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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1.
In these days of rapid movement, when existence has become little
more than a series of shocks of varying intensity, astonishment is
the shortest-lived of all the emotions. The human brain has trained
itself to elasticity and recovers its balance in the presence of the
unforeseen with a speed almost miraculous. The man who says 'I _am_
surprised!' really means 'I was surprised a moment ago, but now I
have adjusted myself to the situation.' There was an instant in which
Jill looked at Wally and Wally at Jill with the eye of total
amazement, and then, almost simultaneously, each began--the process
was sub-conscious--to regard this meeting not as an isolated and
inexplicable event, but as something resulting from a perfectly
logical chain of circumstances. Jill perceived that the presence in
the apartment of that snap-shot of herself should have prepared her
for the discovery that the place belonged to someone who had known
her as a child, and that there was no reason for her to be stunned by
the fact that this someone was Wally Mason. Wally, on his side, knew
that Jill was in New York; and had already decided, erroneously, that
she had found his address in the telephone directory and was paying
an ordinary call. It was, perhaps, a little unusual that she should
have got into the place without ringing the front door bell and that
she should be in his sitting-room in the dark, but these were minor
aspects of the matter. To the main fact, that here she was, he had
adjusted his mind, and, while there was surprise in his voice when he
finally spoke, it was not the surprise of one who suspects himself of
seeing visions.
"Hello!" he said.
"Hullo!" said Jill.
It was not a very exalted note on which to pitch the conversation,
but it had the merit of giving each of them a little more time to
collect themselves.
"This is . . . I wasn't expecting you!" said Wally.
"I wasn't expecting _you!_" said Jill.
There was another pause, in which Wally, apparently examining her
last words and turning them over in his mind found that they did not
square with his preconceived theories.
"You weren't expecting me?"
"I certainly was not!"
"But . . . but you knew I lived here?"
Jill shook her head. Wally reflected for an instant, and then put his
finger, with a happy inspiration, on the very heart of the mystery.
"Then how on earth did you get here?"
He was glad he had asked that. The sense of unreality which had come
to him in the first startling moment of seeing her and vanished under
the influence of logic had returned as strong as ever. If she did not
know he lived in this place, how in the name of everything uncanny
had she found her way here? A momentary wonder as to whether all this
was not mixed up with telepathy and mental suggestion and all that
sort of thing came to him. Certainly he had been thinking of her all
the time since their parting at the Savoy Hotel that night three
weeks had more back . . . No, that was absurd. There must be some
sounder reason for her presence. He waited for her to give it.
Jill for the moment felt physically incapable of giving it. She
shrank from the interminable explanation which confronted her as a
weary traveller shrinks from a dusty, far-stretching desert. She
simply could not go into all that now. So she answered with a
question.
"When did you land in New York?"
"This afternoon. We were supposed to dock this morning, but the boat
was late." Wally perceived that he was pushed away from the main
point, and jostled his way to it. "But what are you doing here?"
"It's such a long story."
Her voice was plaintive. Remorse smote Wally. It occurred to him that
he had not been sufficiently sympathetic. Not a word had he said on
the subject of her change of fortunes. He had just stood and gaped
and asked questions. After all, what the devil did it matter how she
came to be here? He had anticipated a long and tedious search for her
through the labyrinth of New York, and here Fate had brought her to
his very door, and all he could do was to ask why, instead of being
thankful. He perceived that he was not much of a fellow.
"Never mind," he said. "You can tell me what you feel like it." He
looked at her eagerly. Time seemed to have wiped away that little
misunderstanding under the burden of which they had parted. "It's too
wonderful finding you like this!" He hesitated. "I heard
about--everything," he said awkwardly.
"My--" Jill hesitated too. "My smash?"
"Yes. Freddie Rooke told me. I was terribly sorry."
"Thank you," said Jill.
There was a pause. They were both thinking of that other disaster
which had happened. The presence of Derek Underhill seemed to stand
like an unseen phantom between them. Finally Wally spoke at random,
choosing the first words that came into his head in his desire to
break the silence.
"Jolly place, this, isn't it?"
Jill perceived that an opening for those tedious explanations had
been granted her.
"Uncle Chris thinks so," she said demurely.
