Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

He recited the details and Ruth entered them in her ledger. This done, M. Gandinot, doffing his official self, sighed.

“It is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office. How he would not take no for an answer, that young man, recently departed. A fellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle. You would say, ‘What does this young man, so well-dressed, in a mont-de-piete?’ But I know better, I, Gandinot. You have an expression, you English⁠—I heard it in Paris in a café, and inquired its meaning⁠—when you say of a man that he swanks. How many young men have I seen here, admirably dressed⁠—rich, you would say. No, no. The mont-de-piete permits no secrets. To swank, mademoiselle, what is it? To deceive the world, yes. But not the mont-de-piete. Yesterday also, when you had departed, was he here, that young man. Yet here he is once more today. He spends his money quickly, alas! that poor young swanker.”

When Ruth returned home that evening she found her father in the sitting-room, smoking a cigarette. He greeted her with effusion, but with some uneasiness⁠—for the old gentleman had nerved himself to a delicate task. He had made up his mind tonight to speak seriously to Ruth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to Mr. Vince. The more he saw of that young man the more positive was he that this was the human goldmine for which he had been searching all these weary years. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on the forehead, and began to speak.

It had long been Mr. Warden’s opinion that, if his daughter had a fault, it was a tendency towards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenient frankness. She had not that tact which he would have liked a daughter of his to possess. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. She was at times painfully blunt.

This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interrupted him with a question.

“What makes you think Mr. Vince is rich, father?” she asked.

Mr. Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr. Vince’s opulence had not entered into his discourse. He had carefully avoided it. The fact that he was thinking of it and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it, and that he knew that Ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. The question was not in order, and it embarrassed him.

“I⁠—why⁠—I don’t⁠—I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubt that he has ample⁠—”

“He is quite poor.”

Mr. Warden’s jaw fell slightly.

“Poor? But, my dear, that’s absurd!” he cried. “Why, only this evening⁠—”

He broke off abruptly, but it was too late.

“Father, you’ve been borrowing money from him!”

Mr. Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, but he altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he had every quality but one. He had come to look on her perspicacity in this matter as a sort of second sight. It had frequently gone far to spoiling for him the triumph of success.

“And he has to pawn things to live!” Her voice trembled. “He was at the mont-de-piete today. And yesterday too. I heard him. He was arguing with M. Gandinot⁠—haggling⁠—”

Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was too raw and vivid.

Mr. Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, but chief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a very fortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware, also, of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful young man who had fraudulently imitated a goldmine with what might have been disastrous results.

The door opened and Jeanne, the maid-of-all-work, announced Mr. Vince.

He entered the room briskly.

“Good evening!” he said. “I have brought you some more chocolates, Miss Warden, and some fruit. Great Scott! What’s the matter?”

He stopped, but only for an instant. The next he had darted across the room, and, before the horrified eyes of Mr. Warden, was holding Ruth in his arms. She clung to him.

Bill, the fox-terrier, over whom Mr. Vince had happened to stumble, was the first to speak. Almost simultaneously Mr. Warden joined in, and there was a striking similarity between the two voices, for Mr. Warden, searching for words, emitted as a preliminary to them a sort of passionate yelp.

Mr. Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth’s shoulder and waved it reassuringly at him.

“It’s all right,” he said.

“All right! All right!”

“Affinities,” explained Mr. Vince over his shoulder. “Two hearts that beat as one. We’re going to be married. What’s the matter, dear? Don’t you worry; you’re all right.”

“I refuse!” shouted Mr. Warden. “I absolutely refuse.”

Mr. Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair and, holding her hand, inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely.

“You refuse?” he said. “Why, I thought you liked me.”

Mr. Warden’s frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to his nature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint.

“My personal likes and dislikes,” he said, “have nothing to do with the matter, Mr. Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter to consider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Vince, approvingly. “Don’t have anything to do with the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police.”

Mr. Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth’s occupation. But necessity compelled.

“Mr. Vince, my daughter is employed at the mont-de-piete, and was a witness to all that took place this afternoon.”

Mr. Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full of concern.

“You don’t mean to say you have been slaving away in that stuffy⁠—Great Scott! I’ll have you out of that quick. You mustn’t go there again.”

He stooped and kissed her.

“Perhaps you had better let me explain,” he said. “Explanations, I always think, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They’re always somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard of Vince’s Stores, Mr. Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, my father is the proprietor. One of our specialities is