The Prince and Betty

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER III

  JOHN

  Ten days after Mr. Scobell's visit to General Poineau, John, Prince ofMervo, ignorant of the greatness so soon to be thrust upon him, wasstrolling thoughtfully along one of the main thoroughfares of thatoutpost of civilization, Jersey City. He was a big young man, tall andlarge of limb. His shoulders especially were of the massive typeexpressly designed by nature for driving wide gaps in the opposing lineon the gridiron. He looked like one of nature's center-rushes, and had,indeed, played in that position for Harvard during two strenuousseasons. His face wore an expression of invincible good-humor. He had awide, good-natured mouth, and a pair of friendly gray eyes. One feltthat he liked his follow men and would be surprised and pained if theydid not like him.

  As he passed along the street, he looked a little anxious. SherlockHolmes--and possibly even Doctor Watson--would have deduced that he hadsomething on his conscience.

  At the entrance to a large office building, he paused, and seemed tohesitate. Then, as if he had made up his mind to face an ordeal, hewent in and pressed the button of the elevator.

  Leaving the elevator at the third floor, he went down the passage, andpushed open a door on which was inscribed the legend, "Westley, Martin& Co."

  A stout youth, walking across the office with his hands full of papers,stopped in astonishment.

  "Hello, John Maude!" he cried.

  The young man grinned.

  "Say, where have you been? The old man's been as mad as a hornet sincehe found you had quit without leave. He was asking for you just now."

  "I guess I'm up against it," admitted John cheerfully.

  "Where did you go yesterday?"

  John put the thing to him candidly, as man to man.

  "See here, Spiller, suppose you got up one day and found it was aperfectly bully morning, and remembered that the Giants were playingthe Athletics, and looked at your mail, and saw that someone had sentyou a pass for the game--"

  "Were you at the ball-game? You've got the nerve! Didn't you know therewould be trouble?"

  "Old man," said John frankly, "I could no more have turned down thatpass-- Oh, well, what's the use? It was just great. I suppose I'dbetter tackle the boss now. It's got to be done."

  It was not a task to which many would have looked forward. Most ofthose who came into contact with Andrew Westley were afraid of him. Hewas a capable rather than a lovable man, and too self-controlled to bequite human. There was no recoil in him, no reaction after anger, asthere would have been in a hotter-tempered man. He thought before heacted, but, when he acted, never yielded a step.

  John, in all the years of their connection, had never been able to makeanything of him. At first, he had been prepared to like him, as heliked nearly everybody. But Mr. Westley had discouraged all advances,and, as time went by, his nephew had come to look on him as somethingapart from the rest of the world, one of those things which no fellowcould understand.

  On Mr. Westley's side, there was something to be said in extenuation ofhis attitude. John reminded him of his father, and he had hated thelate Prince of Mervo with a cold hatred that had for a time been theruling passion of his life. He had loved his sister, and her marriedlife had been one long torture to him, a torture rendered keener by thefact that he was powerless to protect either her happiness or hermoney. Her money was her own, to use as she pleased, and the use whichpleased her most was to give it to her husband, who could always find away of spending it. As to her happiness, that was equally out of hiscontrol. It was bound up in her Prince, who, unfortunately, was a badcustodian for it. At last, an automobile accident put an end to HisHighness's hectic career (and, incidentally, to that of a blonde ladyfrom the _Folies Bergeres_), and the Princess had returned to herbrother's home, where, a year later, she died, leaving him in charge ofher infant son.

  Mr. Westley's desire from the first had been to eliminate as far aspossible all memory of the late Prince. He gave John his sister's name,Maude, and brought him up as an American, in total ignorance of hisfather's identity. During all the years they had spent together, he hadnever mentioned the Prince's name.

  He disliked John intensely. He fed him, clothed him, sent him tocollege, and gave him a place in his office, but he never for a momentrelaxed his bleakness of front toward him. John was not unlike hisfather in appearance, though built on a larger scale, and, as time wenton, little mannerisms, too, began to show themselves, that reminded Mr.Westley of the dead man, and killed any beginnings of affection.

  John, for his part, had the philosophy which goes with perfect health.He fitted his uncle into the scheme of things, or, rather, set himoutside them as an irreconcilable element, and went on his way enjoyinglife in his own good-humored fashion.

  It was only lately, since he had joined the firm, that he had beenconscious of any great strain. College had given him a glimpse of alarger life, and the office cramped him. He felt vaguely that therewere bigger things in the world which he might be doing. His bestfriends, of whom he now saw little, were all men of adventure andenterprise, who had tried their hand at many things; men like JimmyPitt, who had done nearly everything that could be done before cominginto an unexpected half-million; men like Rupert Smith, who had been atHarvard with him and was now a reporter on the _News_; men likeBaker, Faraday, Williams--he could name half-a-dozen, all men who were_doing_ something, who were out on the firing line.

