A Damsel in Distress

by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse

  “But that’s remarkably altruistic of you, isn’t it?”

  “Sir?”

  “I say that is very generous of you. Aren’t you forgetting that you drew Mr. Byng?”

  The butler smiled indulgently.

  “You are not quite abreast of the progress of events, sir. Since the original drawing of names, there ‘as been a trifling hadjustment. The boy Albert now ‘as Mr. Byng and I ‘ave you, sir. A little amicable arrangement informally conducted in the scullery on the night of the ball.”

  “Amicable?”

  “On my part, entirely so.”

  George began to understand certain things that had been perplexing to him.

  “Then all this while…?”

  “Precisely, sir. All this while ‘er ladyship, under the impression that the boy Albert was devoted to ‘er cause, has no doubt been placing a misguided confidence in ‘im … The little blighter!” said Keggs, abandoning for a moment his company manners and permitting vehemence to take the place of polish. “I beg your pardon for the expression, sir,” he added gracefully. “It escaped me inadvertently.”

  “You think that Lady Maud gave Albert a letter to give to me, and that he destroyed it?”

  “Such, I should imagine, must undoubtedly have been the case. The boy ‘as no scruples, no scruples whatsoever.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I appreciate your consternation, sir.”

  “That must be exactly what has happened.”

  “To my way of thinking there is no doubt of it. It was for that reason that I ventured to come ‘ere. In the ‘ope that I might be hinstrumental in arranging a meeting.”

  The strong distaste which George had had for plotting with this overfed menial began to wane. It might be undignified, he told himself but it was undeniably practical. And, after all, a man who has plotted with page-boys has little dignity to lose by plotting with butlers. He brightened up. If it meant seeing Maud again he was prepared to waive the decencies.

  “What do you suggest?” he said.

  “It being a rainy evening and everyone indoors playing games and what not,”—Keggs was amiably tolerant of the recreations of the aristocracy—”you would experience little chance of a hinterruption, were you to proceed to the lane outside the heast entrance of the castle grounds and wait there. You will find in the field at the roadside a small disused barn only a short way from the gates, where you would be sheltered from the rain. In the meantime, I would hinform ‘er ladyship of your movements, and no doubt it would be possible for ‘er to slip off.”

  “It sounds all right.”

  “It is all right, sir. The chances of a hinterruption may be said to be reduced to a minimum. Shall we say in one hour’s time?”

  “Very well.”

  “Then I will wish you good evening, sir. Thank you, sir. I am glad to ‘ave been of assistance.”

  He withdrew as he had come, with a large impressiveness. The room seemed very empty without him. George, with trembling fingers, began to put on a pair of thick boots.

  For some minutes after he had set foot outside the door of the cottage, George was inclined to revile the weather for having played him false. On this evening of all evenings, he felt, the elements should, so to speak, have rallied round and done their bit. The air should have been soft and clear and scented: there should have been an afterglow of sunset in the sky to light him on his way. Instead, the air was full of that peculiar smell of hopeless dampness which comes at the end of a wet English day. The sky was leaden. The rain hissed down in a steady flow, whispering of mud and desolation, making a dreary morass of the lane through which he tramped. A curious sense of foreboding came upon George. It was as if some voice of the night had murmured maliciously in his ear a hint of troubles to come. He felt oddly nervous, as he entered the barn.

  The barn was both dark and dismal. In one of the dark corners an intermittent dripping betrayed the presence of a gap in its ancient roof. A rat scurried across the floor. The dripping stopped and began again. George struck a match and looked at his watch. He was early. Another ten minutes must elapse before he could hope for her arrival. He sat down on a broken wagon which lay on its side against one of the walls.

  Depression returned. It was impossible to fight against it in this beast of a barn. The place was like a sepulchre. No one but a fool of a butler would have suggested it as a trysting-place. He wondered irritably why places like this were allowed to get into this condition. If people wanted a barn earnestly enough to take the trouble of building one, why was it not worth while to keep the thing in proper repair? Waste and futility! That was what it was. That was what everything was, if you came down to it. Sitting here, for instance, was a futile waste of time. She wouldn’t come. There were a dozen reasons why she should not come. So what was the use of his courting rheumatism by waiting in this morgue of dead agricultural ambitions? None whatever—George went on waiting.

  And what an awful place to expect her to come to, if by some miracle she did come—where she would be stifled by the smell of mouldy hay, damped by raindrops and—reflected George gloomily as there was another scurry and scutter along the unseen floor—gnawed by rats. You could not expect a delicately-nurtured girl, accustomed to all the comforts of a home, to be bright and sunny with a platoon of rats crawling all over her….

  The grey oblong that was the doorway suddenly darkened.

  “Mr. Bevan!”

  George sprang up. At the sound of her voice every nerve in his body danced in mad exhilaration. He was another man. Depression fell from him like a garment. He perceived that he had misjudged all sorts of things. The evening, for instance, was a splendid evening—not one of those awful dry, baking evenings which make you feel you can’t breathe, but pleasantly moist and full of a delightfully musical patter of rain. And the barn! He had been all wrong about the barn. It was a great little place, comfortable, airy, and cheerful. What could be more invigorating than that smell of hay? Even the rats, he felt, must be pretty decent rats, when you came to know them.

