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Title: Not George Washington An Autobiographical Novel
Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7230] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on March 29, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOT GEORGE WASHINGTON ***
Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
NOT GEORGE WASHINGTON An Autobiographical Novel
by P. G. Wodehouse and Herbert Westbrook
1907
CONTENTS
Miss Margaret Goodwin’s Narrative“>PART ONE
Miss Margaret Goodwin’s Narrative
1. James Arrives 2. James Sets Out 3. A Harmless Deception
James Orlebar Cloyster’s Narrative“>PART TWO
James Orlebar Cloyster’s Narrative
1. The Invasion of Bohemia 2. I Evacuate Bohemia 3. The Orb 4. Julian Eversleigh 5. The Column 6. New Year’s Eve 7. I Meet Mr. Thomas Blake 8. I Meet the Rev. John Hatton 9. Julian Learns My Secret 10. Tom Blake Again 11. Julian’s Idea 12. The First Ghost 13. The Second Ghost 14. The Third Ghost 15. Eva Eversleigh 16. I Tell Julian
Sidney Price’s Narrative
17. A Ghostly Gathering 18. One in the Eye 19. In the Soup 20. Norah Wins Home
Julian Eversleigh’s Narrative
21. The Transposition of Sentiment 22. A Chat with James 23. In a Hansom
Narrative Resumed by James Orlebar Cloyster
24. A Rift in the Clouds 25. Briggs to the Rescue 26. 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 Orlebar Cloyster.
It is just three years since I first met James. We made each other’s acquaintance at half-past seven on the morning of the 28th of July in the middle of Fermain Bay, about fifty yards from the shore.
Fermain Bay is in Guernsey. My home had been with my mother for many years at St. Martin’s in that island. There we two lived our uneventful lives until fate brought one whom, when first I set my eyes on him, I knew I loved.
Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to write that down. But what does it matter? It is for no one’s reading but my own. James, my fiancé, is not peeping slyly over my shoulder as I write. On the contrary, my door is locked, and James is, I believe, in the smoking-room of his hotel at St. Peter’s Port.
At that time it had become my habit to begin my day by rising before breakfast and taking a swim in Fermain Bay, which lies across the road in front of our cottage. The practice—I have since abandoned it—was good for the complexion, and generally healthy. I had kept it up, moreover, because I had somehow cherished an unreasonable but persistent presentiment that some day Somebody (James, as it turned out) would cross the pathway of my maiden existence. I told myself that I must be ready for him. It would never do for him to arrive, and find no 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 a red tam-o’-shanter. Ponto barked at my heels. In one hand I carried my blue twill bathing-gown. In the other a miniature alpenstock. The sun had risen sufficiently to scatter the slight mist of the summer morning, and a few flecked clouds were edged with a slender frame of red gold.
Leisurely, and with my presentiment strong upon me, I descended the steep cliffside to the cave on the left of the bay, where, guarded by the faithful Ponto, I was accustomed to disrobe; and soon afterwards I came out, my dark hair over my shoulders and blue twill over a portion of 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 the bay without fatigue, not changing from a powerful breast-stroke. I then sat for a while at the water’s edge to rest and to drink in the thrilling glory of what my heart persisted in telling me was the morning of my life.
And then I saw Him.
Not distinctly, for he was rowing a dinghy in my direction, and consequently had his back to me.
In the stress of my emotions and an aggravation of modesty, I dived again. With an intensity like that of a captured conger I yearned to be hidden by the water. I could watch him as I swam, for, strictly speaking, he was in my way, though a little farther out to sea than I intended to go. As I drew near, I noticed that he wore an odd garment like a dressing-gown. He had stopped rowing.
I turned upon my back for a moment’s rest, and, as I did so, heard a cry. I resumed my former attitude, and brushed the salt water from my eyes.
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. Then he 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 the shoulders.
“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 the roots 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, clinging with 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 to you for saving my life—I mean, a perfect stranger—I’m afraid it’s quite 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?”