Short Fiction P. G. Wodehouse (good books to read in english .txt) 📖

“Five?” said Mrs. Rastall-Retford “Nonsense! Count again. Have you dropped it on the floor?”

Mr. Rastall-Retford stooped and looked under the table.

“It is not on the floor,” he said. “I suppose it must have been missing from the pack before I dealt.”

Mrs. Rastall-Retford threw down her cards and rose ponderously. It offended her vaguely that there seemed to be nobody to blame. “I shall go to bed,” she said.

Peter stood before the fire and surveyed Eve as she sat on the sofa. They were alone in the room, Mr. Rastall-Retford having drifted silently away in the wake of his mother. Suddenly Eve began to laugh helplessly.

He shook his head at her.

“This is considerably sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” he said. “You should be fawning gratefully upon me, not laughing. Do you suppose King Charles laughed at my ancestor when he ate the despatches? However, for the first time since I have been in this house I feel as if I had had a square meal.”

Eve became suddenly serious. The smile left her face.

“Mr. Rayner, please don’t think I’m ungrateful. I couldn’t help laughing, but I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You don’t know what it would have been like if she had found out that I had revoked. I did it once before, and she kept on about it for days and days. It was awful.” She shivered. “I think you must be right, and my nerves are going.”

He nodded.

“So are you⁠—tomorrow, by the first train. I wonder how soon we can get married. Do you know anything about special licenses?”

She looked at him curiously.

“You’re very obstinate,” she said.

“Firm,” he corrected. “Firm. Could you pack tonight, do you think, and be ready for that ten-fifty tomorrow morning?”

She began to trace an intricate pattern on the floor with the point of her shoe.

“I can’t imagine why you are fond of me!” she said. “I’ve been very horrid to you.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been all that’s sweet and womanly.”

“And I want to tell you why,” she went on. “Your⁠—your sister⁠—”

“Ah, I thought as much!”

“She⁠—she saw that you seemed to be getting fond of me, and she⁠—”

“She would!”

“Said some rather horrid things that⁠—hurt,” said Eve, in a low voice.

Peter crossed over to where she sat and took her hand.

“Don’t you worry about her,” he said. “She’s not a bad sort really, but about once every six months she needs a brotherly talking-to, or she gets above herself. One is about due during the next few days.”

He stroke her hand.

“Fasting,” he said, thoughtfully, “clears and stimulates the brain. I fancy I shall be able to think out some rather special things to say to her this time.”

Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a large white statue, labelled “Our City,” the figure of a woman in Grecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjuror in evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of goldfish. For that, above all else, is New York’s speciality. It changes.

Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when she received Eddy Moore’s letter containing the information that he had found her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it had changed Mary Hill quite remarkably.

Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations from Dunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, young men born there follow in their father’s footsteps, working on the paternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daring spirit will break away, but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only of the younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to make their fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies of the village sages, had prospered.

Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights. All she demanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her a living wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting and shorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and the romance of things; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows, and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York’s at that moment had said “Huh!” This had damped Mary. She saw that there were going to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly on Eddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a church festival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhaps he was still willing to do that⁠—she had not inquired⁠—but, at any rate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He had been very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, and said he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a man at lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went by and she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled, and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed her outlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merely frightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazed helplessness.

But it was not until Eddy’s letter came that she realized the completeness of the change. On 1 May she would have thanked Eddy politely for his trouble, adding, however, that she would really prefer not to meet poor Joe again. On 16 May she welcomed him as something Heaven-sent. The fact that she was to be employed outweighed a thousand-fold the fact that her employer was to be Joe.

It was not that she disliked Joe. She was sorry for him.

She remembered Joe, a silent, shambling youth, all hands, feet, and shyness, who had spent most of