This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Damsel in Distress by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 15 Lord Belfer's twenty-first birthday dawned brightly, heralded in by much twittering of sparrows in the ivy outside his bedroom. These Percy did not hear, for he was sound asleep, and had had a late night. The first sound that was able to penetrate his heavy slumber, and rouse him to a realization that his birthday had arrived, was the piercing cry of Reggie Bing on his way to the bathroom across the corridor. It was Reggie's disturbing custom to urge himself on to a cold bath with encouraging yells, and the noise of this performance, followed by a violent splashing at a series of sharp howls as the sponge played upon the Bing's spine, made sleep an impossibility within a radius of many yards. Percy sat up in bed and cursed Reggie silently. He discovered that he had a headache. Presently the door flew open, and the vocalist entered in person, clad in a pink bathrobe and very tousled and rosy from the tub. Many happy returns of the day boots old thing. Reggie burst rollickingly into song. I'm twenty-one today, twenty-one today, I've got the key of the door, never been twenty-one before, and Father says I could do what I like, so shout hip hip hooray, I'm a jolly good fellow twenty-one today. Lord Belfer scowled morosely. I wish you wouldn't make that infernal noise. What infernal noise? That singing. My God! this man is wounded me! said Reggie. I have a headache. I thought you would have, Laddie, when I saw you getting away with the liquid last night. An x-ray photograph of your liver would show something that looked like a crumpled oak leaf, studded with hobnails. You ought to take more exercise, dear heart. Except for sloshing that policeman you haven't done anything athletic for years. I wish you wouldn't harp on that affair. Reggie sat down on the bed. And ourselves, old man, he said confidentially, I also, I myself, Reginald Bing, in person, was perhaps a shade polluted during the evening. I give you my honest word, that just after dinner I saw three versions of your uncle, the bishop, standing in a row side by side. I tell you, Laddie, that for a moment I thought I had strayed into a bishop's bino at Exeter Hall, or the Athenaeum, or wherever it is those chapies collect in gangs. Then the three bishops sort of congealed into one bishop, a trifle blurred about the outlines, and I felt relieved. But what convinced me that I had emptied a flagon or so too many was a rather rummy thing that occurred later on. Have you ever happened, during one of these feasts of reason and flows of soul when you were bubbling over with joy de vivre, have you ever happened to see things? What I mean to say is, I had a deused odd experience last night. I could have sworn that one of the waiter chapies was that fellow who knocked off your hat in Piccadilly. Lord Belfour, who had sunk back onto the pillows at Reggie's entrance, and had been listening to his talk with only intermittent attention, shot up in bed. What?! Absolutely! My mistake, of course, but there it was, the fellow might have been his double. But you've never seen the man. Oh, yes, I have. I forgot to tell you. I met him on the links yesterday. I'd gone out there alone, rather expecting to have a round with a pro, but finding this lad there, I suggested that we might go round together. We did eighteen holes, and he licked the boots off me. Very hot stuff he was, and after the game he took me off to his cottage and gave me a drink. He lives at the cottage next door to Platt's farm, so, you see, it was the identical chappy. We got extremely matey, like brothers. Absolutely. So, you can understand what a shock it gave me when I found what I took to be the same man serving bracers to the multitude for the same evening.  Lord Belfour did not reply. His brain was whirling, so he had been right, after all. You know—pursued Reggie, seriously—I think you are making the bloomer of a lifetime over this hat-swatting chappy. You've misjudged him. He's a first-rate sort. Take it from me. Nobody could have got out of the bunker at the fifteenth hole better than he did. If you'll take my advice, you'll conciliate the fellow. A really first-class golfer is what you need in the family. Besides, even leaving out of the question the fact that he can do things with a niblick that I didn't think anybody except the pro could do, he's a corking good sort—a stout fellow in every respect. I took to the chappy. He's all right. Grab him boots before he gets away. That's my tip to you. He'll never regret it. From first to last this lad didn't foozle a single drive, and his approach-putting has to be seen to be believed. Well—well, got to your dress, I suppose.  Doodle-oo, laddie, we shall meet anon. Lord Belfour leaped from his bed. He was feeling worse than ever now, and a glance into the mirror told him that he looked rather worse than he felt. Late nights and insufficient sleep, added to the need of a shave, always made him look like something that should have been swept up and taken away to the ash-bin. And as for his physical condition, talking to Reggie Bing never tended to make you feel better when you had a headache. Reggie's manner was not soothing, and on this particular morning his choice of topic had been unusually irritating. Lord Belfour told himself that he could not understand Reggie. He had never been able to make his mind quite clear as to the exact relations between the latter and his sister Maude. But he had always been under the impression that, if they were not actually engaged, they were on the verge of becoming so. And it was maddening to have to listen to Reggie advocating the claims of a rival as if he had no personal interest in the affair at all. Percy felt for his complacent friend something of the annoyance which a householder feels for the watchdog whom he finds fraternizing with the burglar. Why, Reggie, more than any one else ought to be foaming with rage at the insolence of this American fellow in coming down to Belfour and planting himself at the castle gates. Instead of which, on his own showing, he appeared to have adopted an attitude towards him which would have excited remark if adopted by David towards Jonathan. He seemed to spend all his spare time frolicking with the man on the golf-links and hobnobbing with him in his house. Lord Belfour was thoroughly upset. It was impossible to prove it or to do anything about it now, but he was convinced that the fellow had wormed his way into the castle in the guise of a waiter. He had probably met Maude and plotted further meetings with her. This thing was becoming unendurable. One thing was certain. The family honour was in his hands. Anything that was to be done to keep Maude away from the intruder must be done by himself. Reggie was hopeless. He was capable, as far as Percy could see, of escorting Maude to the fellow's door in his own car and leaving her on the threshold with his blessing. As for Lord Marshmorton, Roses and the family history took up so much of his time that he could not be counted on for anything but moral support. He, Percy, must do the active work. He had just come to this decision. When approaching the window and gazing down into the grounds, he perceived his sister Maude walking rapidly. And so it seemed to him, with a furtive air, down the east drive, and it was to the east that Platt's farm and the cottage next door to it lay. At the moment of this discovery Percy was in a costume ill adapted for the taking of a country walk. Reggie's remarks about his liver had struck home, and it had been his intention, by way of a corrective to his headache and a general feeling of swollen ill health, to do a little work before his bath with a pair of Indian clubs. He had arrayed himself for this purpose in an old sweater, a pair of grey flannel trousers, and patent leather evening shoes. It was not the garb he would have chosen himself for a ramble, but time was flying even to put on a pair of boots as a matter of minutes, and in another moment or two Maude would be out of sight. Percy ran downstairs, snatched up a soft shooting hat, which proved too late to belong to a person with a head two sizes smaller than his own, and raced out into the grounds. In time to see Maude disappearing round the corner of the drive. Lord Belfour had never belonged to that virile class of the community which considers running a pleasure and a pastime. At Oxford, on those occasions when the members of his college had turned out on raw afternoons to trot along the river bank, encouraging the college aide with yelling and the swinging of police rattles, Percy had always stayed prudently in his rooms with tea and buttered toast. Thereby avoiding who knows what colds and coughs. When he ran, he ran reluctantly, and with a definite object in view, such as the catching of a train. He was consequently not in the best condition, and the sharp sprint which was imperative at this juncture if he was to keep his sister in view left him spent and panting. But he had the reward of reaching the gate of the drive not many seconds after Maude, and of seeing her walking, more slowly now, down the road that led to Platt's. This confirmation of his suspicions enabled him momentarily to forget the blister which was forming on the heel of his left foot. He set out after her at a good pace. The road, after the habit of country roads, wound and twisted. The quarry was frequently out of sight, and Percy's anxiety was such that every time Maude vanished he broke into a gallop. Another hundred yards, and the blister no longer consented to be ignored. It cried for attention like a little child, and was rapidly insinuating itself into a position of the scheme of things where it threatened to become the centre of the world. By the time the third bend in the road was reached it seemed to Percy that this blister had become the one great fact in an unreal nightmare like a universe. He hobbled painfully, and when he stopped suddenly and darted back into the shelter of the hedge his foot seemed a flame. The only reason why the blister on his left heel did not at this juncture attract his entire attention was that he had become aware that there was another of equal proportions forming on his right heel. Percy had stopped and sought cover in the hedge because, as he rounded the bend in the road, he perceived before he had time to check his gallop that Maude had also stopped. She was standing in the middle of the road, looking over her shoulder, not ten yards away. Had she seen him? It was a point that time alone could solve. No, she walked on again. She had not seen him. Lord Belfour, by means of a notable triumph of mind over matter, forgot the blisters and hurried after her. They had now reached that point in the road where three choices offer themselves to the wayfarer. By going straight on he might win through to the village of Moresby in the Vale, a charming little place with a Norman church. By turning to the left he might visit the equally seductive hamlet of Little Wheating. By turning to the right, off the main road and going down a leafy lane, he may find himself at the door of Platt's Farm. When Maude, reaching the crossroads, suddenly swung down the one to the left, Lord Belfour was for the moment completely baffled. Reason reasserted its way the next minute, telling him that this was but a ruse. Whether or no she had caught sight of him, there was no doubt that Maude intended to shake off any possible pursuit by taking this speciously innocent turning and making a detour. She could have no possible motive in going to Little Wheating. He had never been to Little Wheating in his life, and there was no reason to suppose that Maude had either. The signpost informed him—a statement strenuously denied by the twin blisters—that the distance to Little Wheating was one-and-a-half miles. Lord Belfour's view of it was that it was nearer fifty. He dragged himself along wearily. It was simpler now to keep Maude in sight, for the road ran straight. But there being a catch in everything in this world, the process was also messier. In order to avoid being seen, it was necessary for Percy to leave the road and tramp along in the deep ditch, which ran parallel to it. There is nothing half-hearted about these ditches which accompany English country roads. They know they are intended to be ditches, not mere furrows, and they behave as such. The one that sheltered Lord Belfour was so deep that only his head and neck protruded above the level of the road.  