If Ginger Kemp had been asked to enumerate his good qualities, it is notprobable that he would have drawn up a very lengthy list. He might havestarted by claiming for himself the virtue of meaning well, but afterthat he would have had to chew the pencil in prolonged meditation. And,even if he could eventually have added one or two further items to thecatalogue, tact and delicacy of feeling would not have been among them.
Yet, by staying away from Sally during the next few days he showedconsiderable delicacy. It was not easy to stay away from her, but heforced himself to do so. He argued from his own tastes, and was stronglyof opinion that in times of travail, solitude was what the sufferer mostdesired. In his time he, too, had had what he would have described asnasty jars, and on these occasions all he had asked was to be allowed tosit and think things over and fight his battle out by himself.
By Saturday, however, he had come to the conclusion that some form ofaction might now be taken. Saturday was rather a good day for picking upthe threads again. He had not to go to the office, and, what was stillmore to the point, he had just drawn his week's salary. Mrs. Meecher haddeftly taken a certain amount of this off him, but enough remained toenable him to attempt consolation on a fairly princely scale. Therepresented itself to him as a judicious move the idea of hiring a car andtaking Sally out to dinner at one of the road-houses he had heard aboutup the Boston Post Road. He examined the scheme. The more he looked atit, the better it seemed.
He was helped to this decision by the extraordinary perfection of theweather. The weather of late had been a revelation to Ginger. It was hisfirst experience of America's Indian Summer, and it had quite overcomehim. As he stood on the roof of Mrs. Meecher's establishment on theSaturday morning, thrilled by the velvet wonder of the sunshine, itseemed to him that the only possible way of passing such a day was totake Sally for a ride in an open car.
The Maison Meecher was a lofty building on one of the side-streets atthe lower end of the avenue. From its roof, after you had workedyour way through the groves of washing which hung limply from theclothes-line, you could see many things of interest. To the leftlay Washington Square, full of somnolent Italians and roller-skatingchildren; to the right was a spectacle which never failed to intrigueGinger, the high smoke-stacks of a Cunard liner moving slowly down theriver, sticking up over the house-tops as if the boat was travellingdown Ninth Avenue.
To-day there were four of these funnels, causing Ginger to deduce theMauritania. As the boat on which he had come over from England, theMauritania had a sentimental interest for him. He stood watching herstately progress till the higher buildings farther down the town shuther from his sight; then picked his way through the washing and wentdown to his room to get his hat. A quarter of an hour later he wasin the hall-way of Sally's apartment house, gazing with ill-concealeddisgust at the serge-clad back of his cousin Mr. Carmyle, who wasengaged in conversation with a gentleman in overalls.
No care-free prospector, singing his way through the Mojave Desertand suddenly finding himself confronted by a rattlesnake, could haveexperienced so abrupt a change of mood as did Ginger at this revoltingspectacle. Even in their native Piccadilly it had been unpleasant to runinto Mr. Carmyle. To find him here now was nothing short of nauseating.Only one thing could have brought him to this place. Obviously, he musthave come to see Sally; and with a sudden sinking of the heart Gingerremembered the shiny, expensive automobile which he had seen waiting atthe door. He, it was clear, was not the only person to whom the idea hadoccurred of taking Sally for a drive on this golden day.
He was still standing there when Mr. Carmyle swung round with a frownon his dark face which seemed to say that he had not found the janitor'sconversation entertaining. The sight of Ginger plainly did nothing tolighten his gloom.
"Hullo!" he said.
"Hullo!" said Ginger.
Uncomfortable silence followed these civilities.
"Have you come to see Miss Nicholas?"
"Why, yes."
"She isn't here," said Mr. Carmyle, and the fact that he had foundsomeone to share the bad news, seemed to cheer him a little.
"Not here?"
"No. Apparently..." Bruce Carmyle's scowl betrayed that resentment whicha well-balanced man cannot but feel at the unreasonableness of others."... Apparently, for some extraordinary reason, she has taken it intoher head to dash over to England."
Ginger tottered. The unexpectedness of the blow was crushing. Hefollowed his cousin out into the sunshine in a sort of dream. BruceCarmyle was addressing the driver of the expensive automobile.
"I find I shall not want the car. You can take it back to the garage."
The chauffeur, a moody man, opened one half-closed eye and spatcautiously. It was the way Rockefeller would have spat when approachingthe crisis of some delicate financial negotiation.
"You'll have to pay just the same," he observed, opening his other eyeto lend emphasis to the words.
"Of course I shall pay," snapped Mr. Carmyle, irritably. "How much isit?"
