Jill the Reckless

P >> P. G. (Pelham Grenville) Wodehouse >> Jill the Reckless

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Lady Underhill glanced at Derek, who was looking into the fire.

"This is a little awkward, Derek," she said suavely. "If you go to the
police-station, you will miss your train."

"I fancy, m'lady, it would be sufficient if Sir Derek were to dispatch
me with a cheque for ten pounds."

"Very well. Tell the policeman to wait a moment."

"Very good, m'lady."

Derek roused himself with an effort. His face was drawn and gloomy. He
sat down at the writing-table, and took out his cheque-book. There was
silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen. Barker
took the cheque and left the room.

"Now, perhaps," said Lady Underhill, "you will admit that I was
right!" She spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence at just
this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer. "You
can't hesitate now! You _must_ free yourself from this detestable
entanglement!"

Derek rose without speaking. He took his coat and hat from where they
lay on a chair.

"Derek! You will! Say you will!"

Derek put on his coat.

"Derek!"

"For heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. I want to think."

"Very well. I will leave you to think it over, then." Lady Underhill
moved to the door. At the door she paused for a moment, and seemed
about to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. She was a
shrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stop
talking. What words have accomplished, too many words can undo.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye, mother."

"I'll see you when you get back?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I'm not certain when I shall return. I may go
away for a bit."

The door closed behind Lady Underhill. Derek sat down again at the
writing-table. He wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore it
up. His eye travelled to the mantelpiece. Jill's photograph smiled
happily down at him. He turned back to the writing-table, took out a
fresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to write
again.

The door opened softly.

"The cab is at the door, Sir Derek," said Barker.

Derek addressed an envelope, and got up.

"All right. Thanks. Oh, Barker, stop at a district-messenger office on
your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once."

"Very good, Sir Derek," said Barker.

Derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. He stood looking for
an instant, then walked quickly out of the room.

CHAPTER VI

UNCLE CHRIS BANGS THE TABLE

I

A taxi-cab stopped at the door of Number Twenty-two, Ovingdon Square.
Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid the
driver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into a
delightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had
sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which had
been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons which intrude on
the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less agreeable
intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks were wet
underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shone
exhilaratingly from a sky the colour of a hedge-sparrow's egg.

"Doesn't everything smell lovely, Freddie," said Jill, "after our
prison-life!"

"Topping!"

"Fancy getting out so quickly! Whenever I'm arrested, I must always
make a point of having a rich man with me. I shall never tease you
about that fifty-pound note again."

"Fifty-pound note?"

"It certainly came in handy to-day!"

She was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden
sagging of Freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and
the look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. Freddie was
appalled. Finding himself at the police-station penniless with the
exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message to Derek,
imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending the night in
a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that there was a risk of
Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to get Jill into
trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If they remained where
they were overnight, the thing would get into the papers, and that
would be a thousand times worse. And if he applied for aid to Ronny
Devereux or Algy Martyn or anybody like that all London would know
about it next day. So Freddie, with misgivings, had sent the message
to Derek, and now Jill's words had reminded him that there was no need
to have done so. Years ago he had read somewhere or heard somewhere
about some chappie who always buzzed around with a sizable banknote
stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had seemed to him ripe to a
degree. You never knew when you might find yourself short of cash and
faced by an immediate call for the ready. He had followed the
chappie's example. And now, when the crisis had arrived, he had
forgotten--absolutely forgotten!--that he had the dashed thing on his
person at all.

He followed Jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankful
that she had taken it for granted that he had secured their release in
the manner indicated. He did not propose to disillusion her. It would
be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along. Probably
old Derek would simply be amused and laugh at the whole bally affair
like a sportsman. Freddie cheered up considerably at the thought.

Jill was talking to the parlourmaid whose head had popped up over the
banisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen.

"Major Selby hasn't arrived yet, miss."

"That's odd. I suppose he must have taken a later train."

