The Agony Column, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  The next day was Sunday; hence it brought no Mail. Slowly it draggedalong. At a ridiculously early hour Monday morning Geoffrey West was onthe street, seeking his favorite newspaper. He found it, found the AgonyColumn--and nothing else. Tuesday morning again he rose early, stillhopeful. Then and there hope died. The lady at the Carlton deigned noreply.

  Well, he had lost, he told himself. He had staked all on this one boldthrow; no use. Probably if she thought of him at all it was to label hima cheap joker, a mountebank of the halfpenny press. Richly he deservedher scorn.

  On Wednesday he slept late. He was in no haste to look into the DailyMail; his disappointments of the previous days had been too keen. Atlast, while he was shaving, he summoned Walters, the caretaker of thebuilding, and sent him out to procure a certain morning paper.

  Walters came back bearing rich treasure, for in the Agony Column of thatday West, his face white with lather, read joyously:

  STRAWBERRY MAN: Only the grapefruit lady's kind heart and her greatfondness for mystery and romance move her to answer. The strawberry-madone may write one letter a day for seven days--to prove that he is aninteresting person, worth knowing. Then--we shall see. Address: M. A.L., care Sadie Haight, Carlton Hotel.

  All day West walked on air, but with the evening came the problem ofthose letters, on which depended, he felt, his entire future happiness.Returning from dinner, he sat down at his desk near the windows thatlooked out on his wonderful courtyard. The weather was still torrid,but with the night had come a breeze to fan the hot cheek of London. Itgently stirred his curtains; rustled the papers on his desk.

  He considered. Should he at once make known the eminently respectableperson he was, the hopelessly respectable people he knew? Hardly! Forthen, on the instant, like a bubble bursting, would go for good allmystery and romance, and the lady of the grapefruit would lose allinterest and listen to him no more. He spoke solemnly to his rustlingcurtains.

  "No," he said. "We must have mystery and romance. But where--where shallwe find them?"

  On the floor above he heard the solid tramp of military boots belongingto his neighbor, Captain Stephen Fraser-Freer, of the Twelfth Cavalry,Indian Army, home on furlough from that colony beyond the seas. It wasfrom that room overhead that romance and mystery were to come in mightystore; but Geoffrey West little suspected it at the moment. Hardlyknowing what to say, but gaining inspiration as he went along, he wrotethe first of seven letters to the lady at the Carlton. And the epistlehe dropped in the post box at midnight follows here:

  DEAR LADY OF THE GRAPEFRUIT: You are very kind. Also, you are wise.Wise, because into my clumsy little Personal you read nothing that wasnot there. You knew it immediately for what it was--the timid tentativeclutch of a shy man at the skirts of Romance in passing. Believe me,old Conservatism was with me when I wrote that message. He was fightinghard. He followed me, struggling, shrieking, protesting, to the post boxitself. But I whipped him. Glory be! I did for him.

  We are young but once, I told him. After that, what use to signal toRomance? The lady at least, I said, will understand. He sneered at that.He shook his silly gray head. I will admit he had me worried. But nowyou have justified my faith in you. Thank you a million times for that!

  Three weeks I have been in this huge, ungainly, indifferent city,longing for the States. Three weeks the Agony Column has been my solediversion. And then--through the doorway of the Carlton restaurant--youcame--

  It is of myself that I must write, I know. I will not, then, tell youwhat is in my mind--the picture of you I carry. It would mean littleto you. Many Texan gallants, no doubt, have told you the same while themoon was bright above you and the breeze was softly whispering throughthe branches of--the branches of the--of the--

  Confound it, I don't know! I have never been in Texas. It is a vice inme I hope soon to correct. All day I intended to look up Texas in theencyclopedia. But all day I have dwelt in the clouds. And there are noreference books in the clouds.

  Now I am down to earth in my quiet study. Pens, ink and paper are beforeme. I must prove myself a person worth knowing.

  From his rooms, they say, you can tell much about a man. But,alas! these peaceful rooms in Adelphi Terrace--I shall not tell thenumber--were sublet furnished. So if you could see me now you would bejudging me by the possessions left behind by one Anthony Bartholomew.There is much dust on them. Judge neither Anthony nor me by that.Judge rather Walters, the caretaker, who lives in the basement with hisgray-haired wife. Walters was a gardener once, and his whole life iswrapped up in the courtyard on which my balcony looks down. There hespends his time, while up above the dust gathers in the corners--

  Does this picture distress you, my lady? You should see the courtyard!You would not blame Walters then. It is a sample of Paradise left atour door--that courtyard. As English as a hedge, as neat, as beautiful.London is a roar somewhere beyond; between our court and the great cityis a magic gate, forever closed. It was the court that led me to takethese rooms.

