'Yes?'
Hugo sighed.
'Well, you know how it is, John, old man. There's something about a wedding, even the wedding of a gargoyle like Bessemer, that seems to breed sentimentality. It may have been the claret-cup. I warned Ronnie from the first against the claret-cup. A noxious drink. But he said – with a good deal of truth, no doubt – that if I thought he was going to waste champagne on a blighter who was leaving him in the lurch without a tear I was jolly well mistaken. So we more or less bathed in claret-cup at the subsequent festivities, and it wasn't more than an hour afterwards when something seemed to come over me all in a rush.'
'What?'
'Well, a sort of aching, poignant feeling. All the sorrows of the world seemed to be laid out in front of me in a solid mass.'
'That sounds more like lobster.'
'It may have been the lobster,' concluded Hugo. 'But I maintain that the claret-cup helped. Well, I just sat there, bursting with pity for the whole human race, and then suddenly it all seemed in a flash, as it were, to become concentrated on Pat.'
'You burst with pity for Pat?'
'Yes. You see, an idea suddenly came to me. I thought about you and Pat and how Pat, in spite of all my arguments, wouldn't look at you, and all at once there flashed across me what I took to be the explanation. Something seemed to whisper to me that the reason Pat couldn't see you with a spy-glass was that all these years she had been secretly pining for me.'
'What on earth made you think that?'
'Looking back on it now, in a clear and judicial frame of mind, I can see that it was the claret-cup. That and the general ghastly, soppy atmosphere of a wedding. I sat straight down, John, old man, and I wrote a letter to Pat, asking her to marry me. I was filled with a sort of divine pity for the poor girl.'
'Why do you call her the poor girl? She wasn't married to you.'
'And then I had a moment of sense, so I thought that before I posted the letter I'd go for a stroll and think it over. I left the letter on Ronnie's desk, and got my hat and took a turn round the Serpentine. And, what with the fresh air and everything, pretty soon I found reason returning to her throne. I had been on the very brink, I realized, of making a most consummate chump of myself. Here I was, I reflected, on the threshold of a career, when it was vitally necessary that I should avoid all entanglements and concentrate myself wholly on my life-work, deliberately going out of my way to get myself hitched up. I'm not saying anything against Pat. Don't think that. We've always been the best of pals, and if I were backed into a corner and made to marry someone I'd just as soon it was her. It was the principle of the thing that was all wrong, if you see what I mean. Entanglements. I had to keep myself clear of them.'
Hugo paused and glanced down at the water of the Skirme, as if debating the advisability of throwing himself into it. After a while he resumed.
'I was bunging a bit of wedding cake to the Serpentine ducks when I got this flash of clear vision, and I turned straight round and legged it back to the flat to destroy that letter. And when I got there the letter had gone. And the bride's mother, a stout old lady with a cast in the left eye, who was still hanging about the kitchen, finishing up the remains of the wedding feast, told me without a tremor in her voice, with her mouth full of lobster mayonnaise, that she had given it to Bessemer to post on his way to the station.'
'So there you were,' said John.
'So there,' agreed Hugo, 'I was. The happy pair, I knew, were to spend the honeymoon at Bexhill, so I rushed out and grabbed a taxi and offered the man double fare if he would get me to Victoria station in five minutes. He did it with seconds to spare, but it was too late. The first thing I saw on reaching the platform was the Bexhill train pulling out. Bessemer's face was visible in one of the front coaches. He was leaning out of the window, trying to detach a white satin shoe which some kind friend had tied to the door handle. And I slumped back against a passing porter, knowing that this was the end.'
'What did you do then?'
'I went back to Ronnie's flat to look up the trains to Rudge. Are you aware, John, that this place has the rottenest train service in England? After the five-sixteen, which I'd missed, there isn't anything till nine-twenty. And, what with having all this on my mind and getting a bit of dinner and not keeping a proper eye on the clock, I missed that, too. In the end, I had to take the three a.m. milk train. I won't attempt to describe to you what a hell of a journey it was, but I got to Rudge at last, and, racing like a hare, rushed to Pat's house. I had a sort of idea I might intercept the postman and get him to give me my letter back.'