Wally looked puzzled.
"Uncle Chris? Oh, your uncle?"
"Yes."
"But--he has never been here."
"Oh, yes. He's giving a dinner party here tonight!"
"He's . . . what did you say?"
"It's all right. I only began at the end of the story instead of the
beginning. I'll tell you the whole thing, then . . . then I suppose
you will be terribly angry and make a fuss."
"I'm not much of a lad, as Freddie Rooke would say, for making
fusses. And I can't imagine being terribly angry with you."
"Well, I'll risk it. Though, if I wasn't a brave girl, I should leave
Uncle Chris to explain for himself and simply run away."
"Anything is better than that. It's a miracle meeting you like this,
and I don't want to be deprived of the fruits of it. Tell me
anything, but don't go."
"You'll be furious."
"Not with you."
"I should hope not with me. I've done nothing. I am the innocent
heroine. But I'm afraid you will be very angry with Uncle Chris."
"If he's your uncle, that passes him. Besides, he once licked the
stuffing out of me with a whangee. That forms a bond. Tell me all."
Jill considered. She had promised to begin at the beginning, but it
was difficult to know what was the beginning.
"Have you ever heard of Captain Kidd?" she asked at length.
"You're wandering from the point, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not. _Have_ you heard of Captain Kidd?"
"The pirate? Of course."
"Well, Uncle Chris is his direct lineal descendant. That really
explains the whole thing."
Wally looked at her enquiringly.
"Could you make it a little easier?" he said.
"I can tell you everything in half a dozen words, if you like. But it
will sound awfully abrupt."
"Go ahead."
"Uncle Chris has stolen your apartment."
Wally nodded slowly.
"I see. Stolen my apartment."
"Of course you can't possibly understand. I shall have to tell you
the whole thing, after all."
Wally listened with flattering attention as she began the epic of
Major Christopher Selby's doings in New York. Whatever his emotions,
he certainly was not bored.
"So that's how it all happened," concluded Jill.
For a moment Wally said nothing. He seemed to be digesting what he
had heard.
"I see," he said at last. "It's a variant of those advertisements
they print in the magazines. 'Why pay rent? Own somebody else's
home!'"
"That _does_ rather sum it up," said Jill.
Wally burst into a roar of laughter.
"He's a corker!"
Jill was immensely relieved. For all her courageous bearing, she had
not relished the task of breaking the news to Wally. She knew that he
had a sense of humor, but a man may have a sense of humor and yet not
see anything amusing in having his home stolen in his absence.
"I'm so glad you're not angry."
"Of course not."
"Most men would be."
"Most men are chumps."
"It's so wonderful that it happened to be you. Suppose it had been an
utter stranger! What could I have done?"
"It would have been the same thing. You would have won him over in
two minutes. Nobody could resist you."
"That's very sweet of you."
"I can't help telling the truth. Washington was just the same."
"Then you don't mind Uncle Chris giving his dinner-party here
tonight?"
"He has my blessing."
"You really are an angel," said Jill gratefully. "From what he said,
I think he looks on it as rather an important function. He has
invited a very rich woman, who has been showing him a lot of
hospitality,--a Mrs Peagrim . . ."
"Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim?"
"Yes? Why, do you know her?"
"Quite well. She goes in a good deal for being Bohemian and knowing
people who write and paint and act and so on. That reminds me. I gave
Freddie Rooke a letter of introduction to her."
"Freddie Rooke!"
"Yes. He suddenly made up his mind to come over. He came to me for
advice about the journey. He sailed a couple of days before I did. I
suppose he's somewhere in New York by now, unless he was going on to
Florida. He didn't tell me what his plans were."
Jill was conscious of a sudden depression. Much as she liked Freddie,
he belonged to a chapter in her life which was closed and which she
was trying her hardest to forget. It was impossible to think of
Freddie without thinking of Derek, and to think of Derek was like
touching an exposed nerve. The news that Freddie was in New York
shocked her. New York had already shown itself a city of chance
encounters. Could she avoid meeting Freddie?
She knew Freddie so well. There was not a dearer or a better-hearted
youth in the world, but he had not that fine sensibility which pilots
a man through the awkwardnesses of life. He was a blunderer. Instinct
told her that, if she met Freddie, he would talk of Derek, and, if
thinking of Derek was touching an exposed nerve, talking of him would
like pressing on that nerve with a heavy hand. She shivered.