  He was not a man who worried. He had not that temperament. Butsometimes he would wonder in rather a vague way whether he was notallowing life to slip by him a little too placidly. An occasionalyearning for something larger would attack him. There seemed to besomething in him that made for inaction. His soul was sleepy.

  If he had been told of the identity of his father, it is possible thathe might have understood. The Princes of Mervo had never taken readilyto action and enterprise. For generations back, if they had varied atall, son from father, it had been in the color of hair or eyes, not incharacter--a weak, shiftless procession, with nothing to distinguishthem from the common run of men except good looks and a talent forwasting money.

  John was the first of the line who had in him the seeds of betterthings. The Westley blood and the bracing nature of his education haddone much to counteract the Mervo strain. He did not know it, but theAmerican in him was winning. The desire for action was growing steadilyevery day.

  It had been Mervo that had sent him to the polo grounds on the previousday. That impulse had been purely Mervian. No prince of that island hadever resisted a temptation. But it was America that was sending him nowto meet his uncle with a quiet unconcern as to the outcome of theinterview. The spirit of adventure was in him. It was more thanpossible that Mr. Westley would sink the uncle in the employer anddismiss him as summarily as he would have dismissed any other clerk insimilar circumstances. If so, he was prepared to welcome dismissal.Other men fought an unsheltered fight with the world, so why not he?

  He moved towards the door of the inner office with a certainexhilaration.

  As he approached, it flew open, disclosing Mr. Westley himself, a tall,thin man, at the sight of whom Spiller shot into his seat like arabbit.

  John went to meet him.

  "Ah," said Mr. Westley; "come in here. I want to speak to you."

  John followed him into the room.

  "Sit down," said his uncle.

  John waited while he dictated a letter. Neither spoke till thestenographer had left the room. John met the girl's eye as she passed.There was a compassionate look in it. John was popular with his fellowemployes. His absence had been the cause of discussion and speculationamong them, and the general verdict had been that there would betroublous times for him on the morrow.

  When the door closed, Mr. Westley leaned back in his chair, andregarded his nephew steadily from under a pair of bushy gray eyebrowswhich lent a sort of hypnotic keenness to his gaze.

  "You were at the ball-game yesterday?" he said.

  The unexpectedness of the question startled John in
to a sharp laugh.

  "Yes," he said, recovering himself.

  "Without leave."

  "It didn't seem worth while asking for leave."

  "You mean that you relied so implicitly on our relationship to save youfrom the consequences?"

  "No, I meant--"

  "Well, we need not try and discover what you may have meant. What claimdo you put forward for special consideration? Why should I treat youdifferently from any other member of the staff?"

  John had a feeling that the interview was being taken at too rapid apace. He felt confused.

  "I don't want you to treat me differently," he said.

  Mr. Westley did not reply. John saw that he had taken a check-book fromits pigeonhole.

  "I think we understand each other," said Mr. Westley. "There is no needfor any discussion. I am writing you a check for ten thousanddollars--"

  "Ten thousand dollars!"

  "It happens to be your own. It was left to me in trust for you by yourmother. By a miracle your father did not happen to spend it."

  John caught the bitter note which the other could not keep out of hisvoice, and made one last attempt to probe this mystery. As a boy he hadtried more than once before he realized that this was a forbiddentopic.

  "Who was my father?" he said.

  Mr. Westley blotted the check carefully.

  "Quite the worst blackguard I ever had the misfortune to know," hereplied in an even tone. "Will you kindly give me a receipt for this?Then I need not detain you. You may return to the ball-game without anyfurther delay. Possibly," he went on, "you may wonder why you have notreceived this money before. I persuaded your mother to let me use mydiscretion in choosing the time when it should be handed over to you. Idecided to wait until, in my opinion, you had sense enough to use itproperly. I do not think that time has arrived. I do not think it willever arrive. But as we are parting company and shall, I hope, nevermeet again, you had better have it now."

  John signed the receipt in silence.

  "Thank you," said Mr. Westley. "Good-by."

  At the door John hesitated. He had looked forward to this moment as oneof excitement and adventure, but now that it had come it had left himin anything but an uplifted mood. He was naturally warm-hearted, andhis uncle's cold anger hurt him. It was so different from anythingsudden, so essentially not of the moment. He felt instinctively that ithad been smoldering for a long time, and realized with a shock that hisuncle had not been merely indifferent to him all these years, but hadactually hated him. It was as if he had caught a glimpse of somethingugly. He felt that this was the last scene of some long drawn-outtragedy.

  Something made him turn impulsively back towards the desk.

  "Uncle--" he cried.

  He stopped. The hopelessness of attempting any step towards a betterunderstanding overwhelmed him. Mr. Westley had begun to write. He musthave seen John's movement, but he continued to write as if he werealone in the room.

  John turned to the door again.

  "Good-by," he said.

  Mr. Westley did not look up.