IN ALCALA
In Alcala, as in most of New York's apartment houses, the schedule ofprices is like a badly rolled cigarette--thick in the middle and thinat both ends. The rooms half-way up are expensive; some of them almostas expensive as if Fashion, instead of being gone for ever, were stilllingering. The top rooms are cheap, the ground-floor rooms cheaperstill.
Cheapest of all was the hall-bedroom. Its furniture was of thesimplest. It consisted of a chair, another chair, a worn carpet, and afolding-bed. The folding-bed had an air of depression and baffledhopes. For years it had been trying to look like a bookcase in thedaytime, and now it looked more like a folding-bed than ever. Therewas also a plain deal table, much stained with ink. At this, nightafter night, sometimes far into the morning, Rutherford Maxwell wouldsit and write stories. Now and then it happened that one would be agood story, and find a market.
Rutherford Maxwell was an Englishman, and the younger son of anEnglishman; and his lot was the lot of the younger sons all the worldover. He was by profession one of the numerous employees of the NewAsiatic Bank, which has its branches all over the world. It is a sound,trustworthy institution, and steady-going relatives would assureRutherford that he was lucky to have got a berth in it. Rutherford didnot agree with them. However sound and trustworthy, it was not exactlyromantic. Nor did it err on the side of over-lavishness to those whoserved it. Rutherford's salary was small. So were his prospects--if heremained in the bank. At a very early date he had registered a vow thathe would not. And the road that led out of it for him was the uphillroad of literature.
He was thankful for small mercies. Fate had not been over-kind up tothe present, but at least she had dispatched him to New York, thecentre of things, where he would have the chance to try, instead of tosome spot off the map. Whether he won or lost, at any rate he was inthe 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 whollyasleep. The middle of the house is a sort of chorus-girl belt, while inthe upper rooms there are reporters and other nightbirds. Long after hehad gone to bed, Rutherford would hear footsteps passing his door andthe sound of voices in the passage. He grew to welcome them. Theyseemed to connect him with the outer world. But for them he was aloneafter he had left the office, utterly alone, as it is possible to beonly in the heart of a great city. Some nights he would hear scraps ofconversations, at rare intervals a name. He used to build up in hismind identities for the owners of the names. One in particular, Peggy,gave him much food for thought. He pictured her as bright andvivacious. 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 atthe 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 stillRutherford worked on, sipping ice-water, in his shirt-sleeves, andfilling the sheets of paper slowly, but with a dogged persistence whichthe weather could not kill. Despite the heat, he was cheerful. Thingswere beginning to run his way a little now. A novelette, an airytrifle, conceived in days when the thermometer was lower and it waspossible to think, and worked out almost mechanically, had beenaccepted by a magazine of a higher standing than those which hithertohad shown him hospitality. He began to dream of a holiday in the woods.The holiday spirit was abroad. Alcala was emptying itself. It would notbe long before he too would be able to get away.
He was so deep in his thoughts that at first he did not hear theknocking at the door. But it was a sharp, insistent knocking, andforced itself upon his attention. He got up and turned the handle.
Outside in the passage was standing a girl, tall and sleepy-eyed. Shewore a picture-hat and a costume the keynote of which was a certainaggressive attractiveness. There was no room for doubt as to whichparticular brand of scent was her favourite at the moment.
She gazed at Rutherford dully. Like Banquo's ghost, she had nospeculation in her eyes. Rutherford looked at her inquiringly, somewhatconscious of his shirt-sleeves.
'Did you knock?' he said, opening, as a man must do, with theinevitable foolish question.
The apparition spoke.
'Say,' she said, 'got a cigarette?'
'I'm afraid I haven't,' said Rutherford, apologetically. 'I've beensmoking 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 alittle too much for Rutherford. Combined with the heat of the night itmade his head swim.
His visitor advanced into the room. Arriving at the table, she beganfiddling with its contents. The pen seemed to fascinate her. She pickedit 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 theother. He was in sore straits.
At this moment Rescue arrived, not before it was needed. A brisk soundof footsteps in the passage, and there appeared in the doorway a secondgirl.
'What do you think you're doing, Gladys?' demanded the new-comer. 'Youmustn'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 sheetof manuscript to the floor.
