A Damsel in Distress P. G. Wodehouse (sad books to read txt) 📖

He shook his head sternly.

“It won’t do, Mr.⁠—I have never heard your name.”

“Bevan,” replied George, rather relieved at being able to remember it in the midst of his mental turmoil.

“It won’t do, Mr. Bevan. It must stop. I allude to this absurd entanglement between yourself and my daughter. It must stop at once.”

It seemed to George that such an entanglement could hardly be said to have begun, but he did not say so.

Lord Marshmoreton resumed his remarks. Lady Caroline had sent him to the cottage to be stern, and his firm resolve to be stern lent his style of speech something of the measured solemnity and careful phrasing of his occasional orations in the House of Lords.

“I have no wish to be unduly hard upon the indiscretions of Youth. Youth is the period of Romance, when the heart rules the head. I myself was once a young man.”

“Well, you’re practically that now,” said George.

“Eh?” cried Lord Marshmoreton, forgetting the thread of his discourse in the shock of pleased surprise.

“You don’t look a day over forty.”

“Oh, come, come, my boy!⁠ ⁠… I mean, Mr. Bevan.”

“You don’t honestly.”

“I’m forty-eight.”

“The Prime of Life.”

“And you don’t think I look it?”

“You certainly don’t.”

“Well, well, well! By the way, have you tobacco, my boy. I came without my pouch.”

“Just at your elbow. Pretty good stuff. I bought it in the village.”

“The same I smoke myself.”

“Quite a coincidence.”

“Distinctly.”

“Match?”

“Thank you, I have one.”

George filled his own pipe. The thing was becoming a love-feast.

“What was I saying?” said Lord Marshmoreton, blowing a comfortable cloud. “Oh, yes.” He removed his pipe from his mouth with a touch of embarrassment. “Yes, yes, to be sure!”

There was an awkward silence.

“You must see for yourself,” said the earl, “how impossible it is.”

George shook his head.

“I may be slow at grasping a thing, but I’m bound to say I can’t see that.”

Lord Marshmoreton recalled some of the things his sister had told him to say. “For one thing, what do we know of you? You are a perfect stranger.”

“Well, we’re all getting acquainted pretty quick, don’t you think? I met your son in Piccadilly and had a long talk with him, and now you are paying me a neighbourly visit.”

“This was not intended to be a social call.”

“But it has become one.”

“And then, that is one point I wish to make, you know. Ours is an old family, I would like to remind you that there were Marshmoretons in Belpher before the War of the Roses.”

“There were Bevans in Brooklyn before the B.R.T.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was only pointing out that I can trace my ancestry a long way. You have to trace things a long way in Brooklyn, if you want to find them.”

“I have never heard of Brooklyn.”

“You’ve heard of New York?”

“Certainly.”

“New York’s one of the outlying suburbs.”

Lord Marshmoreton relit his pipe. He had a feeling that they were wandering from the point.

“It is quite impossible.”

“I can’t see it.”

“Maud is so young.”

“Your daughter could be nothing else.”

“Too young to know her own mind,” pursued Lord Marshmoreton, resolutely crushing down a flutter of pleasure. There was no doubt that this singularly agreeable man was making things very difficult for him. It was disarming to discover that he was really capital company⁠—the best, indeed, that the earl could remember to have discovered in the more recent period of his rather lonely life. “At present, of course, she fancies that she is very much in love with you⁠ ⁠… It is absurd!”

“You needn’t tell me that,” said George. Really, it was only the fact that people seemed to go out of their way to call at his cottage and tell him that Maud loved him that kept him from feeling his cause perfectly hopeless. “It’s incredible. It’s a miracle.”

“You are a romantic young man, and you no doubt for the moment suppose that you are in love with her.”

“No!” George was not going to allow a remark like that to pass unchallenged. “You are wrong there. As far as I am concerned, there is no question of its being momentary or supposititious or anything of that kind. I am in love with your daughter. I was from the first moment I saw her. I always shall be. She is the only girl in the world!”

“Stuff and nonsense!”

“Not at all. Absolute, cold fact.”

“You have known her so little time.”

“Long enough.”

Lord Marshmoreton sighed. “You are upsetting things terribly.”

“Things are upsetting me terribly.”

“You are causing a great deal of trouble and annoyance.”

“So did Romeo.”

“Eh?”

“I said⁠—So did Romeo.”

“I don’t know anything about Romeo.”

“As far as love is concerned, I begin where he left off.”

“I wish I could persuade you to be sensible.”

“That’s just what I think I am.”

“I wish I could get you to see my point of view.”

“I do see your point of view. But dimly. You see, my own takes up such a lot of the foreground.”

There was a pause.

“Then I am afraid,” said Lord Marshmoreton, “that we must leave matters as they stand.”

“Until they can be altered for the better.”

“We will say no more about it now.”

“Very well.”

“But I must ask you to understand clearly that I shall have to do everything in my power to stop what I look on as an unfortunate entanglement.”

“I understand.”

“Very well.”

Lord Marshmoreton coughed. George looked at him with some surprise. He had supposed the interview to be at an end, but the other made no move to go. There seemed to be something on the earl’s mind.

“There is⁠—ah⁠—just one other thing,” said Lord Marshmoreton. He coughed again. He felt embarrassed. “Just⁠—just one other thing,” he repeated.

The reason for Lord Marshmoreton’s visit to George had been twofold. In the first place, Lady Caroline had told him to go. That would have been reason enough. But what made the visit imperative was an unfortunate accident of which he had only that morning been made aware.

It will be remembered that Billie Dore had told George that the gardener with whom she had become so friendly had taken her name and address with a view later