CHAPTER III
BLONDES AND SUFFRAGETTES
Mr. Magee slipped into his dressing gown, seized a candle, and like theboy in the nursery rhyme with one shoe off and one shoe on, ran into thehall. All was silent and dark below. He descended to the landing, andstood there, holding the candle high above his head. It threw a dimlight as far as the bottom of the stairs, but quickly lost the battlewith the shadows that lay beyond.
"Hello," the voice of Bland, the haberdasher, came out of the blackness."The Goddess of Liberty, as I live! What's your next imitation?"
"There seems to be something doing," said Mr. Magee.
Mr. Bland came into the light, partially disrobed, his revolver in hishand.
"Somebody trying to get in by the front door," he explained. "I shot athim to scare him away. Probably one of your novelists."
"Or Arabella," remarked Mr. Magee, coming down.
"No," answered Bland. "I distinctly saw a derby hat."
With Mr. Magee descended the yellow candlelight, and brushing aside theshadows of the hotel office, it revealed a mattress lying on the floorclose to the clerk's desk, behind which stood the safe. On the mattresswas the bedding Magee had presented to the haberdasher, hastily thrownback by the lovelorn one on rising.
"You prefer to sleep down here," Mr. Magee commented.
"Near the letters of Arabella--yes," replied Bland. His keen eyes metMagee's. There was a challenge in them.
Mr. Magee turned, and the yellow light of the candle flickered wanlyover the great front door Even as he looked at it, the door was pushedopen, and a queer figure of a man stood framed against a background ofglittering snow. Mr. Bland's arm flew up.
"Don't shoot," cried Magee.
"No, please don't," urged the man in the doorway. A beard, a pair ofround owlish spectacles, and two ridiculous ear-muffs, left only asuggestion of face here and there. He closed the door and stepped intothe room. "I have every right here, I assure you, even though my arrivalis somewhat unconventional. See--I have the key." He held up a largebrass key that was the counterpart of the one Hal Bentley had bestowedupon Mr. Magee in that club on far-off Forty-fourth Street.
"Keys to burn," muttered Mr. Bland sourly.
"I bear no ill will with regard to the shooting," went on the newcomer.He took off his derby hat and ruefully regarded a hole through thecrown. His bald head seemed singularly frank and naked above a face ofso many disguises. "It is only natural that men alone on a mountainshould defend themselves from invaders at two in the morning. My escapewas narrow, but there is no ill will."
He blinked about him, his breath a white cloud in the cold room.
"Life, young gentlemen," he remarked, setting down his bag and leaning agreen umbrella against it, "has its surprises even at sixty-two. Lastnight I was ensconced by my own library fire, preparing a paper on thePagan Renaissance. To-night I am on Baldpate Mountain, with aperforation in my hat."
Mr. Bland shivered. "I'm going back to bed," he said in disgust.
"First," went on the gentleman with the perforated derby, "permit me tointroduce myself. I am Professor Thaddeus Bolton, and I hold the Chairof Comparative Literature in a big eastern university."
Mr. Magee took the mittened hand of the professor.
"Glad to see you, I'm sure," he said. "My name is Magee. This is Mr.Bland--he is impetuous but estimable. I trust you will forgive his firstsalute. What's a bullet among gentlemen? It seems to me that asexplanations may be lengthy and this room is very cold, we would do wellto go up to my room, where there is a fire."
"Delighted," cried the old man. "A fire. I long to see one. Let us go toyour room, by all means."
Mr. Bland sulkily stalked to his mattress and secured a gaily coloredbed quilt, which he wound about his thin form.
"This is positively the last experience meeting I attend to-night," hegrowled.
They ascended to number seven. Mr. Magee piled fresh logs on the fire;Mr. Bland saw to it that the door was not tightly closed. The professorremoved, along with other impedimenta, his ear tabs, which wereconnected by a rubber cord. He waved them like frisky detached earsbefore him.
"An old man's weakness," he remarked. "Foolish, they may seem to you.But I assure you I found them useful companions in climbing BaldpateMountain at this hour."
He sat down in the largest chair suite seven owned, and from its depthssmiled benignly at the two young men.
"But I am not here to apologize for my apparel, am I? Hardly. You aresaying to yourselves 'Why is he here?' Yes, that is the question thatdisturbs you. What has brought this domesticated college professorscampering from the Pagan Renaissance to Baldpate Inn? For answer, Imust ask you to go back with me a week's time, and gaze at a picturefrom the rather dreary academic kaleidoscope that is my life.
