CHAPTER II
ENTER A LOVELORN HABERDASHER
Baldpate Inn did not stand tiptoe on the misty mountain-top. Instead itclung with grim determination to the side of Baldpate, about half-wayup, much as a city man clings to the running board of an openstreet-car. This was the comparison Mr. Magee made, and even as he madeit he knew that atmospheric conditions rendered it questionable. For anopen street-car suggests summer and the ball park; Baldpate Inn, as itshouldered darkly into Mr. Magee's ken, suggested winter at its mostwintry.
About the great black shape that was the inn, like arms, stretched broadverandas. Mr. Magee remarked upon them to his companion.
"Those porches and balconies and things," he said, "will come in handyin cooling the fevered brow of genius."
"There ain't much fever in this locality," the practical Quimby assuredhim, "especially not in winter."
Silenced, Mr. Magee followed the lantern of Quimby over the snow to thebroad steps, and up to the great front door. There Magee produced frombeneath his coat an impressive key. Mr. Quimby made as though to assist,but was waved aside.
"This is a ceremony," Mr. Magee told him, "some day Sunday newspaperstories will be written about it. Baldpate Inn opening its doors to thegreat American novel!"
He placed the key in the lock, turned it, and the door swung open. Thecoldest blast of air Mr. Magee had even encountered swept out from thedark interior. He shuddered, and wrapped his coat closer. He seemed tosee the white trail from Dawson City, the sled dogs straggling on withthe dwindling provisions, the fat Eskimo guide begging for gum-drops byhis side.
"Whew," he cried, "we've discovered another Pole!"
"It's stale air," remarked Quimby.
"You mean the Polar atmosphere," replied Magee. "Yes, it is prettystale. Jack London and Doctor Cook have worked it to death."
"I mean," said Quimby, "this air has been in here alone too long. It'sas stale as last week's newspaper. We couldn't heat it with a millionfires. We'll have to let in some warm air from outside first."
"Warm air--humph," remarked Mr. Magee. "Well, live and learn."
The two stood together in a great bare room. The rugs had been removed,and such furniture as remained had huddled together, as if for warmth,in the center of the floor. When they stepped forward, the sound oftheir shoes on the hard wood seemed the boom that should wake the dead.
"This is the hotel office," explained Mr. Quimby.
At the left of the door was the clerk's desk; behind it loomed a greatsafe, and a series of pigeon-holes for the mail of the guests. Oppositethe front door, a wide stairway led to a landing half-way up, where thestairs were divorced and went to the right and left in search of thefloor above. Mr. Magee surveyed the stairway critically.
"A great place," he remarked, "to show off the talents of yourdressmaker, eh, Quimby? Can't you just see the stunning gowns comingdown that stair in state, and the young men below here agitated in theirbosoms?"
"No, I can't," said Mr. Quimby frankly.
"I can't either, to tell the truth," laughed Billy Magee. He turned uphis collar. "It's like picturing a summer girl sitting on an iceberg andswinging her open-work hosiery over the edge. I don't suppose it'snecessary to register. I'll go right up and select my apartments."
It was upon a suite of rooms that bore the number seven on their doorthat Mr. Magee's choice fell. A large parlor with a fireplace that a fewblazing logs would cheer, a bedroom whose bed was destitute of all savemattress and springs, and a bathroom, comprised his kingdom. Here, too,all the furniture was piled in the center of the rooms. After Quimby hadopened the windows, he began straightening the furniture about.
Mr. Magee inspected his apartment. The windows were all of the lowFrench variety, and opened out upon a broad snow-covered balcony whichwas in reality the roof of the first floor veranda. On this balconyMagee stood a moment, watching the trees on Baldpate wave their blackarms in the wind, and the lights of Upper Asquewan Falls wink knowinglyup at him. Then he came inside, and his investigations brought him,presently to the tub in the bathroom.
"Fine," he cried, "a cold plunge in the morning before the dailystruggle for immortality begins."
He turned the spigot. Nothing happened.
