The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
tip-tilted, the chin determined, the mouth a little wide and suggesting
good-humour. A pair of grey eyes looked steadily into his before
transferring themselves to the statuesque being at the table.
'Don't monkey with the man's inkwell, Gladys. Come along up to bed.'
'What? Say, got a cigarette?'
'There's plenty upstairs. Come along.'
The other went with perfect docility. At the door she paused, and
inspected Rutherford with a grave stare.
'Good night, boy!' she said, with haughty condescension.
'Good night!' said Rutherford.
'Pleased to have met you. Good night.'
'Good night!' said Rutherford.
'Good night!'
'Come along, Gladys,' said Peggy, firmly.
Gladys went.
Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief,
feeling a little weak. He was not used to visitors.
2
He had lit his pipe, and was re-reading his night's work preparatory to
turning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time there
was no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallest
noise.
'Come in!' he cried.
It was Peggy.
Rutherford jumped to his feet.
'Won't you--' he began, pushing the chair forward.
She seated herself with composure on the table. She no longer wore the
picture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusion
that the change was an improvement.
'This'll do for me,' she said. 'Thought I'd just look in. I'm sorry
about Gladys. She isn't often like that. It's the hot weather.'
'It is hot,' said Rutherford.
'You've noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for Sherlock
Holmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?'
'Good heavens, no! Why?'
'She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn't thought to
get another. She's a good girl really, only she gets like that
sometimes in the hot weather.' She looked round the room for a moment,
then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. 'What did you say your name was?'
she asked.
'Rutherford Maxwell.'
'Gee! That's going some, isn't it? Wants amputation, a name like that.
I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like--what's
it? Rutherford? I got it--to go through the world with. Haven't you got
something shorter--Tom, or Charles or something?'
'I'm afraid not.'
The round, grey eyes fixed him again.
'I shall call you George,' she decided at last.
'Thanks, I wish you would,' said Rutherford.
'George it is, then. You can call me Peggy. Peggy Norton's my name.'
'Thanks, I will.'
'Say, you're English, aren't you?' she said.
'Yes. How did you know?'
'You're so strong on the gratitude thing. It's "Thanks, thanks," all
the time. Not that I mind it, George.'
'Thanks. Sorry. I should say, "Oh, you Peggy!"'
She looked at him curiously.
'How d'you like New York, George?'
'Fine--tonight.'
'Been to Coney?'
'Not yet.'
'You should. Say, what do you do, George?'
'What do I do?'
'Cut it out, George! Don't answer back as though we were a vaudeville
team doing a cross-talk act. What do you do? When your boss crowds your
envelope on to you Saturdays, what's it for?'
'I'm in a bank.'
'Like it?'
'Hate it!'
'Why don't you quit, then?'
'Can't afford to. There's money in being in a bank. Not much, it's
true, but what there is of it is good.'
'What are you doing out of bed at this time of night? They don't work
you all day, do they?'
'No; they'd like to, but they don't. I have been writing.'
'Writing what? Say, you don't mind my putting you on the witness-stand,
do you? If you do, say so, and I'll cut out the District Attorney act
and talk about the weather.'
'Not a bit, really, I assure you. Please ask as many questions as you
like.'
'Guess there's no doubt about your being English, George. We don't have
time over here to shoot it off like that. If you'd have just said
"Sure!" I'd have got a line on your meaning. You don't mind me doing
school-marm, George, do you? It's all for your good.'
'Sure,' said Rutherford, with a grin.
She smiled approvingly.
'That's better! You're Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. What
were we talking about before we switched off on to the educational
rail? I know--about your writing. What were you writing?'
'A story.'
'For a paper?'
'For a magazine.'
'What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girl
whose life he saved, like you read?'
'That's the idea.'
She looked at him with a new interest.
'Gee, George, who'd have thought it! Fancy you being one of the
high-brows! You ought to hang out a sign. You look just ordinary.'
'Thanks!'
'I mean as far as the grey matter goes. I didn't mean you were a bad
looker. You're not. You've got nice eyes, George.'
'Thanks.'
'I like the shape of your nose, too.'
'I say, thanks!'
'And your hair's just lovely!'
'I say, really. Thanks awfully!'
She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:
'You say you don't like the bank?'
'I certainly don't.'
'And you'd like to strike some paying line of business?'
'Sure.'
'Then why don't you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to a
museum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That's what you are. You
sit there just saying "Thanks," and "Bai Jawve, thanks awf'lly," while
a girl's telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and you
don't do a thing!'
Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter.
'I'm sorry!' he said. 'Slowness is our national failing, you know.'
'I believe you.'
'Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, by now. What do you do
besides brightening up the dull evenings of poor devils of bank-clerks?'
'Give you three guesses.'
'Stage?'
'Gee! You're the human sleuth all right, all right! It's a home-run
every time when you get your deductive theories unlimbered. Yes,
George; the stage it is. I'm an actorine--one of the pony ballet in
_The Island of Girls_ at the Melody. Seen our show?'
'Not yet. I'll go tomorrow.'
'Great! I'll let them know, so that they can have the awning out and
the red carpet down. It's a cute little piece.'
'So I've heard.'