Rutherford looked at the girl in the doorway with interest. So this wasPeggy. She was little, and trim of figure. That was how he had alwaysimagined her. Her dress was simpler than the other's. The face beneaththe picture-hat was small and well-shaped, the nose delicatelytip-tilted, the chin determined, the mouth a little wide and suggestinggood-humour. A pair of grey eyes looked steadily into his beforetransferring 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, andinspected 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 toturning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time therewas no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallestnoise.
'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 thepicture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusionthat the change was an improvement.
'This'll do for me,' she said. 'Thought I'd just look in. I'm sorryabout 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 SherlockHolmes. 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 toget another. She's a good girl really, only she gets like thatsometimes 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.
r /> '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'sit? Rutherford? I got it--to go through the world with. Haven't you gotsomething 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," allthe 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 vaudevilleteam doing a cross-talk act. What do you do? When your boss crowds yourenvelope 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'strue, but what there is of it is good.'
'What are you doing out of bed at this time of night? They don't workyou 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 actand talk about the weather.'
'Not a bit, really, I assure you. Please ask as many questions as youlike.'
'Guess there's no doubt about your being English, George. We don't havetime 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 doingschool-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. Whatwere we talking about before we switched off on to the educationalrail? 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 girlwhose 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 thehigh-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 badlooker. 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 amuseum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That's what you are. Yousit there just saying "Thanks," and "Bai Jawve, thanks awf'lly," whilea girl's telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and youdon'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 dobesides 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-runevery 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 andthe 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, sothat 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 photographson 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 sheepishsmirk, holding the ball, is myself as I was before the cares of theworld soured me.'
Her eye wandered along the mantelpiece, and she swooped down on acabinet photograph of a girl.
'And who's _this_, George?' she cried.
He took the photograph from her, and replaced it, with a curious blendof shyness and defiance, in the very centre of the mantelpiece. For amoment he stood looking intently at it, his elbows resting on theimitation 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 Iknow I can trust you, and I haven't the slightest objection to yourtelling 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 greatpals!"'
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. Rutherfordmet 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 droppedat 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 ofthese old evenings.'
'Good night, Peggy!'
The door closed behind her. He heard her footsteps hesitate, stop, andthen move quickly on once more.
3
He saw much of her after this first visit. Gradually it became anunderstood thing between them that she should look in on her returnfrom the theatre. He grew to expect her, and to feel restless when shewas late. Once she brought the cigarette-loving Gladys with her, butthe experiment was not a success. Gladys was languid and ratheroverpoweringly 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 onthe table, from which he had m
oved a little pile of manuscript to makeroom for her. 'Don't you ever let up for a second? Seems to me youwrite all the time.'
Rutherford laughed.
'I'll take a rest,' he said, 'when there's a bit more demand for mystuff than there is at present. When I'm in the twenty-cents-a-wordclass I'll write once a month, and spend the rest of my timetravelling.'
Peggy shook her head.
'No travelling for mine,' she said. 'Seems to me it's just cussednessthat makes people go away from Broadway when they've got plunks enoughto 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 arose-garden, and a big cedar on the terrace before you get to therose-garden. And if you climb to the top of that cedar, you can see theriver through the apple trees in the orchard. And in the distance thereare hills. And--'
'Of all the rube joints!' exclaimed Peggy, in deep disgust. 'Why, a dayof 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 withoutover-balancing, and then you can leave me. I never thought you weresuch 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 youknow, Peggy, you remind me of a little Billiken, sitting on thattable?'
'Thank _you_, George. I always knew my mouth was rather wide, butI did think I had Billiken to the bad. Do you do that sort of CandidFriend stunt with _her_?' She pointed to the photograph on themantelpiece. It was the first time since the night when they had metthat she had made any allusion to it. By silent agreement the subjecthad been ruled out between them. 'By the way, you never told me hername.'
'Halliday,' said Rutherford, shortly.
'What else?'
'Alice.'
'Don't bite at me, George! I'm not hurting you. Tell me about her. I'minterested. Does she live in the grey house with the pigs and chickensand 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 seemsso 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-runwith my writing one of these days. That's what I meant when I said youwere a Billiken, Peggy. Do you know, you've brought me luck. Ever sinceI 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? Iwonder 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 downat him with the round, grey eyes that always reminded him of akitten'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 burstinto a passion of sobs. Rutherford leaped up, shocked and helpless. Hesprang 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, almostmechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe.
Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. Shewas 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 wentby, and still she did not come. And one morning, reading his paper, hesaw that _The Island of Girls_ had gone west to Chicago.
4
Things were not running well for Rutherford. He had had his vacation, agolden fortnight of fresh air and sunshine in the Catskills, and wasback in Alcala, trying with poor success, to pick up the threads of hiswork. But though the Indian Summer had begun, and there was energy inthe air, night after night he sat idle in his room; night after nightwent wearily to bed, oppressed with a dull sense of failure. He couldnot work. He was restless. His thoughts would not concentratethemselves. Something was wrong; and he knew what it was, though hefought against admitting it to himself. It was the absence of Peggythat had brought about the change. Not till now had he realized to thefull how greatly her visits had stimulated him. He had called herlaughingly his mascot; but the thing was no joke. It was true. Herabsence was robbing him of the power to write.
He was lonely. For the first time since he had come to New York he wasreally lonely. Solitude had not hurt him till now. In his black momentsit had been enough for him to look up at the photograph on themantelpiece, and instantly he was alone no longer. But now thephotograph had lost its magic. It could not hold him. Always his mindwould wander back to the little, black-haired ghost that sat on thetable, smiling at him, and questioning him with its grey eyes.
And the days went by, unvarying in their monotony. And always the ghostsat on the table, smiling at him.
With the Fall came the reopening of the theatres. One by one theelectric signs blazed out along Broadway, spreading the message thatthe dull days were over, and New York was itself again. At the Melody,where ages ago _The Island of Girls_ had run its light-heartedcourse, a new musical piece was in rehearsal. Alcala was full oncemore. The nightly snatches of conversation outside his door hadrecommenced. He listened for her voice, but he never heard it.
He sat up, waiting, into the small hours, but she did not come. Once hehad been trying to write, and had fallen, as usual, to brooding--therewas a soft knock at the door. In an instant he had bounded from hischair, and turned the handle. It was one of the reporters fromupstairs, 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 vanishesbefore the cheerfulness of the great white way when the lights are litand the human tide is in full flood. Rutherford had developed of late ahabit of patrolling the neighbourhood of Forty-Second Street attheatre-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 onthe sidewalk and watch the passers-by, weaving stories round them.
One night his wanderings had brought him to Herald Square. The theatreswere just emptying themselves. This was the time he liked best. He drewto one side to watch, and as he moved he saw Peggy.
She was standing at the corner, buttonin
g a glove. He was by her sidein an instant.
'Peggy!' he cried.
She was looking pale and tired, but the colour came back to her cheeksas she held out her hand. There was no trace of embarrassment in hermanner; only a frank pleasure at seeing him again.
'Where have you been?' he said. 'I couldn't think what had become ofyou.'
She looked at him curiously.
'Did you miss me, George?'
'Miss you? Of course I did. My work's been going all to pieces sinceyou 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 Icarry you?'
'Guess I can walk that far. But Rector's? Has your rich uncle died andleft you a fortune, George?'
'Don't you worry, Peggy. This is an occasion. I thought I was nevergoing 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'venever so much as dreamed of.'
They seemed to know Peggy at Rector's. Paul, the head waiter, beamedupon her paternally. One or two men turned and looked after her as shepassed. 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. Hewas particular about the wine. The waiter, who had been doubtful abouthim, was won over, and went off to execute the order, reflecting thatit was never safe to judge a man by his clothes, and that Rutherfordwas probably one of these eccentric young millionaires who didn't carehow 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 hadenough of the Wild West. If anybody ever tries to steer you west ofEleventh Avenue, George, don't you go. There's nothing doing. How haveyou been making out at your writing stunt?'
'Pretty well. But I wanted you. I was lost without my mascot. I've gota story in this month's _Wilson's_. A long story, and paidaccordingly. That's why I'm able to go about giving suppers to greatactresses.'
