CONFIDENCES ON THE LAKE
§ 1
“Miss Halliday,” announced the Efficient Baxter, removing another
letter from its envelope and submitting it to a swift, keen scrutiny,
“arrives at about three to-day. She is catching the twelve-fifty train.”
He placed the letter on the pile beside his plate; and, having
decapitated an egg, peered sharply into its interior as if hoping
to surprise guilty secrets. For it was the breakfast hour, and the
members of the house party, scattered up and down the long table, were
fortifying their tissues against another day. An agreeable scent of
bacon floated over the scene like a benediction.
Lord Emsworth looked up from the seed catalogue in which he was
immersed. For some time past his enjoyment of the meal had been marred
by a vague sense of something missing, and now he knew what it was.
“Coffee!” he said, not violently, but in the voice of a good man
oppressed. “I want coffee. Why have I no coffee? Constance, my dear, I
should have coffee. Why have I none?”
“I’m sure I gave you some,” said Lady Constance, brightly presiding
over the beverages at the other end of the table.
“Then where is it?” demanded his lordship clinchingly.
Baxter--almost regretfully, it seemed--gave the egg a clean bill of
health, and turned in his able way to cope with this domestic problem.
“Your coffee is behind the catalogue you are reading, Lord Emsworth.
You propped the catalogue against your cup.”
“Did I? Did I? Why, so I did! Bless my soul!” His lordship, relieved,
took an invigorating sip. “What were you saying just then, my dear
fellow?”
“I have had a letter from Miss Halliday,” said Baxter. “She writes that
she is catching the twelve-fifty train at Paddington, which means that
she should arrive at Market Blandings at about three.”
“Who,” asked Miss Peavey, in a low, thrilling voice, ceasing for a
moment to peck at her plate of kedgeree, “is Miss Halliday?”
“The exact question I was about to ask myself,” said Lord Emsworth.
“Baxter, my dear fellow, who is Miss Halliday?”
Baxter, with a stifled sigh, was about to refresh his employer’s
memory, when Psmith anticipated him. Psmith had been consuming toast
and marmalade with his customary languid grace and up till now had
firmly checked all attempts to engage him in conversation.
“Miss Halliday,” he said, “is a very old and valued friend of mine. We
two have, so to speak, pulled the gowans fine. I had been hoping to
hear that she had been sighted on the horizon.”
The effect of these words on two of the company was somewhat
remarkable. Baxter, hearing them, gave such a violent start that
he spilled half the contents of his cup: and Freddie, who had been
flitting like a butterfly among the dishes on the sideboard and had
just decided to help himself to scrambled eggs, deposited a liberal
spoonful on the carpet, where it was found and salvaged a moment later
by Lady Constance’s spaniel.
Psmith did not observe these phenomena, for he had returned to his
toast and marmalade. He thus missed encountering perhaps the keenest
glance that had ever come through Rupert Baxter’s spectacles. It was
not a protracted glance, but while it lasted it was like the ray from
an oxy-acetylene blowpipe.
“A friend of yours?” said Lord Emsworth. “Indeed? Of course, Baxter,
I remember now. Miss Halliday is the young lady who is coming to
catalogue the library.”
“What a delightful task!” cooed Miss Peavey. “To live among the
stored-up thoughts of dead and gone genius!”
“You had better go down and meet her, my dear fellow,” said Lord
Emsworth. “At the station, you know,” he continued, clarifying his
meaning. “She will be glad to see you.”
“I was about to suggest it myself,” said Psmith.
“Though why the library needs cataloguing,” said his lordship,
returning to a problem which still vexed his soul when he had leisure
to give a thought to it, “I can’t . . . However . . .”
He finished his coffee and rose from the table. A stray shaft of
sunlight had fallen provocatively on his bald head, and sunshine always
made him restive.
“Are you going to your flowers, Lord Emsworth?” asked Miss Peavey.
“Eh? What? Yes. Oh, yes. Going to have a look at those lobelias.”
“I will accompany you, if I may,” said Psmith.
“Eh? Why, certainly, certainly.”
“I have always held,” said Psmith, “that there is no finer tonic than a
good look at a lobelia immediately after breakfast. Doctors, I believe,
recommend it.”
“Oh, I say,” said Freddie hastily, as he reached the door, “can I have
a couple of words with you a bit later on?”
“A thousand if you wish it,” said Psmith. “You will find me somewhere
out there in the great open spaces where men are men.”
He included the entire company in a benevolent smile, and left the room.
“How charming he is!” sighed Miss Peavey. “Don’t you think so, Mr.
Baxter?”
The Efficient Baxter seemed for a moment to find some difficulty in
replying.
“Oh, very,” he said, but not heartily.
“And such a _soul_! It shines on that wonderful brow of his, doesn’t
it?”
“He has a good forehead,” said Lady Constance. “But I wish he wouldn’t
wear his hair so short. Somehow it makes him seem unlike a poet.”
Freddie, alarmed, swallowed a mouthful of scrambled egg.
“Oh, he’s a poet all right,” he said hastily.
“Well, really, Freddie,” said Lady Constance, piqued, “I think we
hardly need _you_ to tell us that.”
“No, no, of course. But what I mean is, in spite of his wearing his
hair short, you know.”
“I ventured to speak to him of that yesterday,” said Miss Peavey, “and
he said he rather expected to be wearing it even shorter very soon.”
“Freddie!” cried Lady Constance with asperity. “What _are_ you doing?”
A brown lake of tea was filling the portion of the tablecloth
immediately opposite the Hon. Frederick Threepwood. Like the Efficient
Baxter a few minutes before, sudden emotion had caused him to upset his
cup.