'Well, if I see you in front tomorrow, I'll give you half a smile, so
that you shan't feel you haven't got your money's worth. Good night,
George!'
'Good night, Peggy!'
She jumped down from the table. Her eye was caught by the photographs
on the mantelpiece. She began to examine them.
'Who are these Willies?' she said, picking up a group.
'That is the football team of my old school. The lout with the sheepish
smirk, holding the ball, is myself as I was before the cares of the
world soured me.'
Her eye wandered along the mantelpiece, and she swooped down on a
cabinet photograph of a girl.
'And who's _this_, George?' she cried.
He took the photograph from her, and replaced it, with a curious blend
of shyness and defiance, in the very centre of the mantelpiece. For a
moment he stood looking intently at it, his elbows resting on the
imitation marble.
'Who is it?' asked Peggy. 'Wake up, George. Who's this?'
Rutherford started.
'Sorry,' he said. 'I was thinking about something.'
'I bet you were. You looked like it. Well, who is she?'
'Eh! Oh, that's a girl.'
Peggy laughed satirically.
'Thanks awf'lly, as you would say. I've got eyes, George.'
'I noticed that,' said Rutherford, smiling. 'Charming ones, too.'
'Gee! What would she say if she heard you talking like that!'
She came a step nearer, looking up at him. Their eyes met.
'She would say,' said Rutherford, slowly: '"I know you love me, and I
know I can trust you, and I haven't the slightest objection to your
telling Miss Norton the truth about her eyes. Miss Norton is a dear,
good little sort, one of the best, in fact, and I hope you'll be great
pals!"'
There was a silence.
'She'd say that, would she?' said Peggy, at last.
'She would.'
Peggy looked at the photograph, and back again at Rutherford.
'You're pretty fond of her, George, I guess, aren't you?'
'I am,' said Rutherford, quietly.
'George.'
'Yes?'
'George, she's a pretty good long way away, isn't she?'
She looked up at him with a curious light in her grey eyes. Rutherford
met her glance steadily.
'Not to me,' he said. 'She's here now, and all the time.'
He stepped away and picked up the sheaf of papers which he had dropped
at Peggy's entrance. Peggy laughed.
'Good night, Georgie boy,' she said. 'I mustn't keep you up any more,
or you'll be late in the morning. And what would the bank do then?
Smash or something, I guess. Good night, Georgie! See you again one of
these old evenings.'
'Good night, Peggy!'
The door closed behind her. He heard her footsteps hesitate, stop, and
then move quickly on once more.
3
He saw much of her after this first visit. Gradually it became an
understood thing between them that she should look in on her return
from the theatre. He grew to expect her, and to feel restless when she
was late. Once she brought the cigarette-loving Gladys with her, but
the experiment was not a success. Gladys was languid and rather
overpoweringly refined, and conversation became forced. After that,
Peggy came alone.
Generally she found him working. His industry amazed her.
'Gee, George,' she said one night, sitting in her favourite place on
the table, from which he had moved a little pile of manuscript to make
room for her. 'Don't you ever let up for a second? Seems to me you
write all the time.'
Rutherford laughed.
'I'll take a rest,' he said, 'when there's a bit more demand for my
stuff than there is at present. When I'm in the twenty-cents-a-word
class I'll write once a month, and spend the rest of my time
travelling.'
Peggy shook her head.
'No travelling for mine,' she said. 'Seems to me it's just cussedness
that makes people go away from Broadway when they've got plunks enough
to stay there and enjoy themselves.'
'Do you like Broadway, Peggy?'
'Do I like Broadway? Does a kid like candy? Why, don't you?'
'It's all right for the time. It's not my ideal.'
'Oh, and what particular sort of little old Paradise do _you_
hanker after?'
He puffed at his pipe, and looked dreamily at her through the smoke.
'Way over in England, Peggy, there's a county called Worcestershire.
And somewhere near the edge of that there's a grey house with gables,
and there's a lawn and a meadow and a shrubbery, and an orchard and a
rose-garden, and a big cedar on the terrace before you get to the
rose-garden. And if you climb to the top of that cedar, you can see the
river through the apple trees in the orchard. And in the distance there
are hills. And--'
'Of all the rube joints!' exclaimed Peggy, in deep disgust. 'Why, a day
of that would be about twenty-three hours and a bit too long for me.
Broadway for mine! Put me where I can touch Forty-Second Street without
over-balancing, and then you can leave me. I never thought you were
such a hayseed, George.'
'Don't worry, Peggy. It'll be a long time, I expect, before I go there.
I've got to make my fortune first.'
'Getting anywhere near the John D. class yet?'
'I've still some way to go. But things are moving, I think. Do you
know, Peggy, you remind me of a little Billiken, sitting on that
table?'
'Thank _you_, George. I always knew my mouth was rather wide, but
I did think I had Billiken to the bad. Do you do that sort of Candid
Friend stunt with _her_?' She pointed to the photograph on the
mantelpiece. It was the first time since the night when they had met
that she had made any allusion to it. By silent agreement the subject
had been ruled out between them. 'By the way, you never told me her
name.'
'Halliday,' said Rutherford, shortly.
'What else?'
'Alice.'
'Don't bite at me, George! I'm not hurting you. Tell me about her. I'm