Rain, once fallen, is reluctant to leave the English ditch. It nestles inside it for weeks, forming a rich, oatmeal-like substance which has to be stirred to be believed. Percy stirred it. He churned it. He plowed and sloshed through it. The mud stuck to him like a brother. Nevertheless, being a determined young man, he did not give in. Once he lost a shoe, but a little searching recovered that. On another occasion, a passing dog, seeing things going on in the ditch which, in his opinion, should not have been going on—he was a high-strung dog, unused to coming upon heads, moving along the road without bodies attached—accompanied Percy for over a quarter of a mile, causing him exquisite discomfort by making sudden runs at his face. A well-aimed stone settled this little misunderstanding, and Percy proceeded on his journey alone. He had mawed well in view when, to his surprise, she left the road and turned into the gate of a house which stood not far from the church. Lord Belfour regained the road and remained there a puzzled man. A dreadful thought came to him that he might have had all this trouble and anguish for no reason. This house bore the unmistakable stamp of a vicarage. Maude could have no reason that was not innocent for going there. Had he gone through all this merely to see his sister paying a visit to a clergyman? Too late it occurred to him that she might quite easily be on visiting terms with the clergy of little weeding. He had forgotten that he had been away at Oxford for many weeks. A period of time in which Maude, finding life in the country way upon her, might easily have interested herself, charitably, in the life of this village. He paused irresolutely. He was baffled. Maude, meanwhile, had rung the bell. Ever since looking over her shoulder, she had perceived her brother Percy dodging about in the background, her active young mind had been busying itself with schemes for throwing him off the trail. She must see George that morning. She could not wait another day before establishing communication between herself and Geoffrey. It was not till she reached little weeding that there occurred to her any plan that promised success. A trim maid opened the door. Is the vicar in? No, miss. He went out half an hour back. Maude was as baffled for the moment as her brother Percy, now leaning against the vicarage wall in a state of advanced exhaustion. Oh, dear! she said. The maid was sympathetic. Mr. Ferguson, the curate, ma'am, he's here, if he would do. Maude brightened. He would do splendidly. Will you ask him if I can see him for a moment? Very well, miss. What name, please? He won't know my name. Will you please tell him that a lady wishes to see him? Yes, miss. Won't you step in? The front door closed behind Maude. She followed the maid into the drawing-room. Presently a young small curate entered. He had a willing, benevolent face. He looked alert and helpful. You wish to see me? I am so sorry to trouble you, said Maude, rocking the young man in his tracks with a smile of dazzling brilliancy. No trouble, I assure you," said the curate, dizzily. But there is the man following me. The curate clicked his tongue indignantly. A rough sort of tramp kind of man. He has been following me for miles, and I am frightened. Brute! I think he is outside now. I can't think what he wants. Would you—would you mind being kind enough to go and send him away? The eyes that had settled George's fate for all eternity flashed upon the curate, who blinked. He squared his shoulders and drew himself up. He was perfectly willing to die for her. If you will wait here, he said, I will go and send him about his business. It is disgraceful that the public highways should be rendered unsafe in this manner. Thank you ever so much," said Maude gratefully. I can't help thinking the poor fellow might be a little crazy. It seems so odd of him to follow me all that way. Walking in the ditch, too. Walking in the ditch? Yes. He walked most of the way in the ditch, at the side of the road. He seemed to prefer it. I can't think why. Lord Belfour, leaning against the wall and trying to decide whether his right or left foot hurt him the more excruciatingly, became aware that a curate was standing before him, regarding him through a pair of gold-rimmed pincenaires with a disapproving and hostile expression. Lord Belfour returned his gaze. Neither was favourably impressed by the other. Percy thought he had seen nicer-looking curates, and the curate thought he had seen more prepossessing tramps. Come, come! said the curate. This won't do, my man. A few hours earlier Lord Belfour had been startled when addressed by George as Sir, to be called, my man, took his breath away completely. The gift of seeing ourselves as others see us is, as the poet indicates, thou saved to few men. Lord Belfour, not being one of those fortune-its, had not the slightest conception how intensely revolting his personal appearance was at that moment. The red-rimmed eyes, the growth of stubble on the cheeks, and the thick coating of mud, which had resulted from his rambles in the ditch, combined to render him a horrifying object.  I have a good mind to give you in charge. Percy was outraged. I'm her brother! He was about to substantiate the statement by giving his name, but stopped himself. He had had enough of letting his name out, on occasions like the present. When the policeman had arrested him in the hay market, his first act had been to thunder his identity at the man, and the policeman, without saying in so many words that he disbelieved him, had hinted skepticism by replying that he himself was the king of Brixton. I'm her brother! he repeated thickly. The curate's disapproval deepened. In a sense we are all brothers, but that did not prevent him from considering that this mud-stained derelict had made an impudent and abominable misstatement of fact. Not unnaturally he came to the conclusion that he had to do with a victim of the demon rum. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, he said severely.  You speak like an educated man. Have you no self-respect?  He raised his voice. The subject of temperance was one very near to the curate's heart. The vicar himself had complimented him only yesterday. On the good his sermons against the drink evil were doing in the village, and the landlord of the three pigeons down the road had, on several occasions, spoken bitter things about blighters who came taking the living away from honest folks. It is easy enough to stop if you will but use a little resolution. You say yourself, just one won't hurt me. Perhaps not. Can you be content with just one? Ah, no, my man. There is no middle way for such as you. It must be all or nothing. Stop it now, now while you still can retain some semblance of humanity. Soon it will be too late. Kill that craving. Stifle it. Strangle it. Make up your mind now. Now that not another drop of this accursed stuff shall pass your lips. The curate paused. He perceived that enthusiasm was leading him away from the main issue.  And now will you please be getting along? You have frightened the young lady, and she cannot continue her walk unless I assure her that you have gone away. Fatigue, pain, and the annoyance of having to listen to this man's well-meant but ill-judged utterances had combined to induce, in Percy, a condition bordering on hysteria. He stamped his foot and uttered a howl as the blisters warned him with a sharp twinge that this sort of behaviour could not be permitted. Stop talking, he bellowed.  I'm going to stay here till that girl comes out, if I have to wait all day. The curate regarded Percy thoughtfully. Percy was no Hercules, but then neither was the curate. And in any case, though no Hercules, Percy was undeniably an ugly-looking brute. His strategy, rather than force, seemed to the curate to be indicated. He paused a while, as one who weighs pros and cons, then spoke briskly with an air of the man who has decided to yield a point with good grace. Dear, dear, he said, that won't do. You say you are this young lady's brother? Yes, I do. Then perhaps you had better come with me into the house, and we will speak to her. Right. Follow me. Percy followed him. Down the trim gravel walk they passed, and up the neat stone steps. Maud, peeping through the curtains, thought herself the victim of a monstrous portrayal of equally monstrous blunder, but she did not know the Reverend Cyril Ferguson. The general, adroitly leading the army on by strategic retreat, ever had a situation more thoroughly in hand. Passing with his companion, through the open door, he crossed the hall to another door, discreetly closed. Wait in here! he said. Lord Belfour moved unsuspectingly forward. A hand pressed sharply against the small of his back. Behind him a door slammed, and a key clicked. He was trapped. Groping in Egyptian darkness, his hands met a coat. Then a hat. Then an umbrella. Then he stumbled over a golf club, and fell against a wall. It was too dark to see anything, but his sense of touch told him all he needed to know. He had been added to the vicar's collection of odds and ends in the closet reserved for that purpose. He groped his way to the door and kicked it. He did not repeat the performance. His feet were in no shape for kicking things. Percy's gallant soul abandoned the struggle. With a feeble oath he sat down on a box containing croquet implements, and gave himself up to thought. You'll be quite safe now, the curate was saying in the adjoining room, not without a touch of complacent self-approval, such as becomes the vicar in a battle of wits. I have locked him in the cupboard. He will be quite happy there. An incorrect statement this. You may now continue your walk in perfect safety. Thank you ever so much, said Mod. But I do hope he won't be violent when you let him out. I shall not let him out, replied the curate, who, though brave, was not rash. I shall depute the task to a worthy fellow, named Willis, in whom I shall have every confidence. He is, in fact, a local blacksmith. And so it came about that, when, after a vigil that seemed to last for a lifetime, Percy heard the key turn in the lock, and burst forth seeking whom he may devour, he experienced an almost instant quieting of his excited nervous system. Confronting him was a vast man whose muscles, like those of that other and more celebrated village blacksmith, were plainly as strong as iron bands. The man eyed Percy with a chilly eye. Well, he said, what's trouble in you? Percy gulped. The man's mere appearance was a sedative. Er—er—nothing, he replied. Nothing. There better hadn't be, said the man darkly. Mr. Ferguson gave me this to give to you. Take it. Percy took it. It was a shilling. And this. The second gift was a small paper pamphlet. It was entitled, Now's the Time, and seemed to be a story of some kind. At any rate, Percy's eyes, before they began to swim in a manner that prevented steady reading, caught the words, Joe Roberts had always been a hard-drinking man. But one day, as he was coming out of the bar, Parler, he was about to hurl it from him when he met the other's eye, and desisted. Rarely had Lord Belfour encountered a man with a more speaking eye. Now you get along, said the man.  