  And, since you are one who loves mystery, I am going to relate to youthe odd chain of circumstances that brought me here.

  For the first link in that chain we must go back to Interlaken. Haveyou been there yet? A quiet little town, lying beautiful between twoshimmering lakes, with the great Jungfrau itself for scenery. From thedining-room of one lucky hotel you may look up at dinner and watch theold-rose afterglow light the snow-capped mountain. You would not saythen of strawberries: "I hate them." Or of anything else in all theworld.

  A month ago I was in Interlaken. One evening after dinner I strolledalong the main street, where all the hotels and shops are drawn up atattention before the lovely mountain. In front of one of the shops I sawa collection of walking sticks and, since I needed one for climbing, Ipaused to look them over. I had been at this only a moment when a youngEnglishman stepped up and also began examining the sticks.

  I had made a selection from the lot and was turning away to findthe shopkeeper, when the Englishman spoke. He was lean,distinguished-looking, though quite young, and had that well-tubbedappearance which I am convinced is the great factor that has enabled theEnglish to assert their authority over colonies like Egypt and India,where men are not so thoroughly bathed.

  "Er--if you'll pardon me, old chap," he said. "Not that stick--if youdon't mind my saying so. It's not tough enough for mountain work. Iwould suggest--"

  To say that I was astonished is putting it mildly. If you know theEnglish at all, you know it is not their habit to address strangers,even under the most pressing circumstances. Yet here was one of thathaughty race actually interfering in my selection of a stick. I endedby buying the one he preferred, and he strolled along with me in thedirection of my hotel, chatting meantime in a fashion far from British.

  We stopped at the Kursaal, where we listened to the music, had a drinkand threw away a few francs on the little horses. He came with me to theveranda of my hotel. I was surprised, when he took his leave, to findthat he regarded me in the light of an old friend. He said he would callon me the next morning.

  I made up my mind that Archibald Enwright--for that, he told me, washis name--was an adventurer down on his luck, who chose to forgethis British exclusiveness under the stern necessity of getting moneysomehow, somewhere. The next day, I decided, I should be the victim of atouch.

  But my prediction failed; Enwright seemed to have plenty of money. Onthat first evening I had mentioned to him that I expected shortly to bein London, and he often referred to the fact. As the time approachedfor me to leave Interlaken he began to throw out the suggestion that heshould like to have me meet some of his people in England. This, also,was unheard of--against all precedent.

  Nevertheless, when I said good-by to him he pressed into my hand aletter of introduction to his cousin, Captain Stephen Fraser-Freer, ofthe Twelfth Cavalry, Indian Army, who, he said, would be glad to makeme at home in London, where he was on furlough at the time--or would bewhen I reached there.

&nb
sp; "Stephen's a good sort," said Enwright. "He'll be jolly pleased to showyou the ropes. Give him my best, old boy!"

  Of course I took the letter. But I puzzled greatly over the affair.What could be the meaning of this sudden warm attachment that Archie hadformed for me? Why should he want to pass me along to his cousin at atime when that gentleman, back home after two years in India, wouldbe, no doubt, extremely busy? I made up my mind I would not present theletter, despite the fact that Archie had with great persistence wrungfrom me a promise to do so. I had met many English gentlemen, and Ifelt they were not the sort--despite the example of Archie--to take awandering American to their bosoms when he came with a mere letter. Byeasy stages I came on to London. Here I met a friend, just sailing forhome, who told me of some sad experiences he had had with lettersof introduction--of the cold, fishy,"My-dear-fellow-why-trouble-me-with-it?" stares that had greeted theirpresentation. Good-hearted men all, he said, but averse to strangers; anever-present trait in the English--always excepting Archie.

  So I put the letter to Captain Fraser-Freer out of my mind. I hadbusiness acquaintances here and a few English friends, and I foundthese, as always, courteous and charming. But it is to my advantage tomeet as many people as may be, and after drifting about for a week I setout one afternoon to call on my captain. I told myself that here was anEnglishman who had perhaps thawed a bit in the great oven of India. Ifnot, no harm would be done.

  It was then that I came for the first time to this house on AdelphiTerrace, for it was the address Archie had given me. Walters let me in,and I learned from him that Captain Fraser-Freer had not yet arrivedfrom India. His rooms were ready--he had kept them during his absence,as seems to be the custom over here--and he was expected soon.Perhaps--said Walters--his wife remembered the date. He left me in thelower hall while he went to ask her.

