My Man Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse (best book club books of all time TXT) 📗
- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Book online «My Man Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse (best book club books of all time TXT) 📗». Author P. G. Wodehouse
The Count clicked his tongue regretfully.
“I am sorry,” he said.
George didn’t offer to console him,
“Don’t worry,” said Sturgis. “He won’t escape me. I shall find him.”
“Do, Mr. Sturgis, do. And quickly. Find swiftly that noble young man.”
“What?” shouted George.
“That noble young man, George Lattaker, who, at the risk of his life, saved my high-born master from the assassin.”
George sat down suddenly.
“I don’t understand,” he said feebly.
“We were wrong, Mr. Sturgis,” went on the Count. “We leaped to the conclusion—was it not so?—that the owner of the hat you found was also the assailant of my high-born master. We were wrong. I have heard the story from His Serene Highness’s own lips. He was passing down a dark street when a ruffian in a mask sprang out upon him. Doubtless he had been followed from the Casino, where he had been winning heavily. My high-born master was taken by surprise. He was felled. But before he lost consciousness he perceived a young man in evening dress, wearing the hat you found, running swiftly towards him. The hero engaged the assassin in combat, and my high-born master remembers no more. His Serene Highness asks repeatedly, ‘Where is my brave preserver?’ His gratitude is princely. He seeks for this young man to reward him. Ah, you should be proud of your brother, sir!”
“Thanks,” said George limply.
“And you, Mr. Sturgis, you must redouble your efforts. You must search the land; you must scour the sea to find George Lattaker.”
“He needn’t take all that trouble,” said a voice from the gangway.
It was Voules. His face was flushed, his hat was on the back of his head, and he was smoking a fat cigar.
“I’ll tell you where to find George Lattaker!” he shouted.
He glared at George, who was staring at him.
“Yes, look at me,” he yelled. “Look at me. You won’t be the first this afternoon who’s stared at the mysterious stranger who won for two hours without a break. I’ll be even with you now, Mr. Blooming Lattaker. I’ll learn you to break a poor man’s heart. Mr. Marshall and gents, this morning I was on deck, and I over’eard ’im plotting to put up a game on you. They’d spotted that gent there as a detective, and they arranged that blooming Lattaker was to pass himself off as his own twin-brother. And if you wanted proof, blooming Pepper tells him to show them his mole and he’d swear George hadn’t one. Those were his very words. That man there is George Lattaker, Hesquire, and let him deny it if he can.”
George got up.
“I haven’t the least desire to deny it, Voules.”
“Mr. Voules, if you please.”
“It’s true,” said George, turning to the Count. “The fact is, I had rather a foggy recollection of what happened last night. I only remembered knocking some one down, and, like you, I jumped to the conclusion that I must have assaulted His Serene Highness.”
“Then you are really George Lattaker?” asked the Count.
“I am.”
“’Ere, what does all this mean?” demanded Voules.
“Merely that I saved the life of His Serene Highness the Prince of Saxburg-Leignitz, Mr. Voules.”
“It’s a swindle!” began Voules, when there was a sudden rush and the girl Pilbeam cannoned into the crowd, sending me into old Marshall’s chair, and flung herself into the arms of Voules.
“Oh, Harold!” she cried. “I thought you were dead. I thought you’d shot yourself.”
He sort of braced himself together to fling her off, and then he seemed to think better of it and fell into the clinch.
It was all dashed romantic, don’t you know, but there are limits.
“Voules, you’re sacked,” I said.
“Who cares?” he said. “Think I was going to stop on now I’m a gentleman of property? Come along, Emma, my dear. Give a month’s notice and get your ’at, and I’ll take you to dinner at Ciro’s.”
“And you, Mr. Lattaker,” said the Count, “may I conduct you to the presence of my high-born master? He wishes to show his gratitude to his preserver.”
“You may,” said George. “May I have my hat, Mr. Sturgis?”
There’s just one bit more. After dinner that night I came up for a smoke, and, strolling on to the foredeck, almost bumped into George and Stella. They seemed to be having an argument.
“I’m not sure,” she was saying, “that I believe that a man can be so happy that he wants to kiss the nearest thing in sight, as you put it.”
“Don’t you?” said George. “Well, as it happens, I’m feeling just that way now.”
I coughed and he turned round.
“Halloa, Reggie!” he said.
“Halloa, George!” I said. “Lovely night.”
“Beautiful,” said Stella.
“The moon,” I said.
“Ripping,” said George.
“Lovely,” said Stella.
“And look at the reflection of the stars on the——”
George caught my eye. “Pop off,” he said.
I popped.
Have you ever thought about—and, when I say thought about, I mean really carefully considered the question of—the coolness, the cheek, or, if you prefer it, the gall with which Woman, as a sex, fairly bursts? I have, by Jove! But then I’ve had it thrust on my notice, by George, in a way I should imagine has happened to pretty few fellows. And the limit was reached by that business of the Yeardsley “Venus.”
To make you understand the full what-d’you-call-it of the situation, I shall have to explain just how matters stood between Mrs. Yeardsley and myself.
When I first knew her she was Elizabeth Shoolbred. Old Worcestershire family; pots of money; pretty as a picture. Her brother Bill was at Oxford with me.
I loved Elizabeth Shoolbred. I loved her, don’t you know. And there was a time, for about a week, when we were engaged to be married. But just as I was beginning to take a serious view of life and study furniture catalogues and feel pretty solemn when the restaurant orchestra played “The Wedding Glide,” I’m hanged if she didn’t break it off, and a month later she was married to a fellow of the name of Yeardsley—Clarence Yeardsley, an artist.
