Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel

  Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team

  NOT GEORGE WASHINGTONAn Autobiographical Novel

  by P. G. Wodehouseand Herbert Westbrook

  1907

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  _Miss Margaret Goodwin's Narrative_

  1. James Arrives2. James Sets Out3. A Harmless Deception

  PART TWO

  _James Orlebar Cloyster's Narrative_

  1. The Invasion of Bohemia2. I Evacuate Bohemia3. The _Orb_4. Julian Eversleigh5. The Column6. New Year's Eve7. I Meet Mr. Thomas Blake8. I Meet the Rev. John Hatton9. Julian Learns My Secret10. Tom Blake Again11. Julian's Idea12. The First Ghost13. The Second Ghost14. The Third Ghost15. Eva Eversleigh16. I Tell Julian

  _Sidney Price's Narrative_

  17. A Ghostly Gathering18. One in the Eye19. In the Soup20. Norah Wins Home

  _Julian Eversleigh's Narrative_

  21. The Transposition of Sentiment22. A Chat with James23. In a Hansom

  _Narrative Resumed by James Orlebar Cloyster_

  24. A Rift in the Clouds25. Briggs to the Rescue26. My Triumph

  PART ONE

  _Miss Margaret Goodwin's Narrative_

  CHAPTER 1

  JAMES ARRIVES

  I am Margaret Goodwin. A week from today I shall be Mrs. James OrlebarCloyster.

  It is just three years since I first met James. We made each other'sacquaintance at half-past seven on the morning of the 28th of July inthe middle of Fermain Bay, about fifty yards from the shore.

  Fermain Bay is in Guernsey. My home had been with my mother for manyyears at St. Martin's in that island. There we two lived our uneventfullives until fate brought one whom, when first I set my eyes on him, Iknew I loved.

  Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to write that down. But what does itmatter? It is for no one's reading but my own. James, my _fiance_,is _not_ peeping slyly over my shoulder as I write. On thecontrary, my door is locked, and James is, I believe, in thesmoking-room of his hotel at St. Peter's Port.

  At that time it had become my habit to begin my day by rising beforebreakfast and taking a swim in Fermain Bay, which lies across the roadin front of our cottage. The practice--I have since abandoned it--wasgood for the complexion, and generally healthy. I had kept it up,moreover, because I had somehow cherished an unreasonable butpersistent presentiment that some day Somebody (James, as it turnedout) would cross the pathway of my maiden existence. I told myself thatI must be ready for him. It would never do for him to arrive, and findno one to meet him.

  On the 28th of July I started off as usual. I wore a short tweed skirt,brown stockings--my ankles were, and are, good--a calico blouse, and ared tam-o'-shanter. Ponto barked at my heels. In one hand I carried myblue twill bathing-gown. In the other a miniature alpenstock. The sunhad risen sufficiently to scatter the slight mist of the summermorning, and a few flecked clouds were edged with a slender frame ofred gold.

  Leisurely, and with my presentiment strong upon me, I descended thesteep cliffside to the cave on the left of the bay, where, guarded bythe faithful Ponto, I was accustomed to disrobe; and soon afterwards Icame out, my dark hair over my shoulders and blue twill over a portionof the rest of me, to climb out to the point of the projecting rocks,so that I might dive gracefully and safely into the still blue water.

  I was a good swimmer. I reached the ridge on the opposite side of thebay without fatigue, not changing from a powerful breast-stroke. I thensat for a while at the water's edge to rest and to drink in thethrilling glory of what my heart persisted in telling me was themorning of my life.

  And then I saw Him.

  Not distinctly, for he was rowing a dinghy in my direction, andconsequently had his back to me.

  In the stress of my emotions and an aggravation of modesty, I divedagain. With an intensity like that of a captured conger I yearned to behidden by the water. I could watch him as I swam, for, strictlyspeaking, he was in my way, though a little farther out to sea thanI intended to go. As I drew near, I noticed that he wore an odd garmentlike a dressing-gown. He had stopped rowing.

  I turned upon my back for a moment's rest, and, as I did so, heard acry. I resumed my former attitude, and brushed the salt water from myeyes.

  The dinghy was wobbling unsteadily. The dressing-gown was in the bows;and he, my sea-god, was in the water. Only for a second I saw him. Thenhe sank.

  How I blessed the muscular development of my arms.

  I reached him as he came to the surface.

  "That's twice," he remarked contemplatively, as I seized him by theshoulders.

  "Be brave," I said excitedly; "I can save you."

  "I should be most awfully obliged," he said.

  "Do exactly as I tell you."

  "I say," he remonstrated, "you're not going to drag me along by theroots of my hair, are you?"

  The natural timidity of man is, I find, attractive.

  I helped him to the boat, and he climbed in. I trod water, clingingwith one hand to the stern.

  "Allow me," he said, bending down.

  "No, thank you," I replied.

  "Not, really?"

  "Thank you very much, but I think I will stay where I am."

  "But you may get cramp. By the way--I'm really frightfully obliged toyou for saving my life--I mean, a perfect stranger--I'm afraid it'squite spoiled your dip."

