And now the day of the Final at the Crystal Palace approached, and all
England was alert, confident of a record-breaking contest. But alas!
How truly does Epictetus observe: 'We know not what awaiteth us round
the corner, and the hand that counteth its chickens ere they be hatched
oft-times doth but step on the banana-skin.' The prophets who
anticipated a struggle keener than any in football history were
destined to be proved false.
It was not that their judgement of form was at fault. On the run of the
season's play Houndsditch Wednesday _v_. Manchester United should
have been the two most evenly-matched teams in the history of the game.
Forward, the latter held a slight superiority; but this was balanced by
the inspired goal-keeping of Clarence Tresillian. Even the keenest
supporters of either side were not confident. They argued at length,
figuring out the odds with the aid of stubs of pencils and the backs of
envelopes, but they were not confident. Out of all those frenzied
millions two men alone had no doubts. Mr Daniel Rackstraw said that he
did not desire to be unfair to Manchester United. He wished it to be
clearly understood that in their own class Manchester United might
quite possibly show to considerable advantage. In some rural league,
for instance, he did not deny that they might sweep all before them.
But when it came to competing with Houndsditch Wednesday - here words
failed Mr Rackstraw.
Mr Jacob Dodson, interviewed by the _Manchester Weekly Football
Boot_, stated that his decision, arrived at after a close and
careful study of the work of both teams, was that Houndsditch Wednesday
had rather less chance in the forthcoming tourney than a stuffed rat in
the Battersea Dogs' Home. It was his carefully-considered opinion that
in a contest with the second eleven of a village Church Lads' Brigade,
Houndsditch Wednesday might, with an effort (conceding them that slice
of luck which so often turns the tide of a game), scrape home. But when
it was a question of meeting a team like Manchester United - here Mr
Dodson, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, sank back in his chair,
and watchful secretaries brought him round with oxygen.
Throughout the whole country nothing but the approaching match was
discussed. Wherever civilization reigned, and in portions of Liverpool,
one question alone was on every lip: Who would win? Octogenarians
mumbled it. Infants lisped it. Tired City men, trampled under foot in
the rush for their tram, asked it of the ambulance attendants who
carried them to the hospital.
And then, one bright, clear morning, when the birds sang and all Nature
seemed fair and gay, Clarence Tresillian developed mumps.
London was in a ferment. I could have wished to go into details, to
describe in crisp, burning sentences the panic that swept like a
tornado through a million homes. A little encouragement, the slightest
softening of the editorial austerity and the thing would have been
done. But no. Brevity. That was the cry. Brevity. Let us on.
Houndsditch Wednesday met Manchester United at the Crystal Palace, and
for nearly two hours the sweat of agony trickled unceasingly down the
corrugated foreheads of the patriots in the stands. The men from
Manchester, freed from the fear of Clarence, smiled grim smiles and
proceeded to pile up points. It was in vain that the Houndsditch backs
and halfbacks skimmed like swallows about the field. They could not
keep the score down. From start to finish Houndsditch were a beaten
side.
London during that black period was a desert. Gloom gripped the City.
In distant Brixton red-eyed wives faced silently-scowling husbands at
the evening meal, and the children were sent early to bed. Newsboys
called the extras in a whisper.
Few took the tragedy more nearly to heart than Daniel Rackstraw.
Leaving the ground with the air of a father mourning over some prodigal
son, he encountered Mr Jacob Dodson, of Manchester.
Now, Mr Dodson was perhaps the slightest bit shy on the finer feelings.
He should have respected the grief of a fallen foe. He should have
abstained from exulting. But he was in too exhilarated a condition to
be magnanimous. Sighting Mr Rackstraw, he addressed himself joyously to
the task of rubbing the thing in. Mr Rackstraw listened in silent
anguish.
'If we had had Jones - ' he said at length.
'That's what they all say,' whooped Mr Dodson, 'Jones! Who's Jones?'
'If we had had Jones, we should have - ' He paused. An idea had flashed
upon his overwrought mind. 'Dodson,' he said, 'look here. Wait till
Jones is well again, and let us play this thing off again for anything
you like a side in my private park.'
Mr Dodson reflected.
'You're on,' he said. 'What side bet? A million? Two million? Three?'
Mr Rackstraw shook his head scornfully.
'A million? Who wants a million? I'll put up my Bloomer boot against
your Meredith ball. Does that go?'
'I should say it did,' said Mr Dodson, joyfully. 'I've been wanting
that boot for years. It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking.'
'Very well,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'Then let's get it fixed up.'
Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the short-story writer. I
particularly wished at this point to introduce a description of Mr
Rackstraw's country house and estate, featuring the private football
ground with its fringe of noble trees. It would have served a double
purpose, not only charming the lover of nature, but acting as a fine
stimulus to the youth of the country, showing them the sort of home
they would be able to buy some day if they worked hard and saved their
money. But no. You shall have three guesses as to what was the cry. You
give it up? It was Brevity - brevity! Let us on.
The two teams arrived at Mr Rackstraw's house in time for lunch.