'I read it on the train,' said Peggy. 'It's dandy. Do you know what youought to do, George? You ought to turn it into a play. There's a heapof 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 itinto 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 amountto a row of beans. It's just a gamble. This thing he's in now is nogood. The part doesn't begin to fit him. In a month he'll be squealingfor 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'llstart on the thing tomorrow.'
'I can help you some too, I guess. I used to know Winfield Knight. Ican put you wise on lots of things about him that'll help you work upWillie'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 abig commission on everything I write. It beats me how any of theseother fellows ever write anything without you there to help them. Iwonder what's the most expensive cigar they keep here? I must have it,whatever it is. _Noblesse oblige_. We popular playwrights mustn'tbe seen in public smoking any cheap stuff.'
* * * * *
It was Rutherford's artistic temperament which, when they left therestaurant, made him hail a taxi-cab. Taxi-cabs are not for young mendrawing infinitesimal salaries in banks, even if those salaries aresupplemented at rare intervals by a short story in a magazine. Peggywas for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused tocountenance such an anti-climax.
Peggy nestled into the corner of the cab, with a tired sigh, and therewas silence as they moved smoothly up Broadway.
He peered at her in the dim light. She looked very small and wistfuland fragile. Suddenly an intense desire surged over him to pick her upand crush her to him. He fought against it. He tried to fix histhoughts on the girl at home, to tell himself that he was a man ofhonour. His fingers, gripping the edge of the seat, tightened tillevery 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 armswere 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 ofhabit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot ofthe 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 theenvelope in his hand. His mood was changing with a violence that lefthim physically weak. He felt dazed, as if he had wakened out of atrance.
With a strong effort he mastered himself. Peggy had mounted a fewsteps, and was looking back at him over her shoulder. He could read themeaning 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.
He stood watching her till she had reached the top of the long flight.She did not look back.
5
Peggy's nightly visits began afresh after this, and the ghost on thetable troubled Rutherford no more. His restlessness left him. He beganto write with a new vigour and success. In after years he wrote manyplays, most of them good, clear-cut pieces of work, but none that camefrom him with the utter absence of labour which made the writing of_Willie in the Wilderness_ a joy. He wrote easily, without effort.And always Peggy was there, helping, stimulating, encouraging.
Sometimes, when he came in after dinner to settle down to work, hewould find a piece of paper on his table covered with her schoolgirlscrawl. It would run somewhat as follows:
'He is proud of his arms. They are skinny, but he thinks them thelimit. Better put in a shirt-sleeve scene for Willie somewhere.'
'He thinks he has a beautiful profile. Couldn't you make one of thegirls say something about Willie having the goods in that line?'
'He is crazy about golf.'
'He is proud of his French accent. Couldn't you make Willie speak alittle piece in French?'
'He' being Winfield Knight.
* * * * *
And so, little by little, the character of Willie grew, till it ceasedto be the Willie of the magazine story, and became Winfield Knighthimself, with improvements. The task began to fascinate Rutherford. Itwas like planning a pleasant surprise for a child. 'He'll like that,'he would say to himself, as he wrote in some speech enabling Willie todisplay one of the accomplishments, real or imagined, of the absentactor. Peggy read it, and approved. It was she who suggested the bigspeech in the second act where Willie described the progress of hislove affair in terms of the golf-links. From her, too, came informationas to little traits in the man's character which the s
tranger would nothave suspected.
As the play progressed Rutherford was amazed at the completeness of thecharacter he had built. It lived. Willie in the magazine story mighthave been anyone. He fitted into the story, but you could not see him.He had no real individuality. But Willie in the play! He felt that hewould recognize him in the street. There was all the difference betweenthe two that there is between a nameless figure in some cheap pictureand a portrait by Sargent. There were times when the story of the playseemed thin to him, and the other characters wooden, but in hisblackest moods he was sure of Willie. All the contradictions in thecharacter rang true: the humour, the pathos, the surface vanitycovering a real diffidence, the strength and weakness fighting oneanother.
'You're alive, my son,' said Rutherford, admiringly, as he read thesheets. 'But you don't belong to me.'
At last there came the day when the play was finished, when the lastline was written, and the last possible alteration made; and later, theday when Rutherford, bearing the brown-paper-covered package under hisarm, called at the Players' Club to keep an appointment with WinfieldKnight.