And I'm going to watch you do it, too. And if I find you sneaking off to the three pigeons— his pause was more eloquent than his speech, and nearly as eloquent as his eye. Lord Belfour tucked the tract into his sweater, pocketed the shilling, and left the house. For nearly a mile down the well-remembered highway he was aware of a presence in his rear, but he continued on his way without a glance behind. Like one that on a lonely road doth walk in fear and dread, and, having once looked back, walks on, and turns no more his head. Because he knows of frightful fiend, doth close behind him tread. Maude made her way across the fields to the cottage down by Platt's. Her heart was as light as the breeze that ruffled the green hedges. Gaily she tripped towards the cottage door. Her hand was just raised to knock, when from within came the sound of a well-known voice. She had reached her goal, but her father had anticipated her. Lord Marshmorton had selected the same moment as herself for paying a call upon George Bevan. Maude tiptoed away and hurried back to the castle. Never before had she so clearly realized what a handicap an adhesive family can be to a young girl. CHAPTER 16 At the moment of Lord Marshmorton's arrival, George was reading a letter from Billy Doar, which had come by that morning's post. It dealt mainly with the vicissitudes experienced by Miss Doar's friend, Miss Sinclair, in her relations with the man Spencer Gray. Spencer Gray, it seemed, had been behaving oddly. Ardent towards Miss Clare almost to an embarrassing point in the early stages of their acquaintance, he had suddenly cooled. At a recent lunch had behaved with a strange aloofness, and now, at this writing, had vanished altogether, leaving nothing behind him but an abrupt note to the effect that he had been compelled to go abroad, and that, much as it was to be regretted, he and she would probably never meet again. And if, wrote Miss Doar justifiably annoyed, after saying all those things to the poor kid and telling her she was the only thing in sight, he thinks he can just slide off with a goodbye, good luck, and God bless you, he's got another guest coming, and that's not all. He hasn't gone abroad. I saw him in Piccadilly this afternoon. He saw me, too, and what do you think he did? Duck down a side street, if you please. He must have run like a rabbit at that, because when I got there he was nowhere to be seen.  Having been made once or twice before the confidant of the tempestuous romances of Billy's friends, which always seemed to go wrong somewhere in the middle and to die a natural death before arriving at any definite point, George was not particularly interested, except, insofar as the letter afforded rather comforting evidence that he was not the only person in the world who was having trouble of the kind. He skimmed through the rest of it and had just finished when there was a sharp wrap at the front door. Come in, called George. There entered a sturdy little man, of middle age, whom, at first sight, George could not place, and yet he had the impression that he had seen him before. Then he recognized him as the gardener to whom he had given the note for a mod that day at the castle. The alteration in the man's costume was what had momentarily baffled George. When they had met in the rose garden, the other had been arrayed in untidy gardening clothes. Now, presumably in his Sunday suit, it was amusing to observe how almost dapper he had become. Really, you might have passed him in the lane and taken him for some neighboring squire. George's heart raced. Your lover is ever optimistic, and he could conceive of no errand that could have brought this man to his cottage unless he which charged with the delivery of a note from mod. He spared a moment from his happiness to congratulate himself on having picked such an admirable go-between. Here, evidently, was one of those trusty old retainers you read about, faithful, willing, discreet, ready to do anything for the little missy, blesser heart. Probably he had danced mod on his knee in her infancy, and with a dog-like affection had watched her at her childish sports. George beamed at this honest fellow, and felt in his pocket to make sure that suitable tip lay safely therein. Good morning, he said. Good morning, replied the man. A purist might have said he spoke gruffly and without geniality, but that is the beauty of these old retainers. They make a point of deliberately trying to deceive strangers as to the goldenness of their hearts by adopting a forbidding manner, and good morning, not good morning, sir. Sturdy independence you observe as befits a free man. George closed the door carefully. He glanced into the kitchen. Mrs. Platt was not there. All was well. You've brought a note from Lady Maud? The honest fellow's rather dour expression seemed to grow a shade bleaker. If you are looting to Lady Maud Marsh, my daughter, he replied frostily, I have not. For the past few days George had been no stranger to shocks, and had indeed come almost to regard them as part of the normal everyday life, but this latest one had a stumbling effect. I beg your pardon? He said, so you ought to, replied the Earl. George swallowed once or twice to relieve a curious dryness of the mouth. Are you Lord Marshmorton? I am. Good Lord! You seem surprised. It's nothing, Mother George. At least you, I mean to say. It's only that there's a curious resemblance between you and one of your gardeners at the castle. I dare say you've noticed it yourself. My hobby is gardening. Light broke upon George. Then was it really you it was? George sat down. This opens up a whole new line of thought. He said, Lord Marshmorton remained standing. He shook his head sternly. It won't do, Mr.—I have never heard your name. Bevan, replied George, rather relieved at being able to remember it in the midst of his mental turmoil. It won't do, Mr. Bevan. It must stop. I allude to this absurd entanglement between yourself and my daughter. It must stop at once. It seemed to George that such an entanglement could hardly be said to have begun, but he did not say so. Lord Marshmorton resumed his remarks. Lady Caroline had sent him to the cottage to be stern, and his firm resolve to be stern lent his style of speech, something of the measured solemnity and careful phrasing of his occasional orations in the House of Lords. I have no wish to be unduly hard upon the indiscretions of youth. Youth is the period of romance when the heart rules the head. I, myself, was once a young man. Well, you're practically there now," said George. Eh? cried Lord Marshmorton, forgetting the third of his discourse in the shock of pleased surprise. You don't look a day over forty.  I mean, Mr. Bevan. You don't, honestly. I'm forty-eight. In the prime of life. And you don't think I look it? You certainly don't. Well, well, well. By the way, have you tobacco, my boy? I came without my pouch. Just at your elbow. Pretty good stuff. I bought it in the village. The same I smoked myself. Quite a coincidence. Distinctly. Match? Thank you. I have one. He built his own pipe. The thing was becoming a love-feast. What was I saying? said Lord Marshmorton, blowing a comfortable cloud. Oh, yes. He removed his pipe from his mouth with a touch of embarrassment. Yes, yes, to be sure. There was an awkward silence. You must see for yourself, said the Earl, how impossible it is. George shook his head. I may be slow at grasping a thing, but I'm bound to say I can't see that. Lord Marshmorton recalled some of the things his sister had told him to say. For one thing? For one thing? Oh, what do we know of you?  Well, we're all getting acquainted pretty quick, don't you think? I met your son in Piggadillion, had a long talk with him, and now you're paying me a neighbourly visit. This was not intended to be a social call. But it has become one. And then, that is one point I wish to make, you know. Ours is an old family. I would like to remind you that there were Marshmortons in Belfa before the War of Houses. There were Bevins in Brooklyn before the BRT. I beg your pardon. I was only pointing out that I can trace my ancestry a long way. You have to trace things a long way in Brooklyn, if you want to find them. I have never heard of Brooklyn. You've heard of New York? Certainly. New York's one of the outlying suburbs. Lord Marshmorton relit his pipe. He had a feeling that they were wandering from the point. It is quite impossible. I can't see it. Malge is so young. Your daughter could be nothing else. Too young to know her own mind. Pursued Lord Marshmorton, resolutely crushing down a flutter of pleasure. There was no doubt that this singularly agreeable man was making things very difficult for him. It was disarming to discover that he was really capital company. The best, indeed, that the Earl could remember to have discovered in the more recent period of his rather lonely life. At present, of course, she fancies that she is very much in love with you. It is absurd. You didn't tell me that, said George. It was the only fact that people seemed to go out of their way to call at his cottage and tell him, that Maud loved him, that kept him from feeling his cause perfectly hopeless. It's incredible. It's a miracle. So you are a romantic young man, and you, no doubt, for the moment, suppose that you are in love with her. No. George was not going to allow a remark like that to pass unchallenged. You are wrong there. As far as I am concerned, there is no question of its being momentary or suppositious or anything of that kind. I am in love with your daughter. As from the first moment I saw her, I always shall be. She is the only girl in the world. Stuff and nonsense. Not at all. Absolute cold fact. You have known her so little time. Long enough. Lord Marshmorton's side. You are upsetting things terribly. Things are upsetting me terribly. You are causing a great deal of trouble and annoyance. So did Romeo. Eh? I said, so did Romeo. I don't know anything about Romeo. When love is concerned, I begin where he left off. I wish I could persuade you to be sensible. That's just what I think I am. I wish I could get you to see my point of view. I do see your point of view. But dimly, you see, my own takes up such a lot of foreground. There was a pause. Then I am afraid, said Lord Marshmorton, that we must leave matters as they stand, until they can be altered for the better. We will say no more about it now. Very well. But I must ask you to understand clearly, that I shall have to do everything in my power to stop what I look on as an unfortunate entanglement. I understand. Very well. Lord Marshmorton coughed. George looked at him with some surprise. He had supposed the interview to be at an end, but the