'He wouldn't have done that.'
'He didn't have to, as things turned out. Just as I got to the house, he was coming out after delivering the letters. I think I must have gone to sleep then, standing up. At any rate, I came to with a deuce of a start, and I was leaning against Pat's front gate, and there was Pat, looking at me, and I said "Hullo!" and she said "Hullo!" and then she said in rather a rummy sort of voice that she'd got my letter and read it and would be delighted to marry me.'
'And then?'
'Oh, I said "Thanks awfully" or words to that effect, and tooled off to the Carmody Arms to get a bite of breakfast. Which I sorely needed, old boy. And then I think I fell asleep again, because the next thing I knew was old Judwin, the coffee-room waiter, trying to haul my head out of the marmalade. After that I came here and stood on this bridge, thinking things over. And what I want to know from you, John, is what is to be done.'
John reflected.
'It's an awkward business.'
'Dashed awkward. It's imperative that I oil out, and yet I don't want to break the poor girl's heart.'
'This will require extraordinarily careful handling.'
'Yes.'
John reflected again.
'Let me see,' he said suddenly, 'when did you say Pat got engaged to you?'
'It must have been around nine, I suppose.'
'You're sure?'
'Well, that would be the time the first post would be delivered, wouldn't it?'
'Yes, but you said you went to sleep after seeing the postman.'
'That's true. But what does it matter, anyway?'
'It's most important. Well, look here, it was more than ten minutes ago, wasn't it?'
'Of course it was.'
John's face cleared.
'Then that's all right,' he said. 'Because ten minutes ago Pat got engaged to me.'
III
A light breeze was blowing through the garden as John returned. It played with sunshine in Pat's hair as she stood by the lavender hedge.
'Well?' she said eagerly.
'It's all right,' said John.
'You told him?'
'Yes.'
There was a pause. The bees buzzed among the lavender.
'Was he—?'
'Hard hit?'
'Yes.'
'Yes,' said John in a low voice. 'But he took it like a sportsman. I left him almost cheerful.'
He would have said more, but at this moment his attention was diverted by a tickling sensation in his right leg. A suspicion that one of the bees, wearying of lavender, was exploring the surface of his calf, came to John. But, even as he raised a hand to swat the intruder, Pat spoke again.
'Johnnie.'
'Hullo?'
'Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.'
John's suspicion grew. It felt like a bee. He believed it was a bee.
'Thinking? What about?'
'You.'
'Me?'
'Yes.'
'What were you thinking about me?'
'Only that you were the most wonderful thing in the world.'
'Pat!'
'You are, you know,' said Pat, examining him gravely. 'I don't know what it is about you, and I can't imagine why I have been all these years finding it out, but you're the dearest, sweetest, most angelic . . .'
'Tell me more,' said John.
He took her in his arms, and time stood still.
'Pat!' whispered John.
He was now positive that it was a bee, and almost as positive that it was merely choosing a suitable spot before stinging him. But he made no move. The moment was too sacred.
After all, bee-stings were good for rheumatism.
THE END
P.G. Wodehouse
IN ARROW BOOKS
If you have enjoyed Money for Nothing, you'll love
Laughing Gas
FROM
Laughing Gas
I had just begun to write this story, when a literary pal of mine who had had a sticky night out with the P. E. N. Club blew in to borrow bicarbonate of soda, and I thought it would be as well to have him vet what I'd done, in case I might have foozled my tee-shot. Because, except for an occasional anecdote in the Drones smoking-room about Scotsmen, Irishmen, and Jews, and even then I generally leave out the point, I've never told a story in my life. And the one thing all the cognoscenti stress is that you must get started right.
So I said: 'I say, can I read you something?' and he said: 'If you must,' and I said: 'Right ho.'