§ 2
The scrutiny of his lordship’s lobelias had palled upon Psmith at
a fairly early stage in the proceedings, and he was sitting on the
terrace wall enjoying a meditative cigarette when Freddie found him.
“Ah, Comrade Threepwood,” said Psmith, “welcome to Blandings Castle!
You said something about wishing to have speech with me, if I remember
rightly?”
The Hon. Freddie shot a nervous glance about him, and seated himself on
the wall.
“I say,” he said, “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
“Like what, Comrade Threepwood?”
“What you said to the Peavey woman.”
“I recollect having a refreshing chat with Miss Peavey yesterday
afternoon,” said Psmith, “but I cannot recall saying anything
calculated to bring the blush of shame to the cheek of modesty. What
observation of mine was it that meets with your censure?”
“Why, that stuff about expecting to wear your hair shorter. If you’re
going to go about saying that sort of thing--well, dash it, you might
just as well give the whole bally show away at once and have done with
it.”
Psmith nodded gravely.
“Your generous heat, Comrade Threepwood, is not unjustified. It was
undoubtedly an error of judgment. If I have a fault--which I am not
prepared to admit--it is a perhaps ungentlemanly desire to pull that
curious female’s leg. A stronger man than myself might well find it
hard to battle against the temptation. However, now that you have
called it to my notice, it shall not occur again. In future I will
moderate the persiflage. Cheer up, therefore, Comrade Threepwood,
and let us see that merry smile of yours, of which I hear such good
reports.”
The appeal failed to alleviate Freddie’s gloom. He smote morosely at a
fly which had settled on his furrowed brow.
“I’m getting as jumpy as a cat,” he said.
“Fight against this unmanly weakness,” urged Psmith. “As far as I can
see, everything is going along nicely.”
“I’m not so sure. I believe that blighter Baxter suspects something.”
“What do you think he suspects?”
“Why, that there’s something fishy about you.”
Psmith winced.
“I would be infinitely obliged to you, Comrade Threepwood, if you would
not use that particular adjective. It awakens old memories, all very
painful. But let us go more deeply into this matter, for you interest
me strangely. Why do you think that cheery old Baxter, a delightful
personality if ever I met one, suspects me?”
“It’s the way he looks at you.”
“I know what you mean, but I attribute no importance to it. As far
as I have been able to ascertain during my brief visit, he looks at
everybody and everything in precisely the same way. Only last night at
dinner I observed him glaring with keen mistrust at about as blameless
and innocent a plate of clear soup as was ever dished up. He then
proceeded to shovel it down with quite undisguised relish. So possibly
you are all wrong about his motive for looking at me like that. It may
be admiration.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“Nor, from an æsthetic point of view, do I. But we must bear these
things manfully. We must remind ourselves that it is Baxter’s
misfortune rather than his fault that he looks like a dyspeptic lizard.”
Freddie was not to be consoled. His gloom deepened.
“And it isn’t only Baxter.”
“What else is on your mind?”
“The whole atmosphere of the place is getting rummy, if you know what I
mean.” He bent towards Psmith and whispered pallidly. “I say, I believe
that new housemaid is a detective!”
Psmith eyed him patiently.
“Which new housemaid, Comrade Threepwood? Brooding, as I do, pretty
tensely all the time on deep and wonderful subjects, I have little
leisure to keep tab on the domestic staff. _Is_ there a new housemaid?”
“Yes. Susan, her name is.”
“Susan? Susan? That sounds all right. Just the name a real housemaid
would have.”
“Did you ever,” demanded Freddie earnestly, “see a real housemaid sweep
under a bureau?”
“Does she?”
“Caught her at it in my room this morning.”
“But isn’t it a trifle far-fetched to imagine that she is a detective?
Why should she be a detective?”
“Well, I’ve seen such a dashed lot of films where the housemaid or the
parlourmaid or what not were detectives. Makes a fellow uneasy.”
“Fortunately,” said Psmith, “there is no necessity to remain in a state
of doubt. I can give you an unfailing method by means of which you may
discover if she is what she would have us believe her.”
“What’s that?”
“Kiss her.”
“Kiss her!”
“Precisely. Go to her and say, ‘Susan, you’re a very pretty girl . . .’”
“But she isn’t.”
“We will assume, for purposes of argument, that she is. Go to her and
say, ‘Susan, you are a very pretty girl. What would you do if I were
to kiss you?’ If she is a detective, she will reply, ‘How dare you,
sir!’ or, possibly, more simply, ‘Sir!’ Whereas if she is the genuine
housemaid I believe her to be and only sweeps under bureaux out of
pure zeal, she will giggle and remark, ‘Oh, don’t be silly, sir!’ You
appreciate the distinction?”
“How do you know?”
“My grandmother told me, Comrade Threepwood. My advice to you, if the
state of doubt you are in is affecting your enjoyment of life, is to
put the matter to the test at the earliest convenient opportunity.”
“I’ll think it over,” said Freddie dubiously.
Silence fell upon him for a space, and Psmith was well content to have
it so. He had no specific need of Freddie’s prattle to help him enjoy
the pleasant sunshine and the scent of Angus McAllister’s innumerable
flowers. Presently, however, his companion was off again. But now there
was a different note in his voice. Alarm seemed to have given place to
something which appeared to be embarrassment. He coughed several times,
and his neatly-shod feet, writhing in self-conscious circles, scraped
against the wall.
“I say!”
“You have our ear once more, Comrade Threepwood,” said Psmith politely.
“I say, what I really came out here to talk about was something else.
I say, are you really a pal of Miss Halliday’s?”
“Assuredly. Why?”
“I say!” A rosy blush mantled the Hon. Freddie’s young cheek. “I say, I
wish you would put in a word for me, then.”