Almost from the first Rutherford had a feeling that he had met the manbefore, that he knew him. As their acquaintance progressed--the actorwas in an expansive mood, and talked much before coming to business--thefeeling grew. Then he understood. This was Willie, and no other. Thelikeness was extraordinary. Little turns of thought, littleexpressions--they were all in the play.
The actor paused in a description of how he had almost beaten achampion at golf, and looked at the parcel.
'Is that the play?' he said.
'Yes,' said Rutherford. 'Shall I read it?'
'Guess I'll just look through it myself. Where's Act I? Here we are!Have a cigar while you're waiting?'
Rutherford settled himself in his chair, and watched the other's face.For the first few pages, which contained some tame dialogue betweenminor characters, it was blank.
'"Enter Willie,"' he said. 'Am I Willie?'
'I hope so,' said Rutherford, with a smile. 'It's the star part.'
'H'm.'
He went on reading. Rutherford watched him with furtive keenness. Therewas a line coming at the bottom of the page which he was then readingwhich ought to hit him, an epigram on golf, a whimsical thought putalmost exactly as he had put it himself five minutes back when tellinghis golf story.
The shot did not miss fire. The chuckle from the actor and the sigh ofrelief from Rutherford were almost simultaneous. Winfield Knight turnedto him.
'That's a dandy line about golf,' said he.
Rutherford puffed complacently at his cigar.
'There's lots more of them in the piece,' he said.
'Bully for you,' said the actor. And went on reading.
Three-quarters of an hour passed before he spoke again. Then he lookedup.
'It's me,' he said; 'it's me all the time. I wish I'd seen this beforeI put on the punk I'm doing now. This is me from the drive off the tee.It's great! Say, what'll you have?'
Rutherford leaned back in his chair, his mind in a whirl. He hadarrived at last. His struggles were over. He would not admit of thepossibility of the play being a failure. He was a made man. He could gowhere he pleased, and do as he pleased.
It gave him something of a shock to find how persistently his thoughtsrefused to remain in England. Try as he might to keep them there, theykept flitting back to Alcala.
6
_Willie in the Wilderness_ was not a failure. It was a triumph.Principally, it is true, a personal triumph for Winfield Knight.Everyone was agreed that he had never had a part that suited him sowell. Critics forgave the blunders of the piece for the sake of itsprincipal character. The play was a curiously amateurish thing. It wasonly later that Rutherford learned craft and caution. When he wrote_Willie_ he was a colt, rambling unchecked through the field ofplay-writing, ignorant of its pitfalls. But, with all its faults,_Willie in the Wilderness_ was a success. It might, as one criticpointed out, be more of a monologue act for Winfield Knight than aplay, but that did not affect Rutherford.
It was late on the opening night when he returned to Alcala. He hadtried to get away earlier. He wanted to see Peggy. But Winfield Knight,flushed with success, was in his most expansive mood. He seized uponRutherford and would not let him go. There was supper, a gay,uproarious supper, at which everybody seemed to be congratulatingeverybody else. Men he had never met before shook him warmly by thehand. Somebody made a speech, despite the efforts of the rest of thecompany to prevent him. Rutherford sat there, dazed, out of touch withthe mood of the party. He wanted Peggy. He was tired of all thisexcitement and noise. He had had enough of it. All he asked was to beallowed to slip away quietly and go home. He wanted to think, to tryand realize what all this meant to him.
At length the party broke up in one last explosion of handshaking andcongratulations; and, eluding Winfield Knight, who proposed to take himoff to his club, he started to walk up Broadway.
It was late when he reached Alcala. There was a light in his room.Peggy had waited up to hear the news.
She jumped off the table as he came in.
'Well?' she cried.
Rutherford sat down and stretched out his legs.
'It's a success,' he said. 'A tremendous success!'
Peggy clapped her hands.
'Bully for you, George! I knew it would be. Tell me all about it. WasWinfield good?'
'He was the whole piece. There was nothing in it but him.' He rose andplaced his hands on her shoulders. 'Peggy, old girl, I don't know whatto say. You know as well as I do that it's all owing to you that thepiece has been a success. If I hadn't had your help--'
Peggy laughed.
