Doctor Sally

by P. G. Wodehouse

“Just playing sol-i-taire….

  “Stop it!”

  “Stop playing?”

  “Stop yowling.”

  “Oh, right-ho.”

  Bill rose and surveyed the card-strewn table with an unfriendly eye.

  “Do you mean to say you really get any pleasure out of that rotten game?”

  “Darned good game,” protested Lord Tidmouth. He manipulated the cards.” Did you ever hear the story of the ventriloquist who played solitaire? He used to annoy his wife by holding long conversations with himself in his sleep. It became such a trial to the poor woman that she had serious thoughts of getting a divorce. And then one evening, by the greatest good luck, he caught himself cheating at solitaire, and never spoke to himself again.”

  “Silly idiot!”

  “Harsh words, old man, from host to guest. Nice place you’ve got here, Bill.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “Been in the family quite a time, I take it?”

  “A few centuries.”

  Bill’s manner became furtive. He glanced to and fro in a conspiratorial fashion. It seemed that whatever had been on his mind all the evening was coming to a head.

  “Squiffy!”

  “Hullo?”

  “Where’s my uncle?”

  “Out in the corridor putting vigorously. What a man!”

  “Thank God, that’ll keep him occupied for a while. Squiffy, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Carry on, old boy.”

  “To-night I—”’

  He broke off. A stout figure, swathed in a mauve smoking-jacket and carrying a putter, had entered.

  “It’s coming!” said Sir Hugo Drake joyfully.” The knack is coming. I’m getting it. Four out of my last seven shots straight into the glass.”

  “I think I’ll take a shot in a glass myself,” said Lord Tidmouth, rising and making for the table where the decanter and siphon so invitingly stood.

  “I fancy I have at last found out what has been wrong with my putting…. William!”

  “Hullo?”

  “I say I think I have at last found out what has been wrong with my putting.”

  “Oh!”

  “I’ve been gripping too tight. How right that girl was. ‘Grip firmly but lightly,’ she said; ‘that’s the secret.’ It stands to reason— “Excuse me,” said Bill, and removed himself with the smooth swiftness of a family ghost.

  Sir Hugo stood staring after him. This was not the first time activity of this sort had suddenly descended upon his nephew in the middle of a conversation. He did not like it. Apart from the incivility of it, it seemed to him ominous. He confided this fear to Lord Tidmouth, who was still occupied with his spot.

  “Lord Tidmouth!”

  His companion lowered his glass courteously.

  “Present!” he said.” Here in person.”

  Sir Hugo jerked a thumb towards the door.

  “Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “Did you see the curious, sudden way that boy left the room?”

  “He did move fairly nippily,” agreed Lord Tidmouth.” Now you saw him and now you didn’t, as it were.

  “He has been like that ever since he got home— nervous, rude, jumpy, abrupt.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed he’s been a bit jumpy.”

  “What do you suppose is the matter with him?”

  “Not been eating enough yeast,” said Lord Tidmouth confidently.

  “No! He’s in love.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m sure of it, I noticed it the day I arrived here. I had begun to tell him about the long brassie-shot I made at the sixteenth hole and he gave a sort of hollow gasp and walked away.”

  “Walked away?”

  “Walked away in the middle of a sentence. The boy’s in love. There can be no other explanation.”

  Lord Tidmouth considered.

  “Now I come to remember it, he did say something to me down at that seaside place about being in love.”

  “I was sure of it. William is pining for that peroxide woman.

  “You mean Lottie?”

  “The flashy young person I sent to the sanatorium.”

  “I don’t think so. I have an idea he told me he was in love with someone else.”

  Sir Hugo was not a man who took kindly to having his diagnoses questioned.

  “Absurd! Nothing of the kind. Do you think I don’t know what I’m talking about? He was infatuated with that young woman then, and he’s still infatuated with her. Possibly we ought not to be surprised. After all, they parted only a mere two weeks ago. But I confess I am much disturbed.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  A senile cunning gleamed from Sir Hugo’s eyes.

  “Rather ask what I have done about it.”

  “Well, what have you done about it?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Then why did you tell me to ask?” said Lord Tidmouth, justly aggrieved.

  He went to the table and mixed himself another whisky-and-soda with an injured air. Sir Hugo was far too occupied to observe it.

  “Young man,” he said, “have you ever studied psychology?”

  “Psy—”

  “—chology.”

  Lord Tidmouth shook his head.

  “Well, no,” he said, “not to any great extent. They didn’t teach me much at school except the difference between right and wrong. There is some difference, but I’ve forgotten what.”

  “Have you ever asked yourself what is the secret of the glamour which this young woman exercises over William?”

  “I suppose it’s the same she used to exercise over me. Used to be married to her once, don’t you know?”

  “What!”

  “Oh, yes. But it blew over.”

  Sir Hugo considered this unforeseen piece of information. He seemed to be turning it over in his mind.

  “I cannot decide whether that is good or bad.”

  “Bit of both, I found it.”

  “I mean, whether it helps my plan or not.”

  “What plan?”

  “It is based on psychology. I ask myself, ‘What is this young person’s attraction for William based on?’”