Wally was observant.
"There's no need to meet him, if you don't want to," he said.
"No," said Jill doubtfully.
"New York's a large place. By the way," he went on, "to return once
more to the interesting subject of my lodger, does your uncle sleep
here at nights, do you know?"
Jill looked at him gratefully. He was no blunderer. Her desire to
avoid Freddie Rooke was, he gave her tacitly to understand, her
business, and he did not propose to intrude on it. She liked him for
dismissing the subject so easily.
"No, I think he told me he doesn't."
"Well, that's something, isn't it! I call that darned nice of him! I
wonder if I could drop back here somewhere about eleven o'clock. Are
the festivities likely to be over by then? If I know Mrs Peagrim, she
will insist on going off to one of the hotels to dance directly after
dinner. She's a confirmed trotter."
"I don't know how to apologize," began Jill remorsefully.
"Please don't. It's absolutely all right." His eye wandered to the
mantelpiece, as it had done once or twice during the conversation. In
her hurry Jill had replaced the snapshot with its back to the room,
and Wally had the fidgety air of a man whose most cherished
possession is maltreated. He got up now and, walking across, turned
the photograph round. He stood for a moment, looking at it.
Jill had forgotten the snapshot. Curiosity returned to her.
"Where _did_ you get that?" she asked.
Wally turned.
"Oh, did you see this?"
"I was looking at it just before you nearly frightened me to death by
appearing so unexpectedly."
"Freddie Rooke sold it to me fourteen years ago."
"Fourteen years ago!"
"Next July," added Wally. "I gave him five shillings for it."
"Five shillings! The little brute!" cried Jill indignantly "It must
have been all the money you had in the world!"
"A trifle more, as a matter of fact. All the money I had in the world
was three-and-six. But by a merciful dispensation of Providence the
curate had called that morning and left a money-box for subscriptions
to the village organ-fund . . . It's wonderful what you can do with a
turn for crime and the small blade of a pocket-knife! I don't think I
have ever made money quicker!" He looked at the photograph again.
"Not that it seemed quick at the moment. I died at least a dozen
agonizing deaths in the few minutes I was operating. Have you ever
noticed how slowly time goes when you are coaxing a shilling and a
sixpence out of somebody's money-box? Centuries! But I was
forgetting. Of course you've had no experience."
"You poor thing!"
"It was worth it."
"And you've had it ever since!"
"I wouldn't part with it for all Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's millions,"
said Wally with sudden and startling vehemence, "if she offered me
them." He paused. "She hasn't, as a matter of fact."
There was a silence. Jill looked at Wally furtively, as he returned
to his seat. She was seeing him with new eyes. It was as if this
trifling incident had removed some sort of a veil. He had suddenly
become more alive. For an instant she had seen right into him, to the
hidden deeps of his soul. She felt shy and embarrassed.
"Pat died," she said, at length. She felt the necessity of saying
something.
"I liked Pat."
"He picked up some poison, poor darling . . . How long ago those days
seem, don't they!"
"They are always pretty vivid to me. I wonder who has that old house
of yours now."
"I heard the other day," said Jill more easily. The odd sensation of
embarrassment was passing. "Some people called . . . what was the
name? . . . Debenham, I think."
Silence fell again. It was broken by the front-door bell, like an
alarm-clock that shatters a dream.
Wally got up.
"Your uncle," he said.
"You aren't going to open the door?"
"That was the scheme."
"But he'll get such a shock when he sees you."
"He must look on it in the light of rent. I don't see why I shouldn't
have a little passing amusement from this business."
He left the room. Jill heard the front door open. She waited
breathlessly. Pity for Uncle Chris struggled with the sterner feeling
that it served him right.
"Hullo!" she heard Wally say.
"Hullo-ullo-ullo!" replied an exuberant voice. "Wondered if I'd find
you in, and all that sort of thing. I say, what a deuce of a way up
it is here. Sort of gets a chap into training for going to heaven,
what? I mean, what?"
