A Damsel in Distress

by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse

  At the hour of the day which he had selected the club-house was empty, and he had just resigned himself to a solitary game, when, with a whirr and a rattle, a grey racing-car drove up, and from it emerged the same long young man whom, a couple of days earlier, he had seen wriggle out from underneath the same machine. It was Reggie Byng’s habit also not to allow anything, even love, to interfere with golf; and not even the prospect of hanging about the castle grounds in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alice Faraday and exchanging timorous words with her had been enough to keep him from the links.

  Reggie surveyed George with a friendly eye. He had a dim recollection of having seen him before somewhere at some time or other, and Reggie had the pleasing disposition which caused him to rank anybody whom he had seen somewhere at some time or other as a bosom friend.

  “Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!” he observed.

  “Good morning,” said George.

  “Waiting for somebody?”

  “No.”

  “How about it, then? Shall we stagger forth?”

  “Delighted.”

  George found himself speculating upon Reggie. He was unable to place him. That he was a friend of Maud he knew, and guessed that he was also a resident of the castle. He would have liked to question Reggie, to probe him, to collect from him inside information as to the progress of events within the castle walls; but it is a peculiarity of golf, as of love, that it temporarily changes the natures of its victims; and Reggie, a confirmed babbler off the links, became while in action a stern, silent, intent person, his whole being centred on the game. With the exception of a casual remark of a technical nature when he met George on the various tees, and an occasional expletive when things went wrong with his ball, he eschewed conversation. It was not till the end of the round that he became himself again.

  “If I’d known you were such hot stuff,” he declared generously, as George holed his eighteenth putt from a distance of ten feet, “I’d have got you to give me a stroke or two.”

  “I was on my game today,” said George modestly. “Some times I slice as if I were cutting bread and can’t putt to hit a haystack.”

  “Let me know when one of those times comes along, and I’ll take you on again. I don’t know when I’ve seen anything fruitier than the way you got out of the bunker at the fifteenth. It reminded me of a match I saw between—” Reggie became technical. At the end of his observations he climbed into the grey car.

  “Can I drop you anywhere?”

  “Thanks,” said George. “If it’s not taking you out your way.”

  “I’m staying at Belpher Castle.”

  “I live quite near there. Perhaps you’d care to come in and have a drink on your way?”

  “A ripe scheme,” agreed Reggie

  Ten minutes in the grey car ate up the distance between the links and George’s cottage. Reggie Byng passed these minutes, in the intervals of eluding carts and foiling the apparently suicidal intentions of some stray fowls, in jerky conversation on the subject of his iron-shots, with which he expressed a deep satisfaction.

  “Topping little place! Absolutely!” was the verdict he pronounced on the exterior of the cottage as he followed George in. “I’ve often thought it would be a rather sound scheme to settle down in this sort of shanty and keep chickens and grow a honey coloured beard, and have soup and jelly brought to you by the vicar’s wife and so forth. Nothing to worry you then. Do you live all alone here?”

  George was busy squirting seltzer into his guest’s glass.

  “Yes. Mrs. Platt comes in and cooks for me. The farmer’s wife next door.”

  An exclamation from the other caused him to look up. Reggie Byng was staring at him, wide-eyed.

  “Great Scott! Mrs. Platt! Then you’re the Chappie?”

  George found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation.

  “The Chappie?”

  “The Chappie there’s all the row about. The mater was telling me only this morning that you lived here.”

  “Is there a row about me?”

  “Is there what!” Reggie’s manner became solicitous. “I say, my dear old sportsman, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings and what not, if you know what I mean, but didn’t you know there was a certain amount of angry passion rising and so forth because of you? At the castle, I mean. I don’t want to seem to be discussing your private affairs, and all that sort of thing, but what I mean is… Well, you don’t expect you can come charging in the way you have without touching the family on the raw a bit. The daughter of the house falls in love with you; the son of the house languishes in chokey because he has a row with you in Piccadilly; and on top of all that you come here and camp out at the castle gates! Naturally the family are a bit peeved. Only natural, eh? I mean to say, what?”

  George listened to this address in bewilderment. Maud in love with him! It sounded incredible. That he should love her after their one meeting was a different thing altogether. That was perfectly natural and in order. But that he should have had the incredible luck to win her affection. The thing struck him as grotesque and ridiculous.

  “In love with me?” he cried. “What on earth do you mean?” Reggie’s bewilderment equalled his own.

  “Well, dash it all, old top, it surely isn’t news to you? She must have told you. Why, she told me!”

  “Told you? Am I going mad?”

  “Absolutely! I mean absolutely not! Look here.” Reggie hesitated. The subject was delicate. But, once started, it might as well be proceeded with to some conclusion. A fellow couldn’t go on talking about his iron-shots after this just as if nothing had happened. This was the time for the laying down of cards, the opening of hearts. “I say, you know,” he went on, feeling his way, “you’ll probably think it deuced rummy of me talking like this. Perfect stranger and what not. Don’t even know each other’s names.”

