little Mary!' he said, softly.
He paused for a moment.
'Mary,' he went on, 'you would like to do me a good turn? You would,
wouldn't you, Mary?'
'Why, Eddy, of course!'
He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated on
her. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidence
of friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality,--of
calculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in her
some watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard.
He drew in a quick breath.
'It's nothing much. Nothing at all. It's only this. I--I--Joe will be
writing a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday--Thursday
remember. There won't be anything in it--nothing of importance--nothing
private--but--I--I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A--a copy
of--'
She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.
'For goodness' sake,' he said, irritably, 'don't look like that. I'm
not asking you to commit murder. What's the matter with you? Look here,
Mary; you'll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I'm the only man in
New York that's ever done anything for you. Didn't I get you your job?
Well, then, it's not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous,
or difficult, or--'
She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not look
at her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly.
'Look here,' he said; 'I'll be square with you. You're in New York to
make money. Well, you aren't going to make it hammering a typewriter.
I'm giving you your chance. I'm going to be square with you. Let me see
that letter, and--'
His voice died away abruptly. The expression on his face changed. He
smiled, and this time the effort was obvious.
'Halloa, Joe!' he said.
Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large and
wholesome and restful.
'I don't want to intrude,' he said; 'but I wanted to see you, Eddy, and
I thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Weston
yesterday--after I got home from the office--and one to you; and
somehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes. It doesn't
matter much, because they both said the same thing.'
'The same thing?'
'Yes; I told you I should be writing to you again on Thursday, to tip
you something good that I was expecting from old Longwood. Jack Weston
has just rung me up on the 'phone to say that he got a letter that
doesn't belong to him. I explained to him and thought I'd drop in here
and explain to you. Why, what's your hurry, Eddy?'
Eddy had risen from his seat.
'I'm due back at the office,' he said, hoarsely.
'Busy man! I'm having a slack day. Well, good-bye. I'll see Mary back.'
Joe seated himself in the vacant chair.
'You're looking tired,' he said. 'Did Eddy talk too much?'
'Yes, he did ... Joe, you were right.'
'Ah--Mary!' Joe chuckled. 'I'll tell you something I didn't tell Eddy.
It wasn't entirely through carelessness that I posted those letters in
the wrong envelopes. In fact, to be absolutely frank, it wasn't through
carelessness at all. There's an old gentleman in Pittsburgh by the name
of John Longwood, who occasionally is good enough to inform me of some
of his intended doings on the market a day or so before the rest of the
world knows them, and Eddy has always shown a strong desire to get
early information too. Do you remember my telling you that your
predecessor at the office left a little abruptly? There was a reason. I
engaged her as a confidential secretary, and she overdid it. She
confided in Eddy. From the look on your face as I came in I gathered
that he had just been proposing that you should perform a similar act
of Christian charity. Had he?'
Mary clenched her hands.
'It's this awful New York!' she cried. 'Eddy was never like that in
Dunsterville.'
'Dunsterville does not offer quite the same scope,' said Joe.
'New York changes everything,' Mary returned. 'It has changed Eddy--it
has changed you.'
He bent towards her and lowered his voice.
'Not altogether,' he said. 'I'm just the same in one way. I've tried to
pretend I had altered, but it's no use. I give it up. I'm still just
the same poor fool who used to hang round staring at you in
Dunsterville.'
A waiter was approaching the table with the air, which waiters
cultivate, of just happening by chance to be going in that direction.
Joe leaned farther forward, speaking quickly.
'And for whom,' he said, 'you didn't care a single, solitary snap of
your fingers, Mary.'
She looked up at him. The waiter hovered, poising for his swoop.
Suddenly she smiled.
'New York has changed me too, Joe,' she said.
'Mary!' he cried.
'Ze pill, sare,' observed the waiter.
Joe turned.
'Ze what!' he exclaimed. 'Well, I'm hanged! Eddy's gone off and left me
to pay for his lunch! That man's a wonder! When it comes to brain-work,
he's in a class by himself.' He paused. 'But I have the luck,' he said.
THE TUPPENNY MILLIONAIRE
In the crowd that strolled on the Promenade des Etrangers, enjoying the
morning sunshine, there were some who had come to Roville for their
health, others who wished to avoid the rigours of the English spring,
and many more who liked the place because it was cheap and close to
Monte Carlo.
None of these motives had brought George Albert Balmer. He was there
because, three weeks before, Harold Flower had called him a vegetable.
What is it that makes men do perilous deeds? Why does a man go over
Niagara Falls in a barrel? Not for his health. Half an hour with a
skipping-rope would be equally beneficial to his liver. No; in nine
cases out of ten he does it to prove to his friends and relations that
he is not the mild, steady-going person they have always thought him.
Observe the music-hall acrobat as he prepares to swing from the roof by
his eyelids. His gaze sweeps the house. 'It isn't true,' it seems to
say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'
It was so with George Balmer.
In London at the present moment there exist some thousands of
respectable, neatly-dressed, mechanical, unenterprising young men,