"I reckon," drawled Mr. Quimby from the bedroom, "you'll carry your coldplunge up from the well back of the inn before you plunge into it. Thewater's turned off. We can't take chances with busted pipes."
"Of course," replied Magee less blithely. His ardor was somewhatdampened--a paradox--by the failure of the spigot to gush forth aresponse. "There's nothing I'd enjoy more than carrying eight pails ofwater up-stairs every morning to get up an appetite for--what? Oh, well,the Lord will provide. If we propose to heat up the great Americanoutdoors, Quimby, I think it's time we had a fire."
Mr. Quimby went out without comment, and left Magee to light his firstcandle in the dark. For a time he occupied himself with lighting a fewof the forty, and distributing them about the room. Soon Quimby cameback with kindling and logs, and subsequently a noisy fire roared in thegrate. Again Quimby retired, and returned with a generous armful ofbedding, which he threw upon the brass bed in the inner room. Then heslowly closed and locked the windows, after which he came and lookeddown with good-natured contempt at Mr. Magee, who sat in a chair beforethe fire.
"I wouldn't wander round none," he advised. "You might fall downsomething--or something. I been living in these parts, off and on, forsixty years and more, and nothing like this ever came under myobservation before. Howsomever, I guess it's all right if Mr. Bentleysays so. I'll come up in the morning and see you down to the train."
"What train?" inquired Mr. Magee.
"Your train back to New York City," replied Mr. Quimby. "Don't try tostart back in the night. There ain't no train till morning."
"Ah, Quimby," laughed Mr. Magee, "you taunt me. You think I won't stickit out. But I'll show you. I tell you, I'm hungry for solitude."
"That's all right," Mr. Quimby responded, "you can't make three squaremeals a day off solitude."
"I'm desperate," said Magee. "Henry Cabot Lodge must come to me, I say,with tears in his eyes. Ever see the senator that way? No? It isn'tgoing to be an easy job. I must put it over. I must go deep into thehearts of men, up here, and write what I find. No more shots in thenight. Just the adventure of soul and soul. Do you see? By the way,here's twenty dollars, your first week's pay as caretaker of a New YorkQuixote."
"What's that?" asked Quimby.
"Quixote," explained Mr. Magee, "was a Spanish lad who was a littleconfused in his mind, and went about the country putting up at summerresorts in mid-winter."
"I'd expect it of a Spaniard," Quimby said. "Be careful of that fire.I'll be up in the morning." He stowed away the bill Mr. Magee had givenhim. "I guess nothing will interfere with your lonesomeness. Leastways,I hope it won't. Good night."
Mr. Magee bade the man good night, and listened to the thump of hisboots, and the closing of the great front door. From his windows hewatched the caretaker move down the road without looking back, todisappear at last in the white night.
Throwing off his great coat, Mr. Magee noisily attacked the fire. Theblaze flared red on his strong humorous mouth, in his smiling eyes.Next, in the flickering half-light of suite seven, he distributed thecontents of his traveling-bags about. On the table he placed a number ofnew magazines and a few books.
Then Mr. Magee sat down in the big leather chair before the fire, andcaught his breath. Here he was at last. The wild plan he and Hal Bentleyhad cooked up in that Forty-fourth Street club had actually come to be."Seclusion," Magee had cried. "Bermuda," Bentley had suggested. "Amixture of sea, hotel clerks, and honeymooners!" the seeker for solitudehad sneered. "Some winter place down South,"--from Bentley. "And aflirtation lurking in every corner!"--from Magee. "A country town whereyou don't know any one." "The easiest place in the world to getacquainted. I must be alone, man! Alone!" "Baldpate Inn," Bentley hadcried in his idiom. "Why, Billy--Baldpate Inn at
Christmas--it must beold John H. Seclusion himself."