"I am seated back of a desk on a platform in a bare yellow room. Infront of me, tier on tier, sit a hundred young men in various attitudesof inattention. I am trying to tell them something of the ideal poetrythat marked the rebirth of the Saxon genius. They are bored. I--well,gentlemen, in confidence, even the mind of a college professor has beenknown to wander at times from the subject in hand. And then--I begin toread a poem--a poem descriptive of a woman dead six hundred years andmore. Ah, gentlemen--"
He sat erect on the edge of his great chair. Back of the thick lenses ofhis spectacles he had eyes that still could flash.
"This is not an era of romance," he said. "Our people grub in the dirtfor the dollar. Their visions perish. Their souls grow stale. Yet, nowand then, at most inopportune times, comes the flash that reveals to usthe glories that might be. A gentleman of my acquaintance caught aglimpse of perfect happiness while he was in the midst of an effort tocorner the pickle market. Another evolved the scheme of a perfect ode tothe essential purity of woman in--a Broadway restaurant. So, likelightning across the blackest sky, our poetic moments come."
Mr. Bland wrapped his gay quilt more securely about him. Mr. Mageesmiled encouragement on the newest raconteur.
"I shall be brief," continued Professor Bolton. "Heaven knows thatpedagogic room was no place for visions, nor were those athletic youngmen fit companions for a soul gone giddy. Yet--I lost my head. As I readon there returned to my heart a glow I had not known in forty years. Thebard spoke of her hair:
"'Her yellow lockes, crisped like golden wyre, About her shoulders weren loosely shed'
and I saw, as in a dream--ahem, I can trust you, gentlemen--a girl Isupposed I had forever forgot in the mold and dust of my later years. Iwill not go further into the matter. My wife's hair is black.
"And reading on, but losing the thread of the poet's eulogy in thegolden fabric of my resurrected dream, it came to me to compare thatmaid I knew in the long ago with the women I know to-day. Ah, gentlemen!Lips, made but for smiling, fling weighty arguments on the unoffendingatmosphere. Eyes, made to light with that light that never was by landor sea, blaze instead with what they call the injustice of woman'sservitude. White hands, made to find their way to the hands of someyoung man in the moonlight, carry banners in the dusty streets. Itseemed I saw the blue eyes of that girl of long ago turned, sad,rebuking, on her sisters of to-day. As I finished reading, my heart wasawhirl. I said to the young men before me:
"'There _was_ a woman, gentlemen--a woman worth a million suffragettes.'
"They applauded. The fire in me died down. Soon I was my old meek,academic self. The vision had left no trace. I dismissed my class andwent home. I found that my wife--she of the black hair--had left myslippers by the library fire. I put them on, and plunged into a pamphletlately published by a distinguished member of a German universityfaculty. I thought the incident closed forever."
He gazed sorrowfully at the two young men.
"But, gentlemen, I had not counted on that viper that we nourish in ourbosom--the American newspaper. At present I will not take time todenounce the press. I am preparing an article on the subject for arespectable weekly of select circulation. Suffice it to record wh
athappened. The next day an evening paper appeared with a huge picture ofme on its front page, and the hideous statement that this was theProfessor Bolton who had said that 'One Peroxide Blonde Is Worth aMillion Suffragettes'.
"Yes, that was the dreadful version of my remark that was spreadbroadcast. Up to the time that story appeared, I had no idea as to whatsort of creature the peroxide blonde might be. I protested, of course. Imight as well have tried to dam a tidal wave with a table fork. Thewrath of the world swept down upon me. I was deluged with telegrams,editorials, letters, denouncing me. Firm-faced females lay in wait forme and waved umbrellas in my eyes. Even my wife turned from me, sayingthat while she did not ask me to hold her views on the question ofsuffrage, she thought I might at least refrain from publicly commendinga type of woman found chiefly in musical comedy choruses. I received anote from the president of the university, asking me to be morecircumspect in my remarks. Me--Thadeus Bolton--the most conservative manon earth by instinct!