Clarence, his features once more reduced to their customary
finely-chiselled proportions, alighted from the automobile with a
swelling heart. Presently he found an opportunity to slip away and
meet Isabel. I will pass lightly over the meeting of the two lovers.
I will not describe the dewy softness of their eyes, the catching of
their breath, their murmured endearments. I could, mind you. It is at
just such descriptions that I am particularly happy. But I have grown
discouraged. My spirit is broken. It is enough to say that Clarence had
reached a level of emotional eloquence rarely met with among goal-keepers
of the First League, when Isabel broke from him with a startled
exclamation, and vanished; and, looking over his shoulder, Clarence
observed Mr Daniel Rackstraw moving towards him.
It was evident from the millionaire's demeanour that he had seen
nothing. The look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. He
sighted Clarence, and hurried up to him.
'Jones,' he said, 'I've been looking for you. I want a word with you.'
'A thousand, if you wish it,' said Clarence, courteously.
'Now, look here,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'I want to explain to you just
what this game means to me. Don't run away with the idea I've had you
fellows down to play an exhibition game just to keep me merry and
bright. If Houndsditch wins today, K means that I shall be able to hold
up my head again and look my fellow-man in the face, instead of
crawling round on my stomach and feeling like a black-beetle under a
steam-roller. Do you get that?'
'I do,' replied Clarence.
'And not only that,' went on the millionaire. 'There's more. I have put
up my Bloomer boot against Mr Dodson's Meredith hall as a side bet. You
understand what that means? It means that either you win or my life is
soured for ever. See?'
'I have got you,' said Clarence.
'Good. Then what I wanted to say was this. Today is your day for
keeping goal as you've never kept goal before. Everything depends on
you. With you keeping goal like mother used to make it, Houndsditch are
safe. Otherwise they are completely in the bouillon. It's one thing or
the other. It's all up to you. Win, and there's four thousand pounds
waiting for you above what you share with the others.'
Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly.
'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'keep your dross. I care nothing for money.
All I ask of you,' proceeded Clarence, 'is your consent to my
engagement to your daughter.'
Mr Rackstraw looked sharply at him.
'Repeat that,' he said. 'I don't think I quite got it.'
'All I ask is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.'
'Young man,' said Mr Rackstraw, not without a touch of admiration, 'I
admire cheek. But there is a limit. That limit you have passed so far
that you'd need to look for it with a telescope.'
'You refuse your consent?'
'I never said you weren't a clever guesser.'
'Why?'
Mr Rackstraw laughed. One of those nasty, sharp, metallic laughs that
hit you like a bullet.
'How would you support my daughter?'
'I was thinking that you would help to some extent.'
'You were, were you?'
'I was.'
'Oh?'
Mr Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs.
'Well,' he said, 'it's off. You can take that as coming from an
authoritative source. No wedding-bells for you.'
Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bitter
smile curving his expressive lips.
'And no Meredith ball for you!' he cried.
Mr Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger into
him.
'What?' he shouted.
Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence.
'Come, come,' said Mr Rackstraw, 'you wouldn't let a little private
difference like that influence you in a really important thing like
this football match, would you?'
'I would.'
'You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?'
'Every time.'
'Her white-haired old father?'
'The colour of his hair would not affect me.'
'Nothing would move you?'
'Nothing.'
'Then, by George, you're just the son-in-law I want. You shall marry
Isabel; and I'll take you into partnership in my business this very
day. I've been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you for
years. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout.
My boy, we'll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City has
ever seen. Shake hands.'
For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, and
he spoke.
'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'I cannot deceive you.'
'That won't matter,' said the enthusiastic old man. 'I bet you'll be
able to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we'll be
the greatest - '
'My name is not Jones.'
'Nor is mine. What does that matter?'
'My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son of
the Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views - '
'Nonsense, nonsense,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'What are political views
compared with the chance of getting a goal-keeper like you into the
family? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but I
didn't know who you were then.'
'I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos,' said Clarence,
eyeing him doubtfully.
'Then I'll be one too,' cried Mr Rackstraw. 'I own I've set my face
against it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I'll ring up the
Prime Minister on the phone tomorrow, and buy a title myself.'
Clarence's last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man's
hand, outstretched to meet his.
Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I am
at my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.
Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A lady
is coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It is
Isabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the same
stately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail long
ago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs the
child stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case.
'Wah?' he says.
'That?' said Isabel. 'That is the ball Mr Meredith used to play with
when he was a little boy.'
She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to her
lip.
'Hush!' she says. 'We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy in
there cornering wheat.'
And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden.
IN ALCALA
In Alcala, as in most of New York's apartment houses, the schedule of
prices is like a badly rolled cigarette - thick in the middle and thin
at both ends. The rooms half-way up are expensive; some of them almost
as expensive as if Fashion, instead of being gone for ever, were still
lingering. The top rooms are cheap, the ground-floor rooms cheaper
still.