Yes, here he was. And here was the solitude he had come to find. Mr.Magee looked nervously about, and the smile died out of his gray eyes.For the first time misgivings smote him. Might one not have too much ofa good thing? A silence like that of the tomb had descended. He recalledstories of men who went mad from loneliness. What place lonelier thanthis? The wind howled along the balcony. It rattled the windows. Outsidehis door lay a great black cave--in summer gay with men and maids--nowlike Crusoe's island before the old man landed.
"Alone, alone, all, all alone," quoted Mr. Magee. "If I can't think hereit will be because I'm not equipped with the apparatus. I will. I'llshow the gloomy old critics! I wonder what's doing in New York?"
New York! Mr. Magee looked at his watch. Eight o'clock. The great streetwas ablaze. The crowds were parading from the restaurants to thetheaters. The electric signs were pasting lurid legends on a longsuffering sky; the taxis were spraying throats with gasoline; thetraffic cop at Broadway and Forty-second Street was madly earning hispay. Mr. Magee got up and walked the floor. New York!
Probably the telephone in his rooms was jangling, vainly calling forthto sport with Amaryllis in the shade of the rubber trees BillyMagee--Billy Magee who sat alone in the silence on Baldpate Mountain.Few knew of his departure. This was the night of that stupid attempt attheatricals at the Plaza; stupid in itself but gay, almost giddy, sinceHelen Faulkner was to be there. This was the night of the dinner toCarey at the club. This was the night--of many diverting things.
Mr. Magee picked up a magazine. He wondered how they read, in the olddays, by candlelight. He wondered if they would have found his ownstories worth the strain on the eyes. And he also wondered if absolutesolitude was quite the thing necessary to the composition of the novelthat should forever silence those who sneered at his ability.
Absolute solitude! Only the crackle of the fire, the roar of the wind,and the ticking of his watch bore him company. He strode to the windowand looked down at the few dim lights that proclaimed the existence ofUpper Asquewan Falls. Somewhere, down there, was the Commercial House.Somewhere the girl who had wept so bitterly in that gloomy littlewaiting-room. She was only three miles away, and the thought cheered Mr.Magee. After all, he was not on a desert island.
And yet--he was alone, intensely, almost painfully, alone. Alone in avast moaning house that must be his only home until he could go back tothe gay city with his masterpiece. What a masterpiece! As though with asurgeon's knife it would lay bare the hearts of men. No tricks of plot,no--
Mr. Magee paused. For sharply in the silence the bell of his roomtelephone rang out.
He stood for a moment gazing in wonder, his heart beating swiftly, hiseyes upon the instrument on the wall. It was a house phone; he knew thatit could only be rung from the switchboard in the hall below. "I'm goingmad already," he remarked, and took down the receiver.
A blur of talk, an electric muttering, a click, and all was still.
Mr. Magee opened the door and stepped out into the shadows. He heard avoice below. Noiselessly he crept to the landing, and gazed down intothe office. A young man sat at the telephone switchboard; Mr. Mageecould see in the dim light of a solitary candle that he was a person ofrather hilarious raiment. The candle stood on the top of the safe, andthe door of the latter swung open. Sinking down on the steps in thedark, Mr. Magee waited.
"Hello," the young man was saying, "how do you work this thing, anyhow?I've tried every peg but the right one. Hello--hello! I want longdistance--Reuton. 2876 West--Mr. Andy Rutter. Will you get him for me,sister?"
Another wait--a long one--ensued. The candle sputtered. The young manfidgeted in his chair. At last he spoke again:
"Hello! Andy? Is that you, Andy? What's the good word? As quiet as thetomb of Napoleon. Shall I close up shop? Sure. What next? Oh, see here,Andy, I'd die up here. Did you ever hit a place like this in winter? Ican't--I--oh, well, if he says so. Yes. I could do that. But no longer.I couldn't stand it long. Tell him that. Tell him everything's O. K.Yes. All right. Well, good night, Andy."
He turned away from the switchboard, and as he did so Mr. Magee walkedcalmly down the stairs toward him. With a cry the young man ran to thesafe, threw a package inside, and swung shut the door. He turned theknob of the safe several times; then he faced Mr. Magee. The latter sawsomething glitter in his hand.