  “I’m here!”

  Maud advanced quickly. His eyes had grown accustomed to the murk, and he could see her dimly. The smell of her damp raincoat came to him like a breath of ozone. He could even see her eyes shining in the darkness, so close was she to him.

  “I hope you’ve not been waiting long?”

  George’s heart was thundering against his ribs. He could scarcely speak. He contrived to emit a No.

  “I didn’t think at first I could get away. I had to …” She broke off with a cry. The rat, fond of exercise like all rats, had made another of its excitable sprints across the floor.

  A hand clutched nervously at George’s arm, found it and held it. And at the touch the last small fragment of George’s self-control fled from him. The world became vague and unreal. There remained of it but one solid fact—the fact that Maud was in his arms and that he was saying a number of things very rapidly in a voice that seemed to belong to somebody he had never met before.

  Chapter 19

  With a shock of dismay so abrupt and overwhelming that it was like a physical injury, George became aware that something was wrong. Even as he gripped her, Maud had stiffened with a sharp cry; and now she was struggling, trying to wrench herself free. She broke away from him. He could hear her breathing hard.

  “You—you–” She gulped.

  “Maud!”

  “How dare you!”

  There was a pause that seemed to George to stretch on and on endlessly. The rain pattered on the leafy roof. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled dismally. The darkness pressed down like a blanket, stifling thought.

  “Good night, Mr. Bevan.” Her voice was ice. “I didn’t think you were—that kind of man.”

  She was moving toward the door; and, as she reached it, George’s stupor left him. He came back to life with a jerk, shaking from head to foot. All his varied emotions had become one emotion—a cold fury.

  “Stop!”


  Maud stopped. Her chin was tilted, and she was wasting a baleful glare on the darkness.

  “Well, what is it?”

  Her tone increased George’s wrath. The injustice of it made him dizzy. At that moment he hated her. He was the injured party. It was he, not she, that had been deceived and made a fool of.

  “I want to say something before you go.”

  “I think we had better say no more about it!”

  By the exercise of supreme self-control George kept himself from speaking until he could choose milder words than those that rushed to his lips.

  “I think we will!” he said between his teeth.

  Maud’s anger became tinged with surprise. Now that the first shock of the wretched episode was over, the calmer half of her mind was endeavouring to soothe the infuriated half by urging that George’s behaviour had been but a momentary lapse, and that a man may lose his head for one wild instant, and yet remain fundamentally a gentleman and a friend. She had begun to remind herself that this man had helped her once in trouble, and only a day or two before had actually risked his life to save her from embarrassment. When she heard him call to her to stop, she supposed that his better feelings had reasserted themselves; and she had prepared herself to receive with dignity a broken, stammered apology. But the voice that had just spoken with a crisp, biting intensity was not the voice of remorse. It was a very angry man, not a penitent one, who was commanding—not begging—her to stop and listen to him.

  “Well?” she said again, more coldly this time. She was quite unable to understand this attitude of his. She was the injured party. It was she, not he who had trusted and been betrayed.

  “I should like to explain.”

  “Please do not apologize.”

  George ground his teeth in the gloom.

  “I haven’t the slightest intention of apologizing. I said I would like to explain. When I have finished explaining, you can go.”

  “I shall go when I please,” flared Maud.

  This man was intolerable.

  “There is nothing to be afraid of. There will be no repetition of the—incident.”

  Maud was outraged by this monstrous misinterpretation of her words.

  “I am not afraid!”

  “Then, perhaps, you will be kind enough to listen. I won’t detain you long. My explanation is quite simple. I have been made a fool of. I seem to be in the position of the tinker in the play whom everybody conspired to delude into the belief that he was a king. First a friend of yours, Mr. Byng, came to me and told me that you had confided to him that you loved me.”

  Maud gasped. Either this man was mad, or Reggie Byng was. She choose the politer solution.

  “Reggie Byng must have lost his senses.”

  “So I supposed. At least, I imagined that he must be mistaken. But a man in love is an optimistic fool, of course, and I had loved you ever since you got into my cab that morning …”

  “What!”

  “So after a while,” proceeded George, ignoring the interruption, “I almost persuaded myself that miracles could still happen, and that what Byng said was true. And when your father called on me and told me the very same thing I was convinced. It seemed incredible, but I had to believe it. Now it seems that, for some inscrutable reason, both Byng and your father were making a fool of me. That’s all. Good night.”

  Maud’s reply was the last which George or any man would have expected. There was a moment’s silence, and then she burst into a peal of laughter. It was the laughter of over-strained nerves, but to George’s ears it had the ring of genuine amusement.

  “I’m glad you find my story entertaining,” he said dryly. He was convinced now that he loathed this girl, and that all he desired was to see her go out of his life for ever. “Later, no doubt, the funny side of it will hit me. Just at present my sense of humour is rather dormant.”

  Maud gave a little cry.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Mr. Bevan. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all. Oh, I am so sorry. I don’t know why I laughed. It certainly wasn’t because I thought it funny. It’s tragic. There’s been a dreadful mistake!”