Jill looked about her like a trapped animal. It was absurd, she felt,
but every nerve in her body cried out against the prospect of meeting
Freddie. His very voice had opened old wounds and set them throbbing.
She listened in the doorway. Out of sight down the passage, Freddie
seemed by the sounds to be removing his overcoat. She stole out and
darted like a shadow down the corridor that led to Wally's bedroom.
The window of the bedroom opened onto the wide roof which Uncle Chris
had eulogized. She slipped noiselessly out, closing the window behind
her.
2.
"I say, Mason, old top," said Freddie, entering the sitting-room, "I
hope you don't mind my barging in like this but the fact is things
are a bit thick. I'm dashed worried and I didn't know another soul I
could talk it over with. As a matter of fact, I wasn't sure you were
in New York at all but I remembered hearing you say in London that
you went popping back almost at once, so I looked you up in the
telephone book and took a chance. I'm dashed glad you _are_ back.
When did you arrive?"
"This afternoon."
"I've been here two or three days. Well, it's a bit of luck catching
you. You see, what I want to ask your advice about . . ."
Wally looked at his watch. He was not surprised to find that Jill had
taken to flight. He understood her feelings perfectly, and was
anxious to get rid of the inopportune Freddie as soon as possible.
"You'll have to talk quick, I'm afraid," he said. "I've lent this
place to a man for the evening, and he's having some people to
dinner. What's the trouble?"
"It's about Jill."
"Jill?"
"Jill Mariner, you know. You remember Jill? You haven't forgotten my
telling you all that? About her losing her money and coming over to
America?"
"No. I remember you telling me that."
Freddie seemed to miss something in his companion's manner, some note
of excitement and perturbation.
"Of course," he said, as if endeavoring to explain this to himself,
"you hardly knew her, I suppose. Only met once since you were kids
and all that sort of thing. But I'm a pal of hers and I'm dashed
upset by the whole business, I can tell you. It worries me, I mean to
say. Poor girl, you know, landed on her uppers in a strange country.
Well, I mean, it worries me. So the first thing I did when I got here
was to try to find her. That's why I came over, really, to try to
find her. Apart from anything else, you see, poor old Derek is dashed
worried about her."
"Need we bring Underhill in?"
"Oh, I know you don't like him and think he behaved rather rummily
and so forth, but that's all right now."
"It is, is it?" said Wally drily.
"Oh, absolutely. It's all on again."
"What's all on again?"
"Why, I mean he wants to marry Jill. I came over to find her and tell
her so."
Wally's eyes glowed.
"If you have come over as an ambassador . . ."
"That's right. Jolly old ambassador. Very word I used myself."
"I say, if you have come over as an ambassador with the idea of
reopening negotiations with Jill on behalf of that infernal swine . . ."
"Old man!" protested Freddie, pained. "Pal of mine, you know."
"If he is, after what's happened, your mental processes are beyond me."
"My what, old son?"
"Your mental processes."
"Oh, ah!" said Freddie, learning for the first time that he had any.
Wally looked at him intently. There was a curious expression on his
rough-hewn face.
"I can't understand you, Freddie. If ever there was a fellow who
might have been expected to take the only possible view of
Underhill's behavior in this business, I should have said it was you.
You're a public-school man. You've mixed all the time with decent
people. You wouldn't do anything that wasn't straight yourself to
save your life, it seems to have made absolutely no difference in
your opinion of this man Underhill that he behaved like an utter cad
to a girl who was one of your best friends. You seem to worship him
just as much as ever. And you have travelled three thousand miles to
bring a message from him to Jill--Good God! _Jill!_--to the effect,
as far as I understand it, that he has thought it over and come to
the conclusion that after all she may possibly be good enough for
him!"
Freddie recovered the eye-glass which the raising of his eyebrows had
caused to fall, and polished it in a crushed sort of way. Rummy, he
reflected, how chappies stayed the same all their lives as they were
when they were kids. Nasty, tough sort of chap Wally Mason had been
as a boy, and here he was, apparently, not altered a bit. At least,
the only improvement he could detect was that, whereas in the old
days Wally, when in an ugly mood like this, would undoubtedly have
kicked him, he now seemed content with mere words. All the same, he
was being dashed unpleasant. And he was all wrong about poor old
Derek. This last fact he endeavored to make clear.
