PSMITH ENGAGES A VALET
§ 1
From out of the scented shade of the big cedar on the lawn in front of
the castle Psmith looked at the flower-beds, jaunty and gleaming in the
afternoon sun; then he looked back at Eve, incredulity in every feature.
“I must have misunderstood you. Surely,” he said in a voice vibrant
with reproach, “you do not seriously intend to _work_ in weather like
this?”
“I must. I’ve got a conscience. They aren’t paying me a handsome
salary--a fairly handsome salary--to sit about in deck-chairs.”
“But you only came yesterday.”
“Well, I ought to have worked yesterday.”
“It seems to me,” said Psmith, “the nearest thing to slavery that I
have ever struck. I had hoped, seeing that everybody had gone off and
left us alone, that we were going to spend a happy and instructive
afternoon together under the shade of this noble tree, talking of this
and that. Is it not to be?”
“No, it is not. It’s lucky you’re not the one who’s supposed to be
cataloguing this library. It would never get finished.”
“And why, as your employer would say, should it? He has expressed
the opinion several times in my hearing that the library has jogged
along quite comfortably for a great number of years without being
catalogued. Why shouldn’t it go on like that indefinitely?”
“It’s no good trying to tempt me. There’s nothing I should like better
than to loaf here for hours and hours, but what would Mr. Baxter say
when he got back and found out?”
“It is becoming increasingly clear to me each day that I stay in this
place,” said Psmith moodily, “that Comrade Baxter is little short of a
blister on the community. Tell me, how do you get on with him?”
“I don’t like him much.”
“Nor do I. It is on these communities of taste that life-long
attachments are built. Sit down and let us exchange confidences on the
subject of Baxter.”
Eve laughed.
“I won’t. You’re simply trying to lure me into staying out here and
neglecting my duty. I really must be off now. You have no idea what a
lot of work there is to be done.”
“You are entirely spoiling my afternoon.”
“No, I’m not. You’ve got a book. What is it?”
Psmith picked up the brightly-jacketed volume and glanced at it.
“_The Man With The Missing Toe._ Comrade Threepwood lent it to me. He
has a vast store of this type of narrative. I expect he will be wanting
you to catalogue his library next.”
“Well, it looks interesting.”
“Ah, but what does it _teach_? How long do you propose to shut yourself
up in that evil-smelling library?”
“An hour or so.”
“Then I shall rely on your society at the end of that period. We might
go for another saunter on the lake.”
“All right. I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished.”
Psmith watched her disappear into the house, then seated himself once
more in the long chair under the cedar. A sense of loneliness oppressed
him. He gave one look at _The Man With The Missing Toe_, and, having
rejected the entertainment it offered, gave himself up to meditation.
Blandings Castle dozed in the midsummer heat like a Palace of Sleep.
There had been an exodus of its inmates shortly after lunch, when Lord
Emsworth, Lady Constance, Mr. Keeble, Miss Peavey, and the Efficient
Baxter had left for the neighbouring town of Bridgeford in the big
car, with the Hon. Freddie puffing in its wake in a natty two-seater.
Psmith, who had been invited to accompany them, had declined on the
plea that he wished to write a poem. He felt but a tepid interest
in the afternoon’s programme, which was to consist of the unveiling
by his lordship of the recently completed memorial to the late
Hartley Reddish, Esq., J.P., for so many years Member of Parliament
for the Bridgeford and Shifley Division of Shropshire. Not even the
prospect of hearing Lord Emsworth--clad, not without vain protest
and weak grumbling, in a silk hat, morning coat, and sponge-bag
trousers--deliver a speech, had been sufficient to lure him from the
castle grounds.
But at the moment when he had uttered his refusal, thereby incurring
the ill-concealed envy both of Lord Emsworth and his son Freddie, the
latter also an unwilling celebrant, he had supposed that his solitude
would be shared by Eve. This deplorable conscientiousness of hers, this
morbid craving for work, had left him at a loose end. The time and the
place were both above criticism, but, as so often happens in this life
of ours, he had been let down by the girl.
But, though he chafed for awhile, it was not long before the dreamy
peace of the afternoon began to exercise a soothing effect upon him.
With the exception of the bees that worked with their usual misguided
energy among the flowers and an occasional butterfly which flitted past
in the sunshine, all nature seemed to be taking a siesta. Somewhere
out of sight a lawn-mower had begun to emphasise the stillness with
its musical whir. A telegraph-boy on a red bicycle passed up the drive
to the front door, and seemed to have some difficulty in establishing
communication with the domestic staff--from which Psmith deduced that
Beach, the butler, like a good opportunist, was taking advantage of
the absence of authority to enjoy a nap in some distant lair of his
own. Eventually a parlourmaid appeared, accepted the telegram and
(apparently) a rebuke from the boy, and the bicycle passed out of
sight, leaving silence and peace once more.