Money passed. The car rolled off.
"Gone to England?" said Ginger, dizzily.
"Yes, gone to England."
"But why?"
"How the devil do I know why?" Bruce Carmyle would have found his bestfriend trying at this moment. Gaping Ginger gave him almost a physicalpain. "All I know is what the janitor told me, that she sailed on theMauretania this morning."
The tragic irony of this overcame Ginger. That he should have stood onthe roof, calmly watching the boat down the river...
He nodded absently to Mr. Carmyle and walked off. He had no furtherremarks to make. The warmth had gone out of the sunshine and allinterest had departed from his life. He felt dull, listless, at a looseend. Not even the thought that his cousin, a careful man with his money,had had to pay a day's hire for a car which he could not use brought himany balm. He loafed aimlessly about the streets. He wandered in the Parkand out again. The Park bored him. The streets bored him. The wholecity bored him. A city without Sally in it was a drab, futile city, andnothing that the sun could do to brighten it could make it otherwise.
Night came at last, and with it a letter. It was the first even passablypleasant thing that had happened to Ginger in the whole of this drearyand unprofitable day: for the envelope bore the crest of the good shipMauretania. He snatched it covetously from the letter-rack, and carriedit upstairs to his room.
Very few of the rooms at Mrs. Meecher's boarding-house struck anynote of luxury. Mrs. Meecher was not one of your fashionable interiordecorators. She considered that when she had added a Morris chair to theessentials which make up a bedroom, she had gone as far in the directionof pomp as any guest at seven-and-a-half per could expect her to go. Asa rule, the severity of his surroundings afflicted Ginger with a touchof gloom when he went to bed; but to-night--such is the magic of aletter from the right person--he was uplifted and almost gay. There aremoments when even illuminated texts over the wash-stand cannot whollyquell us.
There was nothing of haste and much of ceremony in Ginger's method ofapproaching the perusal of his correspondence. He bore himself after themanner of a small boy in the presence of unexpected ice-cream, gloatingfor awhile before embarking on the treat, anxious to make it last out.His first move was to feel in the breast-pocket of his coat and producethe photograph of Sally which he had feloniously removed from herapartment. At this he looked long and earnestly before propping itup within easy reach against his basin, to be handy, if required, forpurposes of reference. He then took off his coat, collar, and shoes,filled and lit a pipe, placed pouch and matches on the arm of the Morrischair, and drew that chair up so that he could sit with his feet on thebed. Having manoeuvred himself into a position of ease, he lit his pipeagain and took up the letter. He looked at the crest, the handwriting ofthe address, and the postmark. He weighed it in his hand. It was a bulkyletter.
He took Sally's photograph from the wash-stand and scrutinized it oncemore. Then he lit his pipe again, and, finally, wriggling himsel
f intothe depths of the chair, opened the envelope.
"Ginger, dear."
Having read so far, Ginger found it necessary to take up the photographand study it with an even greater intentness than before. He gazed at itfor many minutes, then laid it down and lit his pipe again. Then he wenton with the letter.
"Ginger, dear--I'm afraid this address is going to give you rather ashock, and I'm feeling very guilty. I'm running away, and I haven't evenstopped to say good-bye. I can't help it. I know it's weak and cowardly,but I simply can't help it. I stood it for a day or two, and then Isaw that it was no good. (Thank you for leaving me alone and not cominground to see me. Nobody else but you would have done that. But then,nobody ever has been or ever could be so understanding as you.)"
Ginger found himself compelled at this point to look at the photographagain.
"There was too much in New York to remind me. That's the worst of beinghappy in a place. When things go wrong you find there are too manyghosts about. I just couldn't stand it. I tried, but I couldn't. I'mgoing away to get cured--if I can. Mr. Faucitt is over in England, andwhen I went down to Mrs. Meecher for my letters, I found one from him.His brother is dead, you know, and he has inherited, of all things,a fashionable dress-making place in Regent Street. His brother wasLaurette et Cie. I suppose he will sell the business later on, but, justat present, the poor old dear is apparently quite bewildered and thatdoesn't seem to have occurred to him. He kept saying in his letter howmuch he wished I was with him, to help him, and I was tempted and ran.Anything to get away from the ghosts and have something to do. I don'tsuppose I shall feel much better in England, but, at least, every streetcorner won't have associations. Don't ever be happy anywhere, Ginger.It's too big a risk, much too big a risk.
