The Greatest Works of P. G. Wodehouse. P. G. Wodehouse
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married, you know.”
“I did not know. And I am not sure that I altogether approve. Who is the lady?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, she’s a waitress.”
He leaped in his seat.
“You don’t say so, Mr. Wooster! This is remarkable. This is most cheering. I had not given the boy credit for such tenacity of purpose. An excellent trait in him which I had not hitherto suspected. I recollect clearly that, on the occasion when I first had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, nearly eighteen months ago, Richard was desirous of marrying this same waitress.”
I had to break it to him.
“Well, not absolutely this same waitress. In fact, quite a different waitress. Still, a waitress, you know.”
The light of avuncular affection died out of the old boy’s eyes.
“H’m!” he said, a bit dubiously. “I had supposed that Richard was displaying the quality of constancy which is so rare in the modern young man. I—I must think it over.”
So we left it at that, and I came away and told Bingo the position of affairs.
“Allowance O.K.,” I said. “Uncle blessing a trifle wobbly.”
“Doesn’t he seem to want the wedding-bells to ring out?”
“I left him thinking it over. If I were a bookie, I should feel justified in offering a hundred to eight against.”
“You can’t have approached him properly. I might have known you would muck it up,” said young Bingo. Which, considering what I had been through for his sake, struck me as a good bit sharper than a serpent’s tooth.
“It’s awkward,” said young Bingo. “It’s infernally awkward. I can’t tell you all the details at the moment, but—yes, it’s awkward.”
He helped himself absently to a handful of my cigars, and pushed off.
I DIDN’T see him again for three days. Early in the afternoon of the third day he blew in with a flower in his buttonhole and a look on his face as if someone had hit him behind the ear with a stuffed eel-skin.
“Hallo, Bertie!”
“Hallo, old turnip! Where have you been all this while?”
“Oh, here and there. Ripping weather we’re having, Bertie.”
“Not bad.”
“I see the Bank Rate is down again.”
“No, really?”
“Disturbing news from Lower Silesia, what?”
“Oh, dashed.”
He pottered about the room for a bit, babbling at intervals. The boy seemed cuckoo.
“Oh, I say, Bertie,” he said, suddenly, dropping a vase which he had picked off the mantelpiece and was fiddling with. “I know what it was I wanted to tell you. I’m married.”
I stared at him. That flower in his buttonhole. That dazed look. Yes, he had all the symptoms; and yet the thing seemed incredible. The fact is, I suppose, I’d seen so many of young Bingo’s love-affairs start off with a whoop and a rattle and poof themselves out half-way down the straight that I couldn’t believe he had actually brought it off at last.
“Married!”
“Yes. This morning, at a registrar’s in Holborn. I’ve just come from the wedding-breakfast.”
I sat up in my chair. Alert. The man of affairs. It seemed to me that this thing wanted threshing out in all its aspects.
“Let’s get this straight,” I said. “You’re really married?”
“Yes.”
“The same girl you were in love with the day before yesterday?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know what you’re like. Tell me, what made you commit this rash act?”
“I wish the deuce you wouldn’t talk like that. I married her because I love her, dash it. The best little woman,” said young Bingo, “in the world.”
“That’s all right, and deuced creditable, I’m sure. But have you reflected what your uncle’s going to say? The last I saw of him, he was by no means in a confetti-scattering mood.”
“Bertie,” said Bingo, “I’ll be frank with you. The little woman rather put it up to me, if you know what I mean. I told her how my uncle felt about it, and she said that we must part unless I loved her enough to brave the old boy’s wrath and marry her right away. So I had no alternative. I bought a buttonhole and went to it.”
“And what do you propose to do now?”
“Oh, I’ve got it all planned out. After you’ve seen my uncle and broken the news—”
“What!”
“After you’ve——”
“You don’t mean to say you think you’re going to lug me into it?”
He looked at me like Lilian Gish coming out of a swoon.
“Is this Bertie Wooster talking?” he said, pained.
“Yes, it jolly well is.”
“Bertie, old man,” said Bingo, patting me gently here and there, “reflect! We were at sch——”
“Oh, all right!”
“Good man! I knew I could rely on you. She’s waiting down below in the hall. We’ll pick her up and dash round to Pounceby Gardens right away.”
I HAD only seen the bride before in her waitress kit, and I was rather expecting that on her wedding day she would have launched out into something fairly zippy in the way of upholstery. The first gleam of hope I had felt since the start of this black business came to me when I saw that, instead of being all velvet and scent and flowery hat, she was dressed in dashed good taste. Quiet. Nothing loud. As far as looks went she might have stepped straight out of Berkeley Square.
“This is my old pal Bertie Wooster, darling,” said Bingo. “We were at school together, weren’t we, Bertie?”
“We were!” I said. “How do you do? I think we—er—met at lunch the other day, didn’t we?”
“Oh, yes. How do you do?”
“My uncle eats out of Bertie’s hand,” explained Bingo. “So he’s coming round with us to start things off and kind of pave the way. Hi, taxi!”
We didn’t talk much on the journey. Kind of tense feeling. I was glad when the cab stopped at old Bittlesham’s wigwam and we all hopped out. I left Bingo and wife in the hall, while I went upstairs to the drawing-room, and the butler toddled off to dig out the big chief.
While I was prowling about the room, waiting for him to show up, I suddenly caught sight of that bally “Woman Who Braved All” lying on one of the tables. It was open at page two hundred and fifteen, and a passage heavily marked in pencil caught my eye. And directly I read it, I saw that it was all to the mustard and was going to help me in my business.
This was the passage:—
“What can prevail”—Millicent’s eyes flashed as she faced the stern old man—“what can prevail against a pure and all-consuming love? Neither principalities nor powers, my lord, nor all the puny prohibitions of guardians and parents. I love your son, Lord Windermere, and nothing can keep us apart. Since time first began, this love of ours was fated, and who are you to pit yourself against the decrees of Fate?”
The earl looked at her keenly from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
“Humph!” he said.
Before I had