 Chapter 11 Part 2 and Chapter 12 of Something New. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Something New by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 11 Part 2 Freddie was not the only person who had found the influx of visitors into the sick room a source of irritation. The fact that the invalid seemed unable to get a moment to himself had annoyed Ash considerably. For some little time he had hung about the passage in which Freddie's room was situated, full of enterprise, but unable to make a forward move owing to the throng of sympathizers. What he had to say to the sufferer could not be said in the presence of a third party. Freddie's sensation on perceiving him was one of relief. He had been half afraid it was the bishop. He recognized Ash as the valet chap who had helped him to bed on the occasion of his accident. It might be that he had come in a respectful way to make inquiries, but he was not likely to stop long. He nodded and went on reading, and then, glancing up, he perceived Ash standing beside the bed fixing him with a piercing stare. The honorable Freddie hated piercing stares. One of the reasons why he objected to being left alone with his future father-in-law, Mr. J. Preston Peters, was that nature had given the millionaire a penetrating pair of eyes, and the stress of business life in New York had developed in him a habit of boring holes in people with them. A young man had to have a stronger nerve and a clearer conscience than the honorable Freddie to enjoy a tate-a-tate with Mr. Peters. Though he accepted Aileen's father as a necessary evil and recognized that his position entitled him to look at people as sharply as he liked whatever their feelings, he would be hanged if he was going to extend this privilege to Mr. Peters' valet. This man standing beside him was giving him a look that seemed to his sensitive imagination to have been fired red-hot from a gun, and this annoyed and exasperated Freddie. What do you want? he said quarrelously. What are you staring at me like that for? Ash sat down, leaned his elbows on the bed, and applied the look again from a lower elevation. Ah, he said. Whatever may have been Ash's defects, so far as the handling of the inductive reasoning side of Gridley Quayle's character was concerned, there was one scene in each of his stories in which he never failed. That was the scene in the last chapter where Quayle, confronting his quarry, unmasked him. Quayle might have floundered in the earlier part of the story, but in his big scene he was exactly right. He was curt, crisp, and mercilessly compelling. Ash, rehearsing this interview in the passage before his entry, had decided that he could hardly do better than model himself on the detective, so he began to be curt, crisp, and mercilessly compelling to Freddie, and after the first few sentences he had that youth gasping for air. I will tell you, he said. If you can spare me a few moments of your valuable time, I will put the facts before you. Yes, press that bell if you wish, and I will put them before witnesses. Lord Emsworth will no doubt be pleased to learn that his son, whom he trusted, is a thief. Freddie's hand fell limply. The bell remained untouched. His mouth opened to its fullest extent. In the midst of his panic he had a curious feeling that he had heard or read that last sentence somewhere before. Then he remembered. Those very words occurred in Gridley Quayle Investigator, the adventure of the Blue Ruby. What, what do you mean, he stammered? I will tell you what I mean. On Saturday night a valuable scarab was stolen from Lord Emsworth's private museum. The case was put into my hands. Great, Scott, are you a detective? Ah, said Ash. Life, as many a worthy writer has pointed out, is full of ironies. It seemed to Freddie that here was a supreme example of this fact. All these years he had wanted to meet a detective, and now that his wish had been gratified the detective was detecting him. The case, continued Ash severely, was placed in my hands. I investigated it. I discovered that you were in urgent and immediate need of money. How on earth did you do that? Ah, said Ash. I further discovered that you were in communication with an individual named Jones. Good Lord, how? Ash smiled quietly. Yesterday I had a talk with this man Jones who was staying in market blandings. Why is he staying in market blandings? Because he had a reason for keeping in touch with you, because you were about to transfer to his care something you could get possession of, but which only he could dispose of, the scarab. The Honorable Freddie was beyond speech. He made no comment on this statement. Ash continued. I interviewed this man Jones. I said to him, I am in the Honorable Frederick Threepwood's confidence. I know everything. Have you any instructions for me? He replied, what do you know? I answered, I know that the Honorable