  “Psychology?” asked Lord Tidmouth, who was becoming fogged.

  “It is due to the fact that he has encountered her so far only in the gaudy atmosphere of hotels and dance-halls—her natural setting. But suppose he should see her in the home of his ancestors, where every stick and stone breathes of family traditions, beneath the eyes of the family portraits? What then?”

  “I’ll bite. What?”

  “She would disgust him. His self-respect would awaken. The scales would fall from his eyes, and his infatuation would wither and decay. Whatever his faults, William is a Bannister.”

  “In that case it might be a sound scheme to invite her down here for a visit.”

  Sir Hugo chucked.

  “Ha, ha! Young man, can you keep a secret?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

  “Well, let me tell you this, Lord Tidmouth. I have the situation well in hand. Youth,” said Sir Hugo, “may fancy it can control its own destiny, but age, with its riper wisdom, is generally able, should the occasion arise, to lay it a stymie. Excuse me, I must go and putt.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  LORD TIDMOUTH resumed his solitaire. He was glad Sir Hugo had left him. He had nothing specific against the old buster, but it was pleasanter to be alone. Presently he was deep in his game once more, and singing like a nightingale.

  “My strength’s a something—something …“

  sang Lord Tidmouth. And then, more confidently, as one feeling himself on secure ground:

  “And a right good shield of hides untanned….“

  He put a red five on a black six.

  “And a right good shield of hides untanned….“

  A four of clubs went on the red five.

  “Which on my arm I be
r-huckle….”

  A slight but definite sound as of one in pain, coming from his immediate rear, aroused him, and he turned. He perceived his friend William Bannister.

  “Hullo, Bill, old man! You back?”

  Bill was looking cautiously about him.

  “Where’s my uncle?”

  “Just oozed off. Want me to call him?”

  “Good heavens, no! Squiffy—”

  “Hullo?”

  Bill did not reply for a few moments. These moments he occupied in wandering in a rather feverish manner about the room, fiddling with various objects that came in his path. He halted at the mantelpiece, gazed for a while at the portrait of his great-grand-father which hung above it; quickly wearied of the spectacle and resumed his prowling. Lord Tidmouth watched him with growing disapproval. Between Sir Hugo Drake and this William his quiet, peaceful evening was being entirely disorganized.

  “Squiffy!” said Bill, halting suddenly.

  “Still here,” replied Lord Tidmouth plaintively.” What’s the idea? Training for a marathon?”

  “Squiffy,” said Bill, “listen to me. We’re pals, aren’t we?”

  “Absolutely. Bosom is the way I should put it.”

  “Very well, then. I want you to do me a great service.”

  “What?”

  “Get my uncle out of the way to-night.”

  “Murder him?”

  “If you like. Anyway, go to his room with him and see that he gets to sleep. To-night I want to be alone.”

  Lord Tidmouth had listened so far, but he refused to listen any further without lodging a definite protest. It was not so much the fact that, having been invited down to this place for a restful visit, he found himself requested by his host to go and tell his uncle bedtime stories; what was jarring his sensitive soul was the sinister atmosphere his old friend had begun to create.

  “Bill, old man,” he said, “you’re being very mysterious this p.m. You shimmer about and dash in and out of rooms and make dark, significant speeches. All you need is a mask and false whiskers, and you could step into any mystery play and no questions asked. What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  “You forgot to say ‘Hist!’”

  Bill drew a chair up, and sank his voice to a whisper.

  “I’ve got a big thing on to-night, and I must not be interrupted.”

  The pained look on Lord Tidmouth’s face deepened. Of course, he supposed, it didn’t really matter, seeing that they were alone, but he did wish that Bill could conduct a chat with an old crony without converting it into something that suggested an executive session of the “Black Hand“ or a conference between apaches in some underground den in Montmartre.

  “Old egg,” he said, “do stop being mysterious. A big thing, you say? Well, tell me in a frank, manly way what it is. Get it right off your chest, and we’ll both feel easier.”

  Bill mused, as if seeking words.

  “Well, if you want the thing in a nutshell, to-night, Squiffy, I put my fate to the test—to win or lose it all, as the poet says.”

  “What poet?”

  “What the devil does it matter what poet?”

  “I merely asked.”

  “Montrose, if you really want to know.”

  “I don’t.”

  Bill rose and resumed his pacing.

  “Squiffy, do you know what it is to be in love?”

  “Do I!” Lord Tidmouth spoke with a specialist’s briskness.” My dear chap, except for an occasional rainy Monday, I don’t suppose I’ve been out of love in the last six years. If you think a man can accumulate four wives without knowing what it is to be in love, try it and see.”

  “Well, I’m in love—so much in love that I could howl like a dog.” He broke off and regarded his companion sharply.” I suppose,” he said, “you’re going to ask ‘What dog?’”

  “No, no,” Lord Tidmouth assured him. He knew —no man better—that there were all sorts of dogs: mastiffs, Pekes, Alsatians, Aberdeen terriers—scores of them. He had had no intention of saying ‘What dog?’

  Bill clenched his hands.

  “It’s awful! It’s killing me!”

  Lord Tidmouth was impressed.

