The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
happy, bright-faced season-ticket holder strolling placidly towards the
station, humming, perhaps, in his light-heartedness, some gay air. He
feels secure. Fate cannot touch him, for he has left himself for once
plenty of time to catch that 8.50, for which he has so often sprinted
like the gazelle of the prairie. As he strolls, suddenly his eye falls
on the church clock. The next moment with a passionate cry he is
endeavouring to lower his record for the fifty-yard dash. All the while
his watch has been fifteen minutes slow.
In just such a case was Rollo Finch. He had fancied that he had plenty
of time. And now, in an instant, the fact was borne in upon him that he
must hurry.
For the greater part of the night of his uncle's dinner he lay
sleepless, vainly endeavouring to find a way out of the difficulty. It
was not till early morning that he faced the inevitable. He hated to
abandon the schedule. To do so meant changing a well-ordered advance
into a forlorn hope. But circumstances compelled it. There are moments
when speed alone can save love's season-ticket holder.
On the following afternoon he acted. It was no occasion for stint. He
had to condense into one day the carefully considered movements of two
weeks, and to the best of his ability he did so. He bought three
bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes, and sent them
to the theatre by messenger-boy. With them went an invitation to
supper.
Then, with the feeling that he had done all that was possible, he
returned to his flat and waited for the hour.
He dressed with more than usual care that night. Your wise general
never throws away a move. He was particular about his tie. As a rule,
Wilson selected one for him. But there had been times when Wilson had
made mistakes. One could not rely absolutely on Wilson's taste in ties.
He did not blame him. Better men than Wilson had gone wrong over an
evening tie. But tonight there must be no taking of chances.
'Where do we keep our ties, Wilson?' he asked.
'The closet to the right of the door, sir. The first twelve shallow
shelves, counting from the top, sir. They contain a fair selection of
our various cravats. Replicas in bulk are to be found in the third nest
of drawers in your dressing-room, sir.'
'I only want one, my good man. I'm not a regiment. Ah! I stake all on
this one. Not a word, Wilson. No discussion. This is the tie I wear.
What's the time?'
'Eight minutes to eleven, sir.'
'I must be off. I shall be late. I shan't want you any more tonight.
Don't wait for me.'
'Very good, sir.'
Rollo left the room, pale but determined, and hailed a taxi.
* * * * *
It is a pleasant spot, the vestibule of the Carlton Hotel.
Glare--glitter--distant music--fair women--brave men. But one can have
too much of it, and as the moments pass, and she does not arrive, a
chill seems to creep into the atmosphere. We wait on, hoping against
hope, and at last, just as waiters and commissionaires are beginning to
eye us with suspicion, we face the truth. She is not coming. Then out we
crawl into cold, callous Pall Mall, and so home. You have been through
it, dear reader, and so have I.
And so, at eleven forty-five that evening, had Rollo. For a full
three-quarters of an hour he waited, scanning the face of each new
arrival with the anxious scrutiny of a lost dog seeking its master; but
at fourteen minutes to twelve the last faint flicker of hope had died
away. A girl may be a quarter of an hour late for supper. She may be
half an hour late. But there is a limit, and to Rollo's mind forty-five
minutes passed it. At ten minutes to twelve a uniformed official
outside the Carlton signalled to a taxi-cab, and there entered it a
young man whose faith in Woman was dead.
Rollo meditated bitterly as he drove home. It was not so much the fact
that she had not come that stirred him. Many things may keep a girl
from supper. It was the calm way in which she had ignored the
invitation. When you send a girl three bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold
Billiken with ruby eyes, you do not expect an entire absence of
recognition. Even a penny-in-the-slot machine treats you better than
that. It may give you hairpins when you want matches but at least it
takes some notice of you.
He was still deep in gloomy thought when he inserted his latchkey and
opened the door of his flat.
He was roused from his reflections by a laugh from the sitting-room. He
started. It was a pleasant laugh, and musical, but it sent Rollo
diving, outraged, for the handle of the door. What was a woman doing in
his sitting-room at this hour? Was his flat an hotel?
The advent of an unbidden guest rarely fails to produce a certain
_gene_. The sudden appearance of Rollo caused a dead silence.
It was broken by the fall of a chair on the carpet as Wilson rose
hurriedly to his feet.
Rollo stood in the doorway, an impressive statue of restrained
indignation. He could see the outlying portions of a girl in blue at
the further end of the table, but Wilson obscured his vision.
'Didn't expect you back, sir,' said Wilson.
For the first time in the history of their acquaintance his accustomed
calm seemed somewhat ruffled.
'So I should think,' said Rollo. 'I believe you, by George!'
'You had better explain, Jim,' said a dispassionate voice from the end
of the table.
Wilson stepped aside.
'My wife, sir,' he said, apologetically, but with pride.
'Your wife!'
'We were married this morning, sir.'
The lady nodded cheerfully at Rollo. She was small and slight, with an
impudent nose and a mass of brown hair.
'Awfully glad to meet you,' she said, cracking a walnut.
Rollo gaped.
She looked at him again.
'We've met, haven't we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. And
you sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you,' she said,
beaming.