Cheapest of all was the hall-bedroom. Its furniture was of the
simplest. It consisted of a chair, another chair, a worn carpet, and a
folding-bed. The folding-bed had an air of depression and baffled
hopes. For years it had been trying to look like a bookcase in the
daytime, and now it looked more like a folding-bed than ever. There
was also a plain deal table, much stained with ink. At this, night
after night, sometimes far into the morning, Rutherford Maxwell would
sit and write stories. Now and then it happened that one would be a
good story, and find a market.
Rutherford Maxwell was an Englishman, and the younger son of an
Englishman; and his lot was the lot of the younger sons all the world
over. He was by profession one of the numerous employees of the New
Asiatic Bank, which has its branches all over the world. It is a sound,
trustworthy institution, and steady-going relatives would assure
Rutherford that he was lucky to have got a berth in it. Rutherford did
not agree with them. However sound and trustworthy, it was not exactly
romantic. Nor did it err on the side of over-lavishness to those who
served it. Rutherford's salary was small. So were his prospects - if he
remained in the bank. At a very early date he had registered a vow that
he would not. And the road that led out of it for him was the uphill
road of literature.
He was thankful for small mercies. Fate had not been over-kind up to
the present, but at least she had dispatched him to New York, the
centre of things, where he would have the chance to try, instead of to
some spot off the map. Whether he won or lost, at any rate he was in
the ring, and could fight. So every night he sat in Alcala, and wrote.
Sometimes he would only try to write, and that was torture.
There is never an hour of the day or night when Alcala is wholly
asleep. The middle of the house is a sort of chorus-girl belt, while in
the upper rooms there are reporters and other nightbirds. Long after he
had gone to bed, Rutherford would hear footsteps passing his door and
the sound of voices in the passage. He grew to welcome them. They
seemed to connect him with the outer world. But for them he was alone
after he had left the office, utterly alone, as it is possible to be
only in the heart of a great city. Some nights he would hear scraps of
conversations, at rare intervals a name. He used to build up in his
mind identities for the owners of the names. One in particular, Peggy,
gave him much food for thought. He pictured her as bright and
vivacious. This was because she sang sometimes as she passed his door.
She had been singing when he first heard her name. 'Oh, cut it out,
Peggy,' a girl's voice had said. 'Don't you get enough of that tune at
the theatre?' He felt that he would like to meet Peggy.
June came, and July, making an oven of New York, bringing close,
scorching days and nights when the pen seemed made of lead; and still
Rutherford worked on, sipping ice-water, in his shirt-sleeves, and
filling the sheets of paper slowly, but with a dogged persistence which
the weather could not kill. Despite the heat, he was cheerful. Things
were beginning to run his way a little now. A novelette, an airy
trifle, conceived in days when the thermometer was lower and it was
possible to think, and worked out almost mechanically, had been
accepted by a magazine of a higher standing than those which hitherto
had shown him hospitality. He began to dream of a holiday in the woods.
The holiday spirit was abroad. Alcala was emptying itself. It would not
be long before he too would be able to get away.
He was so deep in his thoughts that at first he did not hear the
knocking at the door. But it was a sharp, insistent knocking, and
forced itself upon his attention. He got up and turned the handle.
Outside in the passage was standing a girl, tall and sleepy-eyed. She
wore a picture-hat and a costume the keynote of which was a certain
aggressive attractiveness. There was no room for doubt as to which
particular brand of scent was her favourite at the moment.
She gazed at Rutherford dully. Like Banquo's ghost, she had no
speculation in her eyes. Rutherford looked at her inquiringly, somewhat
conscious of his shirt-sleeves.
'Did you knock?' he said, opening, as a man must do, with the
inevitable foolish question.
The apparition spoke.
'Say,' she said, 'got a cigarette?'
'I'm afraid I haven't,' said Rutherford, apologetically. 'I've been
smoking a pipe. I'm very sorry.'
'What?' said the apparition.
'I'm afraid I haven't.'
'Oh!' A pause. 'Say, got a cigarette?'
The intellectual pressure of the conversation was beginning to be a
little too much for Rutherford. Combined with the heat of the night it
made his head swim.
His visitor advanced into the room. Arriving at the table, she began
fiddling with its contents. The pen seemed to fascinate her. She picked
it up and inspected it closely.
'Say, what d'you call this?' she said.
'That's a pen,' said Rutherford, soothingly. 'A fountain-pen.'
'Oh!' A pause. 'Say, got a cigarette?'
Rutherford clutched a chair with one hand, and his forehead with the
other. He was in sore straits.
At this moment Rescue arrived, not before it was needed. A brisk sound
of footsteps in the passage, and there appeared in the doorway a second
girl.
'What do you think you're doing, Gladys?' demanded the new-comer. 'You
mustn't come butting into folks' rooms this way. Who's your friend?'
'My name is Maxwell,' began Rutherford eagerly.
'What say, Peggy?' said the seeker after cigarettes, dropping a sheet
of manuscript to the floor.
Rutherford looked at the girl in the doorway with interest. So this was
Peggy. She was little, and trim of figure. That was how he had always
imagined her. Her dress was simpler than the other's. The face beneath
the picture-hat was small and well-shaped, the nose delicately
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
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.'