Books: Jill the Reckless)
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P. G. Wodehouse >> Jill the Reckless)
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"'Baby needs new shoes!'"
"'Baby needs new shoes!' Precisely!"
"It sounds to me," said Freddie, "dashed silly."
"Oh, no!" cried Nelly reproachfully.
"Well, what I mean to say is, there's no sense in it, don't you
know."
"It is a noble pursuit," said Uncle Chris firmly. "Worthy of the
great nation that has produced it. No doubt, when I return to
America, I shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill."
"You aren't returning to America," said Jill. "You're going to stay
safe at home like a good little uncle. I'm not going to have you
running wild all over the world at your age."
"Age?" declaimed Uncle Chris. "What is my age? At the present moment
I feel in the neighborhood of twenty-one, and Ambition is tapping me
on the shoulder and whispering 'Young man, go West!' The years are
slipping away from me, my dear Jill,--slipping so quickly that in a
few minutes you will be wondering why my nurse does not come to fetch
me. The wanderlust is upon me. I gaze around me at all this
prosperity in which I am lapped," said Uncle Chris, eyeing the
arm-chair severely, "all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me,
and I feel staggered. I want activity. I want to be braced!"
"You would hate it," said Jill composedly. "You know you're the
laziest old darling in the world."
"Exactly what I am endeavoring to point out. I am lazy. Or, I was
till this morning."
"Something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. I can
see that."
"I wallowed in gross comfort. I was what Shakespeare calls a 'fat and
greasy citizen'!"
"Please, Uncle Chris!" protested Jill. "Not while I'm eating buttered
toast!"
"But now I am myself again."
"That's splendid."
"I have heard the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted Uncle Chris,
"and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song--How
long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!"
"He can also recite 'Gunga Din,'" said Jill to Nelly. "I really must
apologize for all this. He's usually as good as gold."
"I believe I know how he feels," said Nelly softly.
"Of course you do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of the
world. We are not vegetables like young Rooke here."
"Eh, what?" said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had been
watching Nelly's face. Its wistfulness attracted him.
"We are only happy," proceeded Uncle Chris, "when we are wandering."
"You should see Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning," said
Jill. "He trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely
defying fatigue."
"That," said Uncle Chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. I shudder
at the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink." He expanded
his chest. "I shall be a different man in America. America would make
a different man of you, Freddie."
"I'm all right, thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man.
Uncle Chris turned to Nelly, pointing dramatically.
"Young woman, go West! Return to your bracing home, and leave this
enervating London! You . . ."
Nelly got up abruptly. She could endure no more.
"I believe I'll have to be going now," she said. "Bill misses me if
I'm away long. Good-bye. Thank you ever so much for what you did."
"It was awfully kind of you to come round," said Jill.
"Good-bye, Major Selby."
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr Rooke."
Freddie awoke from another reverie.
"Eh? Oh, I say, half a jiffy. I think I may as well be toddling along
myself. About time I was getting back to dress for dinner and all
that. See you home, may I, and then I'll get a taxi at Victoria.
Toodle-oo, everybody."
* * *
Freddie escorted Nelly through the hall and opened the front door for
her. The night was cool and cloudy, and there was still in the air
that odd, rejuvenating suggestion of Spring. A wet fragrance came
from the dripping trees.
"Topping evening!" said Freddie conversationally.
"Yes."
They walked through the square in silence. Freddie shot an
appreciative glance at his companion. Freddie, as he would have
admitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the modern girl. The
modern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exuberant for a
chappie of peaceful tastes. Now, this girl, on the other hand, had
all the earmarks of being something of a topper. She had a soft
voice. Rummy accent and all that, but nevertheless a soft and
pleasing voice. She was mild and unaggressive, and these were
qualities which Freddie esteemed. Freddie, though this was a thing he
would not have admitted, was afraid of girls, the sort of girls he
had to take down to dinner and dance with and so forth. They were too
dashed clever, and always seemed to be waiting for a chance to score
off a fellow. This one was not like that. Not a bit. She was gentle
and quiet and what not.
It was at this point that it came home to him how remarkably quiet
she was. She had not said a word for the last five minutes. He was
just about to break the silence, when, as they passed under a street
lamp, he perceived that she was crying,--crying very softly to
herself, like a child in the dark.
"Good God!" said Freddie, appalled. There were two things in life
with which he felt totally unable to cope,--crying girls and
dog-fights. The glimpse he had caught of Nelly's face froze him into
a speechlessness which lasted until they reached Daubeny Street and
stopped at her door.
