Winsome Winnie and other New Nonsense Novels

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WINSOME WINNIE
AND OTHER NEW
NONSENSE NOVELS

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

THE HOHENZOLLERNS IN AMERICA
AND OTHER IMPOSSIBILITIES

LITERARY LAPSES

NONSENSE NOVELS

SUNSHINE SKETCHES OF A LITTLE
TOWN. With a Frontispiece by Cyrus Cuneo

BEHIND THE BEYOND AND OTHER
CONTRIBUTIONS TO HUMAN
KNOWLEDGE. With 17 Illustrations
by "FISH"

ARCADIAN ADVENTURES WITH
THE IDLE RICH

MOONBEAMS FROM THE LARGER
LUNACY

ESSAYS AND LITERARY STUDIES

FURTHER FOOLISHNESS: SKETCHES
AND SATIRES ON THE FOLLIES
OF THE DAY. With coloured Frontispiece
by "FISH" and 5 other Plates by
M. BLOOD.

FRENZIED FICTION

THE UNSOLVED RIDDLE OF SOCIAL
JUSTICE.

THE BODLEY HEAD

_WINSOME WINNIE
AND OTHER NEW
NONSENSE NOVELS_

_BY STEPHEN LEACOCK_

_LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXXI_

_Printed in Great Britain by R. Clay & Sons, Ltd., London and Bungay_

_CONTENTS_

CHAP.

I. WINSOME WINNIE; OR, TRIAL AND TEMPTATION
I. THROWN ON THE WORLD
II. A RENCOUNTER
III. FRIENDS IN DISTRESS
IV. A GAMBLING PARTY IN ST. JAMES'S CLOSE
V. THE ABDUCTION
VI. THE UNKNOWN
VII. THE PROPOSAL
VIII. WEDDED AT LAST

II. JOHN AND I; OR, HOW I NEARLY LOST MY HUSBAND

III. THE SPLIT IN THE CABINET; OR, THE FATE OF ENGLAND

IV. WHO DO YOU THINK DID IT? OR, THE MIXED-UP MURDER MYSTERY
I. HE DINED WITH ME LAST NIGHT
II. I MUST SAVE HER LIFE
III. I MUST BUY A BOOK ON BILLIARDS
IV. THAT IS NOT BILLIARD CHALK
V. HAS ANYBODY HERE SEEN KELLY?
VI. SHOW ME THE MAN WHO WORE THOSE BOOTS
VII. OH, MR. KENT, SAVE ME!
VIII. YOU ARE PETER KELLY
IX. LET ME TELL YOU THE STORY OF MY LIFE
X. SO DO I

V. BROKEN BARRIERS; OR, RED LOVE ON A BLUE ISLAND

VI. THE KIDNAPPED PLUMBER: A TALE OF THE NEW TIME

VII. THE BLUE AND THE GREY: A PRE-WAR WAR STORY

VIII. BUGGAM GRANGE: A GOOD OLD GHOST STORY

I

WINSOME WINNIE

OR, TRIAL AND TEMPTATION

(_Narrated after the best models of 1875_)

_I.--Winsome Winnie; or, Trial and Temptation._

CHAPTER I

THROWN ON THE WORLD

"Miss Winnifred," said the Old Lawyer, looking keenly over and through
his shaggy eyebrows at the fair young creature seated before him, "you
are this morning twenty-one."

Winnifred Clair raised her deep mourning veil, lowered her eyes and
folded her hands.

"This morning," continued Mr. Bonehead, "my guardianship is at an end."

There was a tone of something like emotion in the voice of the stern old
lawyer, while for a moment his eye glistened with something like a tear
which he hastened to remove with something like a handkerchief. "I have
therefore sent for you," he went on, "to render you an account of my
trust."

He heaved a sigh at her, and then, reaching out his hand, he pulled the
woollen bell-rope up and down several times.

An aged clerk appeared.

"Did the bell ring?" he asked.

"I think it did," said the Lawyer. "Be good enough, Atkinson, to fetch
me the papers of the estate of the late Major Clair defunct."

