The Adventures of Sally, P. G. Wodehouse [interesting novels in english txt] 📗

From where she sat Fillmore had all the appearance of a man practising the steps of a new dance, and sheer curiosity as to what he would do next kept Sally watching in silence. First, he moved in a resolute sort of way towards the front door; then, suddenly stopping, scuttled back. This movement he repeated twice, after which he stood in deep thought before making another dash for the door, which, like the others, came to an abrupt end as though he had run into some invisible obstacle. And, finally, wheeling sharply, he bustled off down the street and was lost to view.

Sally could make nothing of it. If Fillmore had taken the trouble to come in a taxi-cab, obviously to call upon her, why had he abandoned the idea at her very threshold? She was still speculating on this mystery when the telephone-bell rang, and her brother's voice spoke huskily in her ear.

“Sally?”

“Hullo, Fill. What are you going to call it?”

“What am I... Call what?”

“The dance you were doing outside here just now. It's your own invention, isn't it?”

“Did you see me?” said Fillmore, upset.

“Of course I saw you. I was fascinated.”

“I—er—I was coming to have a talk with you. Sally...”

Fillmore's voice trailed off.

“Well, why didn't you?”

There was a pause—on Fillmore's part, if the timbre of at his voice correctly indicated his feelings, a pause of discomfort. Something was plainly vexing Fillmore's great mind.

“Sally,” he said at last, and coughed hollowly into the receiver.

“Yes.”

“I—that is to say, I have asked Gladys... Gladys will be coming to see you very shortly. Will you be in?”

“I'll stay in. How is Gladys? I'm longing to see her again.”

“She is very well. A trifle—a little upset.”

“Upset? What about?”

“She will tell you when she arrives. I have just been 'phoning to her. She is coming at once.” There was another pause. “I'm afraid she has bad news.”

“What news?”

There was silence at the other end of the wire.

“What news?” repeated Sally, a little sharply. She hated mysteries.

But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully. She was puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gained by worrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen and tried to divert herself by washing up. Presently a ring at the door-bell brought her out, to find her sister-in-law.

Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position of partnership with the Hope of the American Stage, had effected no noticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore she was the same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscular manner and went on in the sitting-room.

“Well, it's great seeing you again,” she said. “I began to think you were never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to England like that?”

Sally had been expecting the question, and answered it with composure.

“I wanted to help Mr. Faucitt.”

“Who's Mr. Faucitt?”

“Hasn't Fillmore ever mentioned him? He was a dear old man at the boarding-house, and his brother died and left him a dressmaking establishment in London. He screamed to me to come and tell him what to do about it. He has sold it now and is quite happy in the country.”

“Well, the trip's done you good,” said Mrs. Fillmore. “You're prettier than ever.”

There was a pause. Already, in these trivial opening exchanges, Sally had sensed a suggestion of unwonted gravity in her companion. She missed that careless whimsicality which had been the chief characteristic of Miss Gladys Winch and seemed to have been cast off by Mrs. Fillmore Nicholas. At their meeting, before she had spoken, Sally had not noticed this, but now it was apparent that something was weighing on her companion. Mrs. Fillmore's honest eyes were troubled.

“What's the bad news?” asked Sally abruptly. She wanted to end the suspense. “Fillmore was telling me over the 'phone that you had some bad news for me.”

Mrs. Fillmore scratched at the carpet for a moment with the end of her parasol without replying. When she spoke it was not in answer to the question.

“Sally, who's this man Carmyle over in England?”

“Oh, did Fillmore tell you about him?”

“He told me there was a rich fellow over in England who was crazy about you and had asked you to marry him, and that you had turned him down.”

Sally's momentary annoyance faded. She could hardly, she felt, have expected Fillmore to refrain from mentioning the matter to his wife.

“Yes,” she said. “That's true.”

“You couldn't write and say you've changed your mind?”

Sally's annoyance returned. All her life she had been intensely independent, resentful of interference with her private concerns.

“I suppose I could if I had—but I haven't. Did Fillmore tell you to try to talk me round?”

“Oh, I'm not trying to talk you round,” said Mrs. Fillmore quickly. “Goodness knows, I'm the last person to try and jolly anyone into marrying anybody if they didn't feel like it. I've seen too many marriages go wrong to do that. Look at Elsa Doland.”

Sally's heart jumped as if an exposed nerve had been touched.

“Elsa?” she stammered, and hated herself because her voice shook. “Has—has her marriage gone wrong?”

“Gone all to bits,” said Mrs. Fillmore shortly. “You remember she married Gerald Foster, the man who wrote 'The Primrose Way'?”

Sally with an effort repressed an hysterical laugh.

“Yes, I remember,” she said.

“Well, it's all gone bloo-ey. I'll tell you about that in a minute. Coming back to this man in England, if you're in any doubt about it... I mean, you can't always tell right away whether you're fond of a man or not... When first I met Fillmore, I couldn't see him with a spy-glass, and now he's just the whole shooting-match... But that's not what I wanted to talk about. I was saying one doesn't always know one's own mind at first, and if this fellow really is a good fellow... and Fillmore tells me he's got all the money in the world...”

Sally stopped her.

“No, it's no good.