My American

  Amy nodded, without looking up.

  “Good morning, Miss Lee. Sure is going to be hot!” and Myrtle went out, quietly shutting the door after her.

  Amy wrote on. The ice-box, turned full on to freeze the ice-cream Myrtle had made for her lunch, hummed distinctly in the stillness. A shrill roar which made the air seem hotter came across from the avenue, but the street below was drowsily hushed in the noonday heat, and in the apartment was silence, made more silent by the tiny domestic sounds threading through it. Amy forgot the ice cream, and ate two thickly buttered slices of rye bread and two tomatoes and drank a glass of milk for her lunch, took another shower (absently, because the story was unfolding itself in her head all the time she stood under the spray of water) and then went back to her writing. Vaguely she felt glad that it was so hot, and that the flat and the streets outside, quivering with heat haze, were caught in this unnamed, timeless period; it was a wonderful day for writing! With her nerves slightly on edge from sleeplessness, and this hot, hushed silence all about her, she could write as if there were no pen, no symbols, between the paper and her thought. For the story was “Beginning to Run” at last, and the pen raced, and Amy’s bare ankles were twisted uncomfortably round the legs of her chair and a piece of hair had come loose from the mass coiled on the top of her head for coolness, and her fingers were damp and aching with their grip on the pen. For the first time since that afternoon at Vine Falls, she had forgotten everything except her story, and she was happy.

  It was called The Tower of the Wicked. It began with the brother and sister, waiting for their train in the old Swiss town asleep in the noonday heat. They strolled about the deserted squares and peered into the cool gloom of old churches to fill up time while they waited, and then, on the outskirts of the town near the bridge across the rushing mountain river, they found a tall old tower of crumbling brown stone, with one window looking away towards the mountains, and the brother pulled the bell that hung on the rusty chain outside the weed-grown door. …

  It was an exciting beginning; Amy had not enjoyed writing a story so much since China Walk, her own favourite among her books. The hours flew by, and at five o’clock she made some tea and absently drank it, filling her mouth with bread and jam while she read through what she had written and finally setting the cup down on the clean sheets of paper where it made a moist ring. She pushed the cup aside and settled to write again.

  It was a long time later (but she did not know how long, for she had been unconscious of time) that a sound, an irritating and familiar sound, broke through the mist of imagination that was shutting her away from the world. The noise must have been going on for some minutes, but she would not let it come in; she would not listen to it, nor realize what it was, nor even lift her eyes from the paper in front of her. Then it stopped, and she thought thankfully: that’s all right. But a minute later it came again, steady and persistent, cutting through the silence in the hot room, coming past the people in her mind to her ears. She leaned back, flinging down her pen, and looked angrily towards the door of the apartment.

  Someone was ringing the bell.

  She waited a moment, but the noise went on, so she got up, muttering crossly, and walked across to the door and flung it open.

  CHAPTER XXI

  A BIG YOUNG man stood there, leaning against the wall and staring down at the floor in a strange, intent way.

  “What is it, please?” asked Amy sharply, looking up at him with eyes still half-blind to the real world.

  The big young man took off his hat. That is, he put up his hand and sketched exactly the movement a man makes when he takes off a hat, but his hat was not there, and so his hand dropped uncertainly to his side again. His thick fair hair looked as if it had not been covered by a hat for days; it was dusty and tangled and—Amy’s eyes travelled slowly to his feet—the white tennis shoes he wore were split at the toes. He had a windbreaker jacket zipped up close to his throat and grey trousers ragged at the hems, and all over his clothes lay the white dust of midsummer. He was very pale, with white lips and sunken cheeks.

  He leaned a little lower against the wall and said very quietly, almost in a whisper:

  “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Does Mr. Boone Vorst live here?”

