Jill the Reckless

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JILL THE
RECKLESS

BY

P. G. WODEHOUSE

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED

3 DUKE OF YORK STREET

ST. JAMES'S, LONDON, S.W. 1

* * * * *

TO

MY WIFE

BLESS HER

* * * * *

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE FAMILY CURSE
II. THE FIRST NIGHT AT THE LEICESTER
III. JILL AND THE UNKNOWN ESCAPE
IV. THE LAST OF THE ROOKES TAKES A HAND
V. LADY UNDERHILL RECEIVES A SHOCK
VI. UNCLE CHRIS BANGS THE TABLE
VII. JILL CATCHES THE 10.10
VIII. THE DRY-SALTERS WING DEREK
IX. JILL IN SEARCH OF AN UNCLE
X. JILL IGNORES AUTHORITY
XI. MR. PILKINGTON'S LOVE LIGHT
XII. UNCLE CHRIS BORROWS A FLAT
XIII. THE AMBASSADOR ARRIVES
XIV. MR. GOBLE MAKES THE BIG NOISE
XV. JILL EXPLAINS
XVI. MR. GOBLE PLAYS WITH FATE
XVII. THE COST OF A ROW
XVIII. JILL RECEIVES NOTICE
XIX. MRS. PEAGRIM BURNS INCENSE
XX. DEREK LOSES ONE BIRD AND SECURES ANOTHER
XXI. WALLY MASON LEARNS A NEW EXERCISE

* * * * *

JILL THE RECKLESS

CHAPTER I

THE FAMILY CURSE

I

Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming
eye-glass he inspected the revolting object which Barker, his faithful
man, had placed on a plate before him.

"Barker!" His voice had a ring of pain.

"Sir?"

"What's this?"

"Poached egg, sir."

Freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder.

"It looks just like an old aunt of mine," he said. "Remove it!"

He got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took
up a stand in front of the fireplace. From this position he surveyed
the room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing
the club fender. It was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world, a
typical London bachelor's breakfast-room. The walls were a restful
grey, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white
and silver.

"Eggs, Barker," said Freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!"

"Yes, sir?"

"If, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are all
right. If not, not. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

"No, sir."

Freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed.

"It would seem, then, that I must have revelled a trifle
whole-heartedly last night. I was possibly a little blotto. Not
whiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. Did I make much noise
coming in?"

"No, sir. You were very quiet."

"Ah! A dashed bad sign!"

Freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"The cream jug is to your right, sir," said the helpful Barker.

"Let it remain there. _Cafe noir_ for me this morning. As _noir_ as it
can jolly well stick!" Freddie retired to the fireplace and sipped
delicately. "As far as I can remember, it was Ronny Devereux' birthday
or something...."

"Mr. Martyn's, I think you said, sir."

"That's right. Algy Martyn's birthday, and Ronny and I were the
guests. It all comes back to me. I wanted Derek to roll along and join
the festivities--he's never met Ronny--but he gave it a miss. Quite
right! A chap in his position has responsibilities. Member of
Parliament and all that. Besides," said Freddie earnestly, driving
home the point with a wave of his spoon, "he's engaged to be married.
You must remember that, Barker!"

"I will endeavour to, sir."

"Sometimes," said Freddie dreamily, "I wish I were engaged to be
married. Sometimes I wish I had some sweet girl to watch over me
and.... No, I don't, by Jove. It would give me the utter pip! Is Sir
Derek up yet, Barker?"

"Getting up, sir."

"See that everything is all right, will you? I mean as regards the
food-stuffs and what not. I want him to make a good breakfast. He's
got to meet his mother this morning at Charing Cross. She's legging it
back from the Riviera."

"Indeed, sir?"

Freddie shook his head.

"You wouldn't speak in that light, careless tone if you knew her!
Well, you'll see her to-night. She's coming here to dinner."

"Yes, sir."

"Miss Mariner will be here, too. A foursome. Tell Mrs. Barker to pull
up her socks and give us something pretty ripe. Soup, fish, all that
sort of thing. _She_ knows. And let's have a stoup of malvoisie from
the oldest bin. This is a special occasion!"

"Her ladyship will be meeting Miss Mariner for the first time, sir?"

"You've put your finger on it! Absolutely the first time on this or
any stage! We must all rally round and make the thing a success."

"I am sure Mrs. Barker will strain every nerve, sir." Barker moved to
the door, carrying the rejected egg, and stepped aside to allow a
tall, well-built man of about thirty to enter. "Good morning, Sir
Derek."