  Waiting, I strolled to the rear of the hall. And then, through an openwindow that let in the summer, I saw for the first time that courtyardwhich is my great love in London--the old ivy-covered walls of brick;the neat paths between the blooming beds; the rustic seat; the magicgate. It was incredible that just outside lay the world's biggest city,with all its poverty and wealth, its sorrows and joys, its roar andrattle. Here was a garden for Jane Austen to people with fine ladiesand courtly gentlemen--here was a garden to dream in, to adore and tocherish.

  When Walters came back to tell me that his wife was uncertain as to theexact date when the captain would return, I began to rave about thatcourtyard. At once he was my friend. I had been looking for quietlodgings away from the hotel, and I was delighted to find that on thesecond floor, directly under the captain's rooms, there was a suite tobe sublet.

  Walters gave me the address of the agents; and, after submitting to anexamination that could not have been more severe if I had asked for thehand of the senior partner's daughter, they let me come here to live.The garden was mine!

  And the captain? Three days after I arrived I heard above me, for thefirst time, the tread of his military boots. Now again my courage beganto fail. I should have preferred to leave Archie's letter lying inmy desk and know my neighbor only by his tread above me. I felt thatperhaps I had been presumptuous in coming to live in the same house withhim. But I had represented myself to Walters as an acquaintance of thecaptain's and the caretaker had lost no time in telling me that "myfriend" was safely home.

  So one night, a week ago, I got up my nerve and went to the captain'srooms. I knocked. He called to me to enter and I stood in his study,facing him. He was a tall handsome man, fair-haired, mustached--thevery figure that you, my lady, in your boarding-school days, would havewished him to be. His manner, I am bound to admit, was not cordial.

  "Captain," I began, "I am very sorry to intrude--" It wasn't the thingto say, of course, but I was fussed. "However, I happen to be a neighborof yours, and I have here a letter of introduction from your cousin,Archibald Enwright. I met him in Interlaken and we became very goodfriends."

  "Indeed!" said the captain.

  He held out his hand for the letter, as though it were evidence ata court-martial. I passed it over, wishing I hadn't come. He read itthrough. It was a long letter, considering its nature. While I waited,standing by his desk--he hadn't asked me to sit down--I looked aboutthe room. It was much like my own study, only I think a little dustier.Being on the third floor it was farther from the garden, consequentlyWalters reached there seldom.

  The captain turned back and began to read the letter again. This wasdecidedly embarrassing. Glancing down, I happened to see on his deskan odd knife, which I fancy he had brought from India. The blade wasof steel, dangerously sharp, the hilt of gold, carved to represent someheathen figure.

  Then the captain looked up from Archie's letter and his cold gaze fellfull upon me.

  "My dear fellow," he said, "to the best of my knowledge, I have nocousin named Archibald Enwright."

  A pleasant situation, you must admit! It's bad enough when you cometo them with a letter from their mother, but here was I in thisEnglishman's rooms, boldly flaunting in his face a warm note ofcommendation from a cousin who did not exist!

  "I owe you an apology," I said. I tried to be as haughty as he, and fellshort by about two miles. "I brought the letter in good faith."

  "No doubt of that," he answered.

  "Evidently it was given me by some adventurer for purposes of his own,"I went on; "though I am at a loss to guess what they could have been."

  "I'm frightfully sorry--really," said he. But he said it with the Londoninflection, which plainly implies: "I'm nothing of the sort."

  A painful pause. I felt that he ought to give me back the letter; but hemade no move to do so. And, of course, I didn't ask for it.

  "Ah--er--good night," said I and hurried toward the door.

  "Good night," he answered, and I left him standing there with Archie'saccursed letter in his hand.

  That is the story of how I came to this house in Adelphi Terrace. Thereis mystery in it, you must admit, my lady. Once or twice since thatuncomfortable call I have passed the captain on the stairs; but thehalls are very dark, and for that I am grateful. I hear him often aboveme; in fact, I hear him as I write this.

  Who was Archie? What was the idea? I wonder.

  Ah, well, I have my garden, and for that I am indebted to Archie thegarrulous. It is nearly midnight now. The roar of London has died awayto a fretful murmur, and somehow across this baking town a breeze hasfound its way. It whispers over the green grass, in the ivy that climbsmy wall, in the soft murky folds of my curtains. Whispers--what?

  Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go with this, the first of my lettersto you. They are dreams that even I dare not whisper yet.

  And so--good night.

  THE STRAWBERRY MAN.