“Put in a word for you?”
Freddie gulped.
“I love her, dash it!”
“A noble emotion,” said Psmith courteously. “When did you feel it
coming on?”
“I’ve been in love with her for months. But she won’t look at me.”
“That, of course,” agreed Psmith, “must be a disadvantage. Yes, I
should imagine that that would stick the gaff into the course of true
love to no small extent.”
“I mean, won’t take me seriously, and all that. Laughs at me, don’t you
know, when I propose. What would you do?”
“I should stop proposing,” said Psmith, having given the matter thought.
“But I can’t.”
“Tut, tut!” said Psmith severely. “And, in case the expression is new
to you, what I mean is ‘Pooh, pooh!’ Just say to yourself, ‘From now on
I will not start proposing until after lunch.’ That done, it will be an
easy step to do no proposing during the afternoon. And by degrees you
will find that you can give it up altogether. Once you have conquered
the impulse for the after-breakfast proposal, the rest will be easy.
The first one of the day is always the hardest to drop.”
“I believe she thinks me a mere butterfly,” said Freddie, who had not
been listening to this most valuable homily.
Psmith slid down from the wall and stretched himself.
“Why,” he said, “are butterflies so often described as ‘mere’? I
have heard them so called a hundred times, and I cannot understand
the reason. . . . Well, it would, no doubt, be both interesting
and improving to go into the problem, but at this point, Comrade
Threepwood, I leave you. I would brood.”
“Yes, but, I say, will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Put in a word for me?”
“If,” said Psmith, “the subject crops up in the course of the
chit-chat, I shall be delighted to spread myself with no little vim on
the theme of your fine qualities.”
He melted away into the shrubbery, just in time to avoid Miss Peavey,
who broke in on Freddie’s meditations a moment later and kept him
company till lunch.
§ 3
The twelve-fifty train drew up with a grinding of brakes at the
platform of Market Blandings, and Psmith, who had been whiling away the
time of waiting by squandering money which he could ill afford on the
slot-machine which supplied butter-scotch, turned and submitted it to a
grave scrutiny. Eve Halliday got out of a third-class compartment.
“Welcome to our village, Miss Halliday,” said Psmith, advancing.
Eve regarded him with frank astonishment.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Lord Emsworth was kind enough to suggest that, as we were such old
friends, I should come down in the car and meet you.”
“Are we old friends?”
“Surely. Have you forgotten all those happy days in London?”
“There was only one.”
“True. But think how many meetings we crammed into it.”
“Are you staying at the castle?”
“Yes. And what is more, I am the life and soul of the party. Have you
anything in the shape of luggage?”
“I nearly always take luggage when I am going to stay a month or so in
the country. It’s at the back somewhere.”
“I will look after it. You will find the car outside. If you care to go
and sit in it, I will join you in a moment. And, lest the time hangs
heavy on your hands, take this. Butter-scotch. Delicious, and, so I
understand, wholesome. I bought it specially for you.”
A few minutes later, having arranged for the trunk to be taken to the
castle, Psmith emerged from the station and found Eve drinking in the
beauties of the town of Market Blandings.
“What a delightful old place,” she said as they drove off. “I almost
wish I lived here.”
“During the brief period of my stay at the castle,” said Psmith, “the
same thought has occurred to me. It is the sort of place where one
feels that one could gladly settle down into a peaceful retirement and
grow a honey-coloured beard.” He looked at her with solemn admiration.
“Women are wonderful,” he said.
“And why, Mr. Bones, are women wonderful?” asked Eve.
“I was thinking at the moment of your appearance. You have just stepped
off the train after a four-hour journey, and you are as fresh and
blooming as--if I may coin a simile--a rose. How do you do it? When I
arrived I was deep in alluvial deposits, and have only just managed to
scrape them off.”
“When did you arrive?”
“On the evening of the day on which I met you.”
“But it’s so extraordinary. That you should be here, I mean. I was
wondering if I should ever see you again.” Eve coloured a little, and
went on rather hurriedly. “I mean, it seems so strange that we should
always be meeting like this.”
“Fate, probably,” said Psmith. “I hope it isn’t going to spoil your
visit?”
“Oh, no.”
“I could have done with a trifle more emphasis on the last word,”
said Psmith gently. “Forgive me for criticising your methods of voice
production, but surely you can see how much better it would have
sounded spoken thus: ‘Oh, _no_!’”
Eve laughed.
“Very well, then,” she said. “Oh, _no_!”
“Much better,” said Psmith. “Much better.”
He began to see that it was going to be difficult to introduce a eulogy
of the Hon. Freddie Threepwood into this conversation.
“I’m very glad you’re here,” said Eve, resuming the talk after a slight
pause. “Because, as a matter of fact, I’m feeling just the least bit
nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“This is my first visit to a place of this size.” The car had turned
in at the big stone gates, and they were bowling smoothly up the
winding drive. Through an avenue of trees to the right the great bulk
of the castle had just appeared, grey and imposing against the sky.
The afternoon sun glittered on the lake beyond it. “Is everything very
stately?”
“Not at all. We are very homely folk, we of Blandings Castle. We go
about, simple and unaffected, dropping gracious words all over the
place. Lord Emsworth didn’t overawe you, did he?”
“Oh, he’s a dear. And, of course, I know Freddie quite well.”
Psmith nodded. If she knew Freddie quite well, there was naturally no
need to talk about him. He did not talk about him, therefore.
“Have you known Lord Emsworth long?” asked Eve.
“I met him for the first time the day I met you.”
“Good gracious!” Eve stared. “And he invited you to the castle?”
Psmith smoothed his waistcoat.
“Strange, I agree. One can only account for it, can one not, by
supposing that I radiate some extraordinary attraction. Have you
noticed it?”