  “Yes, but he’s away.” Amy’s own voice sounded strange, low as his own, faint and quiet. She was staring at him as if she could not take her eyes from the unshaven face, the lock of hair over his forehead, the dusty thick eyelashes lying on his cheek as if he were asleep.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Now his voice was actually a whisper, but as if trying to convey his meaning by another messenger he slowly lifted his head and looked straight at her with grey eyes sunk deep in their sockets.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Amy began, also in a whisper—when the young man said distinctly:

  “I’m very sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to faint,” and slipped to the floor.

  Amy was terrified. She dropped on her knees and crouched beside him, looking wildly round for help.

  He had fallen just inside the door. Desperately, with every scrap of her strength, she pulled and hauled him into the room, and shut it. Then she darted across and snatched up one of the cushions off the divan and put it under his head. He lay still, not seeming to breathe, and she sat back on her heels, staring at him and trying distractedly to remember what you did to bring someone out of a faint. Brandy! Brandy, of course!

  She ran into the kitchen and hunted frantically through the little cupboard that was fitted up as a bar. Bourbon—rye—gin—tomato juice—vermouth—lime—no brandy! Whisky would have to do.

  She carried the bottle back into the living-room, tearing at the foil cover with her teeth. Where was the corkscrew? She looked round dazedly, then smashed off the head of the bottle against the edge of the table, poured some whisky into the glass that had contained her ice-water, and knelt down beside him. She lifted his heavy head and forced the liquid between his lips.

  Then she saw what she had so often described in her stories but never seen in life—a man choking under the reviving power of spirit. She was alarmed, but forced more between his lips until he moved, opening his eyes, and caught at her hand, dragging it down and shaking his head.

  “That’s enough!” he gasped.

  His head fell back, and he sighed deeply and shut his eyes again.

  Amy knelt beside him, staring at the big, still figure sprawling on the floor, looking so strange in its dirty clothes against the clean white matting.

  Suddenly his eyes opened and he stared at her, but with no lively natural interest in his look; it was the grave exhausted stare of a man who is very ill. She bent over him, murmuring:

  “Do you feel better?”

  “I shan’t faint again,” he answered hoarsely. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. Can I have some hot milk with whisky—if it isn’t too much trouble?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  She ran into the kitchen and heated the milk on the electric stove as quickly as she could for the shaking of her hands, and poured a lot of whisky into it. He watched her come across the room, still with that grave, exhausted stare, and said suddenly:

  “Haven’t I seen you before?”

  Amy nearly dropped the glass. She could not speak. She knelt beside him, trembling from head to foot, and set the glass on the floor.

  “Haven’t I?”

  “I don’t know … I don’t think so,” she muttered. “Here’s the milk. Hadn’t you better get on to the divan?” He raised himself on one elbow, shut his eyes and shook his head impatiently, then got up and walked unsteadily across to the divan and fell forward on it.

  “I’m sorry to give you all this trouble,” he said a moment later.

  “It’s all right, really. Can you drink this now?”

  “Yes.” He held out his hand for the milk and she gave it him.

  He leant back against the wall, sipping the drink and not lifting his eyes from the glass while she sa
t on the extreme edge of the divan, watching him.

  “I’m sorry I fell over your doorstep like that,” he said presently in a stronger, more natural voice. “I guess I must have frightened you.”

  “Well, you did, a bit.”

  “I shan’t do it again.” He drained the glass and she took it from him and put it down on the floor.

  “My brother lives here—I was expecting to see him,” he went on. “How long is he away for, do you know?”

  She shook her head. She could not speak.

  “Oh, well——” He was quiet for a moment, staring down at his broken shoes; then he said, “My name’s Robert Vorst.”

  The room went dark to Amy, yet she managed to say faintly but naturally:

  “Oh, then you must be Lou’s brother!”

  “Yes, I’m Lou’s brother,” he said shortly. “Why? Do you know Lou?”

  “Oh, yes. It was Lou who told me about this flat.”

  “I see. I supposed you got it through Boone’s agent. I didn’t take in that you’re a family friend.”

  He was looking at her with a touching little expression of polite interest, that did not in the least conceal his exhaustion and misery.