She cracked another nut. She seemed to consider that the introductions
were complete and that formality could now be dispensed with once more.
She appeared at peace with all men.
The situation was slipping from Rollo's grip. He continued to gape.
Then he remembered his grievance.
'I think you might have let me know you weren't coming to supper.'
'Supper?'
'I sent a note to the theatre this afternoon.'
'I haven't been to the theatre today. They let me off because I was
going to be married. I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't wait long.'
Rollo's resentment melted before the friendliness of her smile.
'Hardly any time,' he said, untruthfully.
'If I might explain, sir,' said Wilson.
'By George! If you can, you'll save me from a brainstorm. Cut loose,
and don't be afraid you'll bore me. You won't.'
'Mrs Wilson and I are old friends, sir. We come from the same town. In
fact--'
Rollo's face cleared.
'By George! Market what's-its-name! Why, of course. Then she--'
'Just so, sir. If you recollect, you asked me once if I had ever been
in love, and I replied in the affirmative.'
'And it was--'
'Mrs Wilson and I were engaged to be married before either of us came
to London. There was a misunderstanding, which was entirely my--'
'Jim! It was mine.'
'No, it was all through my being a fool.'
'It was not. You know it wasn't!'
Rollo intervened.
'Well?'
'And when you sent me with the flowers, sir--well, we talked it over
again, and--that was how it came about, sir.'
The bride looked up from her walnuts.
'You aren't angry?' she smiled up at Rollo.
'Angry?' He reflected. Of course, it was only reasonable that he should
be a little--well, not exactly angry, but--And then for the first time
it came to him that the situation was not entirely without its
compensations. Until that moment he had completely forgotten Mr
Galloway.
'Angry?' he said. 'Great Scott, no! Jolly glad I came back in time to
get a bit of the wedding-breakfast. I want it, I can tell you. I'm
hungry. Here we all are, eh? Let's enjoy ourselves. Wilson, old scout,
bustle about and give us your imitation of a bridegroom mixing a "B.
and S." for the best man. Mrs Wilson, if you'll look in at the theatre
tomorrow you'll find one or two small wedding presents waiting for you.
Three bouquets--they'll be a bit withered, I'm afraid--a bracelet, and
a gold Billiken with ruby eyes. I hope he'll bring you luck. Oh,
Wilson!'
'Sir?'
'Touching this little business--don't answer if it's a delicate
question, but I _should_ like to know--I suppose you didn't try
the schedule. What? More the Market Thingummy method, eh? The one you
described to me?'
'Market Bumpstead, sir?' said Wilson. 'On those lines.'
Rollo nodded thoughtfully.
'It seems to me,' he said, 'they know a thing or two down in Market
Bumpstead.'
'A very rising little place, sir,' assented Wilson.
SIR AGRAVAINE
A TALE OF KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE
Some time ago, when spending a delightful week-end at the ancestral
castle of my dear old friend, the Duke of Weatherstonhope (pronounced
Wop), I came across an old black-letter MS. It is on this that the
story which follows is based.
I have found it necessary to touch the thing up a little here and
there, for writers in those days were weak in construction. Their idea
of telling a story was to take a long breath and start droning away
without any stops or dialogue till the thing was over.
I have also condensed the title. In the original it ran, '"How it came
about that ye good Knight Sir Agravaine ye Dolorous of ye Table Round
did fare forth to succour a damsel in distress and after divers
journeyings and perils by flood and by field did win her for his bride
and right happily did they twain live ever afterwards," by Ambrose ye
monk.'
It was a pretty snappy title for those days, but we have such a high
standard in titles nowadays that I have felt compelled to omit a few
yards of it.
We may now proceed to the story.
* * * * *
The great tournament was in full swing. All through the afternoon
boiler-plated knights on mettlesome chargers had hurled themselves on
each other's spears, to the vast contentment of all. Bright eyes shone;
handkerchiefs fluttered; musical voices urged chosen champions to knock
the cover off their brawny adversaries. The cheap seats had long since
become hoarse with emotion. All round the arena rose the cries of
itinerant merchants: 'Iced malvoisie,' 'Score-cards; ye cannot tell the
jousters without a score-card.' All was revelry and excitement.
A hush fell on the throng. From either end of the arena a mounted
knight in armour had entered.
The herald raised his hand.
'Ladeez'n gemmen! Battling Galahad and Agravaine the Dolorous. Galahad
on my right, Agravaine on my left. Squires out of the ring. Time!'
A speculator among the crowd offered six to one on Galahad, but found
no takers. Nor was the public's caution without reason.
A moment later the two had met in a cloud of dust, and Agravaine,
shooting over his horse's crupper, had fallen with a metallic clang.
He picked himself up, and limped slowly from the arena. He was not
unused to this sort of thing. Indeed, nothing else had happened to him
in his whole jousting career.
The truth was that Sir Agravaine the Dolorous was out of his element at
King Arthur's court, and he knew it. It was this knowledge that had
given him that settled air of melancholy from which he derived his
title.
Until I came upon this black-letter MS. I had been under the
impression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of the
Round Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Malory says
nothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparently
there were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must have
been the chief.