'I am trying to get down on paper,' I said, 'a rather rummy experience that happened to me about a year ago. I haven't got very far yet. I start with where I met the kid.'
'What kid?'
'The kid I met,' I said, and kicked off as follows:
The kid was sitting in one arm-chair. I was sitting in another. His left cheek was bulging. My left cheek was bulging. He was turning the pages of the National Geographic Magazine. So was I. In short, there we both were.
He seemed a bit restless, I thought, as if the National Geographic wasn't holding him absolutely spellbound. He would put it down for a minute and take it up for a minute and then put it down for a minute again, and it was during one of these putting-it-down-for-a-minute phases that he looked over at me.
'Where,' he asked, 'are the rest of the boys?'
At this point, my literary pal opened his eyes, which he had closed in a suffering sort of way. His manner was that of one who has had a dead fish thrust under his nose.
'Is this bilge,' he asked, 'to be printed?'
'Privately It will be placed in the family archives for the benefit of my grandchildren.'
'Well, if you ask me,' he said, 'the little perishers won't be able to make head or tail of it. Where's it all supposed to be happening?'
'In Hollywood.'
'Well, you'll have to explain that. And these arm-chairs. What about them? What arm-chairs? Where?'
'Those were in a dentist's waiting-room. That's where the kid and I met.'
'Who is this kid?'
'He turns out to be little Joey Cooley, the child film star, the Idol of American Motherhood.'
And who are you?'
'Me?' I said, a bit surprised, for we had been at school together. 'Why, you know me, old man. Reggie Havershot.'
'What I mean is, you've got to introduce yourself to the reader. He doesn't know by intuition who you are.'
'You wouldn't let it gradually dawn upon him in the course of the narrative?'
'Certainly not. The first rule in telling a story is to make it thoroughly clear at the outset who's who, when, where, and why You'd better start again from the beginning.'
He then took his bicarbonate and withdrew.
Well, then, harking back and buckling down to it once more, my name, as foreshadowed in the foregoing, is Reggie Havershot. Reginald John Peter Swithin, third Earl of Havershot, if you want to be formal, but Reggie to my pals. I'm about twenty-eight and a bit, and at the time of which I am writing was about twenty-seven and a bit. Height six feet one, eyes brown, hair a sort of carroty colour.
Mark you, when I say I'm the third Earl of Havershot, I don't mean that I was always that. No, indeed. I started at the bottom and worked my way up. For years and years I plugged along as plain R. J. P. Swithin, fully expecting that that would be the name carved on my tombstone when the question of tombstones should arise. As far as my chances of ever copping the title went, I don't suppose I was originally more than about a hundred-to-eight shot, if that. The field was full of seasoned performers who could give me a couple of stone.
But you know how it is. Uncles call it a day. Cousins hand in their spades and buckets. And little by little and bit by bit, before you know where you are – why, there you are, don't you know.
Well, that's who I am, and apart from that I don't know that there is much of interest to tell you re self. I got my boxing Blue at Cambridge, but that's about all. I mean to say, I'm just one of those chaps. So we'll shift on at once to how I happened to be in Hollywood.
One morning, as I was tucking away the eggs and bacon at my London residence, the telephone rang, and it was old Horace Plimsoll asking if I could look in at his office on a matter of some importance. Certainly, I said, certainly, and off I went. Only too pleased.
I liked old Plimsoll. He was the family lawyer, and recently, what with all the business of taking over and all that, we had been seeing a good deal of one another. I pushed round to his office and found him, as usual, up to the thorax in bills of replevin and what not. He brushed these aside and came to the surface and looked at me over his spectacles.
'Good morning, Reginald,' he said.
'Good morning,' I said.
He took off his spectacles, polished them and put them on again.
'Reginald,' he said, giving me the eye once more, 'you are now the head of the family.'
'I know,' I said. 'Isn't it a scream? Have I got to sign something?'
