If Ginger Kemp had been asked to enumerate his good qualities, it is not
probable that he would have drawn up a very lengthy list. He might have
started by claiming for himself the virtue of meaning well, but after
that 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 the
catalogue, tact and delicacy of feeling would not have been among them.
Yet, by staying away from Sally during the next few days he showed
considerable delicacy. It was not easy to stay away from her, but he
forced himself to do so. He argued from his own tastes, and was strongly
of opinion that in times of travail, solitude was what the sufferer most
desired. In his time he, too, had had what he would have described as
nasty jars, and on these occasions all he had asked was to be allowed to
sit and think things over and fight his battle out by himself.
By Saturday, however, he had come to the conclusion that some form of
action might now be taken. Saturday was rather a good day for picking up
the threads again. He had not to go to the office, and, what was still
more to the point, he had just drawn his week's salary. Mrs. Meecher had
deftly taken a certain amount of this off him, but enough remained to
enable him to attempt consolation on a fairly princely scale. There
presented itself to him as a judicious move the idea of hiring a car and
taking Sally out to dinner at one of the road-houses he had heard about
up the Boston Post Road. He examined the scheme. The more he looked at
it, the better it seemed.
He was helped to this decision by the extraordinary perfection of the
weather. The weather of late had been a revelation to Ginger. It was his
first experience of America's Indian Summer, and it had quite overcome
him. As he stood on the roof of Mrs. Meecher's establishment on the
Saturday morning, thrilled by the velvet wonder of the sunshine, it
seemed to him that the only possible way of passing such a day was to
take Sally for a ride in an open car.
The Maison Meecher was a lofty building on one of the side-streets at
the lower end of the avenue. From its roof, after you had worked
your way through the groves of washing which hung limply from the
clothes-line, you could see many things of interest. To the left
lay Washington Square, full of somnolent Italians and roller-skating
children; to the right was a spectacle which never failed to intrigue
Ginger, the high smoke-stacks of a Cunard liner moving slowly down the
river, sticking up over the house-tops as if the boat was travelling
down Ninth Avenue.
To-day there were four of these funnels, causing Ginger to deduce the
Mauritania. As the boat on which he had come over from England, the
Mauritania had a sentimental interest for him. He stood watching her
stately progress till the higher buildings farther down the town shut
her from his sight; then picked his way through the washing and went
down to his room to get his hat. A quarter of an hour later he was
in the hall-way of Sally's apartment house, gazing with ill-concealed
disgust at the serge-clad back of his cousin Mr. Carmyle, who was
engaged in conversation with a gentleman in overalls.
No care-free prospector, singing his way through the Mojave Desert
and suddenly finding himself confronted by a rattlesnake, could have
experienced so abrupt a change of mood as did Ginger at this revolting
spectacle. Even in their native Piccadilly it had been unpleasant to run
into Mr. Carmyle. To find him here now was nothing short of nauseating.
Only one thing could have brought him to this place. Obviously, he must
have come to see Sally; and with a sudden sinking of the heart Ginger
remembered the shiny, expensive automobile which he had seen waiting at
the door. He, it was clear, was not the only person to whom the idea had
occurred of taking Sally for a drive on this golden day.
He was still standing there when Mr. Carmyle swung round with a frown
on his dark face which seemed to say that he had not found the janitor's
conversation entertaining. The sight of Ginger plainly did nothing to
lighten 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 found
someone to share the bad news, seemed to cheer him a little.
“Not here?”
“No. Apparently...” Bruce Carmyle's scowl betrayed that resentment which
a well-balanced man cannot but feel at the unreasonableness of others.
“... Apparently, for some extraordinary reason, she has taken it into
her head to dash over to England.”
Ginger tottered. The unexpectedness of the blow was crushing. He
followed his cousin out into the sunshine in a sort of dream. Bruce
Carmyle 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 spat
cautiously. It was the way Rockefeller would have spat when approaching
the crisis of some delicate financial negotiation.
“You'll have to pay just the same,” he observed, opening his other eye
to lend emphasis to the words.
“Of course I shall pay,” snapped Mr. Carmyle, irritably. “How much is
it?”
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 best
friend trying at this moment. Gaping Ginger gave him almost a physical
pain. “All I know is what the janitor told me, that she sailed on the
Mauretania this morning.”
The tragic irony of this overcame Ginger. That he should have stood on
the roof, calmly watching the boat down the river...
He nodded absently to Mr. Carmyle and walked off. He had no further
remarks to make. The warmth had gone out of the sunshine and all
interest had departed from his life. He felt dull, listless, at a loose
end. 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 him
any balm. He loafed aimlessly about the streets. He wandered in the Park
and out again. The Park bored him. The streets bored him. The whole
city bored him. A city without Sally in it was a drab, futile city, and
nothing 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 passably
pleasant thing that had happened to Ginger in the whole of this dreary
and unprofitable day: for the envelope bore the crest of the good ship
Mauretania. He snatched it covetously from the letter-rack, and carried
it upstairs to his room.
Very few of the rooms at Mrs. Meecher's boarding-house struck any
note of luxury. Mrs. Meecher was not one of your fashionable interior
decorators. She considered that when she had added a Morris chair to the
essentials which make up a bedroom, she had gone as far in the direction
of pomp as any guest at seven-and-a-half per could expect her to go. As
a rule, the severity of his surroundings afflicted Ginger with a touch
of gloom when he went to bed; but to-night--such is the magic of a
letter from the right person--he was uplifted and almost gay. There are
moments when even illuminated texts over the wash-stand cannot wholly
quell us.