"I have them here," said the clerk, and he laid upon the table a bundle
of faded blue papers, and withdrew.

"Miss Winnifred," resumed the Old Lawyer, "I will now proceed to give
you an account of the disposition that has been made of your property.
This first document refers to the sum of two thousand pounds left to you
by your great uncle. It is lost."

Winnifred bowed.

"Pray give me your best attention and I will endeavour to explain to you
how I lost it."

"Oh, sir," cried Winnifred, "I am only a poor girl unskilled in the
ways of the world, and knowing nothing but music and French; I fear that
the details of business are beyond my grasp. But if it is lost, I gather
that it is gone."

"It is," said Mr. Bonehead. "I lost it in a marginal option in an
undeveloped oil company. I suppose that means nothing to you."

"Alas," sighed Winnifred, "nothing."

"Very good," resumed the Lawyer. "Here next we have a statement in
regard to the thousand pounds left you under the will of your maternal
grandmother. I lost it at Monte Carlo. But I need not fatigue you with
the details."

"Pray spare them," cried the girl.

"This final item relates to the sum of fifteen hundred pounds placed in
trust for you by your uncle. I lost it on a horse race. That horse,"
added the Old Lawyer with rising excitement, "ought to have won. He was
coming down the stretch like blue--but there, there, my dear, you must
forgive me if the recollection of it still stirs me to anger. Suffice it
to say the horse fell. I have kept for your inspection the score card
of the race, and the betting tickets. You will find everything in
order."

"Sir," said Winnifred, as Mr. Bonehead proceeded to fold up his papers,
"I am but a poor inadequate girl, a mere child in business, but tell me,
I pray, what is left to me of the money that you have managed?"

"Nothing," said the Lawyer. "Everything is gone. And I regret to say,
Miss Clair, that it is my painful duty to convey to you a further
disclosure of a distressing nature. It concerns your birth."

"Just Heaven!" cried Winnifred, with a woman's quick intuition. "Does it
concern my father?"

"It does, Miss Clair. Your father was not your father."

"Oh, sir," exclaimed Winnifred. "My poor mother! How she must have
suffered!"

"Your mother was not your mother," said the Old Lawyer gravely. "Nay,
nay, do not question me. There is a dark secret about your birth."

"Alas," said Winnifred, wringing her hands, "I am, then, alone in the
world and penniless."

"You are," said Mr. Bonehead, deeply moved. "You are, unfortunately,
thrown upon the world. But, if you ever find yourself in a position
where you need help and advice, do not scruple to come to me.
Especially," he added, "for advice. And meantime let me ask you in what
way do you propose to earn your livelihood?"

"I have my needle," said Winnifred.

"Let me see it," said the Lawyer.

Winnifred showed it to him.

"I fear," said Mr. Bonehead, shaking his head, "you will not do much
with that."

Then he rang the bell again.

"Atkinson," he said, "take Miss Clair out and throw her on the world."

CHAPTER II

A RENCOUNTER

As Winnifred Clair passed down the stairway leading from the Lawyer's
office, a figure appeared before her in the corridor, blocking the way.
It was that of a tall, aristocratic-looking man, whose features wore
that peculiarly saturnine appearance seen only in the English nobility.
The face, while entirely gentlemanly in its general aspect, was stamped
with all the worst passions of mankind.

Had the innocent girl but known it, the face was that of Lord Wynchgate,
one of the most contemptible of the greater nobility of Britain, and the
figure was his too.

"Ha!" exclaimed the dissolute Aristocrat, "whom have we here? Stay,
pretty one, and let me see the fair countenance that I divine behind
your veil."

"Sir," said Winnifred, drawing herself up proudly, "let me pass, I
pray."

"Not so," cried Wynchgate, reaching out and seizing his intended victim
by the wrist, "not till I have at least seen the colour of those eyes
and imprinted a kiss upon those fair lips."

With a brutal laugh, he drew the struggling girl towards him.

In another moment the aristocratic villain would have succeeded in
lifting the veil of the unhappy girl, when suddenly a ringing voice
cried, "Hold! stop! desist! begone! lay to! cut it out!"