  “I noticed that,” said George bitterly. The darkness began to afflict his nerves. “I wish to God we had some light.”

  The glare of a pocket-torch smote upon him.

  “I brought it to see my way back with,” said Maud in a curious, small voice. “It’s very dark across the fields. I didn’t light it before, because I was afraid somebody might see.”

  She came towards him, holding the torch over her head. The beam showed her face, troubled and sympathetic, and at the sight all George’s resentment left him. There were mysteries here beyond his unravelling, but of one thing he was certain: this girl was not to blame. She was a thoroughbred, as straight as a wand. She was pure gold.

  “I came here to tell you everything,” she said. She placed the torch on the wagon-wheel so that its ray fell in a pool of light on the ground between them. “I’ll do it now. Only—only it isn’t so easy now. Mr. Bevan, there’s a man—there’s a man that father and Reggie Byng mistook—they thought … You see, they knew it was you that I was with that day in the cab, and so they naturally thought, when you came down here, that you were the man I had gone to meet that day—the man I—I—”

  “The man you love.”

  “Yes,” said Maud in a small voice; and there was silence again.

  George could feel nothing but sympathy. It mastered other emotion in him, even the grey despair that had come her words. He could feel all that she was feeling.

  “Tell me all about it,” he said.

  “I met him in Wales last year.” Maud’s voice was a whisper. “The family found out, and I was hurried back here, and have been here ever since. That day when I met you I had managed to slip away from home. I had found out that he was in London, and I was going to meet him. Then I saw Percy, and got into your cab. It’s all been a horrible mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “I see,” said George thoughtfully. “I see.”

  His heart ached like a living wound. She had told so and he could guess so much. This unknown man who triumphed seemed to sneer scornfully at him from shadows.

  “I’m sorry,” said Maud again.

  “You mustn’t feel like that. How can I help you? That’s the point. What is it you want me to do?”

  “But I can’t ask you now.”

  “Of course you can. Why not?”

  “Why—oh, I couldn’t!”

  George managed to laugh. It was a laugh that did not sound convincing even to himself, but it served.

  “That’s morbid,” he said. “Be sensible. You need help, and I may be able to give it. Surely a man isn’t barred for ever from doing you a service just because he happens to love you? Suppose you were drowning and Mr. Plummer was the only swimmer within call, wouldn’t you let him rescue you?”

  “Mr. Plummer? What do you mean?”

  “You’ve not forgotten that I was a reluctant ear-witness to his recent proposal of marriage?”

  Maud uttered an exclamation.

  “I never asked! How terrible of me. Were you much hurt?”

  “Hurt?” George could not follow her.

  “That night. When you were on the balcony, and—”

  “Oh!” George understood. “Oh, no, hardly at all. A few scratches. I scraped my hands a little.”

  “It was a wonderful thing to do,” said Maud, her admiration glowing for a man who could treat such a leap so lightly. She had always had a private theory that Lord Leonard, after performing the same feat, had bragged about it for the rest of his life.

  “No, no, nothing,” said George, who had since wondered why he had ever made such a to-do about climbing up a perfectly stout sheet.

  “It was splendid!”

  George blushed.

  “We are wandering from the main theme,” he said. “I want to help you. I came here at enormous expense to help you. How can I do it?”

  Maud hesit
ated.

  “I think you may be offended at my asking such a thing.”

  “You needn’t.”

  “You see, the whole trouble is that I can’t get in touch with Geoffrey. He’s in London, and I’m here. And any chance I might have of getting to London vanished that day I met you, when Percy saw me in Piccadilly.”

  “How did your people find out it was you?”

  “They asked me—straight out.”

  “And you owned up?”

  “I had to. I couldn’t tell them a direct lie.”

  George thrilled. This was the girl he had had doubts of.

  “So then it was worse then ever,” continued Maud. “I daren’t risk writing to Geoffrey and having the letter intercepted. I was wondering—I had the idea almost as soon as I found that you had come here—”

  “You want me to take a letter from you and see that it reaches him. And then he can write back to my address, and I can smuggle the letter to you?”

  “That’s exactly what I do want. But I almost didn’t like to ask.”

  “Why not? I’ll be delighted to do it.”

  “I’m so grateful.”

  “Why, it’s nothing. I thought you were going to ask me to look in on your brother and smash another of his hats.”

  Maud laughed delightedly. The whole tension of the situation had been eased for her. More and more she found herself liking George. Yet, deep down in her, she realized with a pang that for him there had been no easing of the situation. She was sad for George. The Plummers of this world she had consigned to what they declared would be perpetual sorrow with scarcely a twinge of regret. But George was different.

  “Poor Percy!” she said. “I don’t suppose he’ll ever get over it. He will have other hats, but it won’t be the same.” She came back to the subject nearest her heart. “Mr. Bevan, I wonder if you would do just a little more for me?”

  “If it isn’t criminal. Or, for that matter, if it is.”

  “Could you go to Geoffrey, and see him, and tell him all about me and—and come back and tell me how he looks, and what he said and—and so on?”