"There's a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. She
didn't give any name. She said she would wait till the major came.
She's been waiting a goodish while."

"All right, Jane. Thanks. Will you bring up tea?"

They walked down the hall. The drawing-room was on the ground floor, a
long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio but for
the absence of bright light. A girl was sitting at the far end by the
fireplace. She rose as they entered.

"How do you do?" said Jill. "I'm afraid my uncle has not come back
yet...."

"Say!" cried the visitor. "You _did_ get out quick!"

Jill was surprised. She had no recollection of ever having seen the
other before. Her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort of
jaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to her
tired eyes and wistful face. Jill took an immediate liking to her. She
looked so forlorn and pathetic.

"My name's Nelly Bryant," said the girl. "That parrot belongs to me."

"Oh, I see."

"I heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so I came along to
tell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something.
The maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so I waited."

"That was awfully good of you."

"Dashed good," said Freddie.

"Oh, no! Honest, I don't know how to thank you for what you did. You
don't know what a pal Bill is to me. It would have broken me all up if
that plug-ugly had killed him."

"But what a shame you had to wait so long."

"I liked it."

Nelly Bryant looked about the room wistfully. This was the sort of
room she sometimes dreamed about. She loved its subdued light and the
pulpy cushions on the sofa.

"You'll have some tea before you go, won't you?" said Jill, switching
on the lights.

"It's very kind of you."

"Why, hullo!" said Freddie. "By Jove! I say! We've met before, what?"

"Why, so we have!"

"That lunch at Oddy's that young Threepwood gave, what?"

"I wonder you remember."

"Oh, I remember. Quite a time ago, eh? Miss Bryant was in that show.
'Follow the Girl,' Jill, at the Regal."

"Oh, yes. I remember you took me to see it."

"Dashed odd meeting again like this!" said Freddie. "Really rummy!"

Jane, the parlourmaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments.

"You're American, then?" said Jill interested. "The whole company came
from New York, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"I'm half American myself, you know. I used to live in New York when I
was very small, but I've almost forgotten what it was like. I remember
a sort of overhead railway that made an awful noise...."

"The Elevated!" murmured Nelly devoutly. A wave of home-sickness
seemed to choke her for a moment.

"And the air. Like champagne. And a very blue sky."

"Yes," said Nelly in a small voice.

"I shouldn't half mind popping over New York for a bit," said Freddie,
unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. "I've met some very sound
sportsmen who came from there. You don't know a fellow named
Williamson, do you?"

"I don't believe I do."

"Or Oakes?"

"No."

"That's rummy! Oakes has lived in New York for years."

"So have about seven million other people," interposed Jill. "Don't be
silly, Freddie. How would you like somebody to ask of you if you knew
a man named Jenkins in London?"

"I _do_ know a man named Jenkins in London," replied Freddie
triumphantly.

Jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at the clock.

"I wonder where Uncle Chris has got to," she said. "He ought to be
here by now. I hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wild
stockbrokers down at Brighton."

Freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.

"Oh, Freddie, darling!" said Jill remorsefully. "I forgot!
Stockbrokers are a painful subject, aren't they!" She turned to Nelly.
"There's been an awful slump on the Stock Exchange to-day, and he
got--what was the word, Freddie?"

"Nipped!" said Freddie with gloom.

"Nipped!"

"Nipped like the dickens!"

"Nipped like the dickens!" Jill smiled at Nelly. "He had forgotten all
about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and I went and
reminded him."

Freddie sought sympathy from Nelly.

"A silly ass at the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutter
in some rotten thing called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is, when
you're feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that after dinner, and
somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand in yours and tells
you to do some fool thing. You're so dashed happy you simply say
'Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!' That's the way I got had!"

Jill laughed unfeelingly.

"It will do you good, Freddie. It'll stir you up and prevent you being
so silly again. Besides, you know you'll hardly notice it. You've much
too much money as it is."