"Morning, Barker."

Barker slid softly from the room. Derek Underhill sat down at the
table. He was a strikingly handsome man, with a strong, forceful face,
dark, lean and cleanly shaven. He was one of those men whom a stranger
would instinctively pick out of a crowd as worthy of note. His only
defect was that his heavy eyebrows gave him at times an expression
which was a little forbidding. Women, however, had never been repelled
by it. He was very popular with women, not quite so popular with
men--always excepting Freddie Rooke, who worshipped him. They had been
at school together, though Freddie was the younger by several years.

"Finished, Freddie?" asked Derek.

Freddie smiled wanly.

"We are not breakfasting this morning," he replied. "The spirit was
willing, but the jolly old flesh would have none of it. To be
perfectly frank, the Last of the Rookes has a bit of a head."

"Ass!" said Derek.

"A bit of sympathy," said Freddie, pained, "would not be out of place.
We are far from well. Some person unknown has put a threshing-machine
inside the old bean and substituted a piece of brown paper for our
tongue. Things look dark and yellow and wobbly!"

"You shouldn't have overdone it last night."

"It was Algy Martyn's birthday," pleaded Freddie.

"If I were an ass like Algy Martyn," said Derek, "I wouldn't go about
advertising the fact that I'd been born. I'd hush it up!"

He helped himself to a plentiful portion of kedgeree, Freddie watching
him with repulsion mingled with envy. When he began to eat the
spectacle became too poignant for the sufferer, and he wandered to the
window.

"What a beast of a day!"

It was an appalling day. January, that grim month, was treating London
with its usual severity. Early in the morning a bank of fog had rolled
up off the river, and was deepening from pearly white to a lurid
brown. It pressed on the window-pane like a blanket, leaving dark,
damp rivulets on the glass.

"Awful!" said Derek,

"Your mater's train will be late."

"Yes. Damned nuisance. It's bad enough meeting trains in any case,
without having to hang about a draughty station for an hour."

"And it's sure, I should imagine," went on Freddie, pursuing his train
of thought, "to make the dear old thing pretty tolerably ratty, if she
has one of those slow journeys." He pottered back to the fireplace,
and rubbed his shoulders reflectively against the mantelpiece. "I take
it that you wrote to her about Jill?"

"Of course. That's why she's coming over, I suppose. By the way, you
got those seats for that theatre to-night?"

"Yes. Three together and one somewhere on the outskirts. If it's all
the same to you, old thing, I'll have the one on the outskirts."

Derek, who had finished his kedgeree and was now making himself a blot
on Freddie's horizon with toast and marmalade, laughed.

"What a rabbit you are, Freddie! Why on earth are you so afraid of
mother?"

Freddie looked at him as a timid young squire might have gazed upon
St. George when the latter set out to do battle with the dragon. He
was of the amiable type which makes heroes of its friends. In the old
days when he had fagged for him at Winchester he had thought Derek the
most wonderful person in the world, and this view he still retained.
Indeed, subsequent events had strengthened it. Derek had done the most
amazing things since leaving school. He had had a brilliant career at
Oxford, and now, in the House of Commons, was already looked upon by
the leaders of his party as one to be watched and encouraged. He
played polo superlatively well, and was a fine shot. But of all his
gifts and qualities the one that extorted Freddie's admiration in its
intensest form was his lion-like courage as exemplified by his
behaviour in the present crisis. There he sat, placidly eating toast
and marmalade, while the boat-train containing Lady Underhill already
sped on its way from Dover to London. It was like Drake playing bowls
with the Spanish Armada in sight.

"I wish I had your nerve!" he said awed. "What I should be feeling, if
I were in your place and had to meet your mater after telling her that
I was engaged to marry a girl she had never seen, I don't know. I'd
rather face a wounded tiger!"

"Idiot!" said Derek placidly.

"Not," pursued Freddie, "that I mean to say anything in the least
derogatory and so forth to your jolly old mater, if you understand me,
but the fact remains she scares me pallid. Always has, ever since the
first time I went to stay at your place when I was a kid. I can still
remember catching her eye the morning I happened by pure chance to
bung an apple through her bedroom window, meaning to let a cat on the
sill below have it in the short ribs. She was at least thirty feet
away, but, by Jove, it stopped me like a bullet!"

"Push the bell, old man, will you? I want some more toast."

Freddie did as he was requested, with growing admiration.

"The condemned man made an excellent breakfast," he murmured. "More
toast, Barker," he added, as that admirable servitor opened the door.
"Gallant! That's what I call it. Gallant!"