other made no move to go. There seemed to be something on the Earl's mind. There is, ah, just one other thing, said Lord Marshmorton. He coughed again. He felt embarrassed. Ah, ah, ah, just one other thing. He repeated. The reason for Lord Marshmorton's visit to George had been twofold. In the first place Lady Caroline had told him to go. That would have been reason enough, but what made the visit imperative was an unfortunate accident of which he had only that morning been made aware. It will be remembered that Billy Dorr had told George that the gardener with whom she had become so friendly had taken her name and address with a view later on to centre some of his roses. The scrap of paper on which this information had been written was now lost. Lord Marshmorton had been hunting for it since breakfast without avail. Billy Dorr had made a decided impression upon Lord Marshmorton. She belonged to a type which he had never before encountered, and it was one of which he had found more than agreeable. Her knowledge of roses and the proper feeling which she manifested toward the rose growing as a life work consolidated the earl's liking for her. Never in his memory had he come across so sensible and charming a girl, and he had looked forward with a singular intensity to meeting her again. And now some too zealous housemaid tidying up after the irritating manner of her species had destroyed the only clue to her identity. It was not for some time after this discovery that hope dawned again for Lord Marshmorton. Only after he had given up the search for the missing paper as fruitless did he recall that it was in George's company that Billy had first come into his life. Between her then and himself George was the only link. It was primarily for the purpose of getting Billy's name and address from George that he came to the cottage, and now that the moment had arrived for touching upon the subject he felt a little embarrassed. When you visited the castle, he said, When you visited the castle last Thursday? said George helpfully. Exactly. When you visited the castle last Thursday there was a young lady with you. Not realizing that the subject had been changed, George was under the impression that the other had shifted his front and was about to attack him from another angle. He countered what seemed to him an insinuation stoutly. We merely had to meet at the castle. She came there quite independently of me. Lord Marshmorton looked alarmed. You didn't know her? He said anxiously. Well certainly I knew her. She's an old friend of mine. But if you are hinting, not at all. She rejoined the Earl profoundly relieved. Not at all. I ask merely because this young lady, with whom I had some conversation, was good enough to give me her name and address. She too happened to mistake me for a gardener. He says Cordray trousers. Remember George in extenuation. They unfortunately have lost them. You can always get another pair, eh? I say you can always get another pair of Cordray trousers. I have not lost my trousers. I have lost the young lady's name and address. Oh! I promised to send her some roses. She will be expecting them. Well that's odd. I was just reading a letter from her when you came in. That must be what she's referring to when she says, If you see Dada, the old deer, tell him not to forget my roses. I read it three times and couldn't make any sense out of it. Are you Dada? The Earl smirked. She did address me in the course of our conversation as Dada. Then the message is for you. A very quaint charming girl. But what is her name and where can I find her? Her name's Billy Dorr. Billy? Billy? Billy? Said Lord Marshmorton softly. I had better write it down. And her address? I don't know her private address, but she could always reach her at the Regal Theatre. Ah! She's on the stage. Yes, she's in my piece. Follow the girl. Indeed. Are you a playwright, Mr. Bevan? Oh, good Lord, no! Said George Shocked. I'm a composer. Very interesting. And you met Miss Dorr through her being in this play of yours? Oh, no, I knew her before she went on the stage. She was a stenographer in a music publisher's office when we first met. Good gracious! Was she really a stenographer? Yes, why? Ah! Nothing. Nothing. Something just happened to come to my mind. What happened to come into Lord Marshmorton's mind was a fleeting vision of Billy, installed in Miss Alice Faraday's place as his secretary. With such a helper it would be a pleasure to work on that infernal family history, which was now such a bitter toil. But the daydream passed. He knew perfectly well that he had not the courage to dismiss Alice. In the hands of that calm-eyed girl he was putty.  We have been pals for years. Said George, Billy is one of the best fellows in the world. A charming girl. She would give her last nickel to anyone that asked for it. Delightful. Delightful. And as straight as a string no one ever said a word against Billy. No. She may go out to lunch and supper and all that kind of thing, but there's nothing to that. Nothing. Agree the old woman. Girls must eat. They do. You ought to see them. A little harmless relaxation after the fatigue of the day. Exactly. Nothing more. Lord Marshmorton felt more drawn than ever to this sensible young man. Sensible, at least, on all points but one. It was a pity they could not see eye to eye on what was, and what was not, suitable in the matter of love affairs of the aristocracy.  He said affably. Yes. Lord Marshmorton gave a little sigh. It is a long time since I went up to see a musical performance. More than twenty years. When I was up at Oxford and for some years afterwards I was a great theatre-goer. Never used to miss a first night at the Gayety. Those were the days of Nellie Farron and Cade Vaughan. Florence St. John, too. How excellent she was and fast up to date. But we missed Nellie Farron. Meyer Lutz was the Gayety composer then. But a good deal of water has flowed under the bridge since those days. Don't suppose you ever heard of Meyer Lutz? I don't think I have. Johnny Tull was playing a piece called Partners, not a good play, and the Yeoman of the Garde had just been produced at the Savoy. That makes it seem a long time ago, doesn't it? Well, I mustn't take up all your time. Goodbye, Mr. Biven. I am glad to have had the opportunity at this little talk. The Regal Theatre, I think you said, is where your piece is playing. I shall probably be going to London shortly. I hope to see it. Lord Marshmorton rose. As regards the other matter, there is no hope of inducing you to see the matter in the right light. We seem to disagree as to which is the right light. Then there is nothing more to be said.   The feeling is quite mutual. But I don't want you as a son-in-law.  Exploded Lord Marshmorton. I won't have you as a son-in-law. Good God! Do you think that you can hurry and assault my son Percy in the heart of Piccadilly and generally make yourself in a damn nuisance and then settle down here without an invitation at my very gates and expect to be welcomed into the bosom of the family? If I were a young man, I thought we'd agree that you were a young man. Don't interrupt me. I only said I heard what you said, flattery. Nothing of the kind. Truth. Lord Marshmorton melted. He smiled.  Well, we agree there, all right. Lord Marshmorton hesitated. Then, with a rush, he unbosomed himself and made his own position on the matter clear. I know what you'll be saying to yourself the moment my back is turned. You'll be calling me a stage-heavy father in an old snob and a number of other things. Don't interrupt me. Damn it. You will, I tell you. And you'll be wrong. I don't think the Marshmortons are fenced off from the rest of the world by some sort of divinity. My sister does. Percy does.  If ever you find yourself thinking differently from my son Percy on any subject, congratulate yourself. You'll be right. But I know what you're going to say. Let me finish. If I were the only person concerned, I wouldn't stand in Maud's way, whoever she wanted to marry. Provided he was a good fellow and likely to make her happy. But I am not. There's my sister Caroline. There's a whole crowd of silly cackling fools, my sisters, my sons-in-law, all the whole pack of them.  I'd never have a moment's peace. The whole gabbling pack of them would be at me, saying I was to blame. There would be arguments, discussions, family councils.  I loathe discussions. Family councils make me sick.  And damn, I'm going to have it! So there's the thing for you in letters of one syllable. I don't object to you personally, but I'm not going to have you bothering me like this. I'll admit freely that, since I have made your acquaintance, I have altered the unfavourable opinion I had formed of you from—from hearsay. Exactly the same with me, said George.   I wasn't. I was just pointing out to be quiet. I say I have changed my opinion of you to a great extent. I mention this unofficially, as a matter that has no bearing on the main issue for, as regards any idea you may have of inducing me to agree to your marrying my daughter, let me tell you that I am unalterably opposed to any such thing. Oh, don't say that.  Don't say that. I do say that. It is out of the question.  Very well, then. Good morning. The door closed. Lord Marshmarten walked away, feeling that he had been commendably stern. George filled his pipe and sat smoking thoughtfully. He wondered what Maude was doing at that moment. Maude, at that moment, was greeting her brother with a bright smile as he limped downstairs after a bladed shave and change of costume. Oh, Percy dear, she was saying, I had quite an adventure this morning.  I was so frightened that I had to ask a curate in the next village to drive him away. I did wish I had had you there to protect me. Why didn't you come out with me sometimes when I take a country walk? It really isn't safe for me to be alone. The gift of hiding private emotion and keeping up appearances before strangers is not, as many suppose, entirely a product of our modern civilization. Centuries before we were born or thought of, there was a widely press-agented boy in Sparta who even went so far as to let a fox gnaw his tender young stomach without permitting the discomfort inseparable from such a proceeding to interfere with either his facial expression or his flow of small talk. Historians have handed it down that, even in the latter stages of the meal, the polite lad continued to beat a life and soul of the party. But while this fate may be said to have established a record never subsequently lowered, there is no doubt that almost every day in modern times men and women are performing similar and scarcely less impressive miracles of self-restraint. Of all the qualities which belong exclusively to man and are not shared by the lower animals, this surely is the one which marks him off most sharply from the beasts at the field. Animals care nothing about keeping up appearances. Observe Bertram the Bull when things are not going just as he could wish. He stamps. He snorts. He paws the ground. He throws back his head and bellows. He is upset and he doesn't care who knows it. Instances could be readily multiplied. Deposit a charge of shot in some outlying section of Thomas the Tiger and note the effect. Irritate Wilfred the Wasp or stand behind Maud the Mule and prod her with a pin. There is not an animal on the list who has even a rudimentary sense of the social amenities. And it is this more than anything else which should make us proud that we are human beings on a loftier plane of development. In the days which followed Lord Marshmorton's visit to George at the cottage, not a few of the occupants of Belfour Castle had their metals sternly tested in this respect. And it is a pleasure to be able to record that not one of them failed to come through the ordeal with success. The general public, as represented by the uncles, cousins and aunts who had descended on the place to help Lord Belfour celebrate his coming of age, had not a notion that turmoil lurked beneath the smooth fronts of at least half a dozen of those whom they met in the course of the daily round. Lord Belfour, for example, though he limped rather painfully, showed nothing of the baffled fury which was reducing his weight at the rate of ounces a day. Uncle Francis, the bishop, when he tackled him in the garden on the subject of intemperance, for Uncle Francis, like thousands of others, had taken it for granted on reading the report of the encounter with the policeman and Percy's subsequent arrest, that the affair had been the result of a drunken outburst, had no inkling of the volcanic emotions that seized in his nephew's bosom. He came away from the interview, indeed, feeling that the boy had listened attentively and with a becoming regret, and that there was hope for him, after all, provided that he fought the impulse. He little knew that, but for the conventions, which frown on the practice of murdering bishops, Percy would gladly have strangled him with his bare hands and jumped upon the remains.  