"It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing. I hate looking a
frightful chump."

"Well, you needn't tell anybody. We'll keep it a secret. In fact,
we'll start at once, for I hear Uncle Chris outside. Let us dissemble.
We are observed!... Hullo, Uncle Chris!"

She ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall,
soldierly man who entered.

"Well, Jill, my dear."

"How late you are. I was expecting you hours ago."

"I had to call on my broker."

"Hush! Hush!"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing.... We've got visitors. You know Freddie Rooke, of
course?"

"How are you, Freddie, my boy?"

"Cheerio!" said Freddie. "Pretty fit?"

"And Miss Bryant," said Jill.

"How do you do?" said Uncle Chris in the bluff, genial way which, in
his younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of the
pockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes of
their sisters, their cousins, and their aunts.

"Come and have some tea," said Jill. "You're just in time."

"Tea? Capital!"

Nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big arm-chair. Somehow
she felt a better and a more important girl since Uncle Chris had
addressed her. Most people felt like that after encountering Jill's
Uncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It was not precisely
condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He treated
you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the fact
that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chris affected
the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight of the
Middle Ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he had
cast aside social distinctions for a while and hobnobbed with the
latter in a tavern. He never patronized, but the mere fact that he
abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.

To this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was a
fine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in
spite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushed
so carefully. He had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often and
pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very bright blue
eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. Though he had
served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian's
sun-scorched sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. He
looked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub--a misleading
impression, for Uncle Chris detested cold water and always took his
morning bath as hot as he could get it.

It was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance,
fascinated the populace. There is only one tailor in London, as
distinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats and
trousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly, London is
full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of
foot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of the
word--the one who supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, while it is
no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of London shops some sort
of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the only
hatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyed the
patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head, in short,
from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris was perfect. He
was an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolis looked better for
him. One seems to picture London as a mother with a horde of untidy
children, children with made-up ties, children with wrinkled coats and
baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as she beheld them, then
cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restored complacency, "Ah,
well, I still have Uncle Chris!"

"Miss Bryant is American, Uncle Chris," said Jill.

Uncle Chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced down
kindly at Nelly.

"Indeed?" He took a cup of tea and stirred it. "I was in America as a
young man."

"Whereabouts?" asked Nelly eagerly.

"Oh, here and there and everywhere. I travelled considerably."

"That's how it is with me," said Nelly, overcoming her diffidence as
she warmed to the favourite topic. "I guess I know most every town in
every State, from New York to the last one-night stand. It's a great
old country, isn't it?"

"It is!" said Uncle Chris. "I shall be returning there very shortly."
He paused meditatively. "Very shortly indeed."

Nelly bit her lip. It seemed to be her fate to-day to meet people who
were going to America.

"When did you decide to do that?" asked Jill.

She had been looking at him, puzzled. Years of association with Uncle
Chris had enabled her to read his moods quickly, and she was sure that
there was something on his mind. It was not likely that the others had
noticed it, for his manner was as genial and urbane as ever. But
something about him, a look in his eyes that came and went, an
occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was not
well. She was a little troubled, but not greatly. Uncle Chris was not
the sort of man to whom grave tragedies happened. It was probably some
mere trifle which she could smooth out for him in five minutes, once
they were alone together. She reached out and patted his sleeve
affectionately. She was fonder of Uncle Chris than of anyone in the
world except Derek.

"The thought," said Uncle Chris, "came to me this morning, as I read
my morning paper while breakfasting. It has grown and developed during
the day. At this moment you might almost call it an obsession. I am
very fond of America. I spent several happy years there. On that
occasion I set sail for the land of promise, I admit, somewhat
reluctantly. Of my own free will I might never have made the
expedition. But the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favour of
my doing so that I yielded to what I might call a public demand. The
willing hands for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, and
I did not resist them. I have never regretted it. America is a part of
every young man's education. You ought to go there, Freddie."