Derek tilted his chair back.

"Mother is sure to like Jill when she sees her," he said.

"_When_ she sees her! Ah! But the trouble is, young feller-me-lad,
that she _hasn't_ seen her! That's the weak spot in your case, old
companion. A month ago she didn't know of Jill's existence. Now, you
know and I know that Jill is one of the best and brightest. As far as
we are concerned, everything in the good old garden is lovely. Why,
dash it, Jill and I were children together. Sported side by side on
the green, and what not. I remember Jill, when she was twelve, turning
the garden hose on me and knocking about seventy-five per cent off the
market value of my best Sunday suit. That sort of thing forms a bond,
you know, and I've always felt that she was a corker. But your
mater's got to discover it for herself. It's a dashed pity, by Jove,
that Jill hasn't a father or a mother or something of that species to
rally round just now. They would form a gang. There's nothing like a
gang! But she's only got that old uncle of hers. A rummy bird. Met
him?"

"Several times. I like him."

"Oh, he's a genial old buck all right. A very bonhomous lad. But you
hear some pretty queer stories about him if you get among people who
knew him in the old days. Even now I'm not so dashed sure I should
care to play cards with him. Young Threepwood was telling me only the
other day that the old boy took thirty quid off him at picquet as
clean as a whistle. And Jimmy Monroe, who's on the Stock Exchange,
says he's frightfully busy these times buying margins or whatever it
is chappies do down in the City. Margins. That's the word. Jimmy made
me buy some myself on a thing called Amalgamated Dyes. I don't
understand the procedure exactly, but Jimmy says it's a sound egg and
will do me a bit of good. What was I talking about? Oh, yes, old
Selby. There's no doubt he's quite a sportsman. But till you've got
Jill well established, you know, I shouldn't enlarge on him too much
with the mater."

"On the contrary," said Derek, "I shall mention him at the first
opportunity. He knew my father out in India."

"Did he, by Jove! Oh, well, that makes a difference."

Barker entered with the toast, and Derek resumed his breakfast.

"It may be a little bit awkward," he said, "at first, meeting mother.
But everything will be all right after five minutes."

"Absolutely! But, oh, boy! that first five minutes!" Freddie gazed
portentously through his eye-glass. Then he seemed to be undergoing
some internal struggle, for he gulped once or twice. "That first five
minutes!" he said, and paused again. A moment's silent self-communion,
and he went on with a rush. "I say, listen. Shall I come along, too?"

"Come along?"

"To the station. With you."

"What on earth for?"

"To see you through the opening stages. Break the ice, and all that
sort of thing. Nothing like collecting a gang, you know. Moments when
a feller needs a friend and so forth. Say the word, and I'll buzz
along and lend my moral support."

Derek's heavy eyebrows closed together in an offended frown, and
seemed to darken his whole face. This unsolicited offer of assistance
hurt his dignity. He showed a touch of the petulance which came now
and then when he was annoyed, to suggest that he might not possess so
strong a character as his exterior indicated.

"It's very kind of you," he began stiffly.

Freddie nodded. He was acutely conscious of this himself.

"Some fellows," he observed, "would say 'Not at all!' I suppose. But
not the Last of the Rookes! For, honestly, old man, between ourselves,
I don't mind admitting that this is the bravest deed of the year, and
I'm dashed if I would do it for anyone else."

"It's very good of you, Freddie...."

"That's all right. I'm a Boy Scout, and this is my act of kindness for
to-day."

Derek got up from the table.

"Of course you mustn't come," he said. "We can't form a sort of
debating society to discuss Jill on the platform at Charing Cross."

"Oh, I would just hang around in the offing, shoving in an occasional
tactful word."

"Nonsense!"

"The wheeze would simply be to...."

"It's impossible."

"Oh, very well," said Freddie, damped. "Just as you say, of course.
But there's nothing like a gang, old son, nothing like a gang!"

II

Derek Underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and grunted
irritably. Inside Charing Cross Station business was proceeding as
usual. Porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro like
Juggernauts. Belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, while
others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness
and disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. For outside
the fog still held. The air was cold and raw and tasted coppery. In
the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to the accompaniment of
hoarse cries and occasional crashes. Once the sun had worked its way
through the murk and had hung in the sky like a great red orange, but
now all was darkness and discomfort again, blended with that odd
suggestion of mystery and romance which is a London fog's only
redeeming quality.