  "Not at all," I said politely. "Did you get cramp?"

  "A twinge. It was awfully kind of you."

  "Not at all."

  Then there was a rather awkward silence.

  "Is this your first visit to Guernsey?" I asked.

  "Yes; I arrived yesterday. It's a delightful place. Do you live here?"

  "Yes; that white cottage you can just see through the trees."

  "I suppose I couldn't give you a tow anywhere?"

  "No; thank you very much. I will swim back."

  Another constrained silence.

  "Are you ever in London, Miss----?"

  "Goodwin. Oh, yes; we generally go over in the winter, Mr.----"

  "Cloyster. Really? How jolly. Do you go to the theatre much?"

  "Oh, yes. We saw nearly everything last time we were over."

  There was a third silence. I saw a remark about the weather tremblingon his lip, and, as I was beginning to feel the chill of the water alittle, I determined to put a temporary end to the conversation.

  "I think I will be swimming back now," I said.

  "You're quite sure I can't give you a tow?"

  "Quite, thanks. Perhaps you would care to come to breakfast with us,Mr. Cloyster? I know my mother would be glad to see you."

  "It is very kind of you. I should be delighted. Shall we meet on thebeach?"

  I swam off to my cave to dress.

  Breakfast was a success, for my mother was a philosopher. She said verylittle, but what she did say was magnificent. In her youth she hadmoved in literary circles, and now found her daily pleasure in theworks of Schopenhauer, Kant, and other Germans. Her lightest readingwas _Sartor Resartus_, and occasionally she would drop into Ibsenand Maeterlinck, the asparagus of her philosophic banquet. Her chosenmode of thought, far from leaving her inhuman or intolerant, gave her asocial distinction which I had inherited from her. I could, if I hadwished it, have attended with success the tea-drinkings, thetennis-playings, and the eclair-and-lemonade dances to which I wasfrequently invited. But I always refused. Nature was my hostess.Nature, which provided me with balmy zephyrs that were more comfortingthan buttered toast; which set the race of the waves to the ridges ofFermain, where arose no shrill, heated voice crying,
"Love--forty";which decked foliage in more splendid sheen than anything the localcostumier could achieve, and whose poplars swayed more rhythmicallythan the dancers of the Assembly Rooms.

  The constraint which had been upon us during our former conversationvanished at breakfast. We were both hungry, and we had a common topic.We related our story of the sea in alternate sentences. We ate and wetalked, turn and turn about. My mother listened. To her the affair,compared with the tremendous subjects to which she was accustomed todirect her mind, was broad farce. James took it with an air ofrestrained amusement. I, seriously.

  Tentatively, I diverged from this subject towards other and widerfields. Impressions of Guernsey, which drew from him his address, atthe St. Peter's Port Hotel. The horrors of the sea passage fromWeymouth, which extorted a comment on the limitations of England.England. London. Kensington. South Kensington. The Gunton-Cresswells?Yes, yes! Extraordinary. Curious coincidence. Excursus on smallness ofworld. Queer old gentleman, Mr. Gunton-Cresswell. He is, indeed. Quiteone of the old school. Oh, quite. Still wears that beaver hat? Does hereally? Yes. Ha, ha! Yes.

  Here the humanising influence of the Teutonic school of philosophicanalysis was demonstrated by my mother's action. Mr. Cloyster, shesaid, must reconcile himself to exchanging his comfortable rooms at theSt. Peter's Port--("I particularly dislike half-filled hotel life, Mrs.Goodwin")--for the shelter of our cottage. He accepted. He was then"warned" that I was chef at the cottage. Mother gave him "a chance tochange his mind." Something was said about my saving life anddestroying digestion. He went to collect his things in an ecstasy ofmerriment.

  At this point I committed an indiscretion which can only be excused bythe magnitude of the occasion.

  My mother had retired to her favourite bow-window where, by a _tourde force_ on the part of the carpenter, a system of low, adjustablebookcases had been craftily constructed in such a way that when she satin her window-seat they jutted in a semicircle towards her hand.

  James, whom I had escorted down the garden path, had left me at thelittle wooden gate and had gone swinging down the road. I, shieldedfrom outside observation (if any) by a line of lilacs, gazedrapturously at his retreating form. The sun was high in the sky now. Itwas a perfect summer's day. Birds were singing. Their notes blendedwith the gentle murmur of the sea on the beach below. Every fibre of mybody was thrilling with the magic of the morning.

  Through the kindly branches of the lilac I watched him, and then, asthough in obedience to the primaeval call of that July sunshine, Istood on tiptoe, and blew him a kiss.

  I realised in an instant what I had done. Fool that I had been. Thebow-window!

  I was rigid with discomfiture. My mother's eyes were on the book sheheld. And yet a faint smile seemed to hover round her lips. I walked insilence to where she sat at the open window.

  She looked up. Her smile was more pronounced.

  "Margie," she said.

  "Yes, mother?"

  "The hedonism of Voltaire is the indictment of an honest bore."

  "Yes, mother."

  She then resumed her book.