"Rummily enough," said Freddie, "I was saying just before you came in
that I had half a mind to pop over. Only it's rather a bally fag,
starting. Getting your luggage packed and all that sort of thing."

Nelly, whose luggage consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silent
sigh. Mingling with the idle rich carried its penalties.

"America," said Uncle Chris, "taught me poker, for which I can never
be sufficiently grateful. Also an exotic pastime styled Craps--or,
alternatively, 'rolling the bones'--which in those days was a very
present help in time of trouble. At Craps, I fear, my hand in late
years has lost much of its cunning. I have had little opportunity of
practising. But as a young man I was no mean exponent of the art. Let
me see," said Uncle Chris meditatively. "What was the precise ritual?
Ah! I have it, 'Come, little seven!'"

"'Come, eleven!'" exclaimed Nelly excitedly.

"'Baby....' I feel convinced that in some manner the word baby entered
into it."

"'Baby needs new shoes!'"

"'Baby needs new shoes!' Precisely!"

"It sounds to me," said Freddie, "dashed silly."

"Oh, no!" cried Nelly reproachfully.

"Well, what I mean is, there's no sense in it, don't you know."

"It is a noble pursuit," said Uncle Chris firmly. "Worthy of the great
nation that has produced it. No doubt, when I return to America, I
shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill."

"You aren't returning to America," said Jill. "You're going to stay
safe at home like a good little uncle. I'm not going to have you
running wild all over the world at your age."

"Age?" declaimed Uncle Chris. "What is my age? At the present moment I
feel in the neighbourhood of twenty-one, and Ambition is tapping me on
the shoulder and whispering 'Young man, go West!' The years are
slipping away from me, my dear Jill--slipping so quickly that in a few
minutes you will be wondering why my nurse does not come to fetch me.
The wanderlust is upon me. I gaze around me at all this prosperity in
which I am lapped," said Uncle Chris, eyeing the arm-chair severely,
"all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me, and I feel staggered.
I want activity. I want to be braced!"

"You would hate it," said Jill composedly. "You know you're the
laziest old darling in the world."

"Exactly what I am endeavouring to point out. I _am_ lazy. Or, I was
till this morning."

"Something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. I can
see that."

"I wallowed in gross comfort. I was what Shakespeare calls a 'fat and
greasy citizen'!"

"Please, Uncle Chris!" protested Jill. "Not while I'm eating buttered
toast!"

"But now I am myself again."

"That's splendid."

"I have heard the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted Uncle Chris,
"and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song--How long!
how long! Pull out on the trail again!"

"He can also recite 'Gunga Din,'" said Jill to Nelly. "I really must
apologize for all this. He's usually as good as gold."

"I believe I know how he feels," said Nelly softly.

"Of course you do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of the
world. We are not vegetables like young Rooke here."

"Eh, what?" said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had been
watching Nelly's face. Its wistfulness attracted him.

"We are only happy," proceeded Uncle Chris, "when we are wandering."

"You should see Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning," said
Jill. "He trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely
defying fatigue."

"That," said Uncle Chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. I shudder at
the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink." He expanded his
chest. "I shall be a different man in America. America would make a
different man of _you_, Freddie."

"I'm all right, thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man.

Uncle Chris turned to Nelly, pointing dramatically.

"Young woman, go West! Return to your bracing home, and leave this
enervating London! You...."

Nelly got up abruptly. She could endure no more.

"I believe I'll have to be going now," she said. "Bill misses me if
I'm away long. Good-bye. Thank you ever so much for what you did."

"It was awfully kind of you to come round," said Jill.

"Good-bye, Major Selby."

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Rooke."

Freddie awoke from another reverie.

"Eh? Oh, I say, half a jiffy. I think I may as well be toddling along
myself. About time I was getting back to dress for dinner and all
that. See you home, may I, and then I'll get a taxi at Victoria.
Toodle-oo, everybody."

