Something New, P. G. Wodehouse [best desktop ebook reader .TXT] 📗

Emerson! He’s a good boy⁠—young Emerson. I knew his folks. He’ll make a name for himself one of these days. He’s got getup in him. And I have been waiting to shoot him because he has taken Aline away from that goggle-eyed chump up in bed there!

“Why, if she had married Threepwood I should have had grandchildren who would have sneaked my watch while I was dancing them on my knee! There is a taint of some sort in the whole family. Father sneaks my Cheops and sonny sneaks it from father. What a gang! And the best blood in England! If that’s England’s idea of good blood give me Hoboken! This settles it. I was a chump ever to come to a country like this. Property isn’t safe here. I’m going back to America on the next boat.

“Where’s my check book? I’m going to write you that check right away. You’ve earned it. Listen, young man; I don’t know what your ideas are, but if you aren’t chained to this country I’ll make it worth your while to stay on with me. They say no one’s indispensable, but you come mighty near it. If I had you at my elbow for a few years I’d get right back into shape. I’m feeling better now than I have felt in years⁠—and you’ve only just started in on me.

“How about it? You can call yourself what you like⁠—secretary or trainer, or whatever suits you best. What you will be is the fellow who makes me take exercise and stop smoking cigars, and generally looks after me. How do you feel about it?”

It was a proposition that appealed both to Ashe’s commercial and to his missionary instincts. His only regret had been that, the scarab recovered, he and Mr. Peters would now, he supposed, part company. He had not liked the idea of sending the millionaire back to the world a half-cured man. Already he had begun to look on him in the light of a piece of creative work to which he had just set his hand.

But the thought of Joan gave him pause. If this meant separation from Joan it was not to be considered.

“Let me think it over,” he said.

“Well, think quick!” said Mr. Peters.

It has been said by those who have been through fires, earthquakes and shipwrecks that in such times of stress the social barriers are temporarily broken down, and the spectacle may be seen of persons of the highest social standing speaking quite freely to persons who are not in society at all; and of quite nice people addressing others to whom they have never been introduced. The news of Aline Peters’ elopement with George Emerson, carried beyond the green-baize door by Slingsby, the chauffeur, produced very much the same state of affairs in the servants’ quarters at Blandings Castle.

It was not only that Slingsby was permitted to penetrate into the housekeeper’s room and tell his story to his social superiors there, though that was an absolutely unprecedented occurrence; what was really extraordinary was that mere menials discussed the affair with the personal ladies and gentlemen of the castle guests, and were allowed to do so uncrushed. James, the footman⁠—that pushing individual⁠—actually shoved his way into the room, and was heard by witnesses to remark to no less a person than Mr. Beach that it was a bit thick.

And it is on record that his fellow footman, Alfred, meeting the groom of the chambers in the passage outside, positively prodded him in the lower ribs, winked, and said: “What a day we’re having!” One has to go back to the worst excesses of the French Revolution to parallel these outrages. It was held by Mr. Beach and Mrs. Twemlow afterward that the social fabric of the castle never fully recovered from this upheaval. It may be they took an extreme view of the matter, but it cannot be denied that it wrought changes. The rise of Slingsby is a case in point. Until this affair took place the chauffeur’s standing had never been satisfactorily settled. Mr. Beach and Mrs. Twemlow led the party which considered that he was merely a species of coachman; but there was a smaller group which, dazzled by Slingsby’s personality, openly declared it was not right that he should take his meals in the servants’ hall with such admitted plebeians as the odd man and the steward’s-room footman.

The Aline-George elopement settled the point once and for all. Slingsby had carried George’s bag to the train. Slingsby had been standing a few yards from the spot where Aline began her dash for the carriage door. Slingsby was able to exhibit the actual half sovereign with which George had tipped him only five minutes before the great event. To send such a public man back to the servants’ hall was impossible. By unspoken consent the chauffeur dined that night in the steward’s room, from which he was never dislodged.

Mr. Judson alone stood apart from the throng that clustered about the chauffeur. He was suffering the bitterness of the supplanted. A brief while before and he had been the central figure, with his story of the letter he had found in the Honorable Freddie’s coat pocket. Now the importance of his story had been engulfed in that of this later and greater sensation, Mr. Judson was learning, for the first time, on what unstable foundations popularity stands.

Joan was nowhere to be seen. In none of the spots where she might have been expected to be at such a time was she to be found. Ashe had almost given up the search when, going to the back door and looking out as a last chance, he perceived her walking slowly on the gravel drive.

She greeted Ashe with a smile, but something was plainly troubling her. She did not speak for a moment and they walked side by side.

“What is it?” said Ashe at length. “What is the matter?”

She looked at him gravely.

“Gloom,” she said. “Despondency, Mr. Marson⁠—A sort of flat feeling. Don’t you hate things happening?”

“I