The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
her daughter, or niece, or whatever it was. He began to justify
himself.
'I met your--this young lady'--something told him that was not the
proper way to put it, but hang it, what else could he say?--'at the
casino last night.'
He stopped. The effect of his words on the elderly lady was remarkable.
Her face seemed to turn to stone and become all sharp points. She
stared at the girl.
'So you were gambling at the casino last night?' she said.
She rose from the seat, a frozen statue of displeasure.
'I shall return to the hotel. When you have arranged your financial
transactions with your--friend, I should like to speak to you. You will
find me in my room.'
George looked after her dumbly.
The girl spoke, in a curiously strained voice, as if she were speaking
to herself.
'I don't care,' she said. 'I'm glad.'
George was concerned.
'I'm afraid your mother is offended, Lady Julia.'
There was a puzzled look in her grey eyes as they met his. Then they
lit up. She leaned back in the seat and began to laugh, softly at
first, and then with a note that jarred on George. Whatever the humour
of the situation--and he had not detected it at present--this mirth, he
felt, was unnatural and excessive.
She checked herself at length, and a flush crept over her face.
'I don't know why I did that,' she said, abruptly. 'I'm sorry. There
was nothing funny in what you said. But I'm not Lady Julia, and I have
no mother. That was Lady Julia who has just gone, and I am nothing more
important than her companion.'
'Her companion!'
'I had better say her late companion. It will soon be that. I had
strict orders, you see, not to go near the casino without her--and I
went.'
'Then--then I've lost you your job--I mean, your position! If it hadn't
been for me she wouldn't have known. I--'
'You have done me a great service,' she said. 'You have cut the painter
for me when I have been trying for months to muster up the courage to
cut it for myself. I don't suppose you know what it is to get into a
groove and long to get out of it and not have the pluck. My brother has
been writing to me for a long time to join him in Canada. And I hadn't
the courage, or the energy, or whatever it is that takes people out of
grooves. I knew I was wasting my life, but I was fairly happy--at
least, not unhappy; so--well, there it was. I suppose women are like
that.'
'And now--?'
'And now you have jerked me out of the groove. I shall go out to Bob by
the first boat.'
He scratched the concrete thoughtfully with his stick.
'It's a hard life out there,' he said.
'But it _is_ a life.'
He looked at the strollers on the promenade. They seemed very far
away--in another world.
'Look here,' he said, hoarsely, and stopped. 'May I sit down?' he
asked, abruptly. 'I've got something to say, and I can't say it when
I'm looking at you.'
He sat down, and fastened his gaze on a yacht that swayed at anchor
against the cloudless sky.
'Look here,' he said. 'Will you marry me?'
He heard her turn quickly, and felt her eyes upon him. He went on
doggedly.
'I know,' he said, 'we only met yesterday. You probably think I'm mad.'
'I don't think you're mad,' she said, quietly. 'I only think you're too
quixotic. You're sorry for me and you are letting a kind impulse carry
you away, as you did last night at the casino. It's like you.'
For the first time he turned towards her.
'I don't know what you suppose I am,' he said, 'but I'll tell you. I'm
a clerk in an insurance office. I get a hundred a year and ten days'
holiday. Did you take me for a millionaire? If I am, I'm only a
tuppenny one. Somebody left me a thousand pounds a few weeks ago.
That's how I come to be here. Now you know all about me. I don't know
anything about you except that I shall never love anybody else. Marry
me, and we'll go to Canada together. You say I've helped you out of
your groove. Well, I've only one chance of getting out of mine, and
that's through you. If you won't help me, I don't care if I get out of
it or not. Will you pull me out?'
She did not speak. She sat looking out to sea, past the many-coloured
crowd.
He watched her face, but her hat shaded her eyes and he could read
nothing in it.
And then, suddenly, without quite knowing how it had got there, he
found that her hand was in his, and he was clutching it as a drowning
man clutches a rope.
He could see her eyes now, and there was a message in them that set his
heart racing. A great content filled him. She was so companionable,
such a friend. It seemed incredible to him that it was only yesterday
that they had met for the first time.
'And now,' she said, 'would you mind telling me your name?'
* * * * *
The little waves murmured as they rolled lazily up the beach. Somewhere
behind the trees in the gardens a band had begun to play. The breeze,
blowing in from the blue Mediterranean, was charged with salt and
happiness. And from a seat on the promenade, a young man swept the
crowd with a defiant gaze.
'It isn't true,' it seemed to say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'
AHEAD OF SCHEDULE
It was to Wilson, his valet, with whom he frequently chatted in airy
fashion before rising of a morning, that Rollo Finch first disclosed
his great idea. Wilson was a man of silent habit, and men of silent
habit rarely escaped Rollo's confidences.
'Wilson,' he said one morning from the recesses of his bed, as the
valet entered with his shaving-water, 'have you ever been in love?'
'Yes, sir,' said the valet, unperturbed.
One would hardly have expected the answer to be in the affirmative.
Like most valets and all chauffeurs, Wilson gave the impression of
being above the softer emotions.
'What happened?' inquired Rollo.
'It came to nothing, sir,' said Wilson, beginning to strop the razor
with no appearance of concern.
'Ah!' said Rollo. 'And I bet I know why. You didn't go the right way to
work.'