"There was a letter from Elsa Doland, too. Bubbling over with affection.We had always been tremendous friends. Of course, she never knewanything about my being engaged to Gerald. I lent Fillmore the money tobuy that piece, which gave Elsa her first big chance, and so she's verygrateful. She says, if ever she gets the opportunity of doing me a goodturn... Aren't things muddled?
"And there was a letter from Gerald. I was expecting one, of course,but... what would you have done, Ginger? Would you have read it? I satwith it in front of me for an hour, I should think, just looking at theenvelope, and then... You see, what was the use? I could guess exactlythe sort of thing that would be in it, and reading it would only havehurt a lot more. The thing was done, so why bother about explanations?What good are explanations, anyway? They don't help. They don't doanything... I burned it, Ginger. The last letter I shall ever get fromhim. I made a bonfire on the bathroom floor, and it smouldered and wentbrown, and then flared a little, and every now and then I lit anothermatch and kept it burning, and at last it was just black ashes and astain on the tiles. Just a mess!
"Ginger, burn this letter, too. I'm pouring out all the poison to you,hoping it will make me feel better. You don't mind, do you? But I knowyou don't. If ever anybody had a real pal...
"It's a dreadful thing, fascination, Ginger. It grips you and you arehelpless. One can be so sensible and reasonable about other people'slove affairs. When I was working at the dance place I told you aboutthere was a girl who fell in love with the most awful little beast. Hehad a mean mouth and shiny black hair brushed straight back, and anybodywould have seen what he was. But this girl wouldn't listen to a word.I talked to her by the hour. It makes me smile now when I think howsensible and level-headed I was. But she wouldn't listen. In somemysterious way this was the man she wanted, and, of course, everythinghappened that one knew would happen.
"If one could manage one's own life as well as one can manage otherpeople's! If all this wretched thing of mine had happened to some othergirl, how beautifully I could have proved that it was the best thingthat could have happened, and that a man who could behave as Gerald hasdone wasn't worth worrying about. I can just hear myself. But, you see,whatever he has done, Gerald is still Gerald and Sally is still Sallyand, however much I argue, I can't get away from that. All I can do isto come howling to my redheaded pal, when I know just as well as he doesthat a girl of any spirit would be dignified and keep her troubles toherself and be much too proud to let anyone know that she was hurt.
"Proud! That's the real trouble, Ginger. My pride has been battered andchopped up and broken into as many pieces as you broke Mr. Scrymgeour'sstick! What pitiful creatures we are. Girls, I mean. At least, I supposea good many girls are like me. If Gerald had died and I had lost himthat way, I know quite well I shouldn't be feeling as I do now. I shouldhave been broken-hearted, but it wouldn't have been the same. It'smy pride that is hurt. I have always been a bossy, cocksure littlecreature, swaggering about the world like an English sparrow; and nowI'm paying for it! Oh, Ginger, I'm paying for it! I wonder if runningaway is going to do me any good at all. Perhaps, if Mr. Faucitt has somereal hard work for me to do...
"Of course, I know exactly how all this has come about. Elsa's prettyand attractive. But the point is that she is a success, and as a successshe appeals to Gerald's weakest side. He worships success. She is goingto have a marvellous career, and she can help Gerald on in his. He canwrite plays for her to star in. What have I to offer against that? Yes,I know it's grovelling and contemptible of me to say that, Ginger. Iought to be above it, oughtn't I--talking as if I were competing forsome prize... But I haven't any pride left. Oh, well!
"There! I've poured it all out and I really do feel a little betterjust for the moment. It won't last, of course, but even a minute issomething. Ginger, dear, I shan't see you for ever so long, even if weever do meet again, but you'll try to remember that I'm thinking ofyou a whole lot, won't you? I feel responsible for you. You're my baby.You've got started now and you've only to stick to it. Please, please,please don't 'make a hash of it'! Good-bye. I never did find thatphotograph of me that we were looking for that afternoon in theapartment, or I would send it to you. Then you could have kept it onyour mantelpiece, and whenever you felt inclined to make a hash ofanything I would have caught your eye sternly and you would have pulledup.
"Good-bye, Ginger. I shall have to stop now. The mail is just closing.
"Always your pal, wherever I am.---SALLY."
Ginger laid the letter down, and a little sound escaped him that washalf a sigh, half an oath. He was wondering whether even now somedesirable end might not be achieved by going to Chicago and breakingGerald Foster's neck. Abandoning this scheme as impracticable, andnot being able to think of anything else to do he re-lit his pipe andstarted to read the letter again.
CHAPTER XII. SOME LETTERS FOR GINGER
Laurette et Cie,
Regent Street,
London, W.,
England.