The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
Thursday and his day off, he was crouching in a constrained attitude in
his garden, every fibre of his being concentrated on the interment of a
plump young bulb. Consequently, when a chunk of mud came sailing over
the fence, he did not notice it.
A second, however, compelled attention by bursting like a shell on the
back of his neck. He looked up, startled. Nobody was in sight. He was
puzzled. It could hardly be raining mud. Yet the alternative theory,
that someone in the next garden was throwing it, was hardly less
bizarre. The nature of his friendship with Sally's Aunt Jane and old
Mr Williams, her husband, was comfortable rather than rollicking. It
was inconceivable that they should be flinging clods at him.
As he stood wondering whether he should go to the fence and look over,
or simply accept the phenomenon as one of those things which no fellow
can understand, there popped up before him the head and shoulders of a
girl. Poised in her right hand was a third clod, which, seeing that
there was now no need for its services, she allowed to fall to the
ground.
'Halloa!' she said. 'Good morning.'
She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Tom was by way of being the
strong, silent man with a career to think of and no time for bothering
about girls, but he saw that. There was, moreover, a certain alertness
in her expression rarely found in the feminine population of
Millbourne, who were apt to be slightly bovine.
'What do you think _you're_ messing about at?' she said, affably.
Tom was a slow-minded young man, who liked to have his thoughts well
under control before he spoke. He was not one of your gay rattlers.
Besides, there was something about this girl which confused him to an
extraordinary extent. He was conscious of new and strange emotions. He
stood staring silently.
'What's your name, anyway?'
He could answer that. He did so.
'Oh! Mine's Sally Preston. Mrs Williams is my aunt. I've come from
London.'
Tom had no remarks to make about London.
'Have you lived here all your life?'
'Yes,' said Tom.
'My goodness! Don't you ever feel fed up? Don't you want a change?'
Tom considered the point.
'No,' he said.
'Well, _I_ do. I want one now.'
'It's a nice place,' hazarded Tom.
'It's nothing of the sort. It's the beastliest hole in existence. It's
absolutely chronic. Perhaps you wonder why I'm here. Don't think I
_wanted_ to come here. Not me! I was sent. It was like this.' She
gave him a rapid summary of her troubles. 'There! Don't you call it a
bit thick?' she concluded.
Tom considered this point, too.
'You must make the best of it,' he said, at length.
'I won't! I'll make father take me back.'
Tom considered this point also. Rarely, if ever, had he been given so
many things to think about in one morning.
'How?' he inquired, at length.
'I don't know. I'll find some way. You see if I don't. I'll get away
from here jolly quick, I give you _my_ word.'
Tom bent low over a rose-bush. His face was hidden, but the brown of
his neck seemed to take on a richer hue, and his ears were undeniably
crimson. His feet moved restlessly, and from his unseen mouth there
proceeded the first gallant speech his lips had ever framed. Merely
considered as a speech, it was, perhaps, nothing wonderful; but from
Tom it was a miracle of chivalry and polish.
What he said was: 'I hope not.'
And instinct telling him that he had made his supreme effort, and that
anything further must be bathos, he turned abruptly and stalked into
his cottage, where he drank tea and ate bacon and thought chaotic
thoughts. And when his appetite declined to carry him more than half-way
through the third rasher, he understood. He was in love.
These strong, silent men who mean to be head-gardeners before they are
thirty, and eliminate woman from their lives as a dangerous obstacle to
the successful career, pay a heavy penalty when they do fall in love.
The average irresponsible young man who has hung about North Street on
Saturday nights, walked through the meadows and round by the mill and
back home past the creek on Sunday afternoons, taken his seat in the
brake for the annual outing, shuffled his way through the polka at the
tradesmen's ball, and generally seized all legitimate opportunities
for sporting with Amaryllis in the shade, has a hundred advantages
which your successful careerer lacks. There was hardly a moment during
the days which followed when Tom did not regret his neglected
education.
For he was not Sally's only victim in Millbourne. That was the trouble.
Her beauty was not of that elusive type which steals imperceptibly into
the vision of the rare connoisseur. It was sudden and compelling. It
hit you. Bright brown eyes beneath a mass of fair hair, a determined
little chin, a slim figure--these are disturbing things; and the
youths of peaceful Millbourne sat up and took notice as one youth.
Throw your mind back to the last musical comedy you saw. Recall the
leading lady's song with chorus of young men, all proffering devotion
simultaneously in a neat row. Well, that was how the lads of the
village comported themselves towards Sally.
Mr and Mrs Williams, till then a highly-esteemed but little-frequented
couple, were astonished at the sudden influx of visitors. The cottage
became practically a _salon_. There was not an evening when the
little sitting-room looking out on the garden was not packed. It is
true that the conversation lacked some of the sparkle generally found
in the better class of _salon_. To be absolutely accurate, there
was hardly any conversation. The youths of Melbourne were sturdy and
honest. They were the backbone of England. England, in her hour of
need, could have called upon them with the comfortable certainty that,
unless they happened to be otherwise engaged, they would leap to her
aid.
But they did not shine at small-talk. Conversationally they were a
spent force after they had asked Mr Williams how his rheumatism was.