“No!”
“No?” said Psmith, surprised. “Ah, well,” he went on tolerantly, “no
doubt it will flash upon you quite unexpectedly sooner or later. Like a
thunderbolt or something.”
“I think you’re terribly conceited.”
“Not at all,” said Psmith. “Conceited? No, no. Success has not spoiled
me.”
“Have you had any success?”
“None whatever.” The car stopped. “We get down here,” said Psmith,
opening the door.
“Here? Why?”
“Because, if we go up to the house, you will infallibly be pounced on
and set to work by one Baxter--a delightful fellow, but a whale for
toil. I propose to conduct you on a tour round the grounds, and then we
will go for a row on the lake. You will enjoy that.”
“You seem to have mapped out my future for me.”
“I have,” said Psmith with emphasis, and in the monocled eye that met
hers Eve detected so beaming a glance of esteem and admiration that she
retreated warily into herself and endeavoured to be frigid.
“I’m afraid I haven’t time to wander about the grounds,” she said
aloofly. “I must be going and seeing Mr. Baxter.”
“Baxter,” said Psmith, “is not one of the natural beauties of the
place. Time enough to see him when you are compelled to . . . We are
now in the southern pleasaunce or the west home-park or something. Note
the refined way the deer are cropping the grass. All the ground on
which we are now standing is of historic interest. Oliver Cromwell went
through here in 1550. The record has since been lowered.”
“I haven’t time . . .”
“Leaving the pleasaunce on our left, we proceed to the northern
messuage. The dandelions were imported from Egypt by the ninth Earl.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Eve mutinously, “I won’t come on the lake.”
“You will enjoy the lake,” said Psmith. “The newts are of the famous
old Blandings strain. They were introduced, together with the
water-beetles, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Lord Emsworth, of
course, holds manorial rights over the mosquito-swatting.”
Eve was a girl of high and haughty spirit, and as such strongly
resented being appropriated and having her movements directed by one
who, in spite of his specious claims, was almost a stranger. But
somehow she found her companion’s placid assumption of authority
hard to resist. Almost meekly she accompanied him through meadow and
shrubbery, over velvet lawns and past gleaming flower-beds, and her
indignation evaporated as her eyes absorbed the beauty of it all. She
gave a little sigh. If Market Blandings had seemed a place in which one
might dwell happily, Blandings Castle was a paradise.
“Before us now,” said Psmith, “lies the celebrated Yew Alley, so called
from the yews which hem it in. Speaking in my capacity of guide to the
estate, I may say that when we have turned this next corner you will
see a most remarkable sight.”
And they did. Before them, as they passed in under the boughs of an
aged tree lay a green vista, faintly dappled with stray shafts of
sunshine. In the middle of this vista the Hon. Frederick Threepwood was
embracing a young woman in the dress of a housemaid.
§ 4
Psmith was the first of the little group to recover from the shock of
this unexpected encounter, the Hon. Freddie the last. That unfortunate
youth, meeting Eve’s astonished eye as he raised his head, froze where
he stood and remained with his mouth open until she had disappeared,
which she did a few moments later, led away by Psmith, who, as he
went, directed at his young friend a look in which surprise, pain, and
reproof were so nicely blended that it would have been hard to say
which predominated. All that a spectator could have said with certainty
was that Psmith’s finer feelings had suffered a severe blow.
“A painful scene,” he remarked to Eve, as he drew her away in the
direction of the house. “But we must always strive to be charitable. He
may have been taking a fly out of her eye, or teaching her jiu-jitsu.”
He looked at her searchingly.
“You seem less revolted,” he said, “than one might have expected.
This argues a sweet, shall we say angelic disposition and confirms my
already high opinion of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all. Mark you,” said Psmith, “I don’t think that this sort of
thing is a hobby of Comrade Threepwood’s. He probably has many other
ways of passing his spare time. Remember that before you pass judgment
upon him. Also--Young Blood, and all that sort of thing.”
“I haven’t any intention of passing judgment upon him. It doesn’t
interest me what Mr. Threepwood does, either in his spare time or out
of it.”
“His interest in you, on the other hand, is vast. I forgot to tell you
before, but he loves you. He asked me to mention it if the conversation
happened to veer round in that direction.”
“I know he does,” said Eve ruefully.
“And does the fact stir no chord in you?”
“I think he’s a nuisance.”
“That,” said Psmith cordially, “is the right spirit. I like to see
it. Very well, then, we will discard the topic of Freddie, and I will
try to find others that may interest, elevate, and amuse you. We are
now approaching the main buildings. I am no expert in architecture,
so cannot tell you all I could wish about the façade, but you can see
there _is_ a façade, and in my opinion--for what it is worth--a jolly
good one. We approach by a sweeping gravel walk.”
“I am going in to report to Mr. Baxter,” said Eve with decision. “It’s
too absurd. I mustn’t spend my time strolling about the grounds. I must
see Mr. Baxter at once.”
Psmith inclined his head courteously.
“Nothing easier. That big, open window there is the library. Doubtless
Comrade Baxter is somewhere inside, toiling away among the archives.”
“Yes, but I can’t announce myself by shouting to him.”
“Assuredly not,” said Psmith. “No need for that at all. Leave it to
me.” He stooped and picked up a large flower-pot which stood under
the terrace wall, and before Eve could intervene had tossed it
lightly through the open window. A muffled thud, followed by a sharp
exclamation from within, caused a faint smile of gratification to
illumine his solemn countenance. “He _is_ in. I thought he would be.
Ah, Baxter,” he said graciously, as the upper half of a body surmounted
by a spectacled face framed itself suddenly in the window, “a pleasant,
sunny afternoon. How is everything?”