With these words a tall, athletic young man, attracted doubtless by the
girl's cries, leapt into the corridor from the street without. His
figure was that, more or less, of a Greek god, while his face, although
at the moment inflamed with anger, was of an entirely moral and
permissible configuration.

"Save me! save me!" cried Winnifred.

"I will," cried the Stranger, rushing towards Lord Wynchgate with
uplifted cane.

But the cowardly Aristocrat did not await the onslaught of the unknown.

"You shall yet be mine!" he hissed in Winnifred's ear, and, releasing
his grasp, he rushed with a bound past the rescuer into the street.

"Oh, sir," said Winnifred, clasping her hands and falling on her knees
in gratitude. "I am only a poor inadequate girl, but if the prayers of
one who can offer naught but her prayers to her benefactor can avail to
the advantage of one who appears to have every conceivable advantage
already, let him know that they are his."

"Nay," said the stranger, as he aided the blushing girl to rise, "kneel
not to me, I beseech. If I have done aught to deserve the gratitude of
one who, whoever she is, will remain for ever present as a bright memory
in the breast of one in whose breast such memories are all too few, he
is all too richly repaid. If she does that, he is blessed indeed."

"She does. He is!" cried Winnifred, deeply moved. "Here on her knees she
blesses him. And now," she added, "we must part. Seek not to follow me.
One who has aided a poor girl in the hour of need will respect her wish
when she tells him that, alone and buffeted by the world, her one
prayer is that he will leave her."

"He will!" cried the Unknown. "He will. He does."

"Leave me, yes, leave me," exclaimed Winnifred.

"I will," said the Unknown.

"Do, do," sobbed the distraught girl. "Yet stay, one moment more. Let
she, who has received so much from her benefactor, at least know his
name."

"He cannot! He must not!" exclaimed the Indistinguishable. "His birth is
such--but enough!"

He tore his hand from the girl's detaining clasp and rushed forth from
the place.

Winnifred Clair was alone.

CHAPTER III

FRIENDS IN DISTRESS

Winnifred was now in the humblest lodgings in the humblest part of
London. A simple bedroom and sitting-room sufficed for her wants. Here
she sat on her trunk, bravely planning for the future.

"Miss Clair," said the Landlady, knocking at the door, "do try to eat
something. You must keep up your health. See, I've brought you a
kippered herring."

Winnifred ate the herring, her heart filled with gratitude. With renewed
strength she sallied forth on the street to resume her vain search for
employment. For two weeks now Winnifred Clair had sought employment even
of the humblest character. At various dress-making establishments she
had offered, to no purpose, the services of her needle. They had looked
at it and refused it.

In vain she had offered to various editors and publishers the use of her
pen. They had examined it coldly and refused it.

She had tried fruitlessly to obtain a position of trust. The various
banks and trust companies to which she had applied declined her
services. In vain she had advertised in the newspapers offering to take
sole charge of a little girl. No one would give her one.

Her slender stock of money which she had in her purse on leaving Mr.
Bonehead's office was almost consumed.

Each night the unhappy girl returned to her lodging exhausted with
disappointment and fatigue.

Yet even in her adversity she was not altogether friendless.

Each evening, on her return home, a soft tap was heard at the door.

"Miss Clair," said the voice of the Landlady, "I have brought you a
fried egg. Eat it. You must keep up your strength."

Then one morning a terrible temptation had risen before her.

"Miss Clair," said the manager of an agency to which she had applied, "I
am glad to be able at last to make you a definite offer of employment.
Are you prepared to go upon the stage?"

The stage!

A flush of shame and indignation swept over the girl. Had it come to
this? Little versed in the world as Winnifred was, she knew but too well
the horror, the iniquity, the depth of degradation implied in the word.

"Yes," continued the agent, "I have a letter here asking me to recommend
a young lady of suitable refinement to play the part of Eliza in _Uncle
Tom's Cabin._ Will you accept?"

"Sir," said Winnifred proudly, "answer me first this question fairly. If
I go upon the stage, can I, as Eliza, remain as innocent, as simple as I
am now?"