'Not at the moment. What I wished to see you about today has to do with a more personal matter. I wished to point out to you that, as head of the family, certain responsibilities devolve upon you, which I feel sure you will not neglect. You have obligations now, Reginald, and those obligations must be fulfilled, no matter what the cost. Noblesse oblige!
'Oh, ah?' I said, not liking the sound of this much. It began to look to me like a touch. 'What's the bad news? Does one of the collateral branches want to dip into the till?'
'Let me begin at the beginning,' said old Plimsoll. He picked a notice of distraint or something off his coat sleeve. 'I have just been in communication with your Aunt Clara. She is worried.'
'Oh, yes?'
'Extremely worried, about your Cousin Egremont.'
Well, of course, I tut-tutted sympathetically, but I can't say I was surprised. Ever since he grew to man's estate, this unfortunate aunt has been chronically worried about the lad under advisement, who is pretty generally recognized as London W.I'S most prominent souse. For years everybody has been telling Eggy that it's hopeless for him to attempt to drink up all the alcoholic liquor in England, but he keeps on trying. The good old bull-dog spirit, of course, but it worries Aunt Clara.
'You know Egremont's record?'
I had to think a bit.
'Well, one Boat Race night I saw him put away sixteen double whiskies and soda, but whether he has beaten that since or not –'
'For years he has been causing Lady Clara the gravest concern. And now –'
I raised a hand.
'Don't tell me. Let me guess. He's been bonneting policemen?'
'No. He –'
'Throwing soft-boiled eggs at the electric fan in the better class of restaurant?'
'No. He –'
'Not murder, surely?'
'No. He has escaped to Hollywood.'
'Escaped to Hollywood?'
'Es-caped to Hollywood,' said old Plimsoll.
I didn't get his drift, and said so. He continued snowing.
'Some little while ago, Lady Clara became alarmed at the state of Egremont's health. His hands were shaky, and he complained of spiders on the back of his neck. So, acting on the advice of a Harley Street specialist, she decided to send him on one of these cruises round the world, in the hope that the fresh air and change of scene –'
I spotted the obvious flaw.
'But these boats have bars.'
'The bar-attendants ha
d strict orders not to serve Egremont.'
'He wouldn't like that.'
'He did not like it. His letters home – his almost daily wireless messages also – were full of complaints. Their tone was uniformly querulous. And when, on the homeward journey, the boat touched at Los Angeles, he abandoned it and went to Hollywood, where he now is.'
'Golly! Drinking like the stag at eve, I suppose?'
'Direct evidence on the point is lacking, but I think that one may assume such to be the case. But that is not the worst. That is not what has occasioned Lady Clara this excessive perturbation.'
'No?'
'No. We have reason to believe – from certain passages in his latest communication – that he is contemplating matrimony'
'Yes?'
'Yes. His words leave no room for doubt. He is either betrothed or on the verge of becoming betrothed to some young woman out there. And you know the sort of young women that abound in Hollywood.'
'Pippins, I have always been given to understand.'
'Physically, no doubt, they are as you describe. But they are by no means suitable mates for your cousin Egremont'
I couldn't see this. I should have thought, personally, that a bird like Eggy was dashed lucky to get any girl to take him on. However, I didn't say so. Old Plimsoll has a sort of gruesome reverence for the family, and the remark would have hurt him. Instead, I asked what the idea was. Where did I come in? What, I asked, did he imagine that I could do about it?
He looked like a high priest sicking the young chief of the tribe on to noble deeds.
'Why, go to Hollywood, Reginald, and reason with this misguided young man. Put a stop to all this nonsense. Exert your authority as head of the family'
'What, me?'
'Yes.'
'H'm.'
'Don't say "h'm".'
'Ha!'
'And don't say "ha". Your duty is plain. You cannot shirk it.'
'But Hollywood's such miles away'
'Nevertheless, I insist that it is incumbent upon you, as head of the family, to go there, and without an instant's delay'