But his sister, Maude, was also experiencing mental disquietude of no mean order. Everything had gone wrong with Maude. Barely a mile separated her from George, that essential link in her chain of communication with Geoffrey Raymond. But so thickly did it bristle with obstacles and dangers that it might have been a mile of no man's land. Twice, since the occasion when the discovery of Lord Marshmorton at the cottage had caused her to abandon her purpose of going in and explaining everything to George, had she attempted to make the journey, and each time some trifling maddening accident had brought about failure. Once, just as she was starting, her Aunt Augusta had insisted on joining her for what she described as a nice long walk, and the second time, when she was within a bare hundred yards of her objective, some sort of a cousin popped out from nowhere and forced his loathsome company on her. Foiled in this fashion, she had fallen back in desperation on her second line of attack. She had written a note to George explaining the whole situation in good, clear phrases, and begging him, as a man of proved chivalry, to help her. It had taken up much of one afternoon, this note, for it was not easy to write, and it had resulted in nothing. She had given it to Albert to deliver, and Albert had returned empty-handed. The gentleman said it was no answer, my lady. No answer? But there must be an answer. No answer, my lady. Those were his very words. Stoutly maintained the black-sold boy, who had destroyed the letter within two minutes after it had been handed to him, he had not even bothered to read it. A deep, dangerous, dastardly stripling this, who fought to win, and only to win. The ticket marked R. Bing was in his pocket, and in his ruthless heart a firm resolve that R. Bing and no other should have the benefit of his assistance. Maude could not understand it. That is to say, she resolutely kept herself from accepting the only explanation of the episode that seemed possible. In black and white she had asked George to go to London and see Geoffrey, and arrange for the passage, through himself as a sort of clearing-house, of letters between Geoffrey and herself. She had felt from the first that such a request should be made by her in person, and not through the medium of writing. But surely it was incredible that a man like George, who had been through so much for her, and whose only reason for being in the neighborhood was to help her, could have coldly refused, without even a word. And yet what else was she to think? Now more than ever she felt alone in a hostile world. Yet, to her guests, she was bright and entertaining. Not one of them had a suspicion that her life was not one of pure sunshine. Albert, I am happy to say, was thoroughly miserable. The little brute was suffering torments. He was showering anonymous advice to the lovelorn on Reggie Bing—excellent stuff, cold from the pages of weekly papers, of which there was a pile in the housekeeper's room, the property of a sentimental lady's maid—and nothing seemed to come of it. Every day, sometimes twice, and thrice a day, he would leave on Reggie's dressing-table significant notes similar in tone to the one which he had placed there on the night of the ball. But for all the effect they appeared to exercise on their recipient, they might have been blank pages. The choice's quotations from the works of such established writers as Aunt Charlotte of Forget Me Not, and Dr. Cupid, the heart expert of Home Chat, expended themselves fruitlessly on Reggie. As far as Albert could ascertain—and he was one of those boys who ascertained practically everything with an radius of miles—Reggie positively avoided Maud's society. And this, after reading Dr. Cupid's invaluable tip about seeking her company on all occasions and the dictum of Aunt Charlotte to the effect that many a wooer has won his lady by being persistent. Albert spelled it persistuant, but the effect was the same, and rendering himself indispensable by constant little attentions. So far from rendering himself indispensable to Maud by constant little attentions, Reggie, to the disgust of his backer and supporter, seemed to spend most of his time with Alice Faraday. On three separate occasions had Albert been revolted by the sight of his prodigy in close association with the Faraday girl, once in a boat on the lake and twice in his grey car. It was enough to break a boy's heart, and it completely spoiled Albert's appetite. A phenomenon attributed, I am glad to say, in the servants' hall to reaction from recent excesses. The moment when Keggs, the butler, called him a greedy little pig, and hoped it would be a lesson to him not to stuff himself at all hours with Stoneland Cakes was a bitter moment for Albert. It is a relief to turn from the contemplation of these tortured souls to the pleasanter picture presented by Lord Marshmorton. Here, undeniably, we have a man without a secret sorrow, a man at peace with the best of all possible worlds. Since his visit to George a second youth seems to have come upon Lord Marshmorton. He works in his rose garden with a new vim, whistling, or even singing to himself, stray gay snatches of melodies popular in the eighties. Hear him now, I see toils. He has a long garden implement in his hand, and he is sending up the death rate in slug circles with a devastating rapidity. Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay, ta-ra-ra-boom, and the boom is a death knell, as it rings softly out on the pleasant spring air. Another stout slug has made the great change. It is peculiar, this gaiety. It gives one to think. Others have noticed it. His lordship's valet amongst them. I'll give you my honest word, Mr. Cakes, says the valet, odd. This very morning I heard the old devil as singing in his bath, churrupping away like a blooming linnet. Law, says Cakes, properly impressed. And only last night he gave me all four box of cigars, and said I was a good fateful fellow. I'll tell you there's something happening to the old buster you mark my words. CHAPTER XVIII Over this complex situation the mind of Cakes, the butler, played like a searchlight. Cakes was a man of discernment and sagacity. He had instinct and reasoning power. Instinct told him that Maude, all unsuspecting the change that had taken place in Albert's attitude toward her romance, would have continued to use the boy between herself and George. And reason, added to an intimate knowledge of Albert, enabled him to see that the latter must inevitably have betrayed her trust. He was prepared to bet a hundred pounds that Albert had been given letters to deliver and had destroyed them. So much was cleared to Cakes. It only remained to settle on some plan of action which would re-establish the broken connection. Cakes did not conceal a tender heart beneath a rugged exterior. He did not mourn over the picture of two loving fellow-human beings with a misunderstanding, but he did want to win that sweepstake. His position, of course, was delicate. He could not go to Maude and beg her to confide in him. Maude would not understand his motives, and might leap to the not unjustifiable conclusion that he had been at the sherry. No, men were easier to handle than women. As soon as his duties would permit, and in the present crowded condition of the house they were arduous, he set out for George's cottage. I trust I do not stir, but interrupt you, sir." He said, beaming in the doorway like a benevolent high-priest. He adoffed his professional manner of austere disapproval as was his custom in moments of leisure. Not at all, replied George, puzzled. Was there anything there was, sir? Well, come along in and sit down. I would not take the liberty if it all seemed to you, sir. I would prefer to remain standing. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Uncomfortable, that is to say, on the part of George, who was wondering if the butler remembered having engaged him as a waiter only a few nights back. The cakes himself was at his ease. Few things ruffled this man. Find a, said George, extremely, sir, but for the rain. Oh, is it raining? Sharp down, poor sir. Good for the crops, said George. So one would be disposed to imagine, sir. Silence fell again. The rain dripped from the eaves. If I might speak freely, sir, said Keggs. Sure, shoot. I beg your pardon, sir.  