The fog and the waiting had had their effect upon Derek. The resolute
front he had exhibited to Freddie at the breakfast-table had melted
since his arrival at the station, and he was feeling nervous at the
prospect of the meeting that lay before him. Calm as he had appeared
to the eye of Freddie and bravely as he had spoken, Derek, in the
recesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. There are men--and
Derek Underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from the
nursery. They may put away childish things and rise in the world to
affluence and success, but the hand that rocked their cradle still
rules their lives.

Derek turned to begin one more walk along the platform, and stopped in
mid-stride, raging. Beaming over the collar of a plaid greatcoat, all
helpfulness and devotion, Freddie Rooke was advancing towards him, the
friend that sticketh closer than a brother. Like some loving dog, who,
ordered home sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping
round corners and crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful Freddie
had followed him after all. And with him, to add the last touch to
Derek's discomfiture, were those two inseparable allies of his, Ronny
Devereux and Algy Martyn.

"Well, old thing," said Freddie, patting Derek encouragingly on the
shoulder, "here we are after all! I know you told me not to roll round
and so forth, but I knew you didn't mean it. I thought it over after
you had left, and decided it would be a rotten trick not to cluster
about you in your hour of need. I hope you don't mind Ronny and Algy
breezing along too. The fact is, I was in the deuce of a funk--your
jolly old mater always rather paralyses my nerve-centres, you know--so
I roped them in. Met 'em in Piccadilly, groping about for the club,
and conscripted 'em both, they very decently consenting. We all
toddled off and had a pick-me-up at that chemist chappie's at the top
of the Hay-market, and now we're feeling full of beans and buck,
ready for anything. I've explained the whole thing to them, and
they're with you to the death! Collect a gang, dear boy, collect a
gang! That's the motto. There's nothing like it!"

"Nothing!" said Ronny.

"Absolutely nothing!" said Algy.

"We'll just see you through the opening stages," said Freddie, "and
then leg it. We'll keep the conversation general you know."

"Stop it getting into painful channels," said Ronny.

"Steer it clear," said Algy, "of the touchy topic."

"That's the wheeze," said Freddie. "We'll ... Oh, golly! There's the
train coming in now!" His voice quavered, for not even the comforting
presence of his two allies could altogether sustain him in this
ordeal. But he pulled himself together with a manful effort. "Stick
it, old beans!" he said doughtily. "Now is the time for all good men
to come to the aid of the party!"

"We're here!" said Ronny Devereux.

"On the spot!" said Algy Martyn.

III

The boat-train slid into the station. Bells rang, engines blew off
steam, porters shouted, baggage-trucks rattled over the platform. The
train began to give up its contents, now in ones and twos, now in a
steady stream. Most of the travellers seemed limp and exhausted, and
were pale with the pallor that comes of a choppy Channel crossing.
Almost the only exception to the general condition of collapse was the
eagle-faced lady in the brown ulster, who had taken up her stand in
the middle of the platform and was haranguing a subdued little maid in
a voice that cut the gloomy air like a steel knife. Like the other
travellers, she was pale, but she bore up resolutely. No one could
have told from Lady Underhill's demeanour that the solid platform
seemed to heave beneath her feet like a deck.

Derek approached, acutely conscious of Freddie, Ronny, and Algy, who
were skirmishing about his flank.

"Well, mother! So there you are at last!"

"Well, Derek!"

Derek kissed his mother. Freddie, Ronny, and Algy shuffled closer,
like leopards. Freddie, with the expression of one who leads a
forlorn hope, moved his Adam's apple briskly up and down several
times, and spoke.

"How do you do, Lady Underhill?"

"How do you do, Mr. Rooke?"

Lady Underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. She was not fond of
the Last of the Rookes. She supposed the Almighty had had some wise
purpose in creating Freddie, but it had always been inscrutable to
her.

"Like you," mumbled Freddie, "to meet my friends. Lady Underhill. Mr.
Devereux."

"Charmed," said Ronny affably.

"Mr. Martyn."

"Delighted," said Algy with old-world courtesy.

Lady Underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice.

"How do you do?" she said. "Have you come to meet somebody?"

"I--er--we--er--why--er--" This woman always made Freddie feel as if
he were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. He wished that he
had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug
rooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through this business by
himself. "I--er--we--er--came to meet _you_, don't you know!"

"Indeed! That was very kind of you!"

"Oh, not at all."

"Thought we'd welcome you back to the old homestead," said Ronny
beaming.

"What could be sweeter?" said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, and
extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feeling
delightfully at his ease, and couldn't understand why Freddie had made
such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. "Don't mind if I smoke,
do you? Air's a bit raw to-day. Gets into the lungs."