What with golf, and billiards, and a bit of racing, and fellows at the club rallying round and kind of taking me out of myself, as it were, I got over it, and came to look on the affair as a closed page in the book of my life, if you know what I mean. It didn’t seem likely to me that we should meet again, as she and Clarence had settled down in the country somewhere and never came to London, and I’m bound to own that, by the time I got her letter, the wound had pretty well healed, and I was to a certain extent sitting up and taking nourishment. In fact, to be absolutely honest, I was jolly thankful the thing had ended as it had done.
This letter I’m telling you about arrived one morning out of a blue sky, as it were. It ran like this:
“MY DEAR OLD REGGIE,—What ages it seems since I saw anything of you. How are you? We have settled down here in the most perfect old house, with a lovely garden, in the middle of delightful country. Couldn’t you run down here for a few days? Clarence and I would be so glad to see you. Bill is here, and is most anxious to meet you again. He was speaking of you only this morning. Do come. Wire your train, and I will send the car to meet you.
—Yours most sincerely,
ELIZABETH YEARDSLEY.
“P.S.—We can give you new milk and fresh eggs. Think of that!
“P.P.S.—Bill says our billiard-table is one of the best he has ever played on.
“P.P.S.S.—We are only half a mile from a golf course. Bill says it is better than St. Andrews.
“P.P.S.S.S.—You must come!”
Well, a fellow comes down to breakfast one morning, with a bit of a head on, and finds a letter like that from a girl who might quite easily have blighted his life! It rattled me rather, I must confess.
However, that bit about the golf settled me. I knew Bill knew what he was talking about, and, if he said the course was so topping, it must be something special. So I went.
Old Bill met me at the station with the car. I hadn’t come across him for some months, and I was glad to see him again. And he apparently was glad to see me.
“Thank goodness you’ve come,” he said, as we drove off. “I was just about at my last grip.”
“What’s the trouble, old scout?” I asked.
“If I had the artistic what’s-its-name,” he went on, “if the mere mention of pictures didn’t give me the pip, I dare say it wouldn’t be so bad. As it is, it’s rotten!”
“Pictures?”
“Pictures. Nothing else is mentioned in this household. Clarence is an artist. So is his father. And you know yourself what Elizabeth is like when one gives her her head?”
I remembered then—it hadn’t come back to me before—that most of my time with Elizabeth had been spent in picture-galleries. During the period when I had let her do just what she wanted to do with me, I had had to follow her like a dog through gallery after gallery, though pictures are poison to me, just as they are to old Bill. Somehow it had never struck me that she would still be going on in this way after marrying an artist. I should have thought that by this time the mere sight of a picture would have fed her up. Not so, however, according to old Bill.
“They talk pictures at every meal,” he said. “I tell you, it makes a chap feel out of it. How long are you down for?”
“A few days.”
“Take my tip, and let me send you a wire from London. I go there to-morrow. I promised to play against the Scottish. The idea was that I was to come back after the match. But you couldn’t get me back with a lasso.”
I tried to point out the silver lining.
“But, Bill, old scout, your sister says there’s a most corking links near here.”
He turned and stared at me, and nearly ran us into the bank.
“You don’t mean honestly she said that?”
“She said you said it was better than St. Andrews.”
“So I did. Was that all she said I said?”
“Well, wasn’t it enough?”
“She didn’t happen to mention that I added the words, ‘I don’t think’?”
“No, she forgot to tell me that.”
“It’s the worst course in Great Britain.”
I felt rather stunned, don’t you know. Whether it’s a bad habit to have got into or not, I can’t say, but I simply can’t do without my daily allowance of golf when I’m not in London.
I took another whirl at the silver lining.
“We’ll have to take it out in billiards,” I said. “I’m glad the table’s good.”
“It depends what you call good. It’s half-size, and there’s a seven-inch cut just out of baulk where Clarence’s cue slipped. Elizabeth has mended it with pink silk. Very smart and dressy it looks, but it doesn’t improve the thing as a billiard-table.”
“But she said you said——”
“Must have been pulling your leg.”
We turned in at the drive gates of a good-sized house standing well back from the road. It looked black and sinister in the dusk, and I couldn’t help feeling, you know, like one of those Johnnies you read about in stories who are lured to lonely houses for rummy purposes and hear a shriek just as they get there. Elizabeth knew me well enough to know that a specially good golf course was a safe draw to me. And she had deliberately played on her knowledge. What was the game? That was what I wanted to know. And then a sudden thought struck me which brought me out in a cold perspiration. She had some girl down here and was going to have a stab at marrying me off. I’ve often heard that young married women are all over that sort of thing. Certainly she had said there was nobody at the house but Clarence and herself and Bill and Clarence’s father, but a woman who could take the name of St. Andrews in vain as she had done wouldn’t be likely to stick at a trifle.
“Bill, old scout,” I said, “there aren’t any frightful girls or any rot of that sort stopping here, are there?”
“Wish there were,” he said. “No such luck.”
As we pulled up at the front door, it opened, and a woman’s figure appeared.
“Have you got him, Bill?” she said, which in my present frame of mind struck me as a jolly creepy way of putting it. The sort of thing Lady Macbeth might have said to Macbeth, don’t you know.
“Do you mean me?” I said.
She came down into the light. It
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