Something New, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [best historical biographies TXT] 📗
- Author: Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
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He Was Used To Being Looked At In An Unfriendly Way By His
Fellows, But There Had Been Something In Joan's Eyes That Had
Curiously Discomfited Him.
R. Jones Groped His Way Down, Relieved That All Was Over And Had
Ended Well. He Believed What She Had Told Him, And He Could
Conscientiously Assure Freddie That The Prospect Of His Sharing
The Fate Of Poor Old Percy Was Nonexistent. It Is True That He
Proposed To Add In His Report That The Destruction Of The Letters
Had Been Purchased With Difficulty, At A Cost Of Just Five
Hundred Pounds; But That Was A Mere Business Formality.
He Had Almost Reached The Last Step When There Was A Ring At The
Front Door. With What He Was Afterward Wont To Call An
Inspiration, He Retreated With Unusual Nimbleness Until He Had
Almost Reached Joan's Door Again. Then He Leaned Over The
Banister And Listened.
The Disheveled Maid Opened The Door. A Girl's Voice Spoke:
"Is Miss Valentine In?"
"She's In; But She's Engaged."
"I Wish You Would Go Up And Tell Her That I Want To See Her. Say
It's Miss Peters--Miss Aline Peters."
The Banister Shook Beneath R. Jones' Sudden Clutch. For A Moment
He Felt Almost Faint. Then He Began To Think Swiftly. A Great
Chapter 3 Pg 49Light Had Dawned On Him, And The Thought Outstanding In His Mind
Was That Never Again Would He Trust A Man Or Woman On The
Evidence Of His Senses. He Could Have Sworn That This Valentine
Girl Was On The Level. He Had Been Perfectly Satisfied With Her
Statement That She Had Destroyed The Letters. And All The While
She Had Been Playing As Deep A Game As He Had Come Across In The
Whole Course Of His Professional Career! He Almost Admired Her.
How She Had Taken Him In!
It Was Obvious Now What Her Game Was. Previous To His Visit She
Had Arranged A Meeting With Freddie's Fiancee, With The View Of
Opening Negotiations For The Sale Of The Letters. She Had Held
Him, Jones, At Arm's Length Because She Was Going To Sell The
Letters To Whoever Would Pay The Best Price. But For The Accident
Of His Happening To Be Here When Miss Peters Arrived, Freddie And
His Fiancee Would Have Been Bidding Against Each Other And
Raising Each Other's Price. He Had Worked The Same Game Himself A
Dozen Times, And He Resented The Entry Of Female Competition Into
What He Regarded As Essentially A Male Field Of Enterprise.
As The Maid Stumped Up The Stairs He Continued His Retreat. He
Heard Joan's Door Open, And The Stream Of Light Showed Him The
Disheveled Maid Standing In The Doorway.
"Ow, I Thought There Was A Gentleman With You, Miss."
"He Left A Moment Ago. Why?"
"There's A Lady Wants To See You. Miss Peters, Her Name Is."
"Will You Ask Her To Come Up?"
The Disheveled Maid Was No Polished Mistress Of Ceremonies. She
Leaned Down Into The Void And Hailed Aline.
"She Says Will You Come Up?"
Aline's Feet Became Audible On The Staircase. There Were
Greetings.
"Whatever Brings You Here, Aline?"
"Am I Interrupting You, Joan, Dear?"
"No. Do Come In! I Was Only Surprised To See You So Late. I
Didn't Know You Paid Calls At This Hour. Is Anything Wrong? Come
In."
The Door Closed, The Maid Retired To The Depths, And R. Jones
Stole Cautiously Down Again. He Was Feeling Absolutely
Bewildered. Apparently His Deductions, His Second Thoughts, Had
Been All Wrong, And Joan Was, After All, The Honest Person He Had
Imagined At First Sight. Those Two Girls Had Talked To Each Other
As Though They Were Old Friends; As Though They Had Known Each
Chapter 3 Pg 50Other All Their Lives. That Was The Thing Which Perplexed R.
Jones.
With The Tread Of A Red Indian, He Approached The Door And Put
His Ear To It. He Found He Could Hear Quite Comfortably.
Aline, Meantime, Inside The Room, Had Begun To Draw Comfort From
Joan's Very Appearance, She Looked So Capable.
Joan's Eyes Had Changed The Expression They Had Contained During
The Recent Interview. They Were Soft Now, With A Softness That
Was Half Compassionate, Half Contemptuous. It Is The Compensation
Which Life Gives To Those Whom It Has Handled Roughly In Order
That They Shall Be Able To Regard With A Certain Contempt The
Small Troubles Of The Sheltered. Joan Remembered Aline Of Old,
And Knew Her For A Perennial Victim Of Small Troubles. Even In
Their Schooldays She Had Always Needed To Be Looked After And
Comforted. Her Sweet Temper Had Seemed To Invite The Minor Slings
And Arrows Of Fortune. Aline Was A Girl Who Inspired
Protectiveness In A Certain Type Of Her Fellow Human Beings. It
Was This Quality In Her That Kept George Emerson Awake At Nights;
And It Appealed To Joan Now.