'No, sir?'
'Not one fellow in a hundred does. I know. I've thought it out. I've
been thinking the deuce of a lot about it lately. It's dashed tricky,
this making love. Most fellows haven't a notion how to work it. No
system. No system, Wilson, old scout.'
'No, sir?'
'Now, I _have_ a system. And I'll tell it you. It may do you a bit
of good next time you feel that impulse. You're not dead yet. Now, my
system is simply to go to it gradually, by degrees. Work by schedule.
See what I mean?'
'Not entirely, sir.'
'Well, I'll give you the details. First thing, you want to find the
girl.'
'Just so, sir.'
'Well, when you've found her, what do you do? You just look at her. See
what I mean?'
'Not entirely, sir.'
'Look at her, my boy. That's just the start--the foundation. You
develop from that. But you keep away. That's the point. I've thought
this thing out. Mind you, I don't claim absolutely all the credit for
the idea myself. It's by way of being based on Christian Science.
Absent treatment, and all that. But most of it's mine. All the fine
work.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Yes. Absolutely all the fine work. Here's the thing in a nutshell. You
find the girl. Right. Of course, you've got to meet her once, just to
establish the connexion. Then you get busy. First week, looks. Just
look at her. Second week, letters. Write to her every day. Third week,
flowers. Send her some every afternoon. Fourth week, presents with a
bit more class about them. Bit of jewellery now and then. See what I
mean? Fifth week,--lunches and suppers and things. Sixth week, propose,
though you can do it in the fifth week if you see a chance. You've got
to leave that to the fellow's judgement. Well, there you are. See what
I mean?'
Wilson stropped his master's razor thoughtfully.
'A trifle elaborate, sir, is it not?' he said.
Rollo thumped the counterpane.
'I knew you'd say that. That's what nine fellows out of ten
_would_ say. They'd want to rush it. I tell you, Wilson, old
scout, you _can't_ rush it.'
Wilson brooded awhile, his mind back in the passionate past.
'In Market Bumpstead, sir--'
'What the deuce is Market Bumpstead?'
'A village, sir, where I lived until I came to London.'
'Well?'
'In Market Bumpstead, sir, the prevailing custom was to escort the
young lady home from church, buy her some little present--some ribbons,
possibly--next day, take her for a walk, and kiss her, sir.'
Wilson's voice, as he unfolded these devices of the dashing youth of
Market Bumpstead, had taken on an animation quite unsuitable to a
conscientious valet. He gave the impression of a man who does not
depend on idle rumour for his facts. His eye gleamed unprofessionally
for a moment before resuming its habitual expression of quiet
introspection.
Rollo shook his head.
'That sort of thing might work in a village,' he said, 'but you want
something better for London.'
* * * * *
Rollo Finch--in the present unsatisfactory state of the law parents may
still christen a child Rollo--was a youth to whom Nature had given a
cheerful disposition not marred by any superfluity of brain. Everyone
liked Rollo--the great majority on sight, the rest as soon as they
heard that he would be a millionaire on the death of his Uncle Andrew.
There is a subtle something, a sort of nebulous charm, as it were,
about young men who will be millionaires on the death of their Uncle
Andrew which softens the ruggedest misanthrope.
Rollo's mother had been a Miss Galloway, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
U.S.A.; and Andrew Galloway, the world-famous Braces King, the inventor
and proprietor of the inimitable 'Tried and Proven', was her brother.
His braces had penetrated to every corner of the earth. Wherever
civilization reigned you would find men wearing Galloway's 'Tried and
Proven'.
Between Rollo and this human benefactor there had always existed
friendly relations, and it was an open secret that, unless his uncle
were to marry and supply the world with little Galloways as well as
braces, the young man would come into his money.
So Rollo moved on his way through life, popular and happy. Always merry
and bright. That was Rollo.
Or nearly always. For there were moments--we all have our greyer
moments--when he could have wished that Mr Galloway had been a trifle
older or a trifle less robust. The Braces potentate was at present
passing, in excellent health, through the Indian summer of life. He
was, moreover, as has been stated, by birth and residence a Pittsburgh
man. And the tendency of middle-aged Pittsburgh millionaires to marry
chorus-girls is notoriously like the homing instinct of pigeons.
Something--it may be the smoke--seems to work on them like a charm.
In the case of Andrew Galloway, Nature had been thwarted up till now by
the accident of an unfortunate attachment in early life. The facts were
not fully known, but it was generally understood that his fiancee had
exercised Woman's prerogative and changed her mind. Also, that she had
done this on the actual wedding-day, causing annoyance to all, and had
clinched the matter by eloping to Jersey City with the prospective
bridegroom's own coachman. Whatever the facts, there was no doubt about
their result. Mr Galloway, having abjured woman utterly, had flung
himself with moody energy into the manufacture and propagation of his
'Tried and Proven' Braces, and had found consolation in it ever since.
He would be strong, he told himself, like his braces. Hearts might snap
beneath a sudden strain. Not so the 'Tried and Proven'. Love might tug
and tug again, but never more should the trousers of passion break away
from the tough, masterful braces of self-control.
As Mr Galloway had been in this frame of mind for a matter of eleven
years, it seemed to Rollo not unreasonable to hope that he might