The butler cleared his throat. Might I begin by remarking that your little affair of the art, if I may, used the expression, is no secret in these servants all? I have no wish to seem to be taken liberty or presuming, but I should like to intimate that the servant's all is aware of the facts. You don't have to tell me that, said George, coldly. I know all about the sweepstake. A flicker of embarrassment passed over the butler's large, smooth face, passed, and was gone. I did not know that you had been apprised of that little matter, sir, but you will doubtless understand and appreciate our point of view, a little sport and flutter, nothing more, designed to alleviate the monotony of life in the country. Oh, don't apologize, said George, and was reminded of a point which had exercised him a little from time to time since his vigil on the balcony. By the way, if it isn't giving away secrets, who drew plumber? Sir. Which of you drew a man named Plumber in the sweep? I rather fancy, sir. Giggs Brow wrinkled in thought. I rather fancy it was one of the visiting gentlemen's gentlemen. I gave the point but slight attention at the time. I do not fancy Mr. Plumber's chances. It seemed to me that Mr. Plumber was a negligible quantity. Your knowledge of form is sound. Plumber's out. Indeed, sir. An amiable young gentleman, but lacking in many of the essential qualities. Perhaps he struck you that way, sir. I never met him, nearly, but not quite. It hinted my mind that you might possibly have encountered Mr. Plumber on night of the ball, sir. Ah! I was wondering if you remembered me. I remember you perfectly, sir, and it was the fact that we had already met in what one might almost term a social way that emboldened me to come here today and offer my services as a intermediary should you feel disposed to avail yourself of them. George was puzzled. Your services? Precisely, sir. I fancy I am in a position to lend you what might be termed an elpinand. But that's remarkably altruistic of you, isn't it? Sir, I say that is very generous of you. Aren't you forgetting that you drew Mr. Bing? The ballish smiled indulgently. You were not quite abreast of the progress of events, sir. Since the original drawing of names there has been a trifling adjustment. The boy Albert now has Mr. Bing and I have you, sir. A little amicable arrangement informally conducted in the scullery the night of the ball. Amicable? On my part, entirely so. George began to understand certain things that had been perplexing to him. Then all this while precisely, sir, all this while a ladyship under the impression that the boy Albert was devoted to her cause has no doubt been placed in undisguided confidence in him that it will blighter, said Keogh's abandoning for a moment his company manners and permitting the humanance to take the place of polish. I beg your pardon for the expression, sir. He added gracefully. It escaped me inadvertently. You think that Lady Ma had gave Albert a letter to give to me and that he destroyed it? Such I should imagine must undoubtedly have been the case. The boy has no scruples, no scruples whatsoever. Good Lord! I appreciate your consternation, sir. That must be exactly what has happened. To my way of thinking there is no doubt of it. It was for that reason that I ventured to Garmere in the hope that I might be instrumental in arranging a meeting. The strong distaste which George had had for plotting with this overfed menial began to warn. It might be undignified, he told himself, but it was undeniably practical. And, after all, a man who has plotted with page-boys has little dignity to lose by plotting with butlers. He brightened up. If it meant seeing Ma again he was prepared to waive the decencies. What do you suggest? he said. It be an arraign even in everyone indoors playing games and what not. Cakes was amably tolerant of the recreations of the aristocracy. You would experience little chance of interruption, waiting to proceed to the lane outside the heist entrance of the castle grounds and wait there. You will find in the field at the roadside a small, disused barn only a short way from the gates where you would be sheltered from the rain. In the meantime I would inform a ladyship of your movements and, no doubt, it would be possible of her to slip off. That sounds all right. It is all right, sir. The chances of interruption may be said to be reduced to a minimum, shall we say, in one hour's time? Very well. Then I will wish you good evening, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm glad to have been of assistance. He withdrew, as he had come, with a large impressiveness. The room seemed very empty without him. George, with trembling fingers, began to put on a pair of thick boots. For some minutes after he had set foot outside the door of the cottage George was inclined to revile the weather for having played him false. On this evening, of all evenings, he felt, the elements should, so to speak, have rallied round and done their bit. The air should have been soft and clear and scented. There should have been an afterglow of sunset in the sky to light him on his way.  The sky was leaden. The rain hissed down in a steady flow with spring of mud and desolation, making a dreary morass of the lane through which he trapped. A curious sense of foreboding came upon George. It was as if some voice of the night had murmured maliciously in his ear a hint of trouble to come. He felt oddly nervous, as he entered the barn. The barn was both dark and dismal. In one of the dark corners an intermittent dripping betrayed the presence of a gap in its ancient roof. A rat scurried across the floor. The dripping stopped and began again. George struck a match and looked at his watch. He was early. Another ten minutes must elapse before he could hope for her arrival. He sat down on a broken wagon which lay on its side against one of the walls. Depression returned. It was impossible to fight against it in his beast of a barn. The place was like a supple-cur. No one but a fool of a butler would have suggested it as a tristing place. He wondered irritably why places like this were allowed to get into this condition. If people wanted a barn earnestly enough to take the trouble of building one, was it not worthwhile to keep the thing in proper repair? In futility. That was what it was. That was what everything was if you came down to it. Sitting here, for instance, was a futile waste of time. She wouldn't come. There are a dozen reasons why she should not come. So what was the use of his courting rheumatism by waiting in this morgue of dead agricultural ambitions? None. Whatever. George went on waiting. And what an awful place to expect her to come to, if by some miracle she did come, where she would be stifled by the smell of mouldy hay, dampened by raindrops, and, reflected George gloomily, as there was another scurry and scutter along the unseen floor, gnawed by rats. You could not expect a delicately nurtured girl accustomed to all the comforts of a home to be bright and sunny, with a platoon of rats crawling all over her. The grey oblong that was the doorway suddenly darkened. Mr. Bevan. George sprang up. At the sound of her voice, every nerve in his body danced in mad exhilaration. He was another man. Depression fell from him like a garment. He perceived that he had misjudged all sorts of things. The evening, for instance, was a splendid evening, not one of those awful, dry, baking evenings, which make you feel you can't breathe, but pleasantly moist and full of a delightfully musical pattern of rain. And the barn! He had been all wrong about the barn. It was a great little place, comfortable, airy, and cheerful, which would be more invigorating than that smell of hay. Even the rats, he felt, must be pretty decent rats, when you came to know them. I'm here. The barn had advanced quickly. His eyes had grown accustomed to the mark, and he could see her dimly.  He could even see her eyes shining in the darkness, so close was she to him. I hope you have not been waiting long. George's heart was thundering against his ribs. He could scarcely speak. He contrived to emit a—no. I didn't think at first I could get away. I had to—oh! She broke off with a cry. The rat, fond of exercise like all rats, had made another of its excitable sprints across the floor. A hand clutched nervously at George's arm, found it, and held it. At the touch, the last small fragment of George's self-control fled from him. The world became vague and unreal. There remained of it but one solid fact, the fact that Maud was in his arms, and that he was saying a number of things very rapidly, and a voice that seemed to belong to somebody he had never met before. End of chapter 18. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Damsel in Distress by P. G. Woodhouse read by Yazpistatio in Waxaw, North Carolina. Chapter 19 With a shock of dismay so abrupt and overwhelming that it was like a physical injury, George became aware that something was wrong. Even as he gripped her, Maud had stiffened with a sharp cry, and now she was struggling trying to wrench herself free. She broke away from him. He could hear her breathing hard. You! You! She gulped. Maud!  There was a pause that seemed to George to stretch on and on endlessly. The rain pattered on the leaky roof. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled dismally. The darkness pressed down like a blanket, stifling thought. Good night, Mr. Bevin. Her voice was ice. I didn't think you were... that kind of man. She was moving towards the door, and as she reached it George's stupor left him.  All his varied emotions had become one emotion, a cold fury. Stop! Maud stopped. Her chin was tilted, and she was wasting a baleful glare on the darkness. Well, what is it? Her tone increased George's wrath. The injustice of it made him dizzy. At that moment he hated her. He was the injured party. It was he, not she, that had been deceived and made a fool of. I want to say something before you go. I think we had better say no more about it. By the exercise of supreme self-control George kept himself from speaking until he could choose milder words than those that rushed to his lips. I think we will, he said between his teeth. Maud's anger became tinged with surprise. Now that the first shock of the wretched episode was over the calmer half of her mind was endeavouring to soothe the infuriated half by urging that George's behaviour had been but a momentary lapse and that a man may lose his head for one wild instant and yet remain fundamentally a gentleman and a friend. She had begun to remind herself that this man had helped her once in trouble, and only a day or two before had actually risked his life to save her from embarrassment. When she heard him call to her to stop she supposed that his better feelings had reasserted themselves and prepared herself to receive with dignity a broken, stammered apology. But the voice that had just spoken with a crisp biting intensity was not the voice of remorse. It was a very angry man, not a penitent one, who was commanding not begging her to stop and listen to him. Well, she said again more coldly this time, she was quite unable to understand this attitude of his. When was the injured party? It was she, not he, who had trusted and been betrayed. I should like to explain. Please, do not apologize. George ground his teeth in the gloom. I haven't the slightest intention of apologizing. I said I would like to explain. When I have finished explaining you can go. I shall go when I please, flared mod. This man was intolerable. There was nothing to be afraid of. There will be no repetition of the incident. Mod was outraged by this monstrous misinterpretation of her words. I am not afraid. Then perhaps you will be kind enough to listen. I won't detain you long. My explanation is quite simple. I have been made a fool of. I seem to be in the position of the tinker in the play whom everybody conspired to delude into the belief that he was a king. First a friend of yours, Mr. Bing, came to me and told me that you had confided to him that you loved me. Mod gasped. Either this man was mad or Reggie Bing was. She chose the politer solution. Reggie Bing must have lost his senses. So I supposed. At least I imagined that he must be mistaken. But a man in love is an optimistic fool, of course. And I had loved you ever since you got into the cab that morning. What? So after a while proceeded George, ignoring the interruption I almost persuaded myself that miracles could still happen and that what Bing said was true. And when your father called on me and told me the very same thing, I was convinced. It seemed incredible. But I had to believe it. Now it seems that for some inscrutable reason both Bing and your father were making a fool of me. That is all. Good night. Mod's reply was the last which George or any man would have expected. There was a moment's silence and then she burst into appeal of laughter. It was the laughter of overstranged nerves but to George's ears it had the ring of genuine amusement. I'm glad you find my story entertaining," he said dryly. He was convinced now that he