"Good evening," remarked Mr. Magee pleasantly.
"What are you doing here?" cried the youth wildly.
"I live here," Mr. Magee assured him. "Won't you come up to myroom--it's right at the head of the stairs. I have a fire, you know."
Back into the young man's lean hawk-like face crept the assurance thatbelonged with the gay attire he wore. He dropped the revolver into hispocket, and smiled a sneering smile.
"You gave me a turn," he said. "Of course you live here. Are any of theother guests about? And who won the tennis match to-day?"
"You are facetious." Mr. Magee smiled too. "So much the better. A livelycompanion is the very sort I should have ordered to-night. Comeup-stairs."
The young man looked suspiciously about, his thin nose seeminglyscenting plots. He nodded, and picked up the candle. "All right," hesaid. "But I'll have to ask you to go first. You know the way." Hisright hand sought the pocket into which the revolver had fallen.
"You honor my poor and drafty house," said Mr. Magee. "This way."
He mounted the stairs. After him followed the youth of flashyhabiliments, looking fearfully about him as he went. He seemed surprisedthat they came to Magee's room without incident. Inside, Mr. Magee drewup an easy chair before the fire, and offered his guest a cigar.
"You must be cold," he said. "Sit here. 'A bad night, stranger' as theyremark in stories."
"You've said it," replied the young man, accepting the cigar. "Thanks."He walked to the door leading into the hall and opened it about a foot."I'm afraid," he explained jocosely, "we'll get to talking, and miss thebreakfast bell." He dropped into the chair, and lighted his cigar at acandle end. "Say, you never can tell, can you? Climbing up old BaldpateI thought to myself, that hotel certainly makes the Sahara Desert looklike a cozy corner. And here you are, as snug and comfortable and athome as if you were in a Harlem flat. You never can tell. And what now?The story of my life?"
"You might relate," Mr. Magee told him, "that portion of it that has ledyou trespassing on a gentleman seeking seclusion at Baldpate Inn."
The stranger looked at Mr. Magee. He had an eye that not only looked,but weighed, estimated, and classified. Mr. Magee met it smilingly.
"Trespassing, eh?" said the young man. "Far be it from me to quarrelwith a man who smokes as good cigars as you do--but there's something Ihaven't quite doped out. That is--who's trespassing, me or you?"
"My right here," said Mr. Magee, "is indisputable."
"It's a big word," replied the other, "but you can tack it to my righthere, and tell no lie. We can't dispute, so let's drop the matter. Withthat settled, I'm encouraged to pour out the story of why you see mehere to-night, far from the madding crowd. Have you a stray tear? You'llneed it. It's a sad touching story, concerned with haberdashery and atrusting heart, and a fair woman--fair, but, oh, how false!"
"Proceed," laughed Mr. Magee. "I'm an admirer of the vivid imagination.Don't curb yours, I beg of you."
"It's all straight," said the other in a hurt tone. "Every word true. Myname is Joseph Bland. My profession, until love entered my life, wasthat of haberdasher and outfitter. In the city of Reuton, fifty milesfrom here, I taught the Beau Brummels of the thoroughfares what wasdoing in London in the necktie line. I sold them coats with paddedshoulders, and collars high and awe inspiring. I was happy, twisting apiece of silk over my hand to show them how it would look on theirheaving bosoms. And then--she came."
Mr. Bland puffed on his cigar.
"Yes," he said, "Arabella sparkled on the horizon of my life. When Ihave been here in the quiet for about two centuries, maybe I can dojust
ice to her beauty. I won't attempt to describe her now. I lovedher--madly. She said I made a hit with her. I spent on her the profitsof my haberdashery. I whispered--marriage. She didn't scream. I had mywedding necktie picked out from the samples of a drummer from Troy." Hepaused and looked at Mr. Magee. "Have you ever stood, poised, on thatbrink?" he asked.
"Never," replied Magee. "But go on. Your story attracts me, strangely."