  “Bill, old man,” he said, “this is serious news. We all thought you had got over it. So your old uncle was actually right! Well, well!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I felt all along,” proceeded Lord Tidmouth, “that something like this would happen. I wanted to warn you at the time. You see, having been married to her myself, I know her fascination. Yes, I nearly warned you at the time. ‘Bill, old bird,’ I came within a toucher of saying, ‘pause before it is too late!’ And now she’s in a sanatorium, and you’re pining for her. Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand—”

  Bill stared an unfriendly stare.

  “What on earth are you talking about? Who’s in a sanatorium?”

  “Lottie, of course.”

  “Lottie! Are you really idiot enough to suppose I’m in love with Lottie?”

  His tone stung Lord Tidmouth.

  “Better men than you have been, Bill,” he said.” Myself, for one. The recent Higginbotham, presumably, for another. Let me tell you that there are many more difficult things in this world than falling in love with Lottie. Who are you in love with, then?”

  Bill breathed rapturously.

  “Sally!”

  “Who’s Sally?”

  “Sally Smith.”

  Lord Tidmouth made a great mental effort.

  “You don’t mean the lady doctor down at Bingley?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And you’re in love with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” said Lord Tidmouth, bewildered, “this is all new stuff to me.” He reflected.” But, if you miss her so much, why did you come down here, miles away from her?”

  “I couldn’t stay near her. It was driving me mad.”

  “Why?”

  “She wouldn’t let me tell her how much I loved her.”

  “I see.”

  Bill sprang up.

  “Shall I tell you something, Squiffy?”

  “By all means, old boy. I’m here to listen.”

  “I went to see her just before I left Bingley. I was absolutely determined that this time I would ask her to marry me. And do you know what happened?”

  “What?”

  A bitter laugh escaped Bill Bannister. At least Lord Tidmouth presumed that it was a bitter laugh. It had sounded more like a death-rattle.

  “The moment I appeared—before I could even speak-she said, ‘Put out your tongue!’”

  “What did you do?”

  “I put it out. ‘Coated,’ she said, and prescribed a mild tonic. Now, could I have followed that up by asking her to be my wife?”

  “It wasn’t what you would call a good cue,” admitted Lord Tidmouth.

  “I left,” said Bill.” I came away, cursing— cursing everything: myself, my luck, and the fate that ever brought us together. I came down here, hoping that I would get over it. Not a chance. I’m worse than ever. But to-day, thank heaven, I got an idea.”

  “What was that?”

  Bill looked about the room warily, as if suspecting the presence of Hugo Drakes in every nook and cranny. Relieved to see not even one, he resumed.

  “I said to myself—she’s a doctor. If I were ill, she would fly to my side. I looked her up in the telephone book. I found her name. I sat staring at that telephone book most of the afternoon, and it stared back at me. At five o’clock I gave in and …“

  “Good Lord! Telephoned?”

  “Yes. I pretended to be my man. I said that Mr. Bannister was seriously ill. We were sending the car and would she come at once.”

  Lord Tidmouth whistled.

  “You certainly don’t mind taking a chance.”

  “Not when there’s something worth taking a chance for. It’s two hours’ ride in the car. The chauffeur left at half-past six.
He should have reached her between half-past eight and nine. She ought to get here just about eleven.”

  “It’s nearly eleven now.”

  “Yes. So can you wonder I’m a little jumpy?”

  “Do you think she’ll come?”

  Bill quivered.

  “She must come. She must. And I shall have it out with her, fairly and squarely. No more dodging and evasion. She shan’t put me off this time…. So now perhaps you understand why you’ve got to keep my infernal, snooping, blundering, fussing busybody of an uncle out of the way.”

  “But he’ll hear her drive up in the car.”

  “Why? A Rolls Royce doesn’t make any noise.”

  Lord Tidmouth pondered.

  “Well,” he said at length, “I’m glad I’m not you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is my firm and settled belief, old top, that, when she gets here and finds it was all a put-up job, this female is going to cut up rough.”

  “Don’t call her a female.”

  “Well, she is, isn’t she? I mean, that’s rather what you might call the idea, I should have thought.”

  “She won’t suspect. I shall convince her that I’m a sick man.”

  “By the time she has done with you, you probably will be. Hell hath no fury like a woman who’s come eighty miles to be made a fool of.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist.”

  “Oh, all right. Have it your own way. All I can say is, may the Lord have mercy on your soul! I mean—“

  “Sh!“ whispered Bill sharply. He turned to the door. “Hullo, uncle. How’s the putting coming along?”

  Sir Hugo Drake was in a spacious mood. He beamed cordially.

  “A very marked and sustained improvement.”

  “That’s good. Off to bed now?”

  “Yes, off to bed now. Early to bed, early to rise —nothing like it for keeping the eye clear and the hand steady.”

  “Tidmouth wants to come up with you and have a chat.”

  “Delighted.”

  “Tell him that excellent story of yours about the caddie and the india-rubber tee.”

  “Certainly. Well, come along, my boy. You coming, William?”

  “No. I think I’ll sit up a little longer.”

  “Good night, then. See you in the morning.”