"You can not," said the manager.

"Then, sir," said Winnifred, rising from her chair, "let me say this.
Your offer is doubtless intended to be kind. Coming from the class you
do, and inspired by the ideas you are, you no doubt mean well. But let a
poor girl, friendless and alone, tell you that rather than accept such a
degradation she will die."

"Very good," said the manager.

"I go forth," cried Winnifred, "to perish."

"All right," said the manager.

The door closed behind her. Winnifred Clair, once more upon the street,
sank down upon the steps of the building in a swoon.

But at this very juncture Providence, which always watches over the
innocent and defenceless, was keeping its eye direct upon Winnifred.

At that very moment when our heroine sank fainting upon the doorstep, a
handsome equipage, drawn by two superb black steeds, happened to pass
along the street.

Its appearance and character proclaimed it at once to be one of those
vehicles in which only the superior classes of the exclusive aristocracy
are privileged to ride. Its sides were emblazoned with escutcheons,
insignia and other paraphernalia. The large gilt coronet that appeared
up its panelling, surmounted by a bunch of huckleberries, quartered in a
field of potatoes, indicated that its possessor was, at least, of the
rank of marquis. A coachman and two grooms rode in front, while two
footmen, seated in the boot, or box at the rear, contrived, by the
immobility of their attitude and the melancholy of their faces, to
inspire the scene with an exclusive and aristocratic grandeur.

The occupants of the equipage--for we refuse to count the menials as
being such--were two in number, a lady and gentleman, both of advanced
years. Their snow-white hair and benign countenances indicated that they
belonged to that rare class of beings to whom rank and wealth are but an
incentive to nobler things. A gentle philanthropy played all over their
faces, and their eyes sought eagerly in the passing scene of the humble
street for new objects of benefaction.

Those acquainted with the countenances of the aristocracy would have
recognized at once in the occupants of the equipage the Marquis of
Muddlenut and his spouse, the Marchioness.

It was the eye of the Marchioness which first detected the form of
Winnifred Clair upon the doorstep.

"Hold! pause! stop!" she cried, in lively agitation.

The horses were at once pulled in, the brakes applied to the wheels, and
with the aid of a powerful lever, operated by three of the menials, the
carriage was brought to a standstill.

"See! Look!" cried the Marchioness. "She has fainted. Quick, William,
your flask. Let us hasten to her aid."

In another moment the noble lady was bending over the prostrate form of
Winnifred Clair, and pouring brandy between her lips.

Winnifred opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she asked feebly.

"She speaks!" cried the Marchioness. "Give her another flaskful."

After the second flask the girl sat up.

"Tell me," she cried, clasping her hands, "what has happened? Where am
I?"

"With friends!" answered the Marchioness. "But do not essay to speak.
Drink this. You must husband your strength. Meantime, let us drive you
to your home."

Winnifred was lifted tenderly by the menservants into the aristocratic
equipage. The brake was unset, the lever reversed, and the carriage
thrown again into motion.

On the way Winnifred, at the solicitation of the Marchioness, related
her story.

"My poor child!" exclaimed the lady, "how you must have suffered. Thank
Heaven it is over now. To-morrow we shall call for you and bring you
away with us to Muddlenut Chase."

Alas, could she but have known it, before the morrow should dawn, worse
dangers still were in store for our heroine. But what these dangers
were, we must reserve for another chapter.

CHAPTER IV

A GAMBLING PARTY IN ST. JAMES'S CLOSE

We must now ask our readers to shift the scene--if they don't mind doing
this for us--to the apartments of the Earl of Wynchgate in St. James's
Close. The hour is nine o'clock in the evening, and the picture before
us is one of revelry and dissipation so characteristic of the nobility
of England. The atmosphere of the room is thick with blue Havana smoke
such as is used by the nobility, while on the green baize table a litter
of counters and cards, in which aces, kings, and even two spots are
heaped in confusion, proclaim the reckless nature of the play.

Seated about the table are six men, dressed in the height of fashion,
each with collar and white necktie and broad white shirt, their faces
stamped with all, or nearly all, of the baser passions of mankind.