The Efficient Baxter struggled for utterance.
“You look like the Blessed Damozel gazing down from the gold bar of
Heaven,” said Psmith genially. “Baxter, I want to introduce you to Miss
Halliday. She arrived safely after a somewhat fatiguing journey. You
will like Miss Halliday. If I had a library, I could not wish for a
more courteous, obliging, and capable cataloguist.”
This striking and unsolicited testimonial made no appeal to the
Efficient Baxter. His mind seemed occupied with other matters.
“Did you throw that flower-pot?” he demanded coldly.
“You will no doubt,” said Psmith, “wish on some later occasion to have
a nice long talk with Miss Halliday in order to give her an outline of
her duties. I have been showing her the grounds and am about to take
her for a row on the lake. But after that she will--and I know I may
speak for Miss Halliday in this matter--be entirely at your disposal.”
“Did you throw that flower-pot?”
“I look forward confidently to the pleasantest of associations between
you and Miss Halliday. You will find her,” said Psmith warmly, “a
willing assistant, a tireless worker.”
“Did you . . . ?”
“But now,” said Psmith, “I must be tearing myself away. In order to
impress Miss Halliday, I put on my best suit when I went to meet her.
For a row upon the lake something simpler in pale flannel is indicated.
I shall only be a few minutes,” he said to Eve. “Would you mind meeting
me at the boat-house?”
“I am not coming on the lake with you.”
“At the boat-house in--say--six and a quarter minutes,” said Psmith
with a gentle smile, and pranced into the house like a long-legged
mustang.
Eve remained where she stood, struggling between laughter and
embarrassment. The Efficient Baxter was still leaning wrathfully out of
the library window, and it began to seem a little difficult to carry on
an ordinary conversation. The problem of what she was to say in order
to continue the scene in an agreeable manner was solved by the arrival
of Lord Emsworth, who pottered out from the bushes with a rake in his
hand. He stood eyeing Eve for a moment, then memory seemed to wake.
Eve’s appearance was easier to remember, possibly, than some of the
things which his lordship was wont to forget. He came forward beamingly.
“Ah, there you are, Miss . . . Dear me, I’m really afraid I have
forgotten your name. My memory is excellent as a rule, but I cannot
remember names . . . Miss Halliday! Of course, of course. Baxter, my
dear fellow,” he proceeded, sighting the watcher at the window, “this
is Miss Halliday.”
“Mr. McTodd,” said the Efficient One sourly, “has already introduced me
to Miss Halliday.”
“Has he? Deuced civil of him, deuced civil of him. But where _is_ he?”
inquired his lordship, scanning the surrounding scenery with a vague
eye.
“He went into the house. After,” said Baxter in a cold voice, “throwing
a flower-pot at me.”
“Doing what?”
“He threw a flower-pot at me,” said Baxter, and vanished moodily.
Lord Emsworth stared at the open window, then turned to Eve for
enlightenment.
“_Why_ did Baxter throw a flower-pot at McTodd?” he said. “And,” he
went on, ventilating an even deeper question, “where the deuce did he
get a flower-pot? There are no flower-pots in the library.”
Eve, on her side, was also seeking information.
“Did you say his name was McTodd, Lord Emsworth?”
“No, no. Baxter. That was Baxter, my secretary.”
“No, I mean the one who met me at the station.”
“Baxter did not meet you at the station. The man who met you at the
station,” said Lord Emsworth, speaking slowly, for women are so apt to
get things muddled, “was McTodd. He’s staying here. Constance asked
him, and I’m bound to say when I first heard of it I was not any too
well pleased. I don’t like poets as a rule. But this fellow’s so
different from the other poets I’ve met. Different altogether. And,”
said Lord Emsworth with not a little heat, “I strongly object to Baxter
throwing flower-pots at him. I won’t _have_ Baxter throwing flower-pots
at my guests,” he said firmly; for Lord Emsworth, though occasionally a
little vague, was keenly alive to the ancient traditions of his family
regarding hospitality.
“Is Mr. McTodd a poet?” said Eve, her heart beating.
“Eh? Oh yes, yes. There seems to be no doubt about that. A Canadian
poet. Apparently they have poets out there. And,” demanded his
lordship, ever a fair-minded man, “why not? A remarkably growing
country. I was there in the year ’98. Or was it,” he added,
thoughtfully passing a muddy hand over his chin and leaving a rich
brown stain, “’99? I forget. My memory isn’t good for dates. . . . If
you will excuse me, Miss--Miss Halliday, of course--if you will excuse
me, I must be leaving you. I have to see McAllister, my head gardener.
An obstinate man. A Scotchman. If you go into the house, my sister
Constance will give you a cup of tea. I don’t know what the time is,
but I suppose there will be tea soon. Never take it myself.”
“Mr. McTodd asked me to go for a row on the lake.”
“On the lake, eh? On the _lake_?” said his lordship, as if this was
the last place in the neighbourhood where he would have expected to
hear of people proposing to row. Then he brightened. “Of course, yes,
on the lake. I think you will like the lake. I take a dip there myself
every morning before breakfast. I find it good for the health and
appetite. I plunge in and swim perhaps fifty yards, and then return.”
Lord Emsworth suspended the gossip from the training-camp in order to
look at his watch. “Dear me,” he said, “I must be going. McAllister
has been waiting fully ten minutes. Good-bye, then, for the present,
Miss--er--good-bye.”
And Lord Emsworth ambled off, on his face that look of tense
concentration which it always wore when interviews with Angus
McAllister were in prospect--the look which stern warriors wear when
about to meet a foeman worthy of their steel.