  “Mine’s Bevan, if that’ll be any help.”

  “Thanks very much, old chap. Great help! Mine’s Byng. Reggie Byng. Well, as we’re all pals here and the meeting’s tiled and so forth, I’ll start by saying that the mater is most deucedly set on my marrying Lady Maud. Been pals all our lives, you know. Children together, and all that sort of rot. Now there’s nobody I think a more corking sportsman than Maud, if you know what I mean, but—this is where the catch comes in—I’m most frightfully in love with somebody else. Hopeless, and all that sort of thing, but still there it is. And all the while the mater behind me with a bradawl, sicking me on to propose to Maud who wouldn’t have me if I were the only fellow on earth. You can’t imagine, my dear old chap, what a relief it was to both of us when she told me the other day that she was in love with you, and wouldn’t dream of looking at anybody else. I tell you, I went singing about the place.”

  George felt inclined to imitate his excellent example. A burst of song was the only adequate expression of the mood of heavenly happiness which this young man’s revelations had brought upon him. The whole world seemed different. Wings seemed to sprout from Reggie’s shapely shoulders. The air was filled with soft music. Even the wallpaper seemed moderately attractive.

  He mixed himself a second whisky and soda. It was the next best thing to singing.

  “I see,” he said. It was difficult to say anything. Reggie was regarding him enviously.

  “I wish I knew how the deuce fellows set about making a girl fall in love with them. Other chappies seem to do it, but I can’t even start. She seems to sort of gaze through me, don’t you know. She kind of looks at me as if I were more to be pitied than censured, but as if she thought I really ought to do something about it. Of course, she’s a devilish brainy girl, and I’m a fearful chump. Makes it kind of hopeless, what?”

  George, in his new-born happiness, found a pleasure in encouraging a less lucky mortal.

  “Not a bit. What you ought to do is to—”

  “Yes?” said Reggie eagerly.

  George shook his head.

  “No, I don’t know
,” he said.

  “Nor do I, dash it!” said Reggie.

  George pondered.

  “It seems to me it’s purely a question of luck. Either you’re lucky or you’re not. Look at me, for instance. What is there about me to make a wonderful girl love me?”

  “Nothing! I see what you mean. At least, what I mean to say is—”

  “No. You were right the first time. It’s all a question of luck. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  “I hang about a good deal and get in her way,” said Reggie. “She’s always tripping over me. I thought that might help a bit.”

  “It might, of course.”

  “But on the other hand, when we do meet, I can’t think of anything to say.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Deuced funny thing. I’m not what you’d call a silent sort of chappie by nature. But, when I’m with her—I don’t know. It’s rum!” He drained his glass and rose. “Well, I suppose I may as well be staggering. Don’t get up. Have another game one of these days, what?”

  “Splendid. Any time you like.”

  “Well, so long.”

  “Good-bye.”

  George gave himself up to glowing thoughts. For the first time in his life he seemed to be vividly aware of his own existence. It was as if he were some newly-created thing. Everything around him and everything he did had taken on a strange and novel interest. He seemed to notice the ticking of the clock for the first time. When he raised his glass the action had a curious air of newness. All his senses were oddly alert. He could even—

  “How would it be,” enquired Reggie, appearing in the doorway like part of a conjuring trick. “If I gave her a flower or two every now and then? Just thought of it as I was starting the car. She’s fond of flowers.”

  “Fine!” said George heartily. He had not heard a word. The alertness of sense which had come to him was accompanied by a strange inability to attend to other people’s speech. This would no doubt pass, but meanwhile it made him a poor listener.

  “Well, it’s worth trying,” said Reggie. “I’ll give it a whirl. Toodleoo!”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Pip-pip!”

  Reggie withdrew, and presently came the noise of the car starting. George returned to his thoughts.

  Time, as we understand it, ceases to exist for a man in such circumstances. Whether it was a minute later or several hours, George did not know; but presently he was aware of a small boy standing beside him—a golden-haired boy with blue eyes, who wore the uniform of a page. He came out of his trance. This, he recognized, was the boy to whom he had given the note for Maud. He was different from any other intruder. He meant something in George’s scheme of things.

  “‘Ullo!” said the youth.

  “Hullo, Alphonso!” said George.

  “My name’s not Alphonso.”

  “Well, you be very careful or it soon may be.”

  “Got a note for yer. From Lidy Mord.”

  “You’ll find some cake and ginger-ale in the kitchen,” said the grateful George. “Give it a trial.”

  “Not ‘arf!” said the stripling.

  Chapter 11

  George opened the letter with trembling and reverent fingers.

  Dear Mr. Bevan,

  Thank you ever so much for your note, which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind…

  “Hey, mister!”

  George looked up testily. The boy Albert had reappeared.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you find the cake?”

  “I’ve found the kike,” rejoined Albert, adducing proof of the statement in the shape of a massive slice, from which he took a substantial bite to assist thought. “But I can’t find the ginger ile.”

  George waved him away. This interruption at such a moment was annoying.

