The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
interested. Does she live in the grey house with the pigs and chickens
and all them roses, and the rest of the rube outfit?'
'No.'
'Be chummy, George. What's the matter with you?'
'I'm sorry, Peggy,' he said. 'I'm a fool. It's only that it all seems
so damned hopeless! Here am I, earning about half a dollar a year,
and--Still, it's no use kicking, is it? Besides, I may make a home-run
with my writing one of these days. That's what I meant when I said you
were a Billiken, Peggy. Do you know, you've brought me luck. Ever since
I met you, I've been doing twice as well. You're my mascot.'
'Bully for me! We've all got our uses in the world, haven't we? I
wonder if it would help any if I was to kiss you, George?'
'Don't you do it. One mustn't work a mascot too hard.'
She jumped down, and came across the room to where he sat, looking down
at him with the round, grey eyes that always reminded him of a
kitten's.
'George!'
'Yes?'
'Oh, nothing!'
She turned away to the mantelpiece, and stood gazing at the photograph,
her back towards him.
'George!'
'Hullo?'
'Say, what colour eyes has she got?'
'Grey.'
'Like mine?'
'Darker than yours.'
'Nicer than mine?'
'Don't you think we might talk about something else?'
She swung round, her fists clenched, her face blazing.
'I hate you!' she cried. 'I do! I wish I'd never seen you! I wish--'
She leaned on the mantelpiece, burying her face in her arms, and burst
into a passion of sobs. Rutherford leaped up, shocked and helpless. He
sprang to her, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
'Peggy, old girl--'
She broke from him.
'Don't you touch me! Don't you do it! Gee, I wish I'd never seen you!'
She ran to the door, darted through, and banged it behind her.
Rutherford remained where he stood, motionless. Then, almost
mechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe.
Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. She
was pale, and her eyes were red. She smiled--a pathetic little smile.
'Peggy!'
He took a step towards her.
She held out her hand.
'I'm sorry, George. I feel mean.'
'Dear old girl, what rot!'
'I do. You don't know how mean I feel. You've been real nice to me,
George. Thought I'd look in and say I was sorry. Good night, George!'
On the following night he waited, but she did not come. The nights went
by, and still she did not come. And one morning, reading his paper, he
saw that _The Island of Girls_ had gone west to Chicago.
4
Things were not running well for Rutherford. He had had his vacation, a
golden fortnight of fresh air and sunshine in the Catskills, and was
back in Alcala, trying with poor success, to pick up the threads of his
work. But though the Indian Summer had begun, and there was energy in
the air, night after night he sat idle in his room; night after night
went wearily to bed, oppressed with a dull sense of failure. He could
not work. He was restless. His thoughts would not concentrate
themselves. Something was wrong; and he knew what it was, though he
fought against admitting it to himself. It was the absence of Peggy
that had brought about the change. Not till now had he realized to the
full how greatly her visits had stimulated him. He had called her
laughingly his mascot; but the thing was no joke. It was true. Her
absence was robbing him of the power to write.
He was lonely. For the first time since he had come to New York he was
really lonely. Solitude had not hurt him till now. In his black moments
it had been enough for him to look up at the photograph on the
mantelpiece, and instantly he was alone no longer. But now the
photograph had lost its magic. It could not hold him. Always his mind
would wander back to the little, black-haired ghost that sat on the
table, smiling at him, and questioning him with its grey eyes.
And the days went by, unvarying in their monotony. And always the ghost
sat on the table, smiling at him.
With the Fall came the reopening of the theatres. One by one the
electric signs blazed out along Broadway, spreading the message that
the dull days were over, and New York was itself again. At the Melody,
where ages ago _The Island of Girls_ had run its light-hearted
course, a new musical piece was in rehearsal. Alcala was full once
more. The nightly snatches of conversation outside his door had
recommenced. He listened for her voice, but he never heard it.
He sat up, waiting, into the small hours, but she did not come. Once he
had been trying to write, and had fallen, as usual, to brooding--there
was a soft knock at the door. In an instant he had bounded from his
chair, and turned the handle. It was one of the reporters from
upstairs, who had run out of matches. Rutherford gave him a handful.
The reporter went out, wondering what the man had laughed at.
There is balm in Broadway, especially by night. Depression vanishes
before the cheerfulness of the great white way when the lights are lit
and the human tide is in full flood. Rutherford had developed of late a
habit of patrolling the neighbourhood of Forty-Second Street at
theatre-time. He found it did him good. There is a gaiety, a bonhomie,
in the atmosphere of the New York streets. Rutherford loved to stand on
the sidewalk and watch the passers-by, weaving stories round them.
One night his wanderings had brought him to Herald Square. The theatres
were just emptying themselves. This was the time he liked best. He drew
to one side to watch, and as he moved he saw Peggy.
She was standing at the corner, buttoning a glove. He was by her side
in an instant.
'Peggy!' he cried.
She was looking pale and tired, but the colour came back to her cheeks
as she held out her hand. There was no trace of embarrassment in her
manner; only a frank pleasure at seeing him again.
'Where have you been?' he said. 'I couldn't think what had become of
you.'
She looked at him curiously.
'Did you miss me, George?'