Lord Wynchgate--for he it was who sat at the head of the table--rose
with an oath, and flung his cards upon the table.

All turned and looked at him, with an oath. "Curse it, Dogwood," he
exclaimed, with another oath, to the man who sat beside him. "Take the
money. I play no more to-night. My luck is out."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Lord Dogwood, with a third oath, "your mind is not on
the cards. Who is the latest young beauty, pray, who so absorbs you? I
hear a whisper in town of a certain misadventure of yours----"

"Dogwood," said Wynchgate, clenching his fist, "have a care, man, or you
shall measure the length of my sword."

Both noblemen faced each other, their hands upon their swords.

"My lords, my lords!" pleaded a distinguished-looking man of more
advanced years, who sat at one side of the table, and in whose features
the habitues of diplomatic circles would have recognized the handsome
lineaments of the Marquis of Frogwater, British Ambassador to Siam, "let
us have no quarrelling. Come, Wynchgate, come, Dogwood," he continued,
with a mild oath, "put up your swords. It were a shame to waste time in
private quarrelling. They may be needed all too soon in Cochin China,
or, for the matter of that," he added sadly, "in Cambodia or in Dutch
Guinea."

"Frogwater," said young Lord Dogwood, with a generous flush, "I was
wrong. Wynchgate, your hand."

The two noblemen shook hands.

"My friends," said Lord Wynchgate, "in asking you to abandon our game, I
had an end in view. I ask your help in an affair of the heart."

"Ha! excellent!" exclaimed the five noblemen. "We are with you heart and
soul."

"I propose this night," continued Wynchgate, "with your help, to carry
off a young girl, a female!"

"An abduction!" exclaimed the Ambassador somewhat sternly. "Wynchgate, I
cannot countenance this."

"Mistake me not," said the Earl, "I intend to abduct her. But I propose
nothing dishonourable. It is my firm resolve to offer her marriage."

"Then," said Lord Frogwater, "I am with you."

"Gentlemen," concluded Wynchgate, "all is ready. The coach is below. I
have provided masks, pistols, and black cloaks. Follow me."

A few moments later, a coach, with the blinds drawn, in which were six
noblemen armed to the teeth, might have been seen, were it not for the
darkness, approaching the humble lodging in which Winnifred Clair was
sheltered.

But what it did when it got there, we must leave to another chapter.

CHAPTER V

THE ABDUCTION

The hour was twenty minutes to ten on the evening described in our last
chapter.

Winnifred Clair was seated, still fully dressed, at the window of the
bedroom, looking out over the great city.

A light tap came at the door.

"If it's a fried egg," called Winnifred softly, "I do not need it. I ate
yesterday."

"No," said the voice of the Landlady. "You are wanted below."

"I!" exclaimed Winnifred, "below!"

"You," said the Landlady, "below. A party of gentlemen have called for
you."

"Gentlemen," exclaimed Winnifred, putting her hand to her brow in
perplexity, "for me! at this late hour! Here! This evening! In this
house?"

"Yes," repeated the Landlady, "six gentlemen. They arrived in a closed
coach. They are all closely masked and heavily armed. They beg you will
descend at once."

"Just Heaven!" cried the Unhappy Girl. "Is it possible that they mean to
abduct me?"

"They do," said the Landlady. "They said so!"

"Alas!" cried Winnifred, "I am powerless. Tell them"--she
hesitated--"tell them I will be down immediately. Let them not come up.
Keep them below on any pretext. Show them an album. Let them look at the
goldfish. Anything, but not here! I shall be ready in a moment."

Feverishly she made herself ready. As hastily as possible she removed
all traces of tears from her face. She threw about her shoulders an
opera cloak, and with a light Venetian scarf half concealed the beauty
of her hair and features. "Abducted!" she murmured, "and by six of them!
I think she said six. Oh, the horror of it!" A touch of powder to her
cheeks and a slight blackening of her eyebrows, and the courageous girl
was ready.