"And still the denunciations of me poured in; still women's clubs heldmeetings resolving against me; still a steady stream of reporters flowedthrough my life, urging me to state my views further, to name the tengreatest blondes in history, to--heaven knows what. Yesterday I resolvedI Could stand it no longer. I determined to go away until the wholething was forgotten. 'But', they said to me, 'there is no place, on landor sea, where the reporters will not find you'. I talked the matter overwith my old friend, John Bentley, owner of Baldpate Inn, and he in hiskindness gave me the key to this hostelry."
The old man paused and passed a silk handkerchief over his bald head.
"That, sirs," he said, "is my story. That is why you see me on BaldpateMountain this chill December morning. That is why loneliness can have noterrors, exile no sorrows, for me. That is why I bravely faced yourrevolver-shots. Again let me repeat, I bear no malice on that score. Youhave ruined a new derby hat, and the honorarium of professor even at aleading university is not such as to permit of many purchases in thatline. But I forgive you freely. Even at the cannon's mouth I would havefled from reputation, to paraphrase the poet."
Wisely Professor Bolton blinked about him. Mr. Bland was half asleep inhis chair, but Mr. Magee was quick with sympathy.
"Professor," he said, "you are a much suffering man. I feel for you.Here, I am sure, you are safe from reporters, and the yellow journalswill soon forget you in their discovery of the next distorted wonder.Briefly, Mr. Bland and myself will outline the tangle of events thatbrought us to the inn--"
"Briefly is right," broke in Bland. "And then it's me for thatmountainous mattress of mine. I can rattle my story off in short order,and give you the fine points to-morrow. Up to a short time ago--"
But Billy Magee interrupted. An idea, magnificent delicious, mirthful,had come to him. Why not? He chuckled inwardly, but his face was mostserious.
"I should like to tell my story first, if you please," he said.
The haberdasher grunted. The professor nodded. Mr. Magee looked Blandsquarely in the eye, strangled the laugh inside him, and began:
"Up to a short time ago I was a haberdasher in the city of Reuton. Myname, let me state, is Magee--William Magee. I fitted the gayshoulder-blades of Reuton with clothing from the back pages of themagazines, and as for neckties--"
Mr. Bland's sly eyes had opened wide. He rose to a majesticheight--majestic considering the bed quilt.
"See here--" he began.
"Please don't interrupt," requested Mr. Magee sweetly. "I was, as I havesaid, a happy carefree haberdasher. And then--she entered my life.Arabella was her name. Ah, Professor, you lady of the yellow locks,crisped liken golden wire--even she must never in my presence becompared with Arabella. She--she had--a--face--Noah Webster couldn'thave found words to describe it. And her heart was true to yourstruly--at least I thought that it was."
Mr. Magee rattled on. The haberdasher, his calling and his tragedysnatched from him by the humorous Magee, retired with sullen face intohis bed quilt. Carefully Mr. Magee led up to the coming of the man fromJersey City; in detail he laid bare the duel of haberdashery fought inthe name of the fair Arabella. As he proceeded, his enthusiasm grew. Headded fine bits that had escaped Mr. Bland. He painted with free handthe picture of tragedy's dark hour; the note hinting at suicide he gavein full. Then he told of how his courage grew again, of how he put thecowardice of death behind him, resolved to dare all--and live. Hefinished at last, his voice husky with emotion. Out of the corner of hiseye he glanced triumphantly at Bland. That gentleman was gazingthoughtfully at the blazing logs.
"You did quite right," commented Professor Bolton, "in making up yourmind to live. I congratulate you on your common sense. And perhaps, asthe years go by, you will realize that had you married your Arabella,you would not have found life all honey and roses. She was fickle,unworthy of you. Soon you will forget. Youth--ah, youth throws off itssorrow like a cloak. A figure not original with me. And now--thegentleman in the--er--the bed quilt. Has he, too, a story?"
"Yes," laughed Mr. Magee, "let's hear now from the gentleman in the bedquilt. Has he, too, a story? And if so, what is it?"
He smiled delightedly into the eyes of Bland. What would theex-haberdasher do, shorn of his fictional explanation? Would he rise inhis wrath and denounce the man who had stolen his Arabella? Mr. Blandsmiled back. He stood up. And a contingency that had not entered Mr.Magee's mind came to be.
Mr. Bland walked calmly to the table, and picked up a popular novel thatlay thereon. On its cover was the picture of a very beautiful maiden.