  “Well——” Amy laughed nervously. “I’ve only known your sister for a little while, but I like her very much.”

  He said nothing.

  “I was lecturing in Vine Falls about a month ago and I met your sister at a reception Mrs. Boadman (I think it was) very kindly gave for me.”

  “So you’re a lecturer. And you’re English, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, I’m a writer, really, not a lecturer. I live in London. My name——” she stopped. Her breath seemed suddenly to have gone away and she could not speak properly. “My name’s Amy Lee,” she concluded, not daring to look at his face.

  “The Soldier of Misfortune,” he said at once. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Lee,” and his unshaven lips twisted in a bitter little smile.

  Amy continued to stare at the empty glass standing on the floor.

  “I expect that’s why you thought you’d seen me before,” she went on in a low tone, after a pause. “There were quite a lot of pictures of me in the American papers when The Soldier of Misfortune was filmed.

  He shook his head. “No,” he replied, looking at her steadily. “I’ve never seen a picture of you. But I know your face. I knew it the minute you opened the door, only I didn’t get a chance to say so before I passed out.”

  “Oh, well, that’s funny, isn’t it!” she said, still looking away from him and then she went on quickly.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “I’m all right. I’m not ill. That was just hunger that made me pass out.” He spoke without emphasis.

  “Oh,” said Amy faintly. “Have you—come from far?”

  “Central Park. I slept there last night.”

  She said nothing, but got up and slowly walked across to a table and chose herself a cigarette, so that he should not see that her eyes were full of tears. She held the box out to him, without looking at him, but he shook his head.

  “Wouldn’t you like some supper?” she managed to say at last.

  “No, thanks. I must be getting along.”

  “Where to?”

  He moved his big shoulders indifferently.

  “I’ll see when I get there.”

  “I was hoping you’d stay and see Lou. She’s coming here to-morrow,” said Amy.

  “Lou? Is she in town?” he asked quickly.

  “She will be to-morrow morning. With your cousin—Helen, I think she said.”

  “Helen Viner, yes. Well, I may as well see Lou. Maybe I could call in to-morrow—if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Oh, please do. But won’t you stay to supper now? I wish you would. You did say you were—hungry, and if you were sleeping in Central Park—and you said you didn’t know where you were going——” she stammered.

  He did not answer, but looked at her steadily and gravely.

  “And stay the night, too. I wish you would,” Amy ended, forgetting certain warnings from Mrs. Beeding and only wild with anxiety to keep him from going back to sleep in Central Park.

  “Miss Lee, it’s very kind of you, but I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well … you’re all alone here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but nobody in this house’ll mind you staying. I expect they won’t even know about it. This is a funny sort of place, people go in and out and don’t take any notice of each other at all. I don’t know any of them.”

  “It’s mighty kind of you. You’re quite sure you don’t mind?”

  He was still looking at her steadily as he spoke, trying to make out what kind of a girl she was. She seemed a funny little thing, sweet and sensible, almost like a child, but most girls were more than ready to meet a man half-way. He knew that now.

  “I’m quite sure I don’t mind. I’d like you to stay, please,” answered Amy, returning his look as steadily and still completely forgetful of Mrs. Beeding.

  Then he demanded suddenly:

  “Did Lou tell you all about me?”

  She shook her head.

  He smiled and said bitterly:

  “Do you mean to say that you went to a reception at Mrs. Boadman’s and nobody told you about me?”

  “Well—Miss Cordell said—and Lou did just say that——” faltered Amy, wondering in much distress whether to tell him the truth. She wanted to! She could not bear the thought of lying to him; but then, she did not want to hurt him, either.

  “So Miss Cordell was there too, was she? You seem to have had a regular Old Home Week. And I’m sure Lucy Cordell told you all about me, if Lou didn’t?”

  “Oh, no, not everything,” replied Amy, picking at the fringe on one of the red cushions. “Only that your own mother didn’t know where you were. And—and she said she prayed for you every night of her life.”

  He was silent.