Frederick Threepwood has something he wishes to hand to you, but which he has been unable to hand to you owing to having had an accident and being confined to his room. He then told me to tell you to let him have the scarab by messenger. Freddie pulled himself together with an effort. He was in sore straits, but he saw one last chance. Researches in detective fiction had given him the knowledge that detectives occasionally relaxed their austerity when dealing with a deserving case. Even gridly quail could sometimes be softened by a hard luck story. Freddie could recall half a dozen times when a detected criminal had been spared by him because he had done it all from the best motives. He determined to throw himself on Ash's mercy. I say, you know, he said ingratiatingly. I think it's badly marvelous the way you've deduced everything and so on. Well, but I believe you would chuck it if you heard my side of the case. I know your side of the case. You think you are being blackmailed by a Miss Valentine for some letters you once wrote her. You are not. Miss Valentine has destroyed the letters. She told the man Jones so when he went to see her in London. Put your 500 pounds and is trying to get another thousand out of you under false pretenses. What? You can't be right. I am always right. You must be mistaken. I am never mistaken. But how do you know? I have my sources of information. She isn't going to sue me for breach of promise. She never had any intention of doing so. The honorable Freddie sank back on the pillows. Good egg, he said with fervor, he beamed happily. This, he observed, is a bit of all right. For a space relief held him dumb. Then another aspect of the matter struck him and he sat up again with a jerk. I say, you don't mean to say that that Rotter Jones was such a Rotter as to do a Rotten thing like that. I do, Freddie grew plaintive. I trusted that man, he said. I jolly well trusted him absolutely. I know, said Ash, there is one born every minute. But the things seem to be filtering slowly into Freddie's intelligence. What I mean to say is I thought he was such a good chap. My short acquaintance with Mr. Jones, said Ash, leads me to think that he probably is to himself. I won't have anything more to do with him. I shouldn't dash it. I'll tell you what I'll do. The very next time I meet the blighter, I'll cut him dead, I will. The Rotter 500 quid he's had off me for nothing. And if it hadn't been for you, he'd have had another thousand. I'm beginning to think that my old governor wasn't so far wrong when he used to curse me for going around with Jones and the rest of that crowd. He knew a bit by Gad. While I'm through with them, if the governor ever lets me go to London again, I won't have anything to do with them. I'll jolly well cut the whole bunch. And to think that if it hadn't been for you, never mind that, said Ash, give me the scarab. Where is it? What are you going to do with it? Restore it to its rightful owner. Are you going to give me away to the governor? I am not. It strikes me, said Freddie, gratefully, that you are a dashed good sort. You seem to me to have the making of an absolute topper. It's under the mattress. I had it on me when I fell downstairs and I had to shove it in there. Ash drew it out. He stood looking at it, absorbed. He could hardly believe his quest was at an end and that a small fortune lay in the palm of his hand. Freddie was eyeing him, admiringly. You know, he said, I've always wanted to meet a detective. What beats me is how you chapies find out things. We have our methods. I believe you. You're a blooming marvel. What first puts you on my track? That, said Ash, would take too long to explain. Of course I had to do some tense inductive reasoning, but I cannot trace every link in the chain for you. It would be tedious. Not to me, some other time. I say, I wonder whether you've ever read any of these things, these gridly quail stories. I know them by heart. With the scarab safely in his pocket, Ash could contemplate the brightly colored volume the other extended toward him without active repulsion. Already he was beginning to feel a sort of sentiment for the depressing quail, as something that had once formed part of his life. Do you read these things? I should say not. I write them. There are certain supreme moments that cannot be adequately described. Freddie's appreciation of the fact that such a moment had occurred in his life expressed itself in a startled cry and a convulsive movement of all his limbs. He shot up from the pillows and gaped at Ash. You write them? You don't mean write them? Yes. Great, Scott! He would have gone on doubtless to say more, but at this moment voices made themselves heard outside the door. There was a movement of feet. Then the door opened and a small procession entered. It was headed by the Earl of Emsworth. Following him came Mr. Peters, and in the wake of