"You don't understand," he said. "You don't realize. You've never met
Lady Underhill, have you?"
"What has she got to do with it?"
"Everything, old bean, everything. If it hadn't been for her, there
wouldn't have been any trouble of any description, sort, or order.
But she barged in and savaged poor old Derek till she absolutely made
him break off the engagement."
"If you call him 'poor old Derek' again, Freddie," said Wally
viciously, "I'll drop you out of the window and throw your hat after
you! If he's such a gelatine-backboned worm that his mother can . . ."
"You don't know her, old thing! She's the original hellhound!"
"I don't care what . . ."
"Must be seen to be believed," mumbled Freddie.
"I don't care what she's like! Any man who could . . ."
"Once seen, never forgotten!"
"Damn you! Don't interrupt every time I try to get a word in!"
"Sorry, old man! Shan't occur again!"
Wally moved to the window, and stood looking out. He had had much
more to say on the subject of Derek Underhill, but Freddie's
interruptions had put it out of his head, and he felt irritated and
baffled.
"Well, all I can say is," he remarked savagely, "that, if you have
come over here as an ambassador to try and effect a reconciliation
between Jill and Underhill, I hope to God you'll never find her."
Freddie emitted a weak cough, like a very far-off asthmatic old
sheep. He was finding Wally more overpowering every moment. He had
rather forgotten the dear old days of his childhood, but this
conversation was beginning to refresh his memory: and he was
realizing more vividly with every moment that passed how very
Wallyish Wally was,--how extraordinarily like the Wally who had
dominated his growing intellect when they were both in Eton suits.
Freddie in those days had been all for peace, and he was all for
peace now. He made his next observation diffidently.
"I _have_ found her!"
Wally spun round.
"What!"
"When I say that, I don't absolutely mean. I've seen her. I mean I
know where she is. That's what I came round to see you about. Felt I
must talk it over, you know. The situation seems to me dashed rotten
and not a little thick. The fact is, old man, she's gone on the
stage. In the chorus, you know. And, I mean to say, well, if you
follow what I'm driving at, what, what?"
"In the chorus!"
"In the chorus!"
"How do you know?"
Freddie groped for his eye-glass, which had fallen again.
He regarded it a trifle sternly. He was fond of the little chap, but
it was always doing that sort of thing. The whole trouble was that,
if you wanted to keep it in its place, you simply couldn't register
any sort of emotion with the good old features: and, when you were
chatting with a fellow like Wally Mason, you had to be registering
something all the time.
"Well, that was a bit of luck, as a matter of fact. When I first got
here, you know, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to round up
a merry old detective and put the matter in his hands, like they do
in stories. You know! Ring at the bell. 'And this, if I mistake not,
Watson, is my client now.' And then in breezes client and spills the
plot. I found a sleuth in the classified telephone directory, and
toddled round. Rummy chaps, detectives! Ever met any? I always
thought they were lean, hatchet-faced Johnnies with inscrutable
smiles. This one looked just like my old Uncle Ted, the one who died
of apoplexy. Jovial, puffy-faced bird, who kept bobbing up behind a
fat cigar. Have you ever noticed what whacking big cigars these
fellows over here smoke? Rummy country, America. You ought to have
seen the way this blighter could shift his cigar right across his
face without moving his jaw-muscles. Like a flash! Most remarkable
thing you ever saw, I give you my honest word! He . . ."
"Couldn't you keep your Impressions of America for the book you're
going to write, and come to the point?" said Wally rudely.
"Sorry, old chap," said Freddie meekly. "Glad you reminded me. Well
. . . Oh, yes. We had got as far as the jovial old human bloodhound,
hadn't we? Well, I put the matter before this chappie. Told him I
wanted to find a girl, showed him a photograph, and so forth. I say,"
said Freddie, wandering off once more into speculation, "why is it
that coves like that always talk of a girl as 'the little lady'? This
chap kept saying 'We'll find the little lady for you!' Oh, well,
that's rather off the rails, isn't it? It just floated across my mind
and I thought I'd mention it. Well, this blighter presumably nosed
about and made enquiries for a couple of days, but didn't effect
anything that you might call substantial. I'm not blaming him, mind
you. I shouldn't care to have a job like that myself. I mean to say,
when you come to think of what a frightful number of girls there are
in this place, to have to . . . well, as I say, he did his best but
didn't click; and then this evening, just before I came here, I met a
girl I had known in England--she was in a show over there--a girl
called Nelly Bryant . . ."