"See that dame?" he inquired of the professor. "Sort of makes a man situp and take notice, doesn't she? Even the frost-bitten haberdasher herehas got to admit that in some ways she has this Arabella person lookinglike a faded chromo in your grandmother's parlor on a rainy afternoon.Ever get any notion, Professor, the way a picture like that boosts anovel in the busy marts of trade? No? Well--"
Mr. Bland continued. Mr. Magee leaned back, overjoyed, in his chair.Here was a man not to be annoyed by the mere filching of his story. Herewas a man with a sense of humor--an opponent worthy his foe's bestefforts. In his role of a haberdasher overcome with woe, Mr. Mageelistened.
"I used to paint dames like that," Bland was saying to the dazedprofessor. He explained how his pictures had enabled many a novelist to"eat up the highway in a buzz-wagon." As he approached the time when thenovelists besieged him, he gave full play to his imagination. One, hesaid, sought out his apartments in an aeroplane.
"Say, Professor," he finished, "we're in the same boat. Both hiding fromwriters. A fellow that's spent his life selling neckties--well, he can'texactly appreciate our situation. There's what you might call a bondbetween you and me. D'ye know, I felt drawn to you, just after I firedthat first shot. That's why I didn't blaze away again. We're going to begreat friends--I can read it in the stars."
He took the older man's hand feelingly, shook it, and walked away,casting a covert glance of triumph at Mr. Magee.
The face of the holder of the Crandall Chair of Comparative Literaturewas a study. He looked first at one young man, then at the other. Againhe applied the handkerchief to his shining head.
"All this is very odd," he said thoughtfully. "A man ofsixty-two--particularly one who has long lived in the uninspired circlesurrounding a university--has not the quick wit of youth. I'm afraid Idon't--but no matter. It's very odd, though."
He permitted Mr. Magee to escort him into the hall, and to direct hissearch for a bed that should serve him through the scant remainder ofthe night. Overcoats and rugs were pressed into service as cover. Mr.Bland blithely assisted.
"If I see any newspaper reporters," he assured the professor on parting,"I'll damage more than their derbies."
"Thank you," replied the old man heartily. "You are very kind. To-morrowwe shall become better acquainted. Good night."
The two young men came out and stood in the hallway. Mr. Magee spoke ina low tone.
"Forgive me," he said, "for stealing your Arab
ella."
"Take her and welcome," said Bland. "She was beginning to bore me,anyhow. And I'm not in your class as an actor." He came close to Magee.In the dim light that streamed out from number seven the latter saw thelook on his face, and knew that, underneath all, this was a very muchworried young man.
"For God's sake," cried Bland, "tell me who you are and what you'redoing here. In three words--tell me."
"If I did," Mr. Magee replied, "you wouldn't believe me. Let such minormatters as the truth wait over till to-morrow."
"Well, anyhow," Bland said, his foot on the top step, "we are sure ofone thing--we don't trust each other. I've got one parting word for you.Don't try to come down-stairs to-night. I've got a gun, and I ain'tafraid to shoot."
He paused. A look of fright passed over his face. For on the floor abovethey both heard soft footsteps--then a faint click, as though a door hadbeen gently closed.
"This inn," whispered Bland, "has more keys than a literary club in aprohibition town. And every one's in use, I guess. Remember. Don't tryto come down-stairs. I've warned you. Or Arabella's cast-off Romeo maybe found with a bullet in him yet."
"I shan't forget, what you say," answered Mr. Magee. "Shall we lookabout up-stairs?"
Bland shook his head.
"No," he said. "Go in and go to bed. It's the down-stairs that--thatconcerns me. Good night."
He went swiftly down the steps, leaving Mr. Magee staring wonderinglyafter him. Like a wraith he merged with the shadows below. Magee turnedslowly, and entered number seven. A fantastic film of frost was on thewindows; the inner room was drear and chill. Partially undressing, helay down on the brass bed and pulled the covers over him.
The events of the night danced in giddy array before him as he closedhis eyes. With every groan Baldpate Inn uttered in the wind he startedup, keen for a new adventure. At length his mind seemed to stand still,and there remained of all that amazing evening's pictures but one--thatof a girl in a blue corduroy suit who wept--wept only that her smilemight be the more dazzling when it flashed behind the tears. "Withyellow locks, crisped like golden wire," murmured Mr. Magee. And so hefell asleep.