There was nothing of haste and much of ceremony in Ginger's method of
approaching the perusal of his correspondence. He bore himself after the
manner of a small boy in the presence of unexpected ice-cream, gloating
for 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 produce
the photograph of Sally which he had feloniously removed from her
apartment. At this he looked long and earnestly before propping it
up within easy reach against his basin, to be handy, if required, for
purposes 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 Morris
chair, and drew that chair up so that he could sit with his feet on the
bed. Having manoeuvred himself into a position of ease, he lit his pipe
again and took up the letter. He looked at the crest, the handwriting of
the address, and the postmark. He weighed it in his hand. It was a bulky
letter.
He took Sally's photograph from the wash-stand and scrutinized it once
more. Then he lit his pipe again, and, finally, wriggling himself into
the depths of the chair, opened the envelope.
“Ginger, dear.”
Having read so far, Ginger found it necessary to take up the photograph
and study it with an even greater intentness than before. He gazed at it
for many minutes, then laid it down and lit his pipe again. Then he went
on with the letter.
“Ginger, dear--I'm afraid this address is going to give you rather a
shock, and I'm feeling very guilty. I'm running away, and I haven't even
stopped 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 I
saw that it was no good. (Thank you for leaving me alone and not coming
round 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 photograph
again.
“There was too much in New York to remind me. That's the worst of being
happy in a place. When things go wrong you find there are too many
ghosts about. I just couldn't stand it. I tried, but I couldn't. I'm
going away to get cured--if I can. Mr. Faucitt is over in England, and
when 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 was
Laurette et Cie. I suppose he will sell the business later on, but, just
at present, the poor old dear is apparently quite bewildered and that
doesn't seem to have occurred to him. He kept saying in his letter how
much 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't
suppose I shall feel much better in England, but, at least, every street
corner 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 knew
anything about my being engaged to Gerald. I lent Fillmore the money to
buy that piece, which gave Elsa her first big chance, and so she's very
grateful. She says, if ever she gets the opportunity of doing me a good
turn... 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 sat
with it in front of me for an hour, I should think, just looking at the
envelope, and then... You see, what was the use? I could guess exactly
the sort of thing that would be in it, and reading it would only have
hurt a lot more. The thing was done, so why bother about explanations?
What good are explanations, anyway? They don't help. They don't do
anything... I burned it, Ginger. The last letter I shall ever get from
him. I made a bonfire on the bathroom floor, and it smouldered and went
brown, and then flared a little, and every now and then I lit another
match and kept it burning, and at last it was just black ashes and a
stain 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 know
you don't. If ever anybody had a real pal...
“It's a dreadful thing, fascination, Ginger. It grips you and you are
helpless. One can be so sensible and reasonable about other people's
love affairs. When I was working at the dance place I told you about
there was a girl who fell in love with the most awful little beast. He
had a mean mouth and shiny black hair brushed straight back, and anybody
would 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 how
sensible and level-headed I was. But she wouldn't listen. In some
mysterious way this was the man she wanted, and, of course, everything
happened that one knew would happen.
“If one could manage one's own life as well as one can manage other
people's! If all this wretched thing of mine had happened to some other
girl, how beautifully I could have proved that it was the best thing
that could have happened, and that a man who could behave as Gerald has
done 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 Sally
and, however much I argue, I can't get away from that. All I can do is
to come howling to my redheaded pal, when I know just as well as he does
that a girl of any spirit would be dignified and keep her troubles to
herself 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 and
chopped up and broken into as many pieces as you broke Mr. Scrymgeour's
stick! What pitiful creatures we are. Girls, I mean. At least, I suppose
a good many girls are like me. If Gerald had died and I had lost him
that way, I know quite well I shouldn't be feeling as I do now. I should
have been broken-hearted, but it wouldn't have been the same. It's
my pride that is hurt. I have always been a bossy, cocksure little
creature, swaggering about the world like an English sparrow; and now
I'm paying for it! Oh, Ginger, I'm paying for it! I wonder if running
away is going to do me any good at all. Perhaps, if Mr. Faucitt has some
real hard work for me to do...
“Of course, I know exactly how all this has come about. Elsa's pretty
and attractive. But the point is that she is a success, and as a success
she appeals to Gerald's weakest side. He worships success. She is going
to have a marvellous career, and she can help Gerald on in his. He can
write 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. I
ought to be above it, oughtn't I--talking as if I were competing for
some prize... But I haven't any pride left. Oh, well!
“There! I've poured it all out and I really do feel a little better
just for the moment. It won't last, of course, but even a minute is
something. Ginger, dear, I shan't see you for ever so long, even if we
ever do meet again, but you'll try to remember that I'm thinking of
you 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 that
photograph of me that we were looking for that afternoon in the
apartment, or I would send it to you. Then you could have kept it on
your mantelpiece, and whenever you felt inclined to make a hash of
anything I would have caught your eye sternly and you would have pulled
up.
“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 was
half a sigh, half an oath. He was wondering whether even now some
desirable end might not be achieved by going to Chicago and breaking
Gerald Foster's neck. Abandoning this scheme as impracticable, and
not being able to think of anything else to do he re-lit his pipe and
started to read the letter again.