Joan, For Whom Life Was A Constant Struggle To Keep The Wolf
Within A Reasonable Distance From The Door, And Who Counted That
Day Happy On Which She Saw Her Way Clear To Paying Her Weekly
Rent And Possibly Having A Trifle Over For Some Coveted Hat Or
Pair Of Shoes, Could Not Help Feeling, As She Looked At Aline,
That Her Own Troubles Were As Nothing, And That The Immediate
Need Of The Moment Was To Pet And Comfort Her Friend. Her
Knowledge Of Aline Told Her The Probable Tragedy Was That She Had
Lost A Brooch Or Had Been Spoken To Crossly By Somebody; But It
Also Told Her That Such Tragedies Bulked Very Large On Aline's
Horizon.
Trouble, After All, Like Beauty, Is In The Eye Of The Beholder;
And Aline Was Far Less Able To Endure With Fortitude The Loss Of
A Brooch Than She Herself To Bear The Loss Of A Position The
Emoluments Of Which Meant The Difference Between Having Just
Enough To Eat And Starving.
"You're Worried About Something," She Said. "Sit Down And Tell Me
All About It."
Aline Sat Down And Looked About Her At The Shabby Room. By That
Curious Process Of The Human Mind Which Makes The Spectacle Of
Another's Misfortune A Palliative For One's Own, She Was Feeling
Oddly Comforted Already. Her Thoughts Were Not Definite And She
Could Not Analyze Them; But What They Amounted To Was That,
Though It Was An Unpleasant Thing To Be Bullied By A Dyspeptic
Father, The World Manifestly Held Worse Tribulations, Which Her
Father's Other Outstanding Quality, Besides Dyspepsia--Wealth, To
Wit--Enabled Her To Avoid.
Chapter 3 Pg 51
It Was At This Point That The Dim Beginnings Of Philosophy Began
To Invade Her Mind. The Thing Resolved Itself Almost Into An
Equation. If Father Had Not Had Indigestion He Would Not Have
Bullied Her. But, If Father Had Not Made A Fortune He Would Not
Have Had Indigestion. Therefore, If Father Had Not Made A Fortune
He Would Not Have Bullied Her. Practically, In Fact, If Father
Did Not Bully Her He Would Not Be Rich. And If He Were Not Rich--
She Took In The Faded Carpet, The Stained Wall Paper And The
Soiled Curtains With A Comprehensive Glance. It Certainly Cut
Both Ways. She Began To Be A Little Ashamed Of Her Misery.
"It's Nothing At All; Really," She Said. "I Think I've Been
Making Rather A Fuss About Very Little."
Joan Was Relieved. The Struggling Life Breeds Moods Of
Depression, And Such A Mood Had Come To Her Just Before Aline's
Arrival. Life, At That Moment, Had Seemed To Stretch Before Her
Like A Dusty, Weary Road, Without Hope. She Was Sick Of Fighting.
She Wanted Money And Ease, And A Surcease From This Perpetual
Race With The Weekly Bills. The Mood Had Been The Outcome Partly
Of R. Jones' Gentlemanly-Veiled Insinuations, But Still More,
Though She Did Not Realize It, Of Her Yesterday's Meeting With
Aline.
Mr. Peters Might Be Unguarded In His Speech When Conversing With
His Daughter--He Might Play The Tyrant Toward Her In Many Ways;
But He Did Not Stint Her In The Matter Of Dress Allowance, And,
On The Occasion When She Met Joan, Aline Had Been Wearing So
Parisian A Hat And A Tailor-Made Suit Of Such Obviously Expensive
Simplicity That Green-Eyed Envy Had Almost Spoiled Joan's
Pleasure At Meeting This Friend Of Her Opulent Days.
She Had Suppressed The Envy, And It Had Revenged Itself By
Assaulting Her Afresh In The Form Of The Worst Fit Of The Blues
She Had Had In Two Years.
She Had Been Loyally Ready To Sink Her Depression In Order To
Alleviate Aline's, But It Was A Distinct Relief To Find That The
Feat Would Not Be Necessary.
"Never Mind," She Said. "Tell Me What The Very Little Thing Was."
"It Was Only Father," Said Aline Simply.
Joan Cast Her Mind Back To The Days Of School And Placed Father
As A Rather Irritable Person, Vaguely Reputed To Be Something Of
An Ogre In His Home Circle.
"Was He Angry With You About Something?" She Asked.
"Not Exactly Angry With Me; But--Well, I Was There."
Joan's Depression Lifted Slightly. She Had Forgotten, In The
Chapter 3 Pg 52Stunning Anguish Of The Sudden Spectacle Of That Hat And That
Tailor-Made Suit, That Paris Hats And Hundred-And-Twenty-Dollar
Suits Not Infrequently Had What The Vulgar Term A String Attached
To Them. After All, She Was Independent. She Might Have To Murder
Her Beauty With Hats And Frocks That Had Never Been Nearer Paris
Than The Tottenham Court Road; But At Least No One Bullied Her
Because She Happened To Be At Hand When Tempers Were Short.
"What A Shame!" She Said. "Tell Me All About It."
With A Prefatory Remark That It Was All So Ridiculous, Really,
Aline Embarked On The Narrative Of The Afternoon's Events.
Joan Heard Her Out, Checking A Strong Disposition To Giggle. Her
Viewpoint Was That Of The Average Person, And The Average Person
Cannot
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