the millionaire were Colonel Horace Mant and the efficient Baxter. They filed into the room and stood by the bedside. Ash seized the opportunity to slip out. Freddie glanced at the deputation without interest. His mind was occupied with other matters. He supposed they had come to inquire after his ankle, and he was mildly thankful that they had come in a body instead of one by one. The deputation grouped itself about the bed and shuffled its feet. There was an atmosphere of awkwardness. Er, Frederick, said Lord Emsworth, Freddie, my boy. Mr. Peters fiddled dumbly with the coverlet. Colonel Mant cleared his throat. The efficient Baxter scowled. Er, Freddie, my dear boy, I fear we have a painful task to perform. The words struck straight home at the honorable Freddie's guilty conscience. Had they too tracked him down? And was he now to be accused of having stolen that infernal scarab? A wave of relief swept over him as he realized that he had got rid of the thing. A decent chappy like that detective would not give him away. All he had to do was to keep his head and stick to stout denial. That was the game, stout denial. I don't know what you mean, he said defensively. Of course you don't dash it, said Colonel Mant. We're coming to that. And I should like to begin by saying that though in a sense it was my fault, I failed to see how I could have acted horus. Oh, very well, I was only trying to explain. Lord Emsworth adjusted his ponsne and sought inspiration from the wallpaper. Freddie, my boy, he began. We have a somewhat unpleasant, a somewhat disturbing... We are compelled to break it to you. We are almost pained and astounded and the efficient Baxter spoke. It was plain he was in a bad temper. Miss Peters, he snapped, has eloped with your friend Emerson. Lord Emsworth breathed a sigh of relief. Exactly, Baxter, precisely. You have put the thing in a nutshell. Really, my dear fellow, you are invaluable. All eyes searched Freddie's face for signs of uncontrollable emotion. The deputation waited anxiously for his first grief-stricken cry. A what, said Freddie? It is quite true, Freddie, my dear boy. She went to London with him on the 1050. And if I had not been forcibly restrained, said Baxter acidly, casting a vindictive look at Colonel Mant, I could have prevented it. Colonel Mant cleared his throat again and put a hand to his moustache. I'm afraid that is true, Freddie. It was a most unfortunate misunderstanding. I'll tell you how it happened. I chanced to be at the station, bookstall, when the train came in. Mr. Baxter was also in the station. The train pulled up and this young fellow Emerson got in. Said goodbye to us, don't you know, and got in. Just as the train was about to start, Miss Peters, exclaiming, George, dear, I'm going with you. Dash it. Or some such speech. Proceeded to go hell for leather to the door of young Emerson's compartment. On which, on which, interrupted Baxter, I made a spring to try and catch her. Apart from any other consideration, the train was already moving and Miss Peters ran considerable risk of injury. I had hardly moved when I felt a violent jerk at my ankle and fell to the ground. After I had recovered from the shock, which was not immediately, I found. The fact is, Freddie, my boy, the Colonel went on. I acted under a misapprehension. Nobody can be sorry or for the mistake than I. But recent events in this house had left me with the impression that Mr. Baxter here was not quite responsible for his actions. Overwork or something, I imagined. I have seen it happen so often in India, don't you know, where fellows run amok and kick up the deuce's own delight? I am bound to admit that I have been watching Mr. Baxter rather closely lately than the expectation that something of this very kind might happen. Of course, I now realize my mistake and I have apologized. Apologized humbly, dash it. But at the moment, I was firmly under the impression that our friend here had an attack of some kind and was about to inflict injuries on Miss Peters. If I've seen it happen once in India, I've seen it happen a dozen times. I recollect in the hot weather of the year 99, or was it 93? I think 93. One of my native bears, however, I sprang forward and caught the crook of my walking stick on Mr. Baxter's ankle and brought him down. And by the time explanations were made it was too late. The train had gone with Miss Peters in it. And a telegram has just arrived, said Lord Emsworth, to say that they are being married this afternoon at a registrar's. The whole occurrence is most disturbing. And, my boy, urged Colonel Mant. To all appearances, Freddie was bearing it magnificently. Not a single exclamation, either of wrath or pain, had escaped his lips. One would have said the shock had stunned him, or that he had not heard, for his face expressed no emotion whatever. The fact was, the story had made very little impression on