* * * * *

Freddie escorted Nelly through the hall and opened the front door for
her. The night was cool and cloudy and there was still in the air that
odd, rejuvenating suggestion of Spring. A wet fragrance came from the
dripping trees.

"Topping evening!" said Freddie conversationally.

"Yes."

They walked through the square in silence. Freddie shot an
appreciative glance at his companion. Freddie, as he would have
admitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the modern girl. The
modern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exuberant for a
chappie of peaceful tastes. Now, this girl, on the other hand, had all
the earmarks of being something of a topper. She had a soft voice.
Rummy accent and all that, but nevertheless a soft and pleasing voice.
She was mild and unaggressive, and these were qualities which Freddie
esteemed. Freddie, though this was a thing he would not have admitted,
was afraid of girls, the sort of girls he had to take down to dinner
and dance with and so forth. They were too dashed clever, and always
seemed to be waiting for a chance to score off a fellow. This one was
not like that. Not a bit. She was gentle and quiet and what not.

It was at this point that it came home to him how remarkably quiet she
was. She had not said a word for the last five minutes. He was just
about to break the silence, when, as they passed under a street lamp,
he perceived that she was crying--crying very softly to herself, like
a child in the dark.

"Good God!" said Freddie appalled. There were two things in life with
which he felt totally unable to cope--crying girls and dog-fights. The
glimpse he had caught of Nelly's face froze him into a speechlessness
which lasted until they reached Daubeny Street and stopped at her
door.

"Good-bye," said Nelly.

"Good-bye-ee!" said Freddie mechanically. "That's to say, I mean to
say, half a second!" he added quickly. He faced her nervously, with
one hand on the grimy railings. This wanted looking into. When it came
to girls trickling to and fro in the public streets, weeping, well, it
was pretty rotten and something had to be done about it. "What's up?"
he demanded.

"It's nothing. Good-bye."

"But, my dear old soul," said Freddie, clutching the railing for moral
support, "it is something. It must be! You might not think it, to look
at me, but I'm really rather a dashed shrewd chap, and I can _see_
there's something up. Why not give me the jolly old scenario and see
if we can't do something?"

Nelly moved as if to turn to the door, then stopped. She was
thoroughly ashamed of herself.

"I'm a fool!"

"No, no!"

"Yes, I am. I don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! bearing you all
talking like that about going to America, just as if it was the
easiest thing in the world, only you couldn't be bothered to do it,
kind of got me going. And to think I could be there right now if I
wasn't a bonehead!"

"A bonehead?"

"A simp. I'm all right as far up as the string of near-pearls, but
above that I'm reinforced concrete."

Freddie groped for her meaning.

"Do you mean you've made a bloomer of some kind?"

"I pulled the worst kind of bone. I stopped on in London when the rest
of the company went back home, and now I've got to stick."

"Rush of jolly old professional engagements, what?"

Nelly laughed bitterly.

"You're a bad guesser. No, they haven't started to fight over me yet.
I'm at liberty, as they say in the _Era_."

"But, my dear old thing," said Freddie earnestly, "if you've nothing
to keep you in England, why not pop back to America? I mean to say,
home-sickness is the most dashed blighted thing in the world. There's
nothing gives one the pip to such an extent. Why, dash it, I remember
staying with an old aunt of mine up in Scotland the year before last
and not being able to get away for three weeks or so, and I
raved--absolutely gibbered--for the sight of the merry old metrop.
Sometimes I'd wake up in the night, thinking I was back at the Albany,
and, by Jove, when I found I wasn't I howled like a dog! You take my
tip, old soul, and pop back on the next boat."

"Which line?"

"How do you mean, which line? Oh, I see, you mean which line? Well ...
well ... I've never been on any of them, so it's rather hard to say.
But I hear the Cunard well spoken of, and then again some chappies
swear by the White Star. But I should imagine you can't go far wrong,
whichever you pick. They're all pretty ripe, I fancy."

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