loathed this girl and that all he desired was to see her in his life forever. Later, no doubt, the funny side of it will hit me. Just at present my sense of humor is rather dormant. Mod gave a little cry. Oh! I'm so sorry! So sorry, Mr. Bevin! It wasn't that. It wasn't that at all. Oh! I am so sorry. I don't know why I laughed. It certainly wasn't because I thought it funny. It's tragic. I noticed that," said George bitterly. The darkness began to afflict his nerves. I wished to God we had some light. The glare of a pocket torch smote upon him. I brought it to see my way back with," said Mod in a curious small voice. It's very dark across the fields. I didn't light it before because I was afraid somebody might see. She came towards him, holding the torch over her head. The beam showed her face, troubled and sympathetic. And at the sight all George's resentment left him. There were mysteries here beyond his unraveling, but of one thing he was certain this girl was not to blame. She was a thoroughbred as straight as a wand. She was pure gold. I came here to tell you everything," she said. She placed the torch on the wagon-wheel so that its ray fell in a pool of light on the ground between them. I'll do it now. Only—only it isn't so easy now. Mr. Bevin, there's a man. There's a man that Father and Reggie Bing Miss took. They thought—you see, they knew it was you that I was with that day in the cab. And so they naturally thought when you came down here that you were the man I had gone to meet that day. The man I—I— the man you love. Yes, said Maud, in a small voice, and there was silence again. George could feel nothing but sympathy. It mastered other emotion in him, even the gray despair that had come with her words. He could feel all that she was feeling. Tell me all about it, he said. I met him in Wales last year. Maud's voice was a whisper. The family found out, and I was hurried back here. And I've been here ever since. That day when I met you I had managed to slip away from home. I had found out that he was in London and I was going to meet him. Then I saw Percy and got into your cab. It's been all a horrible mistake. I'm sorry. I see, said George thoughtfully. I see. His heart ached like a living wound. She had told so little, and he could guess so much. This unknown man who had triumphed seemed to sneer scornfully at him from the shadows. I'm sorry, said Maud again. You mustn't feel like that. But how can I help you? That's the point. What is it you want me to do? But I can't ask you now. Of course you can. Why not? Well, I couldn't. George managed to laugh. It was a laugh that did not sound convincing even to himself, but it served. That's morbid, he said. Be sensible. You need help. And I may be able to give it. Surely a man isn't barred forever from doing you a service just because he happens to love you. Suppose you were drowning and Mr. Plummer was the only swimmer within call. Plummer, what do you mean? You've not forgotten that I was a reluctant ear witness to his recent proposal of marriage. Maud uttered an exclamation. I never asked. How terrible of me! Were you much hurt? Hurt? George cannot follow her. That night, when you were on the balcony and—Oh! George understood. Oh, no, hardly at all. I scraped my hands a little. It was a wonderful thing to do, said Maud. Her admiration glowing for a man who could treat such a leap so lightly. She had always had a private theory that Lord Leonard, after performing the same fate, had bragged about it for the rest of his life. No, no, nothing, said George, who had since wondered why he had ever made such a to-do about climbing up a perfectly stout sheet. It was splendid! George blushed. We are wondering from the main theme, he said. I want to help you. I came here at enormous expense to help you. How can I do it? Maud hesitated. I think you may be offended at me asking such a thing. You needn't. You see, the whole trouble is that I can't get in touch with Geoffrey. He's in London, and I'm here. And any chance I might have to say I met you when Percy saw me in Piccadilly? How did your people find out it was you? They asked me straight out. And you owned up? I had to. I couldn't tell them a direct lie. George thrilled. This was the girl he had doubts of. So then it was worse than ever, continued Maud. I daren't risk writing to Geoffrey and having the letter intercepted. I was wondering, I had the idea almost as soon as I found out that you had come here. You want me to take a letter from you and see that it reaches him. And then he can write back to my address and I can smuggle the letter to you. That's exactly what I do want. But I almost didn't like to ask. Why not? I'll be delighted to do it. I'm so grateful. Why, it's nothing. I thought you were going to ask me to look in on your brother and smash another of his hats. Maud laughed delightedly. The whole tension of the situation had been eased for her. More and more she found herself liking George. Yet deep down in her she realized with a pang that for him there had been no easing of the situation. She was sad for George. The plumbers of this world she had consigned to what they declared would be perpetual sorrow with scarcely a twinge of regret. But George was different. Poor Percy. She said, I don't suppose he'll ever get over it. He will have other hats. But it won't be the same. She came back to the subject nearest her heart. Mr. Bevin, I wonder if you would do just a little more for me? If it isn't criminal or for that matter if it is, could you go to Jeffrey and see him and tell him all about me and come back when we looks and what he said and so on? Certainly. What's his name and where do I find him?  His name is Jeffrey Raymond and he lives with his uncle Mr. Wilbur Raymond at 11A Belgrave Square. I'll go to him tomorrow. Thank you ever so much. George got up. The movement seemed to put him in touch with the outer world. He noticed that the rain had stopped and that stars had climbed into the oblong of the doorway. He had an impression that he had been in the barn a very long time and confirmed this with a glance at his watch. Though the watch, he felt, understated the facts by the length of several centuries. He was abstaining from too close an examination of his emotions from a prudent feeling that he was going to suffer soon enough without assistance from himself. I think you had better be going back," he said. It's rather late. They may be missing you. Maud laughed happily. I don't mind now what they do. But I suppose dinners must be dressed for whatever happens. They moved together to the door. What a lovely night after all. I never thought the rain would stop in this world. It's like when you're unhappy and think it's going on forever. Yes, said George. Maud held out her hand. Good night, Mr. Bevan. Good night. He wondered if there would be any allusion to the earlier passages of their interview. There was none. Maud was of the class whose education consists mainly of a training in the delicate ignoring of delicate situations. Then you will go and see, Jeffrey? Tomorrow. Thank you ever so much. Not at all. George admired her. The little touch of formality which she had contrived to impart to the conversation struck just the right note, created just the atmosphere which would enable them to part without weighing too heavily on the deeper aspect of that parting.  Watch me prove it. Well, I must rush, I suppose. Good night. Good night. She moved off quickly across the field. Darkness covered her. The dog in the distance had begun to howl again. He had his troubles too. End of Chapter 19 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Adam's Ill in Distress by P. G. Wodehouse as read for LibriVox by Madame Tusk Chapter 20 Trouble sharpens the vision. In our moments of distress we can see clearly that what is wrong with this world of ours is the fact that misery loves company and seldom gets it. Toothache is an unpleasant ailment, but if Toothache were a natural condition of life, if all mankind were afflicted with Toothache at birth we should not notice it. It is the freedom from aching teeth of all those with whom we come in contact that emphasises the agony. And, as with Toothache, so with trouble. Until our private affairs go wrong we never realise how bubbling over with happiness the bulk of mankind seems to be. Our aching heart is apparently nothing but a desert island in an ocean of joy. George, waking next morning with a heavy heart, made the discovery before the day was an hour old. The sun was shining and birds sang merrily, but this did not disturb him. Nature is ever callous to human woes, laughing while we weep, and we grow to take a callousness for granted. What jarred upon George was the infernal cheerfulness of his fellow men. They seemed to be doing it on purpose, triumphing over him, glorying in the fact that however fate might have shattered him they were all right. People were happy who had never been happy before. Mrs. Platt, for instance, a grey, depressed woman of middle age, she had seemed hitherto to have few pleasures beyond breaking dishes and relating the symptoms of sick neighbours who were not expected to live through the week. She now sang. George could hear her as she prepared his breakfast in the kitchen. At first he had had a hope that she was moaning with pain, but this was dispelled when he had finished his toilet and proceeded downstairs. The sounds she admitted suggested anguish, but the words, when he was able to anguish them, told another story. Incredible as it might seem on this particular morning, Mrs. Platt had elected to be light-hearted.  And later when she brought George his coffee and eggs she spent a full ten minutes prattling as he tried to read his paper, pointing out to him a number of merry murders and sprightly suicides which otherwise he might have missed. The woman went out of her way to show him that she was not for less fortunate people.  Two tramps of supernatural exuberance called at the cottage shortly after breakfast to ask George, whom they had never even consulted about their marriages, to help support their wives and children. Nothing could have been more carefree and debonair than the demeanor of these men. And then Reggie Bing arrived in his grey racing car, more cheerful than any of them. Fate could not have mocked George more subtly. A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things and the sight of Reggie in that room reminded him that on the last occasion when they had talked together across this same table it was he who had been in a fool's paradise and Reggie who had borne a weight of care. Reggie this morning was brighter than the shining sun and gaer than the caroling birds.  