Short Fiction, P. G. Wodehouse [books for 20 year olds .txt] 📗

long, grave man, one of the last to hold out against the anti-whisker crusade. He had expressionless hazel eyes, and a general air of being present in body but absent in spirit. Mothers who visited the school to introduce their sons put his vagueness down to activity of mind. “That busy brain,” they thought, “is never at rest. Even while he is talking to us some abstruse point in the classics is occupying his mind.”

What was occupying his mind at the present moment was the thoroughly unsatisfactory conduct of his wife’s brother, Bertie Baxter. The more tensely he brooded over the salient points in the life-history of his wife’s brother, Bertie Baxter, the deeper did the iron become embedded in his soul. Bertie was one of Nature’s touchers. This is the age of the specialist, Bertie’s speciality was borrowing money. He was a man of almost eerie versatility in this direction. Time could not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety. He could borrow with a breezy bluffness which made the thing practically a holdup. And anon, when his victim had steeled himself against this method, he could extract another five-pound note from his little hoard with the delicacy of one playing spillikins. Mr. Blatherwick had been a goldmine to him for years. As a rule, the proprietor of Harrow House unbelted without complaint, for Bertie, as every good borrower should, had that knack of making his victim feel during the actual moment of paying over, as if he had just made a rather good investment. But released from the spell of his brother-in-law’s personal magnetism, Mr. Blatherwick was apt to brood. He was brooding now. Why, he was asking himself morosely, should he be harassed by this Bertie? It was not as if Bertie was penniless. He had a little income of his own. No, it was pure lack of consideration. Who was Bertie that he⁠—

At this point in his meditations Violet entered with the after-dinner coffee and the evening post.

Mr. Blatherwick took the letters. There were two of them, and one he saw, with a rush of indignation, was in the handwriting of his brother-in-law. Mr. Blatherwick’s blood simmered. So the fellow thought he could borrow by post, did he? Not even trouble to pay a visit, eh? He tore the letter open, and the first thing he saw was a cheque for five pounds.

Mr. Blatherwick was astounded. That a letter from his brother-in-law should not contain a request for money was surprising; that it should contain a cheque, even for five pounds, was miraculous.

He opened the second letter. It was short, but full of the finest, noblest sentiments; to wit, that the writer, Charles J. Pickersgill, having heard the school so highly spoken of by his friend, Mr. Herbert Baxter, would be glad if Mr. Blatherwick could take in his three sons, aged seven, nine, and eleven respectively, at the earliest convenient date.

Mr. Blatherwick’s first feeling was one of remorse that even in thought he should have been harsh to the golden-hearted Bertie. His next was one of elation.

Violet, meanwhile, stood patiently before him with the coffee. Mr. Blatherwick helped himself. His eye fell on Violet.

Violet was a friendly, warmhearted little thing. She saw that Mr. Blatherwick had had good news; and, as the bearer of the letters which had contained it, she felt almost responsible. She smiled kindly up at Mr. Blatherwick.

Mr. Blatherwick’s dreamy hazel eye rested pensively upon her. The major portion of his mind was far away in the future, dealing with visions of a school grown to colossal proportions, and patronized by millionaires. The section of it which still worked in the present was just large enough to enable him to understand that he felt kindly, and even almost grateful, to Violet. Unfortunately it was too small to make him see how wrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way across the coffee tray just as James Datchett walked into the room.

James paused. Mr. Blatherwick coughed. Violet, absolutely unmoved, supplied James with coffee, and bustled out of the room.

She left behind her a somewhat massive silence.

Mr. Blatherwick coughed again.

“It looks like rain,” said James, carelessly.

“Ah?” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“Very like rain,” said James.

“Indeed!” said Mr. Blatherwick.

A pause.

“Pity if it rains,” said James.

“True,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

Another pause.

“Er⁠—Datchett,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“Yes,” said James.

“I⁠—er⁠—feel that perhaps⁠—”

James waited attentively.

“Have you sugar?”

“Plenty, thanks,” said James.

“I shall be sorry if it rains,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

Conversation languished.

James laid his cup down.

“I have some writing to do,” he said. “I think I’ll be going upstairs now.”

“Er⁠—just so,” said Mr. Blatherwick, with relief. “Just so. An excellent idea.”

“Er⁠—Datchett,” said Mr. Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.

“Yes?” said James.

A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had broken through the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received on the previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letter from the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certain passages indicated in the margin.

“I have⁠—ah⁠—unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf,” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“Yes?” said James. He had missed Adolf’s shining morning face.

“Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with a malicious⁠—er⁠—fabrication respecting yourself which I need not⁠—ah⁠—particularize.”

James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one’s bosom.

“Why, I’ve been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately. No sense of gratitude, these foreigners,” he said, sadly.

“So I was compelled,” proceeded Mr. Blatherwick, “to⁠—in fact, just so.”

James nodded sympathetically.

“Do you know anything about West Australia?” he asked, changing the subject. “It’s a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going there at one time.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Blatherwick.

“But I’ve given up the idea now,” said James.

Ahead of Schedule

It was to Wilson, his valet, with whom he frequently chatted in airy fashion before rising of a morning, that Rollo Finch first disclosed his great idea. Wilson was a man of silent habit, and men of silent habit rarely escaped Rollo’s confidences.

“Wilson,” he said one morning from the recesses of his bed, as the valet entered with his shaving-water, “have you ever been in love?”

“Yes, sir,” said