"Good-bye," said Nelly.
"Good-bye-ee!" said Freddie mechanically. "That's to say, I mean to
say, half a second!" he added quickly. Ha faced her nervously, with
one hand on the grimy railings. This wanted looking into. When it
came to girls trickling to and fro in the public streets, weeping,
well, it was pretty rotten and something had to be done about it.
"What's up?" he demanded.
"It's nothing. Good-bye."
"But, my dear old soul," said Freddie, clutching the railing for
moral support, "it _is_ something. It must be! You might not think it,
to look at me, but I'm really rather a dashed shrewd chap, and I can
_see_ there's something up. Why not give me the jolly old scenario and
see if we can't do something?"
Nelly moved as if to turn to the door, then stopped. She was
thoroughly ashamed of herself.
"I'm a fool!"
"No, no!"
"Yes, I am. I don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! hearing you all
talking like that about going to America, just as if it was the
easiest thing in the world, only you couldn't be bothered to do it,
kind of got me going. And to think I could be there right now if I
wasn't a bonehead!"
"A bonehead?"
"A simp. I'm all right as far up as the string of near-pearls, but
above that I'm reinforced concrete."
Freddie groped for her meaning.
"Do you mean you've made a bloomer of some kind?"
"I pulled the worst kind of bone. I stopped on in London when the
rest of the company went back home, and now I've got to stick."
"Rush of jolly old professional engagement, what?"
Nelly laughed bitterly.
"You're a bad guesser. No, they haven't started to fight over me yet.
I'm at liberty, as they say in the Era."
"But, my dear old thing," said Freddie earnestly, "if you've got
nothing to keep you in England, why not pop back to America? I mean
to say, home-sickness is the most dashed blighted thing in the world.
There's nothing gives one the pip to such an extent. Why, dash it, I
remember staying with an old aunt of mine up in Scotland the year
before last and not being able to get away for three weeks or so, and
I raved--absolutely gibbered--for a sight of the merry old metrop.
Sometimes I'd wake up in the night, thinking I was back at the
Albany, and, by Jove, when I found I wasn't I howled like a dog! You
take my tip, old soul, and pop back on the next boat."
"Which line?"
"How do you mean, which line? Oh, I see, you mean which line? Well
. . . well . . . I've never been on any of them, so it's rather hard to
say. But I hear the Cunard well spoken of, and then again some
chappies swear by the White Star. But I should imagine you can't go
far wrong, whichever you pick. They're all pretty ripe, I fancy."
"Which of them is giving free trips? That's the point."
"Eh? Oh!" Her meaning dawned upon Freddie. He regarded her with deep
consternation. Life had treated him so kindly that he had almost
forgotten that there existed a class which had not as much money as
himself. Sympathy welled up beneath his perfectly fitting waistcoat.
It was a purely disinterested sympathy. The fact that Nelly was a
girl and in many respects a dashed pretty girl did not affect him.
What mattered was that she was hard up. The thought hurt Freddie like
a blow. He hated the idea of anyone being hard up.
"I say!" he said. "Are you broke?"
Nelly laughed.
"Am I! If dollars were doughnuts, I wouldn't even have the hole in
the middle."
Freddie was stirred to his depths. Except for the beggars in the
streets, to whom he gave shillings, he had not met anyone for years
who had not plenty of money. He had friends at his clubs who
frequently claimed to be unable to lay their hands on a bally penny,
but the bally penny they wanted to lay their hands on generally
turned out to be a couple of thousand pounds for a new car.
"Good God!" he said.
There was a pause. Then, with a sudden impulse, he began to fumble in
his breast-pocket. Rummy how things worked out for the best, however
scaly they might seem at the moment. Only an hour or so ago he had
been kicking himself for not having remembered that fifty-pound note,
tacked onto the lining of his coat, when it would have come in handy
at the police-station. He now saw that Providence had had the matter
well in hand. If he had remembered it and coughed it up to the
constabulary then, he wouldn't have had it now. And he needed it now.
A mood of quixotic generosity had surged upon him. With swift fingers
he jerked the note free from its moorings and displayed it like a
conjurer exhibiting a rabbit.
"My dear old thing," he said, "I can't stand it! I absolutely cannot
stick it at any price! I really must insist on your trousering this.
Positively!"
Nelly Bryant gazed at the note with wide eyes. She was stunned. She
took it limply, and looked at it under the dim light of the gas-lamp
over the door.
"I couldn't!" she cried.
"Oh, but really! You must!"
"But this is a fifty-pound!"