"From here on--the tear I spoke of, please. There flashed on the scene aman she had known and loved in Jersey City. I said flashed. He did--justthat. A swell dresser--say, he had John Drew beat by two mauve necktiesand a purple frock coat. I had a haberdashery back of me. No use. Heout-dressed me. I saw that Arabella's love for me was waning. With hischamois-gloved hands that new guy fanned the ancient flame."
He paused. Emotion--or the smoke of the cigar--choked him.
"Let's make the short story shorter," he said. "She threw me down. In myhaberdashery I thought it over. I was blue, bitter. I resolved on adreadful step. In the night I wrote her a letter, and carried it down tothe box and posted it. Life without Arabella, said the letter, wasShakespeare with Hamlet left out. It hinted at the river, carbolic acid,revolvers. Yes, I posted it. And then--"
"And then," urged Mr. Magee.
Mr. Bland felt tenderly of the horseshoe pin in his purple tie.
"This is just between us," he said. "At that point the trouble began. Itcame from my being naturally a very brave man. I could have died--easy.The brave thing was to live. To go on, day after day, devoid ofArabella--say, that took courage. I wanted to try it. I'm a courageousman, as I say."
"You seem so," Mr. Magee agreed.
"Lion-hearted," assented Mr. Bland. "I determined to show my nerve, andlive. But there was my letter to Arabella. I feared she wouldn'tappreciate my bravery--women are dull sometimes. It came to me maybe shewould be hurt if I didn't keep my word, and die. So I had to--disappear.I had a friend mixed up in affairs at Baldpate. No, I can't give hisname. I told him my story. He was impressed by my spirit, as you havebeen. He gave me a key he had--the key of the door opening from the eastveranda into the dining-room. So I came up here. I came here to bealone, to forgive and forget, to be forgot. And maybe to plan a newhaberdashery in distant parts."
"Was it your wedding necktie," asked Mr. Magee, "that you threw into thesafe when you saw me coming?"
"No," replied Mr. Bland, sighing deeply. "A package of letters, writtento me by Arabella at various times. I want to forget 'em. If I kept themon hand, I might look at them from time to time. My great courage mightgive way--you might find my body on the stairs. That's why I hid them."
Mr. Magee laughed, and stretched forth his hand.
"Believe me," he said, "your touching confidence in me will not bebetrayed. I congratulate you on your narrative power. You want my story.Why am I here? I am not sure that it is worthy to follow yours. But ithas its good points--as I have thought it out."
He went over to the table, and picked up a popular novel upon which hisgaze had rested while the haberdasher spun his fabric of love and gloom.On the cover was a picture of a very dashing maiden.
"Do you see that girl?" he asked. "She is beautiful, is she not? EvenArabella, in her most splendid moments, could get a few points from her,I fancy. Perhaps you are not familiar with the important part such apicture plays in the success of a novel to-day. The truth is, however,that the noble art of fiction writing has come to lean more and moreheavily on its illustrators. The mere words that go with the picturesgrow less important every day. There are dozens of distinguishednovelists in the country at this moment who might be haberdashers if itweren't for the long, lean, haughty ladies who are scattered tastefullythrough their works."
Mr. Bland stirred uneasily.
"I can see you are at a loss to know what my search for seclusion andprivacy has to do with all this," continued Mr. Magee. "I am an artist.For years I have drawn these lovely ladies who make fiction salable tothe masses. Many a novelist owes his motor-car and his country house tomy brush. Two months ago, I determined to give up illustration forever,and devote my time to painting. I turned my back on the novelists. Canyou imagine what happened?"
"My imagination's a little tired," apologized Mr. Bland.
"Never mind. I'll tell you. The leading authors whose work I had so longillustrated saw ruin staring them in the face. They came to me, on theirknees, figuratively. They begged. They pleaded. They hid in thevestibule of my flat. I should say, my studio. They even came up in mydumb-waiter, having bribed the janitor. They wouldn't take no for ananswer. In order to escape them and their really pitiful pleadings, Ihad to flee. I happened to have a friend involved in the management ofBaldpate Inn. I am not at liberty to give his name. He gave me a key. Sohere I am. I rely on you to keep my secret. If you perceive a novelistin the distance, lose no time in warning me."