Derek chafed impotently. These unsought allies were making a difficult
situation a thousand times worse. A more acute observer than young Mr.
Martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother's mouth and knew
them for the danger-signal they were. Endeavouring to distract her
with light conversation, he selected a subject which was a little
unfortunate.

"What sort of crossing did you have, mother?"

Lady Underhill winced. A current of air had sent the perfume of
Algy's cigar playing about her nostrils. She closed her eyes, and her
face turned a shade paler. Freddie, observing this, felt quite sorry
for the poor old thing. She was a pest and a pot of poison, of course,
but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was a shame that she
should look so green about the gills. He came to the conclusion that
she must be hungry. The thing to do was to take her mind off it till
she could be conducted to a restaurant and dumped down in front of a
bowl of soup.

"Bit choppy, I suppose, what?" he bellowed, in a voice that ran up and
down Lady Underhill's nervous system like an electric needle. "I was
afraid you were going to have a pretty rough time of it when I read
the forecast in the paper. The good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?"

Lady Underhill uttered a faint moan. Freddie noticed that she was
looking deucedly chippy, even chippier than a moment ago.

"It's an extraordinary thing about that Channel crossing," said Algy
Martyn meditatively, as he puffed a refreshing cloud. "I've known
fellows who could travel quite happily everywhere else in the
world--round the Horn in sailing-ships and all that sort of
thing--yield up their immortal soul crossing the Channel! Absolutely
yield up their immortal soul! Don't know why. Rummy, but there it is!"

"I'm like that myself," assented Ronny Devereux. "That dashed trip
from Calais gets me every time. Bowls me right over. I go aboard,
stoked to the eyebrows with sea-sick remedies, swearing that this time
I'll fool 'em, but down I go ten minutes after we've started and the
next thing I know is somebody saying, 'Well, well! So this is Dover!'"

"It's exactly the same with me," said Freddie, delighted with the
smooth, easy way the conversation was flowing. "Whether it's the hot,
greasy smell of the engines...."

"It's not the engines," contended Ronny Devereux. "Stands to reason it
can't be. I rather like the smell of engines. This station is reeking
with the smell of engine-grease, and I can drink it in and enjoy it."
He sniffed, luxuriantly. "It's something else."

"Ronny's right," said Algy cordially. "It isn't the engines. It's the
way the boat heaves up and down and up and down and up and down...."
He shifted his cigar to his left hand in order to give with his right
a spirited illustration of a Channel steamer going up and down and up
and down and up and down. Lady Underhill, who had opened her eyes, had
an excellent view of the performance, and closed her eyes again
quickly.

"Be quiet!" she snapped.

"I was only saying...."

"Be quiet!"

"Oh, rather!"

Lady Underhill wrestled with herself. She was a woman of great
will-power and accustomed to triumph over the weaknesses of the flesh.
After a while her eyes opened. She had forced herself, against the
evidence of her senses, to recognize that this was a platform on which
she stood and not a deck.

There was a pause. Algy, damped, was temporarily out of action, and
his friends had for the moment nothing to remark.

"I'm afraid you had a trying journey, mother," said Derek. "The train
was very late."

"Now, _train_-sickness," said Algy, coming to the surface again, "is a
thing lots of people suffer from. Never could understand it myself."

"I've never had a touch of train-sickness," said Ronny.

"Oh, I have," said Freddie. "I've often felt rotten on a train. I get
floating spots in front of my eyes and a sort of heaving sensation,
and everything kind of goes black...."

"Mr. Rooke!"

"Eh?"

"I should be greatly obliged if you would keep those confidences for
the ear of your medical adviser."

"Freddie," intervened Derek hastily, "my mother's rather tired. Do you
think you could be going ahead and getting a taxi?"

"My dear old chap, of course! Get you one in a second. Come along,
Algy. Pick up the old waukeesis, Ronny."

And Freddie, accompanied by his henchmen, ambled off, well pleased
with himself. He had, he felt, helped to break the ice for Derek and
had seen him safely through those awkward opening stages. Now he could
totter off with a light heart and get a bite of lunch.

Lady Underhill's eyes glittered. They were small, keen, black eyes,
unlike Derek's, which were large and brown. In their other features
the two were obviously mother and son. Each had the same long upper
lip, the same thin, firm mouth, the prominent chin which was a family
characteristic of the Underhills, and the jutting Underhill nose. Most
of the Underhills came into the world looking as though they meant to
drive their way through life like a wedge.

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