'Miss you? Of course I did. My work's been going all to pieces since
you went away.'
'I only came back last night. I'm in the new piece at the Madison. Gee,
I'm tired, George! We've been rehearsing all day.'
He took her by the arm.
'Come along and have some supper. You look worn out. By Jove, Peggy,
it's good seeing you again! Can you walk as far as Rector's, or shall I
carry you?'
'Guess I can walk that far. But Rector's? Has your rich uncle died and
left you a fortune, George?'
'Don't you worry, Peggy. This is an occasion. I thought I was never
going to see you again. I'll buy you the whole hotel, if you like.'
'Just supper'll do, I guess. You're getting quite the rounder, George.'
'You bet I am. There are all sorts of sides to my character you've
never so much as dreamed of.'
They seemed to know Peggy at Rector's. Paul, the head waiter, beamed
upon her paternally. One or two men turned and looked after her as she
passed. The waiters smiled slight but friendly smiles. Rutherford,
intent on her, noticed none of these things.
Despite her protests, he ordered an elaborate and expensive supper. He
was particular about the wine. The waiter, who had been doubtful about
him, was won over, and went off to execute the order, reflecting that
it was never safe to judge a man by his clothes, and that Rutherford
was probably one of these eccentric young millionaires who didn't care
how they dressed.
'Well?' said Peggy, when he had finished.
'Well?' said Rutherford.
'You're looking brown, George.'
'I've been away in the Catskills.'
'Still as strong on the rube proposition as ever?'
'Yes. But Broadway has its points, too.'
'Oh, you're beginning to see that? Gee, I'm glad to be back. I've had
enough of the Wild West. If anybody ever tries to steer you west of
Eleventh Avenue, George, don't you go. There's nothing doing. How have
you been making out at your writing stunt?'
'Pretty well. But I wanted you. I was lost without my mascot. I've got
a story in this month's _Wilson's_. A long story, and paid
accordingly. That's why I'm able to go about giving suppers to great
actresses.'
'I read it on the train,' said Peggy. 'It's dandy. Do you know what you
ought to do, George? You ought to turn it into a play. There's a heap
of money in plays.'
'I know. But who wants a play by an unknown man?'
'I know who would want _Willie in the Wilderness_, if you made it
into a play, and that's Winfield Knight. Ever seen him?'
'I saw him in _The Outsider_. He's clever.'
'He's It, if he gets a part to suit him. If he doesn't, he don't amount
to a row of beans. It's just a gamble. This thing he's in now is no
good. The part doesn't begin to fit him. In a month he'll be squealing
for another play, so's you can hear him in Connecticut.'
'He shall not squeal in vain,' said Rutherford. 'If he wants my work,
who am I that I should stand in the way of his simple pleasures? I'll
start on the thing tomorrow.'
'I can help you some too, I guess. I used to know Winfield Knight. I
can put you wise on lots of things about him that'll help you work up
Willie's character so's it'll fit him like a glove.'
Rutherford raised his glass.
'Peggy,' he said, 'you're more than a mascot. You ought to be drawing a
big commission on everything I write. It beats me how any of these
other fellows ever write anything without you there to help them. I
wonder what's the most expensive cigar they keep here? I must have it,
whatever it is. _Noblesse oblige_. We popular playwrights mustn't
be seen in public smoking any cheap stuff.'
* * * * *
It was Rutherford's artistic temperament which, when they left the
restaurant, made him hail a taxi-cab. Taxi-cabs are not for young men
drawing infinitesimal salaries in banks, even if those salaries are
supplemented at rare intervals by a short story in a magazine. Peggy
was for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused to
countenance such an anti-climax.
Peggy nestled into the corner of the cab, with a tired sigh, and there
was silence as they moved smoothly up Broadway.
He peered at her in the dim light. She looked very small and wistful
and fragile. Suddenly an intense desire surged over him to pick her up
and crush her to him. He fought against it. He tried to fix his
thoughts on the girl at home, to tell himself that he was a man of
honour. His fingers, gripping the edge of the seat, tightened till
every muscle of his arm was rigid.
The cab, crossing a rough piece of road, jolted Peggy from her corner.
Her hand fell on his.
'Peggy!' he cried, hoarsely.
Her grey eyes were wet. He could see them glisten. And then his arms
were round her, and he was covering her upturned face with kisses.
The cab drew up at the entrance to Alcala. They alighted in silence,
and without a word made their way through into the hall. From force of
habit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot of
the stairs. There was one letter in his pigeon-hole.
Mechanically he drew it out; and, as his eyes fell on the handwriting,
something seemed to snap inside him.
He looked at Peggy, standing on the bottom stair, and back again at the
envelope in his hand. His mood was changing with a violence that left
him physically weak. He felt dazed, as if he had wakened out of a
trance.
With a strong effort he mastered himself. Peggy had mounted a few
steps, and was looking back at him over her shoulder. He could read the
meaning now in the grey eyes.
'Good night, Peggy,' he said in a low voice. She turned, facing him,
and for a moment neither moved.
'Good night!' said Rutherford again.
Her lips parted, as if she were about to speak, but she said nothing.
Then she turned again, and began to walk slowly upstairs.