Mr. Magee paused, chuckling inwardly. He stood looking down at thelovelorn haberdasher. The latter got to his feet, and solemnly tookMagee's hand.
"I--I--oh, well, you've got me beat a mile, old man," he said.
"You don't mean to say--" began the hurt Magee.
"Oh, that's all right," Mr. Bland assured him. "I believe every word ofit. It's all as real as the haberdashery to me. I'll keep my eye peeledfor novelists. What gets me is, when you boil our two fly-by-nightstories down, I've come here to be alone. You want to be alone. We can'tbe alone here together. One of us must clear out."
"Nonsense," answered Billy Magee. "I'll be glad to have you here. Stayas long as you like."
The haberdasher looked Mr. Magee fully in the eye, and the latter wasstartled by the hostility he saw in the other's face.
"The point is," said Mr. Bland, "I don't want you here. Why? Maybebecause you recall beautiful dames--on book covers--and in that way,Arabella. Maybe--but what's the use? I put it simply. I got to bealone--alone on Baldpate Mountain. I won't put you out to-night--"
"See here, my friend," cried Mr. Magee, "your grief has turned yourhead. You won't put me out to-night, or to-morrow. I'm here to stay.You're welcome to do the same, if you like. But you stay--with me. Iknow you are a man of courage--but it would take at least ten men ofcourage to put me out of Baldpate Inn."
They stood eying each other for a moment. Bland's thin lips twisted intoa sneer. "We'll see," he said. "We'll settle all that in the morning."His tone took on a more friendly aspect "I'm going to pick out a downycouch in one of these rooms," he said, "and lay me down to sleep. Say, Icould greet a blanket like a long-lost friend."
Mr. Magee proffered some of the covers that Quimby had given him, andaccompanied Mr. Bland to suite ten, across the hall. He explained thematter of "stale air", and assisted in the opening of windows. Theconversation was mostly facetious, and Mr. Bland's last remark concernedthe fickleness of woman. With a brisk good night, Mr. Magee returned tonumber seven.
But he made no move toward the chilly brass bed in the inner room.Instead he sat a long time by the fire. He reflected on the events ofhis first few hours in that supposedly uninhabited solitude where he wasto be alone with his thoughts. He pondered the way and manner of theflippant young man who posed as a lovelorn haberdasher, and under whoseflippancy there was certainly an air of hostility. Who was Andy Rutter,down in Reuton? What did the young man mean when he asked if he should"close up shop"? Who was the "he" from whom came the orders? and mostimportant of all, what was in the package now resting in the great safe?
Mr. Magee smiled. Was this the stuff of which solitude was made? Herecalled the ludicrous literary tale he had invented to balance themoving fiction of Arabella, and his smile grew broader. His imagination,at least, was in a healthy state. He looked at his watch. A quarter oftwelve. Probably they were having supper at the Plaza now, and HelenFaulkner was listening to the banalities of young Williams. He settledin his seat to think of Miss Faulkner. He thought of her for tenseconds; then stepped to the window.
The moon had risen, and the snowy roofs of Upper Asquewan Falls spa
rkledin the lime-light of the heavens. Under one of those roofs was the girlof the station--weeping no more, he hoped. Certainly she had eyes thatheld even the least susceptible--to which class Mr. Magee prided himselfhe belonged. He wished he might see her again; might talk to her withoutinterruption from that impossible "mamma."
Mr. Magee turned back into the room. His fire was but red glowing ashes.He threw off his dressing-gown, and began to unlace his shoes.
"There _has_ been too much crude melodrama in my novels," he reflected."It's so easy to write. But I'm going to get away from all that up here.I'm going--"
Mr. Magee paused, with one shoe poised in his hand. For from below camethe sharp crack of a pistol, followed by the crash of breaking glass.
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