§ 5
There was a cold expression in Eve’s eyes as she made her way slowly
to the boat-house. The information which she had just received had
come as a shock, and she was trying to adjust her mind to it. When
Miss Clarkson had told her of the unhappy conclusion to her old school
friend’s marriage to Ralston McTodd, she had immediately, without
knowing anything of the facts, arrayed herself loyally on Cynthia’s
side and condemned the unknown McTodd uncompromisingly and without
hesitation. It was many years since she had seen Cynthia, and their
friendship might almost have been said to have lapsed; but Eve’s
affection, when she had once given it, was a durable thing, capable of
surviving long separation. She had loved Cynthia at school, and she
could feel nothing but animosity towards anyone who had treated her
badly. She eyed the glittering water of the lake from under lowered
brows, and prepared to be frigid and hostile when the villain of the
piece should arrive. It was only when she heard footsteps behind her
and turned to perceive Psmith hurrying up, radiant in gleaming flannel,
that it occurred to her for the first time that there might have been
faults on both sides. She had not known Psmith long, it was true, but
already his personality had made a somewhat deep impression on her,
and she was loath to believe that he could be the callous scoundrel
of her imagination. She decided to suspend judgment until they should
be out in mid-water and in a position to discuss the matter without
interruption.
“I am a little late,” said Psmith, as he came up. “I was detained by
our young friend Freddie. He came into my room and started talking
about himself at the very moment when I was tying my tie and needed
every ounce of concentration for that delicate task. The recent painful
episode appeared to be weighing on his mind to some extent.” He helped
Eve into the boat and started to row. “I consoled him as best I could
by telling him that it would probably have made you think all the more
highly of him. I ventured the suggestion that girls worship the strong,
rough, dashing type of man. And, after I had done my best to convince
him that he was a strong, rough, dashing man, I came away. By now, of
course, he may have had a relapse into despair; so, if you happen to
see a body bobbing about in the water as we row along, it will probably
be Freddie’s.”
“Never mind about Freddie.”
“I don’t if you don’t,” said Psmith agreeably. “Very well, then, if we
see a body, we will ignore it.” He rowed on a few strokes. “Correct me
if I am wrong,” he said, resting on his oars and leaning forward, “but
you appear to be brooding about something. If you will give me a clue,
I will endeavour to assist you to grapple with any little problem which
is troubling you. What is the matter?”
Eve, questioned thus directly, found it difficult to open the subject.
She hesitated a moment, and let the water ripple through her fingers.
“I have only just found out your name, Mr. McTodd,” she said at length.
Psmith nodded.
“It is always thus,” he said. “Passing through this life, we meet a
fellow-mortal, chat awhile, and part; and the last thing we think of
doing is to ask him in a manly and direct way what his label is. There
is something oddly furtive and shamefaced in one’s attitude towards
people’s names. It is as if we shrank from probing some hideous secret.
We say to ourselves ‘This pleasant stranger may be a Snooks or a
Buggins. Better not inquire.’ But in my case . . .”
“It was a great shock to me.”
“Now there,” said Psmith, “I cannot follow you. I wouldn’t call McTodd
a bad name, as names go. Don’t you think there is a sort of Highland
strength about it? It sounds to me like something out of ‘The Lady of
the Lake’ or ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel.’ ‘The stag at eve had drunk
its fill adoon the glen beyint the hill, and welcomed with a friendly
nod old Scotland’s pride, young Laird McTodd.’ You don’t think it has a
sort of wild romantic ring?”
“I ought to tell you, Mr. McTodd,” said Eve, “that I was at school with
Cynthia.”
Psmith was not a young man who often found himself at a loss, but this
remark gave him a bewildered feeling such as comes in dreams. It was
plain to him that this delightful girl thought she had said something
serious, even impressive; but for the moment it did not seem to him to
make sense. He sparred warily for time.
“Indeed? With Cynthia? That must have been jolly.”
The harmless observation appeared to have the worst effect upon his
companion. The frown came back to her face.
“Oh, don’t speak in that flippant, sneering way,” she said. “It’s so
cheap.”
Psmith, having nothing to say, remained silent, and the boat drifted
on. Eve’s face was delicately pink, for she was feeling extraordinarily
embarrassed. There was something in the solemn gaze of the man
before her which made it difficult for her to go on. But, with the
stout-heartedness which was one of her characteristics, she stuck to
her task.
“After all,” she said, “however you may feel about her now, you must
have been fond of poor Cynthia at one time, or I don’t see why you
should have married her.”
Psmith, for want of conversation, had begun rowing again. The start he
gave at these remarkable words caused him to skim the surface of the
water with the left oar in such a manner as to send a liberal pint into
Eve’s lap. He started forward with apologies.
“Oh, never mind about that,” said Eve impatiently. “It doesn’t
matter. . . . Mr. McTodd,” she said, and there was a note of gentleness
in her voice, “I do wish you would tell me what the trouble was.”
Psmith stared at the floor of the boat in silence. He was wrestling
with a feeling of injury. True, he had not during their brief
conversation at the Senior Conservative Club specifically inquired of
Mr. McTodd whether he was a bachelor, but somehow he felt that the man
should have dropped some hint as to his married state. True, again,
Mr. McTodd had not asked him to impersonate him at Blandings Castle.
And yet, undeniably, he felt that he had a grievance. Psmith’s was
an orderly mind. He had proposed to continue the pleasant relations
which had begun between Eve and himself, seeing to it that every day
they became a little pleasanter, until eventually, in due season, they
should reach the point where it would become possible to lay heart and
hand at her feet. For there was no doubt in his mind that in a world
congested to overflowing with girls Eve Halliday stood entirely alone.