  “Look for it, child, look for it! Sniff after it! Bay on its trail! It’s somewhere about.”

  “Wri’!” mumbled Albert through the cake. He flicked a crumb off his cheek with a tongue which would have excited the friendly interest of an ant-eater. “I like ginger-ile.”

  “Well, go and bathe in it.”

  “Wri’!”

  George returned to his letter.

  Dear Mr. Bevan,

  Thank you ever so much for your note, which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind of you to come here like this and to say …

  “Hey, mister!”

  “Good Heavens!” George glared. “What’s the matter now? Haven’t you found that ginger-ale yet?”

  “I’ve found the ginger-ile right enough, but I can’t find the thing.”

  “The thing? What thing?”

  “The thing. The thing wot you open ginger-ile with.”

  “Oh, you mean the thing? It’s in the middle drawer of the dresser. Use your eyes, my boy!”

  “Wri’“.

  George gave an overwrought sigh and began the letter again.

  Dear Mr. Bevan,

  Thank you ever so much for your note which Albert gave to me. How very, very kind of you to come here like this and to say that you would help me. And how clever of you to find me after I was so secretive that day in the cab! You really can help me, if you are willing. It’s too long to explain in a note, but I am in great trouble, and there is nobody except you to help me. I will explain everything when I see you. The difficulty will be to slip away from home. They are watching me every moment, I’m afraid. But I will try my hardest to see you very soon.

  Yours sincerely,

  Maud Marsh

  Just for a moment it must be confessed, the tone of the letter damped George. He could not have said just what he had expected, but certainly Reggie’s revelations had prepared him for something rather warmer, something more in the style in which a girl would write to the man she loved. The next moment, however, he saw how foolish any such expectation had been. How on earth could any reasonable man expect a girl to let herself go at this stage of the proceedings? It was for him to make the first move. Naturally she wasn’t going to reveal her feelings until he had revealed his.

  George raised the letter to his lips and kissed it vigorously.

  “Hey, mister!”

  George started guiltily. The blush of shame overspread his cheeks. The room seemed to echo with the sound of that fatuous kiss.

  “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” he called, snapping his fingers, and repeating the incriminating noise. “I was just calling my cat,” he explained with dignity. “You didn’t see her in there, did you?”

  Albert’s blue eyes met his in a derisive stare. The lid of the left one fluttered. It was but too plain that Albert was not convinced.

  “A little black cat with white shirt-front,” babbled George perseveringly. “She’s usually either here or there, or—or somewhere. Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!”

  The cupid’s bow of Albert’s mouth parted. He uttered one word.

  “Swank!”

  There was a tense silence. What Albert was thinking one cannot say. The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts. What George was thinking was that the late King Herod had been unjustly blamed for a policy which had been both statesmanlike and in the interests of the public. He was blaming mawkish sentimentality of the modem legal system which ranks the evisceration and secret burial of small boys as a crime.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’ve a good mind to—”

  Albert waved a deprecating hand.

  “It’s all right, mister. I’m yer friend.”

  “You are, are you? Well, don’t let it about. I’ve got a reputation to keep up.”

  “I’m yer friend, I tell you. I can help yer. I want to help yer!”

  George’s views on infanticide underwent a slight modification. After all, he felt, much must be excused to Youth. Youth thinks it funny to see a man kissing a letter. It is not funny, of course; it is beautiful; but it’s no good arguing the point. Let Youth have its snigger, provided, after it has finished sniggering, it i
ntends to buckle to and be of practical assistance. Albert, as an ally, was not to be despised. George did not know what Albert’s duties as a page-boy were, but they seemed to be of a nature that gave him plenty of leisure and freedom; and a friendly resident of the castle with leisure and freedom was just what he needed.

  “That’s very good of you,” he said, twisting his reluctant features into a fairly benevolent smile.

  “I can ‘elp!” persisted Albert. “Got a cigaroot?”

  “Do you smoke, child?”

  “When I get ‘old of a cigaroot I do.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you. I don’t smoke cigarettes.”

  “Then I’ll ‘ave to ‘ave one of my own,” said Albert moodily.

  He reached into the mysteries of his pocket and produced a piece of string, a knife, the wishbone of a fowl, two marbles, a crushed cigarette, and a match. Replacing the string, the knife, the wishbone and the marbles, he ignited the match against the tightest part of his person and lit the cigarette.

  “I can help yer. I know the ropes.”

  “And smoke them,” said George, wincing.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  Albert took an enjoyable whiff.

  “I know all about yer.”

  “You do?”

  “You and Lidy Mord.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “I was listening at the key-’ole while the row was goin’ on.”

  “There was a row, was there?”

  A faint smile of retrospective enjoyment lit up Albert’s face. “An orful row! Shoutin’ and yellin’ and cussin’ all over the shop. About you and Lidy Maud.”

  “And you drank it in, eh?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I say, you listened?”

  “Not ‘arf I listened. Seeing I’d just drawn you in the sweepstike, of course, I listened—not ‘arf!”