Topping morning, isn't it? Observed Reggie, the sunshine, the birds, the absolute—what do you call it— and so forth, and all that sort of thing if you know what I mean. I feel like a two-year-old. George, who felt older than this by some ninety-eight years, groaned in spirit. This was more than man was meant to bear. I say, continued Reggie, absolutely reaching out for a slice of bread and smearing it with marmalade, this business of marriage now, and all that species of rot. What I mean to say is, what about it? Not a bad scheme, taking it big and large? Or don't you think so? George was nested in the wound. Surely it was bad enough to see a happy man eating bread and marmalade without having to listen to him talking about marriage. Well, anyhow, be that as it may, said Reggie, biting jovially and speaking in a thick but joyous voice. I'm getting married today, I'm trying to— this morning, this very morning, I'll leap off the dock. George was startled out of his despondency. What? Absolutely laddie. George remembered the conventions. I congratulate you. And not without reason. I'm the luckiest fellow alive. I hardly know I was alive till now. Isn't this rather sudden? Reggie looked a trifle furtive. His manner became that of a conspirator. I should jolly well say it is sudden. It's got to be sudden. Dashed sudden, induced secret. If the Matera were to hear of it, there's no doubt whatever she would form a flying wedge and bust up the proceedings with no uncertain voice. You see, laddie, it's Miss Faraday I'm marrying, and the Matera, dear old soul, had the ideas for Reginald. Life's a rummy thing, isn't it? What I mean to say it's—it's rummy, don't you know? And all that. Very, agreed George. Who'd have thought a week ago that I'd be sitting in this jolly old chair asking you to be my best man? Why, a week ago I didn't know you, and if anybody had told me Alice Faraday was going to marry me, I'd have given one of those hollow, mirthless laughs. Do you want me to be your best man? Absolutely. If you don't mind, you see? Said Reggie confidentially. It's like this. Of course, bussing about all over London and its outskirts, you'd be glad enough to rally round and join the execution squad. But you know how it is. Their Materas are all pals of my Matera, and I don't want to get them into trouble for aiding and vetting my little show, if you understand what I mean. Now, you're different. You don't know the Matera, so it doesn't matter to you if she rolls round and puts the curse of the beings on you and all that sort of thing. Besides, I don't know. Reggie mused. Of course, this is the happiest day of my life. He proceeded, and I'm not saying it isn't, but you know how it is. Nobody no doubt that a chap he does not show at his best when he's being married. What I mean to say is he's more or less bound to look a fearful ass, and I'm perfectly certain it would put me right off my stroke if I felt that some chump like Jack Ferris or Ronny Fitzgerald was trying not to giggle in the background. So if you'll be a sportsman and come and hold my hand at the things over, I should be eternally grateful. Where are you going to be married? In London. Alice sneaked off there last night. It was easy, as it happened, because by a bit of luck, all the marshmallows had gone to town yesterday morning. Nobody knows why. He doesn't go up to London more than a couple times a year. She's going to meet me at the Savoy, and then the scheme walls to twirl around to the nearest register and request the lad to unleash the marriage service. I'm whizzing up in the car, and I'm hoping to be able to persuade you to come with me. Say the word, laddie." George reflected. He liked Reggie, and there was no particular reason in the world why he should not give him aid and comfort in this crisis. True, in his present frame of mind, it would be torture to witness a wedding ceremony, but he ought not to let that stand in the way of helping a friend. All right," he said. Stopped, fellow. I don't know how to thank you. It isn't putting you out, or upsetting your plans, I hope, or anything on those lines. Not at all. I had to go up to London today, anyway. Well, you can't get there quicker than in my car. She's a hammer. By the way, I've got to ask, how's your little affair coming along? Everything going all right?" In a way, said George, he was not equal to confiding his troubles to Reggie. Of course your trouble isn't like mine was. What I mean is, Maud loves you and all that, and all you've got to think out, is a scheme for laying the jolly old family astide. It's a pity, almost, that yours isn't a case of having to win the girl like me, because by Joe, Flattie," said Reggie, with a solemn emphasis, I could help you there. I've got the thing down fine. I've got the infallible dope." George smiled bleeply. You have?  I wish you would tell me what it is. But you don't need it. No, of course not. I was forgetting. Reggie looked at his watch. We ought to be shifting in a quarter of an hour or so. I don't want to be late. It appears that there's a catch of some sort in this business of getting married, as far as I can make out. If you roll in after a certain hour, the Johnny-in-charge of the proceedings gives you the miss in-bock, and you have to turn up again next day. However, we shall be all right, unless we have a breakdown, and there's not much chance of that. I've been tuning up the old cast since seven this morning, and she's sound in wind and limb, absolutely, oil, petrol, water, air, nuts, bolts, sprockets, carburetor, all present and correct. I've been looking after them like a lot of baby sisters. Well, as I was saying, I've got the dope. A week ago, I was just one of the mugs, didn't know a thing about it, but now! Gaze on me, laddie, you see before you the old Colonel Romeo, the man who knows. It all started on the night of the ball. There was the dickens of a big ball, you know, to celebrate old boots coming of age, to which poor devil he contributed nothing but the sunshine of his smile, never having learned to dance. On that occasion, a most rummy and extraordinary thing happened. I got pickled to the eyebrows. He laughed happily. I don't mean that that was a unique occurrence and so forth, because when I was a bachelor, it was rather a habit of mine to get a trifle submerged every now and again on occasions of decent mirth and festivity, but the rummy thing that night was that I showed it. Up till then, I've been told by experts I was a chappy in whom it was absolutely impossible to detect the symptoms. You might get a bit suspicious if you found out I couldn't move, but you could never be certain. On the night of the ball, however, I suppose I had been filling the radiator a trifle too enthusiastically.  I don't know what your experience has been, but mine is that proposing is a thing that simply isn't within the scope of a man who isn't moderately woozled. I've often wondered how marriages ever occur in the dry states of America. Well, as I was saying, on the night of the ball, a most rummy thing happened. I thought one of the waiters was you. He paused impressively to allow this startling statement to sink in. And was he, said George? Absolutely not. Well, that was the rummy part of it. He looked as like you as your twin brother. I haven't a twin brother. No, I know what you mean, but what I mean to say is he looked just like your twin brother would have looked if you had had a twin brother. Well, I had a word or two with this chap, and after a brief conversation it was born in upon me that I was up to the gills. Alice was with me at the time and noticed it too. Now, you'd have thought that that would have put a girl off a fellow and all that, but no. Nobody could have been more sympathetic as she has confided to me since the oiled condition that really turned the scale. What I mean is she made up of mine to save me for myself.  Angels, absolutely. Always on the lookout to pluck a brand from the burning and what not. You may take it from me that the good seed was definitely sown that night. Is that your recipe, then? You would advise the would-be bride room to buy a case of champagne and a wedding license and get to work? After that it would be all over except sending out the invitations? Reggie shook his head. Not at all. You need a lot more than that. That's certainly the start. You've got to follow up the good work, you see. That's where a number of chapies would slip up, and I'm pretty certain I should have slipped up myself. But for another singularly rummy occurrence, have you ever heard of a—what do you call it? What's the word I want? What do those things fellows get sometimes? Hairdakes? How's it of George? No, no, nothing like that. I don't mean anything you get. I mean something you get, if you know what I mean. Measles? Anonymous letter. That was what I was trying to say. It's the most extraordinary thing, even now, where the deuce they came from. But just about then I started to get a whole bunch of anonymous letters from some chapie unknown who didn't sign his name. What you mean is that the letters were anonymous? Said George. Absolutely. I used to get two or three a day sometimes. Whenever I went up to my room I'd find another waiting for me on my dressing table. Offensive? Eh? Were the letters offensive? Anonymous letters usually are. Well, these weren't—not at all—and quite the reverse. They contained a series of perfectly topping tips on how a fellow should proceed who wants to get a hold of a girl. It sounds as though somebody had been teaching you jiu-jitsu by post. They were great, real red-hot stuff right from the stable, priceless tips like make yourself indispensable to her in little ways, study her tastes and so on and so forth. I tell you, Lattie, I pretty soon stopped worrying about who was sending them to me and concentrated the old bean on acting on them. They worked like magic. The last one came yesterday morning, and it was a topper. It was all about how a chapie who was nervous should proceed, the cynical stuff you know about holding her hand and telling her you're lonely and being sincere and straightforward and letting your heart dictate the rest. Have you ever asked for one card when you wanted to fill a royal flush and happen to pick out the necessary ace? I did once when I was up at Oxford, and by chauve this letter gave me just the same thrill. I didn't hesitate. I just sailed in. I was cold sober, but I didn't worry about that. Something told me I couldn't lose.  Dash at all. I'd like to know who the fellow was who sent me those letters. I'd like to send him a wedding present or a bit of the cake or something, though I suppose there won't be any cake seeing the things taking place at a registrar's. You could buy a bun, suggested George. Well, I shall never know, I suppose. And now how about trickling forth? I say, Lattie, you don't objectify seeing slightly from time to time during the journey. I'm so dashed happy, you know. Not at all. It was not against the traffic regulations. Roger wandered aimlessly about the room in an ecstasy. It's a rummy thing, he said meditatively. I've just remembered that when I was at school I used to sing a thing called the What It's Names Wedding Song. At house suppers, don't you know, and what not? It's only a little thing. I dare say you know it. It starts ding-dong, ding-dong, or words to that effect. Hurry along, for it's my wedding morning. I remember you had to stretch out the moor a bit. It used to be awkward, if you haven't laid in enough breath. The Yeoman's Wedding Song, that was it. I knew it was some chap you're others. And it went on, and the bride in something or other doing something I can't recollect. Well, what I mean is, now it's my wedding morning. Rummy, when you come to think of it, what? Well, as it's getting told real late, what about it? Shift hoe? I'm ready. Would you like me to bring some rice? Thank you, Lattie, no. Dashed dangerous stuff, rice. Worse than shrapnel. Got your hat? Or set? I'm waiting. Then let the rebels commence, said Reggie. Ding-dong, ding-dong, hurry along, for it's my wedding morning. And the bride dashed it. I wish I could remember what the bride was doing. Probably writing you a note to say that she's changed her mind, and it's all off. Oh, my God! exclaimed Reggie. Come on! End of Chapter 20.