"Absolutely! It will take you back to New York, what? You asked which
line was giving free trips. The Freddie Rooke Line, by Jove, sailings
every Wednesday and Saturday! I mean, what!"
"But I can't take two hundred and fifty dollars from you!"
"Oh, rather. Of course you can."
There was another pause.
"You'll think--" Nelly's pale face flushed. "You'll think I told you
all about myself just--just because I wanted to . . ."
"To make a touch? Absolutely not! Kid yourself of the jolly old
superstition entirely. You see before you, old thing, a chappie who
knows more about borrowing money than any man in London. I mean to
say, I've had my ear bitten more often than anyone, I should think.
There are sixty-four ways of making a touch--I've had them all worked
on me by divers blighters here and there--and I can tell any of them
with my eyes shut. I know you weren't dreaming of any such thing."
The note crackled musically in Nelly's hand.
"I don't know what to say!"
"That's all right."
"I don't see why . . . Gee! I wish I could tell you what I think of
you!"
Freddie laughed amusedly.
"Do you know," he said, "that's exactly what the beaks--the masters,
you know,--used to say to me at school."
"Are you sure you can spare it?"
"Oh, rather."
Nelly's eyes shone in the light of the lamp.
"I've never met anyone like you before. I don't know how . . ."
Freddie shuffled nervously. Being thanked always made him feel pretty
rotten.
"Well, I think I'll be popping," he said. "Got to get back and dress
and all that. Awfully glad to have seen you, and all that sort of
rot."
Nelly unlocked the door with her latchkey, and stood on the step.
"I'll buy a fur-wrap," she said, half to herself.
"Great wheeze! I should!"
"And some nuts for Bill!"
"Bill?"
"The parrot."
"Oh, the jolly old parrot! Rather! Well, cheerio!"
"Good-bye . . . You've been awfully good to me."
"Oh, no," said Freddie uncomfortably. "Any time you're passing . . . !"
"Awfully good . . . Well, good-bye."
"Toodle-oo!"
"Maybe we'll meet again some day."
"I hope so. Absolutely!"
There was a little scurry of feet. Something warm and soft pressed
for an instant against Freddie's cheek, and, as he stumbled back,
Nelly Bryant skipped up the steps and vanished through the door.
"Good God!"
Freddie felt his cheek. He was aware of an odd mixture of
embarrassment and exhilaration.
From the area below a slight cough sounded. Freddie turned sharply. A
maid in a soiled cap, worn coquettishly over one ear, was gazing
intently up through the railings. Their eyes met. Freddie turned a
warm pink. It seemed to him that the maid had the air of one about to
giggle.
"Damn!" said Freddie softly, and hurried off down the street. He
wondered whether he had made a frightful ass of himself, spraying
bank-notes all over the place like that to comparative strangers.
Then a vision came to him of Nelly's eyes as they had looked at him
in the lamp-light, and he decided--no, absolutely not. Rummy as the
gadget might appear, it had been the right thing to do. It was a
binge of which he thoroughly approved. A good egg!
2.
Jill, when Freddie and Nelly left the room, had seated herself on a
low stool, and sat, looking thoughtfully into the fire. She was
wondering if she had been mistaken in supposing that Uncle Chris was
worried about something. This restlessness of his, this desire for
movement, was strange in him. Hitherto he had been like a dear old
cosy cat, revelling in the comfort which he had just denounced so
eloquently. She watched him as he took up his favorite stand in front
of the fire.
"Nice girl," said Uncle Chris. "Who was she?"
"Somebody Freddie met," said Jill diplomatically. There was no need
to worry Uncle Chris with details of the afternoon's happenings.
"Very nice girl." Uncle Chris took out his cigar-case. "No need to
ask if I may, thank goodness." He lit a cigar. "Do you remember,
Jill, years ago, when you were quite small, how I used to blow smoke
in your face?"
Jill smiled.
"Of course I do. You said that you were training me for marriage. You
said that there were no happy marriages except where the wife didn't
mind the smell of tobacco. Well, it's lucky, as a matter of fact, for
Derek smokes all the time."
Uncle Chris took up his favorite stand against the fireplace.
"You're very fond of Derek, aren't you, Jill?"
"Of course I am. You are, too, aren't you?"
"Fine chap. Very fine chap. Plenty of money, too. It's a great
relief," said Uncle Chris, puffing vigorously. "A thundering relief."
He looked over Jill's head down the room. "It's fine to think of you
happily married, dear, with everything in the world that you want."