"Nelly Bryant? I know her."
"Yes? Fancy that! She was in a thing called 'Follow the Girl' in
London. Did you see it by any chance? Topping show! There was one
scene where the . . ."
"Get on! Get on! I wrote it,"
"You wrote it?" Freddie beamed simple-hearted admiration. "My dear
old chap, I congratulate you! One of the ripest and most all-wool
musical comedies I've ever seen. I went twenty-four times. Rummy I
don't remember spotting that you wrote it. I suppose one never looks
at the names on the programme. Yes, I went twenty-four times. The
first time I went was with a couple of chappies from . . ."
"Listen, Freddie!" said Wally feverishly. "On some other occasion I
should dearly love to hear the story of your life, but just now . . ."
"Absolutely, old man. You're perfectly right. Well, to cut a long
story short, Nelly Bryant told me that she and Jill were rehearsing
with a piece called 'The Rose of America.'"
"'The Rose of America!'"
"I think that was the name of it."
"That's Ike Goble's show. He called me up on the phone about it half
an hour ago. I promised to go and see a rehearsal of it tomorrow or
the day after. And Jill's in that?"
"Yes. How about it? I mean, I don't know much about this sort of
thing, but do you think it's the sort of thing Jill ought to be
doing?"
Wally was moving restlessly about the room. Freddie's news had
disquieted him. Mr Goble had a reputation.
"I know a lot about it," he replied, "and it certainly isn't." He
scowled at the carpet. "Oh, damn everybody!"
Freddie paused to allow him to proceed, if such should be his wish,
but Wally had apparently said his say. Freddie went on to point out
an aspect of the matter which was troubling him greatly.
"I'm sure poor old Derek wouldn't like her being in the chorus!"
Wally started so violently that for a moment Freddie was uneasy.
"I mean Underhill," he corrected himself hastily.
"Freddie," said Wally, "you're an awfully good chap, but I wish you
would exit rapidly now! Thanks for coming and telling me, very good
of you. This way out!"
"But, old man . . . !"
"Now what?"
"I thought we were going to discuss this binge and decide what to do
and all that sort of thing."
"Some other time. I want to think about it."
"Oh, you will think about it?"
"Yes, I'll think about it."
"Topping! You see, you're a brainy sort of feller, and you'll
probably hit something."
"I probably shall, if you don't go."
"Eh? Oh, ah, yes!" Freddie struggled into his coat. More than ever
did the adult Wally remind him of the dangerous stripling of years
gone by. "Well, cheerio!"
"Same to you!"
"You'll let me know if you scare up some devilish fruity wheeze,
won't you? I'm at the Biltmore."
"Very good place to be. Go there now."
"Right ho! Well, toodle-oo!"
"The elevator is at the foot of the stairs," said Wally. "You press
the bell and up it comes. You hop in and down you go. It's a great
invention! Good night!"
"Oh, I say. One moment . . ."
"Good _night!_" said Wally.
He closed the door, and ran down the passage.
"Jill!" he called. He opened the bedroom window and stepped out.
"Jill!"
There was no reply.
"Jill!" called Wally once again, but again there was no answer.
Wally walked to the parapet, and looked over. Below him the vastness
of the city stretched itself in a great triangle, its apex the
harbor, its sides the dull silver of the East and Hudson rivers.
Directly before him, crowned with its white lantern, the Metropolitan
Tower reared its graceful height to the stars. And all around, in the
windows of the tall buildings that looked from this bastion on which
he stood almost squat, a million lights stared up at him, the
unsleeping eyes of New York. It was a scene of which Wally, always
sensitive to beauty, never tired: but tonight it had lost its appeal.
A pleasant breeze from the Jersey shore greeted him with a quickening
whisper of springtime and romance, but it did not lift the heaviness
of his heart. He felt depressed and apprehensive.
Content of CHAPTER THIRTEEN [P G Wodehouse's novel: The Little Warrior]
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