the honorable Freddie of any sort. His relief at Ash's news about Joan Valentine, the stunning joy of having met in the flesh the author of The Adventures of Gridley Quail, the general feeling that all was now right with the world, these things deprived him of the ability to be greatly distressed. And there was a distinct feeling of relief, actual relief, that now it would not be necessary for him to get married. He had liked Aileen, but whenever he really thought of it, the prospect of getting married rather appalled him. A chap he looked such an ass getting married, it appeared, however, that some verbal comment on the state of affairs was required of him. He searched his mind for something adequate. You mean to say Aileen has bolted with Emerson? The deputation nodded, pained nods. Freddie searched in his mind again. The deputation held its breath. Well, I'm blowed, said Freddie, fancy that. Mr. Peters walked heavily into his room. Ash Marson was waiting for him there. He eyed Ash Dully. Pack, he said. Pack? Pack. We're getting out of here by the afternoon train. Has anything happened? My daughter has eloped with Emerson. What? Don't stand there saying what? Pack! Ash put his hand in his pocket. Where shall I put this? He asked. For a moment Mr. Peters looked without comprehension at what Ash was holding out. Then his whole demeanor altered. His eyes lit up. He uttered a howl of pure rapture. You got it! I got it. Where was it? Who took it? How did you choke it out of them? How did you find it? Who had it? I don't know whether I ought to say. I don't want to start anything. You won't tell anyone. Tell anyone what do you take me for? Do you think I'm going about advertising this? If I can sneak out without that fellow baxter jumping on my back, I shall be satisfied. You can take it for me that there won't be any sensational exposures if I can help it. Who had it? Young Threepwood. Threepwood? Why did he want it? He needed money and he was going to raise it on Mr. Peters exploded. And I have been kicking because Aileen can't marry him and has gone off with a regular fellow like young Emerson. He's a good boy, young Emerson. I knew his folks. He'll make a name for himself one of these days. He's got get up in him. And I have been waiting to shoot him because he has taken Aileen away from that goggle I'd chomp up in bed there. Why, if she had married Threepwood, I should have had grandchildren who would have sneaked my watch while I was dancing them on my knee. There is a taint of some sort in the whole family. Father sneaks my chiops and sonny sneaks it from father. What a gang. And the best blood in England. If that's England's idea of good blood, give me Hoboken. This settles it. I was a chump ever to come to a country like this. Property isn't safe here. I'm going back to America on the next boat. I'm going to write you that check right away. You've earned it. Listen, young man, I don't know what your ideas are, but if you aren't chained to this country, I'll make it worth your while to stay on with me. They say no one's indispensable, but you come mighty near it. If I had you at my elbow for a few years, I'd get right back into shape. I'm feeling better now than I have felt in years, and you've only just started in on me. How about it? You can call yourself what you like. Secretary or trainer or whatever suits you best. What you will be is the fellow who makes me take exercise and stop smoking cigars and generally looks after me. How do you feel about it? It was a proposition that appealed both to Ash's commercial and to his missionary instincts. His only regret had been that the scarab recovered he and Mr. Peters would now, he supposed, part company. He had not liked the idea of sending the millionaire back to the world a half cured man. Already he had begun to look on him in the light of a piece of creative work to which he had just said his hand. But the thought of Joan gave him pause. If this meant separation from Joan, it was not to be considered. Let me think it over, he said. Well, think quick, said Mr. Peters. It has been said by those who have been through fires, earthquakes, and shipwrecks that in such times of stress the social barriers are temporarily broken down and the spectacle may be seen of persons of the highest social standing speaking quite freely to persons who are not in society at all and of quite nice people addressing others to whom they have never been introduced. The news of Aileen Peters' elopement with George Emerson, carried beyond the Green Bay's door by Slingsby, the chauffeur, produced very much the same state of affairs in the servants' quarters at Landings Castle. It was not only that Slingsby was permitted to penetrate into the housekeeper's room and tell his story to his social superiors there, though that was an absolutely unprecedented occurrence. What was really extraordinary was that mere menials