Uncle Chris' gaze wandered down to where Jill sat. A slight mist
affected his eyesight. Jill had provided a solution for the great
problem of his life. Marriage had always appalled him, but there was
this to be said for it, that married people had daughters. He had
always wanted a daughter, a smart girl he could take out and be proud
of; and fate had given him Jill at precisely the right age. A child
would have bored Uncle Chris--he was fond of children, but they made
the deuce of a noise and regarded jam as an external ornament--but a
delightful little girl of fourteen was different. Jill and he had
been very close to each other since her mother had died, a year after
the death of her father, and had left her in his charge. He had
watched her grow up with a joy that had a touch of bewilderment in
it--she seemed to grow so quickly--and had been fonder and prouder of
her at every stage of her tumultuous career.
"You're a dear," said Jill. She stroked the trouser-leg that was
nearest. "How do you manage to get such a wonderful crease? You
really are a credit to me!"
There was a momentary silence. A shade of embarrassment made itself
noticeable in Uncle Chris' frank gaze. He gave a little cough, and
pulled at his mustache.
"I wish I were, my dear," he said soberly. "I wish I were. I'm afraid
I'm a poor sort of fellow, Jill."
Jill looked up.
"What do you mean?"
"A poor sort of fellow," repeated Uncle Chris. "Your mother was
foolish to trust you to me. Your father had more sense. He always
said I was a wrong'un."
Jill got up quickly. She was certain now that she had been right, and
that there was something on her uncle's mind.
"What's the matter, Uncle Chris? Something's happened. What is it?"
Uncle Chris turned to knock the ash off his cigar. The movement gave
him time to collect himself for what lay before him. He had one of
those rare volatile natures which can ignore the blows of fate so
long as their effects are not brought home by visible evidence of
disaster. He lived in the moment, and, though matters had been as bad
at breakfast-time as they were now, it was not till now, when he
confronted Jill, that he had found his cheerfulness affected by them.
He was a man who hated ordeals, and one faced him now. Until this
moment he had been able to detach his mind from a state of affairs
which would have weighed unceasingly upon another man. His mind was a
telephone which he could cut off at will, when the voice of Trouble
wished to speak. The time would arrive, he had been aware, when he
would have to pay attention to that voice, but so far he had refused
to listen. Now it could be evaded no longer.
"Jill."
"Yes?"
Uncle Chris paused again, searching for the best means of saying what
had to be said.
"Jill, I don't know if you understand about these things, but there
was what is called a slump on the Stock Exchange this morning. In
other words . . ."
Jill laughed.
"Of course I know all about that," she said. "Poor Freddie wouldn't
talk about anything else till I made him. He was terribly blue when
he got here this afternoon. He said he had got 'nipped' in
Amalgamated Dyes. He had lost about two hundred pounds, and was
furious with a friend of his who had told him to buy margins."
Uncle Chris cleared his throat.
"Jill, I'm afraid I've got bad news for you. I bought Amalgamated
Dyes, too." He worried his mustache. "I lost heavily, very heavily."
"How naughty of you! You know you oughtn't to gamble."
"Jill, you must be brave. I--I--well, the fact is--it's no good
beating about the bush--I lost everything! Everything!"
"Everything?"
"Everything! It's all gone! All fooled away. It's a terrible
business. This house will have to go."
"But--but doesn't the house belong to me?"
"I was your trustee, dear." Uncle Chris smoked furiously. "Thank
heaven you're going to marry a rich man!"
Jill stood looking at him, perplexed. Money, as money, had never
entered into her life. There were things one wanted, which had to be
paid for with money, but Uncle Chris had always looked after that.
She had taken them for granted.
"I don't understand," she said.
And then suddenly she realized that she did, and a great wave of pity
for Uncle Chris flooded over her. He was such an old dear. It must be
horrible for him to have to stand there, telling her all this. She
felt no sense of injury, only the discomfort of having to witness the
humiliation of her oldest friend. Uncle Chris was bound up
inextricably with everything in her life that was pleasant. She could
remember him, looking exactly the same, only with a thicker and
wavier crop of hair, playing with her patiently and unwearied for
hours in the hot sun, a cheerful martyr. She could remember sitting
up with him when she came home from her first grown-up dance,
drinking cocoa and talking and talking and talking till the birds
outside sang the sun high up into the sky and it was breakfast-time.
She could remember theatres with him, and jolly little suppers
afterwards; expeditions into the country, with lunches at queer old
inns; days on the river, days at Hurlingham, days at Lords', days at
the Academy. He had always been the same, always cheerful, always
kind. He was Uncle Chris, and he would always be Uncle Chris,
whatever he had done or whatever he might do. She slipped her arm in
his and gave it a squeeze.
