Something New by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

He Was Used To Being Looked At In An Unfriendly Way By His

Fellows,  But There Had Been Something In Joan's Eyes That Had

Curiously Discomfited Him.

R. Jones Groped His Way Down,  Relieved That All Was Over And Had

Ended Well. He Believed What She Had Told Him,  And He Could

Conscientiously Assure Freddie That The Prospect Of His Sharing

The Fate Of Poor Old Percy Was Nonexistent. It Is True That He

Proposed To Add In His Report That The Destruction Of The Letters

Had Been Purchased With Difficulty,  At A Cost Of Just Five

Hundred Pounds; But That Was A Mere Business Formality.

He Had Almost Reached The Last Step When There Was A Ring At The

Front Door. With What He Was Afterward Wont To Call An

Inspiration,  He Retreated With Unusual Nimbleness Until He Had

Almost Reached Joan's Door Again. Then He Leaned Over The

Banister And Listened.

The Disheveled Maid Opened The Door. A Girl's Voice Spoke:

"Is Miss Valentine In?"

"She's In; But She's Engaged."

"I Wish You Would Go Up And Tell Her That I Want To See Her. Say

It's Miss Peters--Miss Aline Peters."

The Banister Shook Beneath R. Jones' Sudden Clutch. For A Moment

He Felt Almost Faint. Then He Began To Think Swiftly. A Great

Light Had Dawned On Him,  And The Thought Outstanding In His Mind

Was That Never Again Would He Trust A Man Or Woman On The

Evidence Of His Senses. He Could Have Sworn That This Valentine

Girl Was On The Level. He Had Been Perfectly Satisfied With Her

Statement That She Had Destroyed The Letters. And All The While

She Had Been Playing As Deep A Game As He Had Come Across In The

Whole Course Of His Professional Career! He Almost Admired Her.

How She Had Taken Him In!

It Was Obvious Now What Her Game Was. Previous To His Visit She

Had Arranged A Meeting With Freddie's Fiancee,  With The View Of

Opening Negotiations For The Sale Of The Letters. She Had Held

Him,  Jones,  At Arm's Length Because She Was Going To Sell The

Letters To Whoever Would Pay The Best Price. But For The Accident

Of His Happening To Be Here When Miss Peters Arrived,  Freddie And

His Fiancee Would Have Been Bidding Against Each Other And

Raising Each Other's Price. He Had Worked The Same Game Himself A

Dozen Times,  And He Resented The Entry Of Female Competition Into

What He Regarded As Essentially A Male Field Of Enterprise.

As The Maid Stumped Up The Stairs He Continued His Retreat. He

Heard Joan's Door Open,  And The Stream Of Light Showed Him The

Disheveled Maid Standing In The Doorway.

"Ow,  I Thought There Was A Gentleman With You,  Miss."

"He Left A Moment Ago. Why?"

"There's A Lady Wants To See You. Miss Peters,  Her Name Is."

"Will You Ask Her To Come Up?"

The Disheveled Maid Was No Polished Mistress Of Ceremonies. She

Leaned Down Into The Void And Hailed Aline.

"She Says Will You Come Up?"

Aline's Feet Became Audible On The Staircase. There Were

Greetings.

"Whatever Brings You Here,  Aline?"

"Am I Interrupting You,  Joan,  Dear?"

"No. Do Come In! I Was Only Surprised To See You So Late. I

Didn't Know You Paid Calls At This Hour. Is Anything Wrong? Come

In."

The Door Closed,  The Maid Retired To The Depths,  And R. Jones

Stole Cautiously Down Again. He Was Feeling Absolutely

Bewildered. Apparently His Deductions,  His Second Thoughts,  Had

Been All Wrong,  And Joan Was,  After All,  The Honest Person He Had

Imagined At First Sight. Those Two Girls Had Talked To Each Other

As Though They Were Old Friends; As Though They Had Known Each

Other All Their Lives. That Was The Thing Which Perplexed R.

Jones.

With The Tread Of A Red Indian,  He Approached The Door And Put

His Ear To It. He Found He Could Hear Quite Comfortably.

Aline,  Meantime,  Inside The Room,  Had Begun To Draw Comfort From

Joan's Very Appearance,  She Looked So Capable.

Joan's Eyes Had Changed The Expression They Had Contained During

The Recent Interview. They Were Soft Now,  With A Softness That

Was Half Compassionate,  Half Contemptuous. It Is The Compensation

Which Life Gives To Those Whom It Has Handled Roughly In Order

That They Shall Be Able To Regard With A Certain Contempt The

Small Troubles Of The Sheltered. Joan Remembered Aline Of Old,

And Knew Her For A Perennial Victim Of Small Troubles. Even In

Their Schooldays She Had Always Needed To Be Looked After And

Comforted. Her Sweet Temper Had Seemed To Invite The Minor Slings

And Arrows Of Fortune. Aline Was A Girl Who Inspired

Protectiveness In A Certain Type Of Her Fellow Human Beings. It

Was This Quality In Her That Kept George Emerson Awake At Nights;

And It Appealed To Joan Now.