And now this infernal Cynthia had risen from nowhere to stand between
them. Even a young man as liberally endowed with calm assurance as he
was might find it awkward to conduct his wooing with such a handicap as
a wife in the background.
Eve misinterpreted his silence.
“I suppose you are thinking that it is no business of mine?”
Psmith came out of his thoughts with a start.
“No, no. Not at all.”
“You see, I’m devoted to Cynthia--and I like you.”
She smiled for the first time. Her embarrassment was passing.
“That is the whole point,” she said. “I do like you. And I’m quite sure
that if you were really the sort of man I thought you when I first
heard about all this, I shouldn’t. The friend who told me about you
and Cynthia made it seem as if the whole fault had been yours. I got
the impression that you had been very unkind to Cynthia. I thought
you must be a brute. And when Lord Emsworth told me who you were, my
first impulse was to hate you. I think if you had come along just then
I should have been rather horrid to you. But you were late, and that
gave me time to think it over. And then I remembered how nice you had
been to me and I felt somehow that--that you must really be quite
nice, and it occurred to me that there might be some explanation. And
I thought that--perhaps--if you would let me interfere in your private
affairs--and if things hadn’t gone too far--I might do something to
help--try to bring you together, you know.”
She broke off, a little confused, for now that the words were out she
was conscious of a return of her former shyness. Even though she was
an old friend of Cynthia’s, there did seem something insufferably
officious in this meddling. And when she saw the look of pain on her
companion’s face, she regretted that she had spoken. Naturally, she
thought, he was offended.
In supposing that Psmith was offended she was mistaken. Internally he
was glowing with a renewed admiration for all those beautiful qualities
in her which he had detected, before they had ever met, at several
yards’ range across the street from the window of the Drones Club
smoking-room. His look of pain was due to the fact that, having now
had time to grapple with the problem, he had decided to dispose of
this Cynthia once and for all. He proposed to eliminate her for ever
from his life. And the elimination of even such a comparative stranger
seemed to him to call for a pained look. So he assumed one.
“That,” he said gravely, “would, I fear, be impossible. It is like you
to suggest it, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the kindness
which has made you interest yourself in my troubles, but it is too late
for any reconciliation. Cynthia and I are divorced.”
For a moment the temptation had come to him to kill the woman off with
some wasting sickness, but this he resisted as tending towards possible
future complications. He was resolved, however, that there should be no
question of bringing them together again.
He was disturbed to find Eve staring at him in amazement.
“Divorced? But how can you be divorced? It’s only a few days since you
and she were in London together.”
Psmith ceased to wonder that Mr. McTodd had had trouble with his wife.
The woman was a perfect pest.
“I used the term in a spiritual rather than a legal sense,” he replied.
“True, there has been no actual decree, but we are separated beyond
hope of reunion.” He saw the distress in Eve’s eyes and hurried on.
“There are things,” he said, “which it is impossible for a man to
overlook, however broad-minded he may be. Love, Miss Halliday, is a
delicate plant. It needs tending, nursing, assiduous fostering. This
cannot be done by throwing the breakfast bacon at a husband’s head.”
“What!” Eve’s astonishment was such that the word came out in a
startled squeak.
“_In_ the dish,” said Psmith sadly.
Eve’s blue eyes opened wide.
“_Cynthia_ did that!”
“On more than one occasion. Her temper in the mornings was terrible. I
have known her lift the cat over two chairs and a settee with a single
kick. And all because there were no mushrooms.”
“But--but I can’t believe it!”
“Come over to Canada,” said Psmith, “and I will show you the cat.”
“Cynthia did that!--Cynthia--why, she was always the gentlest little
creature.”
“At school, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“That,” said Psmith, “would, I suppose, be before she had taken to
drink.”
“Taken to drink!”
Psmith was feeling happier. A passing thought did come to him that all
this was perhaps a trifle rough on the absent Cynthia, but he mastered
the unmanly weakness. It was necessary that Cynthia should suffer in
the good cause. Already he had begun to detect in Eve’s eyes the faint
dawnings of an angelic pity, and pity is recognised by all the best
authorities as one of the most valuable emotions which your wooer can
awaken.
“Drink!” Eve repeated, with a little shudder.
“We lived in one of the dry provinces of Canada, and, as so often
happens, that started the trouble. From the moment when she installed
a private still her downfall was swift. I have seen her, under the
influence of home-brew, rage through the house like a devastating
cyclone . . . I hate speaking like this of one who was your friend,”
said Psmith, in a low, vibrating voice. “I would not tell these things
to anyone but you. The world, of course, supposes that the entire blame
for the collapse of our home was mine. I took care that it should be
so. The opinion of the world matters little to me. But with you it is
different. I should not like you to think badly of me, Miss Halliday.
I do not make friends easily--I am a lonely man--but somehow it has
seemed to me since we met that you and I might be friends.”
Eve stretched her hand out impulsively.
“Why, of course!”
Psmith took her hand and held it far longer than was strictly speaking
necessary.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”
He turned the nose of the boat to the shore, and rowed slowly back.
“I have suffered,” said Psmith gravely, as he helped her ashore. “But,
if you will be my friend, I think that I may forget.”
They walked in silence up the winding path to the castle.
§ 6
To Psmith five minutes later, as he sat in his room smoking a cigarette
and looking dreamily out at the distant hills, there entered the Hon.
Frederick Threepwood, who, having closed the door behind him, tottered
to the bed and uttered a deep and discordant groan. Psmith, his mind
thus rudely wrenched from pleasant meditations, turned and regarded the
gloomy youth with disfavour.
“At any other time, Comrade Threepwood,” he said politely but with
firmness, “certainly. But not now. I am not in the vein.”
“What?” said the Hon. Freddie vacantly.