Lord Wynchgate and his companions--for they it was, that is to say, they
were it--sat below in the sitting-room looking at the albums. "Woman,"
said Lord Wynchgate to the Landlady, with an oath, "let her hurry up. We
have seen enough of these. We can wait no longer."

"I am here," cried a clear voice upon the threshold, and Winnifred stood
before them. "My lords, for I divine who you are and wherefore you have
come, take me, do your worst with me, but spare, oh, spare this humble
companion of my sorrow."

"Right-oh!" said Lord Dogwood, with a brutal laugh.

"Enough," exclaimed Wynchgate, and seizing Winnifred by the waist, he
dragged her forth out of the house and out upon the street.

But something in the brutal violence of his behaviour seemed to kindle
for the moment a spark of manly feeling, if such there were, in the
breasts of his companions.

"Wynchgate," cried young Lord Dogwood, "my mind misgives me. I doubt if
this is a gentlemanly thing to do. I'll have no further hand in it."

A chorus of approval from his companions endorsed his utterance. For a
moment they hesitated.

"Nay," cried Winnifred, turning to confront the masked faces that stood
about her, "go forward with your fell design. I am here. I am helpless.
Let no prayers stay your hand. Go to it."

"Have done with this!" cried Wynchgate, with a brutal oath. "Shove her
in the coach."

But at the very moment the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard, and a
clear, ringing, manly, well-toned, vibrating voice cried, "Hold! Stop!
Desist! Have a care, titled villain, or I will strike you to the earth."

A tall aristocratic form bounded out of the darkness.

"Gentlemen," cried Wynchgate, releasing his hold upon the frightened
girl, "we are betrayed. Save yourselves. To the coach."

In another instant the six noblemen had leaped into the coach and
disappeared down the street.

Winnifred, still half inanimate with fright, turned to her rescuer, and
saw before her the form and lineaments of the Unknown Stranger, who had
thus twice stood between her and disaster. Half fainting, she fell
swooning into his arms.

"Dear lady," he exclaimed, "rouse yourself. You are safe. Let me restore
you to your home!"

"That voice!" cried Winnifred, resuming consciousness. "It is my
benefactor."

She would have swooned again, but the Unknown lifted her bodily up the
steps of her home and leant her against the door.

"Farewell," he said, in a voice resonant with gloom.

"Oh, sir!" cried the unhappy girl, "let one who owes so much to one who
has saved her in her hour of need at least know his name."

But the stranger, with a mournful gesture of farewell, had disappeared
as rapidly as he had come.

But, as to why he had disappeared, we must ask our reader's patience for
another chapter.

CHAPTER VI

THE UNKNOWN

The scene is now shifted, sideways and forwards, so as to put it at
Muddlenut Chase, and to make it a fortnight later than the events
related in the last chapter.

Winnifred is now at the Chase as the guest of the Marquis and
Marchioness. There her bruised soul finds peace.

The Chase itself was one of those typical country homes which are, or
were till yesterday, the glory of England. The approach to the Chase lay
through twenty miles of glorious forest, filled with fallow deer and
wild bulls. The house itself, dating from the time of the Plantagenets,
was surrounded by a moat covered with broad lilies and floating green
scum. Magnificent peacocks sunned themselves on the terraces, while
from the surrounding shrubberies there rose the soft murmur of doves,
pigeons, bats, owls and partridges.

Here sat Winnifred Clair day after day upon the terrace recovering her
strength, under the tender solicitude of the Marchioness.

Each day the girl urged upon her noble hostess the necessity of her
departure. "Nay," said the Marchioness, with gentle insistence, "stay
where you are. Your soul is bruised. You must rest."

"Alas," cried Winnifred, "who am I that I should rest? Alone, despised,
buffeted by fate, what right have I to your kindness?"

"Miss Clair," replied the noble lady, "wait till you are stronger. There
is something that I wish to say to you."

Then at last, one morning when Winnifred's temperature had fallen to
ninety-eight point three, the Marchioness spoke.

"Miss Clair," she said, in a voice which throbbed with emotion,
"Winnifred, if I may so call you, Lord Muddlenut and I have formed a
plan for your future. It is our dearest wish that you should marry our
son."

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