discussed the affair with the personal ladies and gentlemen of the castle guests and were allowed to do so, uncrushed. James, the footman, that pushing individual actually shoved his way into the room and was heard by witnesses to remark to no less a person than Mr. Beech that it was a bit thick. And it is on record that his fellow footman Alfred, meeting the groom of the chambers in the passage outside, positively prodded him in the lower ribs, winked and said, What a day we're having! One has to go back to the worst excesses of the French Revolution to parallel these outrages. It was held by Mr. Beech and Mrs. Twemlow afterward that the social fabric of the castle never fully recovered from this upheaval. It may be they took an extreme view of the matter, but it cannot be denied that it wrought changes. The rise of Slingsby is a case in point. Until this affair took place, the chauffeur's standing had never been satisfactorily settled. Mr. Beech and Mrs. Twemlow led the party which considered that he was merely a species of coachman. But there was a smaller group which dazzled by Slingsby's personality. Openly declared it was not right that he should take his meals in the servants' hall with such admitted plebeians as the odd man in the storage room footman. The Aileen Georgie Lopment settled the point once and for all. Slingsby had carried George's bag to the train. Slingsby had been standing a few yards from the spot where Aileen began her dash for the carriage door. Slingsby was able to exhibit the actual half-sovereign with which George had tipped him only five minutes before the great event. To send such a public man back to the servants' hall was impossible. By unspoken consent, the chauffeur dined that night in the storage room from which he was never dislodged. Mr. Judson alone stood apart from the throng that clustered about the chauffeur. He was suffering the bitterness of the supplanted. A brief while before, and he had been the central figure with his story of the letter he had found in the Honorable Freddie's coat pocket. Now the importance of his story had been engulfed in that of this later and greater sensation. Mr. Judson was learning for the first time on what unstable foundation's popularity stands. Joan was nowhere to be seen. In none of the spots where she might have been expected to be at such a time was she to be found. Ash had almost given up the search when going to the back door and looking out as a last chance, he perceived her walking slowly on the gravel drive. She greeted Ash with a smile, but something was plainly troubling her. She did not speak for a moment, and they walked side by side. What is it? said Ash at length. What is the matter? She looked at him gravely. Gloom, she said. Despondency, Mr. Marston. A sort of flat feeling. Don't you hate things happening? I don't quite understand. While this affair of Aileen, for instance, it's so big it makes one feel as though the whole world had altered. I should like nothing to happen ever, and life just to jog peacefully along. That's not the gospel I preached to you in Arundel Street, is it? I thought I was an advanced apostle of action, but I seem to have changed. I'm afraid I shall never be able to make clear what I do mean. I only know I feel as though I have suddenly grown old. These things are such milestones. Already I am beginning to look on the time before Aileen behaved so sensationally as terribly remote. Tomorrow it will be worse, and the day after that worse still. I can see that you don't in the least understand what I mean. Yes I do, or I think I do. What it comes to in a few words is that somebody you were fond of has gone out of your life, is that it? Joan nodded. Yes, at least that is partly it. I didn't really know Aileen particularly well beyond having been at school with her, but you're right. It's not so much what has happened as what it represents that matters. This elopement has marked the end of a phase of my life. I think I have it now. My life has been such a series of jerks. I dash along, then something happens which stops that bit of my life with a jerk, and then I have to start over again, a new bit. I think I'm getting tired of jerks. I want something stodgy and continuous. I'm like one of the old bus horses that could go on forever if people got off without making them stop. It's the having to get the bus moving again that wears one out. This little section of my life since we came here is over, and it is finished for good. I've got to start the bus going again on a new road and with a new set of passengers. I wonder whether the old horses used to be sorry when they dropped one lot of passengers and took on a lot of strangers. A sudden dryness invaded Ash's throat. He tried to speak but found no words. Joan went on. Do you ever get moods when life seems absolutely meaningless? It's like a badly constructed story with all