'Oh, beat it, George!' she said. 'Don't you come jollying me. I looklike a high-brow playwright, don't I! No; I'm real glad you've made ahit, George, but don't start handing out any story about it's not beingyour own. I didn't do a thing.'
'You did. You did everything.'
'I didn't. But, say, don't let's start quarrelling. Tell me more aboutit. How many calls did you take.'
He told her all that had happened. When he had finished, there was asilence.
'I guess you'll be quitting soon, George?' said Peggy, at last. 'Nowthat you've made a home-run. You'll be going back to that rube joint,with the cows and hens--isn't that it?'
Rutherford did not reply. He was staring thoughtfully at the floor. Hedid not seem to have heard.
'I guess that girl'll be glad to see you,' she went on. 'Shall youcable tomorrow, George? And then you'll get married and go and live inthe rube house, and become a regular hayseed and--' She broke offsuddenly, with a catch in her voice. 'Gee,' she whispered, halt toherself, 'I'll be sorry when you go, George.'
He sprang up.
'Peggy!'
He seized her by the arm. He heard the quick intake of her breath.
'Peggy, listen!' He gripped her till she winced with pain. 'I'm notgoing back. I'm never going back. I'm a cad, I'm a hound! I know I am.But I'm not going back. I'm going to stay here with you. I want you,Peggy. Do you hear? I want you!'
She tried to draw herself away, but he held her.
'I love you, Peggy! Peggy, will you be my wife?'
There was utter astonishment in her grey eyes. Her face was very white.
'Will you, Peggy?'
He dropped her arm.
'Will you, Peggy?'
'No!' she cried.
He drew back.
'No!' she cried sharply, as if it hurt her to speak. 'I wouldn't playyou such a mean trick. I'm too fond of you, George. There's never beenanybody just like you. You've been mighty good to me. I've never met aman who treated me like you. You're the only real white man that's everhappened to me, and I guess I'm not going to play you a low-down tricklike spoiling your life. George, I thought you knew. Honest, I thoughtyou knew. How did you think I lived in a swell place like this, if youdidn't know? How did you suppose everyone knew me at Rector's? How didyou think I'd managed to fi
nd out so much about Winfield Knight? Can'tyou guess?'
She drew a long breath.
'I--'
He interrupted her hoarsely.
'Is there anyone now, Peggy?'
'Yes,' she said, 'there is.'
'You don't love him, Peggy, do you?'
'Love him?' She laughed bitterly. 'No; I don't love him.'
'Then come to me, dear,' he said.
She shook her head in silence. Rutherford sat down, his chin resting inhis hands. She came across to him, and smoothed his hair.
'It wouldn't do, George,' she said. 'Honest, it wouldn't do. Listen.When we first met, I--I rather liked you, George, and I was mad at youfor being so fond of the other girl and taking no notice of me--not inthe way I wanted, and I tried--Gee, I feel mean. It was all my fault. Ididn't think it would matter. There didn't seem no chance then of yourbeing able to go back and have the sort of good time you wanted; and Ithought you'd just stay here and we'd be pals and--but now you can goback, it's all different. I couldn't keep you. It would be too mean.You see, you don't really want to stop. You think you do, but youdon't!'
'I love you,' he muttered.
'You'll forget me. It's all just a Broadway dream, George. Think of itlike that. Broadway's got you now, but you don't really belong. You'renot like me. It's not in your blood, so's you can't get it out. It'sthe chickens and roses you want really. Just a Broadway dream. That'swhat it is. George, when I was a kid, I remember crying and crying fora lump of candy in the window of a store till one of my brothers up andbought it for me just to stop the racket. Gee! For about a minute I wasthe busiest thing that ever happened, eating away. And then it didn'tseem to interest me no more. Broadway's like that for you, George. Yougo back to the girl and the cows and all of it. It'll hurt some, Iguess, but I reckon you'll be glad you did.'
She stooped swiftly, and kissed him on the forehead.
'I'll miss you, dear,' she said, softly, and was gone.
* * * * *
Rutherford sat on, motionless. Outside, the blackness changed to grey,and the grey to white. He got up. He felt very stiff and cold.
'A Broadway dream!' he muttered.
He went to the mantelpiece and took up the photograph. He carried it tothe window where he could see it better.
A shaft of sunlight pierced the curtains and fell upon it.
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