“I say that at any other time I shall be delighted to listen to your
farmyard imitations, but not now. At the moment I am deep in thoughts
of my own, and I may say frankly that I regard you as more or less of
an excrescence. I want solitude, solitude. I am in a beautiful reverie,
and your presence jars upon me somewhat profoundly.”
The Hon. Freddie ruined the symmetry of his hair by passing his fingers
feverishly through it.
“Don’t _talk_ so much! I never met a fellow like you for talking.”
Having rumpled his hair to the left, he went through it again and
rumpled it to the right. “I say, do you know what? You’ve jolly well
got to clear out of here quick!” He got up from the bed, and approached
the window. Having done which, he bent towards Psmith and whispered in
his ear. “The game’s up!”
Psmith withdrew his ear with a touch of hauteur, but he looked at
his companion with a little more interest. He had feared, when he
saw Freddie stagger in with such melodramatic despair and emit so
hollow a groan, that the topic on which he wished to converse was the
already exhausted one of his broken heart. It now began to appear that
weightier matters were on his mind.
“I fail to understand you, Comrade Threepwood,” he said. “The last time
I had the privilege of conversing with you, you informed me that Susan,
or whatever her name is, merely giggled and told you not to be silly
when you embraced her. In other words, she is _not_ a detective. What
has happened since then to get you all worked up?”
“Baxter!”
“What has Baxter been doing?”
“Only giving the whole bally show away to me, that’s all,” said
Freddie feverishly. He clutched Psmith’s arm violently, causing that
exquisite to utter a slight moan and smooth out the wrinkles thus
created in his sleeve. “Listen! I’ve just been talking to the blighter.
I was passing the library just now, when he popped out of the door and
hauled me in. And, dash it, he hadn’t been talking two seconds before
I realised that he has seen through the whole dam’ thing practically
from the moment you got here. Though he doesn’t seem to know that I’ve
anything to do with it, thank goodness.”
“I should imagine not, if he makes you his confidant. Why did he do
that, by the way? What made him select you as the recipient of his
secrets?”
“As far as I can make out, his idea was to form a gang, if you know
what I mean. He said a lot of stuff about him and me being the only
two able-bodied young men in the place, and we ought to be prepared to
tackle you if you started anything.”
“I see. And now tell me how our delightful friend ever happened
to begin suspecting that I was not all I seemed to be. I had been
flattering myself that I had put the little deception over with
complete success.”
“Well, in the first place, dash it, that dam’ fellow McTodd--the real
one, you know--sent a telegram saying that he wasn’t coming. So it
seemed rummy to Baxter bang from the start when you blew in all merry
and bright.”
“Ah! That was what they all meant by saying they were glad I had come
‘after all.’ A phrase which at the moment, I confess, rather mystified
me.”
“And then you went and wrote in the Peavey female’s autograph-book.”
“In what way was that a false move?”
“Why, that was the biggest bloomer on record, as it has turned out,”
said Freddie vehemently. “Baxter apparently keeps every letter that
comes to the place on a file, and he’d skewered McTodd’s original
letter with the rest. I mean, the one he wrote accepting the invitation
to come here. And Baxter compared his handwriting with what you wrote
in the Peavey’s album, and, of course, they weren’t a dam’ bit alike.
And that put the lid on it.”
Psmith lit another cigarette and drew at it thoughtfully. He realised
that he had made a tactical error in underestimating the antagonism of
the Efficient One.
“Does he seem to have any idea why I have come to the castle?” he asked.
“Any idea? Why, dash it, the very first thing he said to me was that
you must have come to sneak Aunt Connie’s necklace.”
“In that case, why has he made no move till to-day? I should have
supposed that he would long since have denounced me before as large an
audience as he could assemble. Why this reticence on the part of genial
old Baxter?”
A crimson flush of chivalrous indignation spread itself over Freddie’s
face.
“He told me that, too.”
“There seems to have been no reserves between Comrade Baxter and
yourself. And very healthy, too, this spirit of confidence. What was
his reason for abstaining from loosing the bomb?”
“He said he was pretty sure you wouldn’t try to do anything on your
own. He thought you would wait till your accomplice arrived. And, damn
him,” cried Freddie heatedly, “do you know who he’s got the infernal
gall to think is your accomplice? Miss Halliday! Dash him!”
Psmith smoked in thoughtful silence.
“Well, of course, now that this has happened,” said Freddie, “I suppose
it’s no good thinking of going on with the thing. You’d better pop off,
what? If I were you, I’d leg it to-day and have your luggage sent on
after you.”
Psmith threw away his cigarette and stretched himself. During the last
few moments he had been thinking with some tenseness.
“Comrade Threepwood,” he said reprovingly, “you suggest a cowardly and
weak-minded action. I admit that the outlook would be distinctly rosier
if no such person as Baxter were on the premises, but nevertheless the
thing must be seen through to a finish. At least we have this advantage
over our spectacled friend, that we know he suspects me and he doesn’t
know we know. I think that with a little resource and ingenuity we may
yet win through.” He turned to the window and looked out. “Sad,” he
sighed, “that these idyllic surroundings should have become oppressed
with a cloud of sinister menace. One thinks one sees a faun popping
about in the undergrowth, and on looking more closely perceives that
it is in reality a detective with a notebook. What one fancied was the
piping of Pan turns out to be a police-whistle, summoning assistance.
Still, we must bear these things without wincing. They are our cross.
What you have told me will render me, if possible, warier and more
snake-like than ever, but my purpose remains firm. The cry goes round
the castle battlements ‘Psmith intends to keep the old flag flying!’
So charge off and soothe your quivering ganglions with a couple of
aspirins, Comrade Threepwood, and leave me to my thoughts. All will
doubtless come right in the future.”