Joan,  For Whom Life Was A Constant Struggle To Keep The Wolf

Within A Reasonable Distance From The Door,  And Who Counted That

Day Happy On Which She Saw Her Way Clear To Paying Her Weekly

Rent And Possibly Having A Trifle Over For Some Coveted Hat Or

Pair Of Shoes,  Could Not Help Feeling,  As She Looked At Aline,

That Her Own Troubles Were As Nothing,  And That The Immediate

Need Of The Moment Was To Pet And Comfort Her Friend. Her

Knowledge Of Aline Told Her The Probable Tragedy Was That She Had

Lost A Brooch Or Had Been Spoken To Crossly By Somebody; But It

Also Told Her That Such Tragedies Bulked Very Large On Aline's

Horizon.

Trouble,  After All,  Like Beauty,  Is In The Eye Of The Beholder;

And Aline Was Far Less Able To Endure With Fortitude The Loss Of

A Brooch Than She Herself To Bear The Loss Of A Position The

Emoluments Of Which Meant The Difference Between Having Just

Enough To Eat And Starving.

"You're Worried About Something," She Said. "Sit Down And Tell Me

All About It."

Aline Sat Down And Looked About Her At The Shabby Room. By That

Curious Process Of The Human Mind Which Makes The Spectacle Of

Another's Misfortune A Palliative For One's Own,  She Was Feeling

Oddly Comforted Already. Her Thoughts Were Not Definite And She

Could Not Analyze Them; But What They Amounted To Was That,

Though It Was An Unpleasant Thing To Be Bullied By A Dyspeptic

Father,  The World Manifestly Held Worse Tribulations,  Which Her

Father's Other Outstanding Quality,  Besides Dyspepsia--Wealth,  To

Wit--Enabled Her To Avoid.

It Was At This Point That The Dim Beginnings Of Philosophy Began

To Invade Her Mind. The Thing Resolved Itself Almost Into An

Equation. If Father Had Not Had Indigestion He Would Not Have

Bullied Her. But,  If Father Had Not Made A Fortune He Would Not

Have Had Indigestion. Therefore,  If Father Had Not Made A Fortune

He Would Not Have Bullied Her. Practically,  In Fact,  If Father

Did Not Bully Her He Would Not Be Rich. And If He Were Not Rich--

She Took In The Faded Carpet,  The Stained Wall Paper And The

Soiled Curtains With A Comprehensive Glance. It Certainly Cut

Both Ways. She Began To Be A Little Ashamed Of Her Misery.

"It's Nothing At All; Really," She Said. "I Think I've Been

Making Rather A Fuss About Very Little."

Joan Was Relieved. The Struggling Life Breeds Moods Of

Depression,  And Such A Mood Had Come To Her Just Before Aline's

Arrival. Life,  At That Moment,  Had Seemed To Stretch Before Her

Like A Dusty,  Weary Road,  Without Hope. She Was Sick Of Fighting.

She Wanted Money And Ease,  And A Surcease From This Perpetual

Race With The Weekly Bills. The Mood Had Been The Outcome Partly

Of R. Jones' Gentlemanly-Veiled Insinuations,  But Still More,

Though She Did Not Realize It,  Of Her Yesterday's Meeting With

Aline.

Mr. Peters Might Be Unguarded In His Speech When Conversing With

His Daughter--He Might Play The Tyrant Toward Her In Many Ways;

But He Did Not Stint Her In The Matter Of Dress Allowance,  And,

On The Occasion When She Met Joan,  Aline Had Been Wearing So

Parisian A Hat And A Tailor-Made Suit Of Such Obviously Expensive

Simplicity That Green-Eyed Envy Had Almost Spoiled Joan's

Pleasure At Meeting This Friend Of Her Opulent Days.

She Had Suppressed The Envy,  And It Had Revenged Itself By

Assaulting Her Afresh In The Form Of The Worst Fit Of The Blues

She Had Had In Two Years.

She Had Been Loyally Ready To Sink Her Depression In Order To

Alleviate Aline's,  But It Was A Distinct Relief To Find That The

Feat Would Not Be Necessary.

"Never Mind," She Said. "Tell Me What The Very Little Thing Was."

"It Was Only Father," Said Aline Simply.

Joan Cast Her Mind Back To The Days Of School And Placed Father

As A Rather Irritable Person,  Vaguely Reputed To Be Something Of

An Ogre In His Home Circle.

"Was He Angry With You About Something?" She Asked.

"Not Exactly Angry With Me; But--Well,  I Was There."

Joan's Depression Lifted Slightly. She Had Forgotten,  In The

Stunning Anguish Of The Sudden Spectacle Of That Hat And That

Tailor-Made Suit,  That Paris Hats And Hundred-And-Twenty-Dollar

Suits Not Infrequently Had What The Vulgar Term A String Attached

To Them. After All,  She Was Independent. She Might Have To Murder

Her Beauty With Hats And Frocks That Had Never Been Nearer Paris

Than The Tottenham Court Road; But At Least No One Bullied Her

Because She Happened To Be At Hand When Tempers Were Short.

"What A Shame!" She Said. "Tell Me All About It."

With A Prefatory Remark That It Was All So Ridiculous,  Really,

Aline Embarked On The Narrative Of The Afternoon's Events.

Joan Heard Her Out,  Checking A Strong Disposition To Giggle. Her

Viewpoint Was That Of The Average Person,  And The Average Person

Cannot