Thereafter they contented themselves with sitting massively about in
corners, glowering at each other. Still, it was all very jolly and
sociable, and helped to pass the long evenings. And, as Mrs Williams
pointed out, in reply to some rather strong remarks from Mr Williams on
the subject of packs of young fools who made it impossible for a man to
get a quiet smoke in his own home, it kept them out of the public-houses.
Tom Kitchener, meanwhile, observed the invasion with growing dismay.
Shyness barred him from the evening gatherings, and what was going on
in that house, with young bloods like Ted Pringle, Albert Parsons,
Arthur Brown, and Joe Blossom (to name four of the most assiduous)
exercising their fascinations at close range, he did not like to
think. Again and again he strove to brace himself up to join the feasts
of reason and flows of soul which he knew were taking place nightly
around the object of his devotions, but every time he failed. Habit is
a terrible thing; it shackles the strongest, and Tom had fallen into
the habit of inquiring after Mr Williams' rheumatism over the garden
fence first thing in the morning.
It was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but it annihilated the only
excuse he could think of for looking in at night. He could not help
himself. It was like some frightful scourge--the morphine habit, or
something of that sort. Every morning he swore to himself that nothing
would induce him to mention the subject of rheumatism, but no sooner
had the stricken old gentleman's head appeared above the fence than
out it came.
'Morning, Mr Williams.'
'Morning, Tom.'
Pause, indicative of a strong man struggling with himself; then:
'How's the rheumatism, Mr Williams?'
'Better, thank'ee, Tom.'
And there he was, with his guns spiked.
However, he did not give up. He brought to his wooing the same
determination which had made him second gardener at the Hall at
twenty-five. He was a novice at the game, but instinct told him that a
good line of action was to shower gifts. He did so. All he had to shower
was vegetables, and he showered them in a way that would have caused the
goddess Ceres to be talked about. His garden became a perfect crater,
erupting vegetables. Why vegetables? I think I hear some heckler cry.
Why not flowers--fresh, fair, fragrant flowers? You can do a lot with
flowers. Girls love them. There is poetry in them. And, what is more,
there is a recognized language of flowers. Shoot in a rose, or a
calceolaria, or an herbaceous border, or something, I gather, and you
have made a formal proposal of marriage without any of the trouble of
rehearsing a long speech and practising appropriate gestures in front
of your bedroom looking-glass. Why, then, did not Thomas Kitchener give
Sally Preston flowers? Well, you see, unfortunately, it was now late
autumn, and there were no flowers. Nature had temporarily exhausted her
floral blessings, and was jogging along with potatoes and artichokes
and things. Love is like that. It invariably comes just at the wrong
time. A few months before there had been enough roses in Tom
Kitchener's garden to win the hearts of a dozen girls. Now there were
only vegetables, 'Twas ever thus.
It was not to be expected that a devotion so practically displayed
should escape comment. This was supplied by that shrewd observer, old
Mr Williams. He spoke seriously to Tom across the fence on the subject
of his passion.
'Young Tom,' he said, 'drop it.'
Tom muttered unintelligibly. Mr Williams adjusted the top-hat without
which he never stirred abroad, even into his garden. He blinked
benevolently at Tom.
'You're making up to that young gal of Jane's,' he proceeded. 'You
can't deceive _me_. All these p'taties, and what not. _I_ seen
your game fast enough. Just you drop it, young Tom.'
'Why?' muttered Tom, rebelliously. A sudden distaste for old Mr
Williams blazed within him.
'Why? 'Cos you'll only burn your fingers if you don't, that's why. I
been watching this young gal of Jane's, and I seen what sort of a young
gal she be. She's a flipperty piece, that's what she be. You marry that
young gal, Tom, and you'll never have no more quiet and happiness.
She'd just take and turn the place upsy-down on you. The man as marries
that young gal has got to be master in his own home. He's got to show
her what's what. Now, you ain't got the devil in you to do that, Tom.
You're what I might call a sort of a sheep. I admires it in you, Tom. I
like to see a young man steady and quiet, same as what you be. So
that's how it is, you see. Just you drop this foolishness, young Tom,
and leave that young gal be, else you'll burn your fingers, same as
what I say.'
And, giving his top-hat a rakish tilt, the old gentleman ambled
indoors, satisfied that he had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasant and
tactful manner.
It is to be supposed that this interview stung Tom to swift action.
Otherwise, one cannot explain why he should not have been just as
reticent on the subject nearest his heart when bestowing on Sally the
twenty-seventh cabbage as he had been when administering the hundred
and sixtieth potato. At any rate, the fact remains that, as that
fateful vegetable changed hands across the fence, something resembling
a proposal of marriage did actually proceed from him. As a sustained
piece of emotional prose it fell short of the highest standard. Most of
it was lost at the back of his throat, and what did emerge was mainly
inaudible. However, as she distinctly caught the word 'love' twice, and
as Tom was shuffling his feet and streaming with perspiration, and
looking everywhere at once except at her, Sally grasped the situation.
Whereupon, without any visible emotion, she accepted him.
Tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. He could not believe his