sorts of characters moving in and out who have nothing to do with the plot. And when somebody comes along that you think really has something to do with the plot, he suddenly drops out. After a while you begin to wonder what the story is about and you feel that it's about nothing, just a jumble. There is one thing, said Ash, that knits it together. What is that? The love interest. Their eyes met and suddenly they descended on Ash's confidence. He felt cool and alert, sure of himself, as in the old days he had felt when he ran races and the nerve-wracking hours of waiting past, he listened for the starter's gun. Subconsciously he was aware he had always been a little afraid of Joan and that now he was no longer afraid. Joan, will you marry me? Her eyes wandered from his face. He waited. I wonder, she said softly. You think that is the solution? Yes. How can you tell, she broke out. We scarcely know each other. I shan't always be in this mood. I may get restless again. Mind it is the jerks that I really like. You won't. You're very confident. I am absolutely confident. She travels fastest who travels alone, misquoted Joan. What is the good, said Ash, of traveling fast if you're going round in a circle? I know how you feel. I felt the same myself. You are an individualist. You think there is something tremendous just round the corner and that you can get it if you try hard enough. Or if there is, it isn't worth getting. Life is nothing but a mutual aid association. I am going to help old Peters. You are going to help me. I am going to help you. Help me to do what? Make life coherent instead of a jumble. Mr. Marson. Don't call me, Mr. Marson. Ash, you don't know what you are doing. You don't know me. I've been knocking about the world for five years and I'm hard. Hard right through. I could make you wretched. You are not in the least hard and you know it. Listen to me, Joan. Where is your sense of fairness? You crash into my life, turn it upside down, dig me out of my quiet groove, revolutionize my whole existence, and now you propose to drop me and pay no further attention to me. Is it fair? But I don't. We shall always be the best of friends. We shall, but we will get married first. You are determined? I am. Joan laughed happily. How perfectly splendid. I was terrified lest I might have made you change your mind. I had to say all I did to preserve my self-respect after proposing to you. Yes, I did. How strange it is that men never seem to understand a woman, however plainly she talks. You don't think I was really worrying because I had lost Aline, do you? I thought I was going to lose you and it made me miserable. You couldn't expect me to say it in so many words, but I thought, I was hoping, you guessed, I practically said it. Ash, what are you doing? Ash paused for a moment to reply. I am kissing you, he said. But you mustn't. There's a scullery maid or somebody looking through the kitchen window. She will see us. Ash drew her to him. Scullery maids have few pleasures, he said. There is a adult life. Let her see us. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12. The Earl of Embsworth sat by the sick bed and regarded the Honorable Freddie almost tenderly. I fear, Freddie, my dear boy, this has been a great shock to you. Eh, what? Yes, rather, deuce of a shock, Governor. I have been thinking it over, my boy, and perhaps I have been a little hard on you. When your ankle is better, I have decided to renew your allowance and you may return to London as you do not seem happy in the country, though how any reasonable being can prefer the Honorable Freddie-started Popeye to a sitting posture. My word, not really, his father nodded. I say, Governor, you really are a topper. You really are, you know. I know just how you feel about the country and the jolly old birds and trees and chasing the valley slugs off the young geraniums and all that sort of thing. But somehow it's never quite hit me the same way. It's way unbuilt, I suppose. I like asphalt streets and crowds and taxis and meeting chapies at the club and popping in at the empire for half an hour and so forth. And there's something about having an allowance, I don't know, sort of makes you chuck your chest out and feel you're someone. I don't know how to thank you, Governor. You're an absolute sportsman. This is the most priceless bit of work you've ever done. I feel like a two-year-old. I don't know when I felt so braced. I really, you know, Governor, I'm most awfully grateful. Exactly, said Lord Emsworth. Ah, precisely. But Freddie, my boy, he added, not without pathos. There was just one thing more. Do you think that with an effort, for my sake, you could endeavor this time not to make a damned fool of yourself? He eyed his offspring wistfully. Governor, said the Honorable Freddie firmly, I'll have a jolly good stab at it. End of Chapter 12. End of Something New by P.G. Woodhouse.