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

all that was chivalrous and noble, but her anger against Joe for his insinuations had given way to a feeling of regret that he should have made them. She ceased to look on him as something wantonly malevolent, a Thersites recklessly slandering his betters. She felt that there must have been a misunderstanding somewhere and was sorry for it.

Thinking it over, she made up her mind that it was for her to remove this misunderstanding. The days which followed strengthened the decision; for the improvement in Joe was steadily maintained. The indefinable something in his manner which had so irritated her had vanished. It had been, when it had existed, so nebulous that words were not needed to eliminate it. Indeed, even now she could not say exactly in what it had consisted. She only knew that the atmosphere had changed. Without a word spoken on either side it seemed that peace had been established between them, and it amazed her what a difference it made. She was soothed and happy, and kindly disposed to all men, and every day felt more strongly the necessity of convincing Joe and Eddy of each other’s merits, or, rather, of convincing Joe, for Eddy, she admitted, always spoke most generously of the other.

For a week Eddy did not appear at the office. On the eighth day, however, he rang her up on the telephone, and invited her to lunch.

Later in the morning Joe happened to ask her out to lunch.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mary; “I’ve just promised Eddy. He wants me to meet him at Stephano’s, but⁠—” She hesitated. “Why shouldn’t we all lunch together?” she went on, impulsively.

She hurried on. This was her opening, but she felt nervous. The subject of Eddy had not come up between them since that memorable conversation a week before, and she was uncertain of her ground.

“I wish you liked Eddy, Joe,” she said. “He’s very fond of you, and it seems such a shame that⁠—I mean⁠—we’re all from the same old town, and⁠—oh, I know I put it badly, but⁠—”

“I think you put it very well,” said Joe; “and if I could like a man to order I’d do it to oblige you. But⁠—well, I’m not going to keep harping on it. Perhaps you’ll see through Eddy yourself one of these days.”

A sense of the hopelessness of her task oppressed Mary. She put on her hat without replying, and turned to go.

At the door some impulse caused her to glance back, and as she did so she met his eye, and stood staring. He was looking at her as she had so often seen him look three years before in Dunsterville⁠—humbly, appealingly, hungrily.

He took a step forward. A sort of panic seized her. Her fingers were on the door-handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside.

She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed so thoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness and awkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, his manner⁠—everything had pointed to that. And now⁠—it was as if those three years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were⁠—herself.

Had she altered? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her like some physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her. If only she could get away from them and think quietly⁠—

And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy.

“Glad you could come,” he said. “I’ve something I want to talk to you about. It’ll be quiet at Stephano’s.”

She noticed, almost unconsciously, that he seemed nervous. He was unwontedly silent. She was glad of it. It helped her to think.

He gave the waiter an order, and became silent again, drumming with his fingers on the cloth. He hardly spoke till the meal was over and the coffee was on the table. Then he leant forward.

“Mary,” he said, “we’ve always been pretty good friends, haven’t we?”

His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in them that was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that there was effort behind the smile.

“Of course we have, Eddy,” she said. He touched her hand.

“Dear little Mary!” he said, softly.

He paused for a moment.

“Mary,” he went on, “you would like to do me a good turn? You would, wouldn’t you, Mary?”

“Why, Eddy, of course!”

He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated on her. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidence of friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality⁠—of calculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in her some watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard.

He drew in a quick breath.

“It’s nothing much. Nothing at all. It’s only this. I⁠—I⁠—Joe will be writing a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday⁠—Thursday remember. There won’t be anything in it⁠—nothing of importance⁠—nothing private⁠—but⁠—I⁠—I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A⁠—a copy of⁠—”

She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.

“For goodness’ sake,” he said, irritably, “don’t look like that. I’m not asking you to commit murder. What’s the matter with you? Look here, Mary; you’ll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I’m the only man in New York that’s ever done anything for you. Didn’t I get you your job? Well, then, it’s not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous, or difficult, or⁠—”

She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not look at her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly.

“Look here,” he said; “I’ll be square with you. You’re in New York to make money. Well, you aren’t going to make it hammering a typewriter. I’m giving you your chance. I’m going to be square with you. Let me see that letter, and⁠—”

His voice died away abruptly. The expression on his face changed. He smiled, and this time the effort was