  “I only wanted you to know what kind of a person you’ve invited to spend the night here,” he said at last.

  “That’s all right,” she said at once. “Please do stay.”

  “All right then, Miss Lee. I guess I will, and thanks a lot.”

  He leant back against the wall, and suddenly a feeling of deep relief came over him. To-night he need not face the hot sidewalks that he had tramped all the afternoon; he need not watch faces drifting past him, the curious, pitying or indifferent faces; he need not breathe the faint sickening smell of the withered grass on which he had slept last night. He could shut himself into a quiet room, and go to sleep. And to-morrow he could see Lou and Helen. The longing to see them both, and to feel through them the peace and tenderness of his home and the happiness gone for ever, was too strong for him to resist. He would not go back with them, because he was never going back, but see them he must.

  Amy sat in silence, watching the ash gather on the end of her cigarette. He was going to stay! He was going to stay here all night, and she would be able to get supper for him. The ash fell to the floor, and Bob moved, and glanced down at his hands.

  “Do you mind if I take a shower?”

  “No, of course not,” she answered, and at that moment the telephone bell rang.

  “Miss Lee,” began Myrtle’s rich voice, “Ah’m mighty sorry, Ah can’t get up to you this evenin’, mah sister’s tuk sick.”

  “Oh, I am sorry, Myrtle. Is that the one that’s going to have a baby?”

  “Yes, Miss Lee. Mah sister Louella. She’s mighty bad, Ah’m gwine to take her down to the hospital right now.”

  “All right, Myrtle. Can you come in to-morrow?”

  “Sure I can, Miss Lee. Ah’ll come in first thing, moment the baby’s bo’n.”

  “All right, Myrtle. I hope your sister’ll be all right.”

  “She’ll be all right, Miss Lee, she don’t have no trouble with her babies once they’se started. Ah surely am sorry to put you out so, Miss Lee. G’d-bye, Miss Le
e.”

  “Good-bye, Myrtle,” and Amy hung up the receiver.

  “That was the coloured girl who comes in to do the cleaning. She can’t come to-night, her sister’s having a baby,” explained Amy. “So I’ll get the supper while you have your shower.”

  “Won’t it be a trouble to you? Don’t you want to go on writing?” And he glanced at the papers scattered over the table.

  “Oh, no. I’ve been writing all day. I’m tired now. I’d like to get the supper; it’ll be a change.”

  “Right.” He spoke with a little restraint, as if the unusualness of the situation had suddenly struck him, and went through into the bathroom without saying anything more.

  Amy quickly set the table and got the food out of the ice-box, pushing her frightened happiness away to the back of her mind. He’s hungry, he’s starving, I must make him eat as much as possible, and then he must get a good long sleep, she thought as she hurried between the living-room and the kitchenette. She was so bewildered and disturbed by his presence there that she could not realize that the dream, the legend, which had haunted her memory for twelve years, had walked into the room an hour ago. He was no longer My American; he was a young man in trouble, and every feeling of tenderness in her nature that had been denied expression for the past twelve years turned yearningly towards him.

  He was so long over his shower that she took her scribbling block on to the kitchen table, among the lettuce leaves and discarded cellophane wrappers, and started writing again to fill up time. When he came out, he paused at the door of the living-room for a moment to look at the picture before him. It was exactly like a picture, with the wonderful lights of New York, sparkling and glowing through the open window in the clear hot twilight, as a background.

  Amy was sitting in a magician’s circle of light with everything about her in shadow. Her intent, foreshortened little face, bent over the paper and crowned with its heavy knot of dark hair, her small moving hand, were strangely beautiful. But the strangest thing about this picture, to Bob, was the fact that he had seen it before. He knew the ring of radiance from the lamp set upon the table, the whiteness of the paper over which the pen hurried, the green of the wilted lettuce leaves and the sparkle of crumpled wrappings, the silver bubbles in the glass of water standing at the writer’s elbow. He knew just how she would look when she glanced up and smiled, gazing beyond the circle of light into the dusk—