"Poor old thing!" she said.
Uncle Chris had been looking straight out before him with those fine
blue eyes of his. There had been just a touch of sternness in his
attitude. A stranger, coming into the room at that moment, would have
said that here was a girl trying to coax her blunt, straightforward,
military father into some course of action of which his honest nature
disapproved. He might have been posing for a statue of Rectitude. As
Jill spoke, he seemed to cave in.
"Poor old thing?" he repeated limply.
"Of course you are! And stop trying to look dignified and tragic!
Because it doesn't suit you. You're much too well dressed."
"But, my dear, you don't understand! You haven't realized!"
"Yes, I do. Yes, I have!"
"I've spent all your money--_your_ money!"
"I know! What does it matter?"
"What does it matter! Jill, don't you hate me?"
"As if anyone could hate an old darling like you!"
Uncle Chris threw away his cigar, and put his arms round Jill. For a
moment a dreadful fear came to her that he was going to cry. She
prayed that he wouldn't cry. It would be too awful. It would be a
memory of which she could never rid herself. She felt as though he
were someone extraordinarily young and unable to look after himself,
someone she must soothe and protect.
"Jill," said Uncle Chris, choking, "you're--you're--you're a little
warrior!"
Jill kissed him, and moved away. She busied herself with some
flowers, her back turned. The tension had been relieved, and she
wanted to give him time to recover his poise. She knew him well
enough to be sure that, sooner or later, the resiliency of his nature
would assert itself. He could never remain long in the depths.
The silence had the effect of making her think more clearly than in
the first rush of pity she had been able to do. She was able now to
review the matter as it affected herself. It had not been easy to
grasp, the blunt fact that she was penniless, that all this comfort
which surrounded her was no longer her own. For an instant a kind of
panic seized her. There was a bleakness about the situation which
made one gasp. It was like icy water dashed in the face. Realization
had almost the physical pain of life returning to a numbed limb. Her
hands shook as she arranged the flowers, and she had to bite her lip
to keep herself from crying out.
She fought panic eye to eye, and beat it down. Uncle Chris, swiftly
recovering by the fireplace, never knew that the fight had taken
place. He was feeling quite jovial again now that the unpleasant
business of breaking the news was over, and was looking on the world
with the eye of a debonair gentleman-adventurer. As far as he was
concerned, he told himself, this was the best thing that could have
happened. He had been growing old and sluggish in prosperity. He
needed a fillip. The wits by which he had once lived so merrily had
been getting blunt in their easy retirement. He welcomed the
opportunity of matching them once more against the world. He was
remorseful as regarded Jill, but the optimist in him, never crushed
for long, told him that Jill would be all right. She would step from
the sinking ship to the safe refuge of Derek Underhill's wealth and
position, while he went out to seek a new life. Uncle Chris' blue
eyes gleamed with a new fire as he pictured himself in this new life.
He felt like a hunter setting out on a hunting expedition. There were
always adventures and the spoils of war for the man with brains to
find them and gather them in. But it was a mercy that Jill had Derek.
. . .
Jill was thinking of Derek, too. Panic had fled, and a curious
exhilaration had seized upon her. If Derek wanted her now, it would
be because his love was the strongest thing in the world. She would
come to him like the beggar-maid to Cophetua.
Uncle Chris broke the silence with a cough. At the sound of it, Jill
smiled again. She knew it for what it was, a sign that he was himself
again.
"Tell me, Uncle Chris," she said, "just how bad is it? When you said
everything was gone, did you really mean everything, or were you
being melodramatic? Exactly how do we stand?"
"It's dashed hard to say, my dear. I expect we shall find there are a
few hundreds left. Enough to see you through till you get married.
After that it won't matter." Uncle Chris flicked a particle of dust
off his coat-sleeve. Jill could not help feeling that the action was
symbolical of his attitude towards life. He flicked away life's
problems with just the same airy carelessness. "You mustn't worry
about me, my dear. I shall be all right. I have made my way in the
world before, and I can do it again. I shall go to America and try my
luck there. Amazing how many opportunities there are in America.
Really, as far as I am concerned, this is the best thing that could
have happened. I have been getting abominably lazy. If I had gone on
living my present life for another year or two, why, dash it! I
honestly believe I should have succumbed to some sort of senile
decay. Positively I should have got fatty degeneration of the brain!
This will be the making of me."
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