The noblest minds are not proof against atmospheric conditions of this
kind. Psmith’s eyes closed, opened, closed again. And presently his
regular breathing, varied by an occasional snore, was added to the rest
of the small sounds of the summer afternoon.
The shadow of the cedar was appreciably longer when he awoke with that
sudden start which generally terminates sleep in a garden-chair. A
glance at his watch told him that it was close on five o’clock, a fact
which was confirmed a moment later by the arrival of the parlourmaid
who had answered the summons of the telegraph-boy. She appeared to
be the sole survivor of the little world that had its centre in the
servants’ hall. A sort of female Casabianca.
“I have put your tea in the hall, sir.”
“You could have performed no nobler or more charitable task,” Psmith
assured her; and, having corrected a certain stiffness of limb by
means of massage, went in. It occurred to him that Eve, assiduous
worker though she was, might have knocked off in order to keep him
company.
The hope proved vain. A single cup stood bleakly on the tray. Either
Eve was superior to the feminine passion for tea or she was having hers
up in the library. Filled with something of the sadness which he had
felt at the sight of the toiling bees, Psmith embarked on his solitary
meal, wondering sorrowfully at the perverseness which made girls work
when there was no one to watch them.
It was very agreeable here in the coolness of the hall. The great door
of the castle was open, and through it he had a view of lawns bathed in
a thirst-provoking sunlight. Through the green-baize door to his left,
which led to the servants’ quarters, an occasional sharp giggle gave
evidence of the presence of humanity, but apart from that he might have
been alone in the world. Once again he fell into a dreamy meditation,
and there is little reason to doubt that he would shortly have
disgraced himself by falling asleep for the second time in a single
afternoon, when he was restored to alertness by the sudden appearance
of a foreign body in the open doorway. Against the background of golden
light a black figure had abruptly manifested itself.
The sharp pang of apprehension which ran through Psmith’s consciousness
like an electric shock, causing him to stiffen like some wild creature
surprised in the woods, was due to the momentary belief that the
new-comer was the local vicar, of whose conversational powers he had
had experience on the second day of his visit. Another glance showed
him that he had been too pessimistic. This was not the vicar. It was
someone whom he had never seen before--a slim and graceful young man
with a dark, intelligent face, who stood blinking in the subdued light
of the hall with eyes not yet accustomed to the absence of strong
sunshine. Greatly relieved, Psmith rose and approached him.
“Hallo!” said the new-comer. “I didn’t see you. It’s quite dark in here
after outside.”
“The light is pleasantly dim,” agreed Psmith.
“Is Lord Emsworth anywhere about?”
“I fear not. He has legged it, accompanied by the entire household, to
superintend the unveiling of a memorial at Bridgeford to--if my memory
serves me rightly--the late Hartley Reddish, Esq., J.P., M.P. Is there
anything I can do?”
“Well, I’ve come to stay, you know.”
“Indeed?”
“Lady Constance invited me to pay a visit as soon as I reached England.”
“Ah! Then you have come from foreign parts?”
“Canada.”
Psmith started slightly. This, he perceived, was going to complicate
matters. The last thing he desired was the addition to the Blandings
circle of one familiar with Canada. Nothing would militate against his
peace of mind more than the society of a man who would want to exchange
with him views on that growing country.
“Oh, Canada?” he said.
“I wired,” proceeded the other, “but I suppose it came after everybody
had left. Ah, that must be my telegram on that table over there. I
walked up from the station.” He was rambling idly about the hall after
the fashion of one breaking new ground. He paused at an occasional
table, the one where, when taking after-dinner coffee, Miss Peavey was
wont to sit. He picked up a book, and uttered a gratified laugh. “One
of my little things,” he said.
“One of what?” said Psmith.
“This book. _Songs of Squalor._ I wrote it.”
“You wrote it!”
“Yes. My name’s McTodd. Ralston McTodd. I expect you have heard them
speak of me?”
§ 2
The mind of a man who has undertaken a mission as delicate as Psmith’s
at Blandings Castle is necessarily alert. Ever since he had stepped
into the five o’clock train at Paddington, when his adventure might
have been said formally to have started, Psmith had walked warily,
like one in a jungle on whom sudden and unexpected things might pounce
out at any moment. This calm announcement from the slim young man,
therefore, though it undoubtedly startled him, did not deprive him of
his faculties. On the contrary, it quickened them. His first action
was to step nimbly to the table on which the telegram lay awaiting the
return of Lord Emsworth, his second was to slip the envelope into his
pocket. It was imperative that telegrams signed McTodd should not lie
about loose while he was enjoying the hospitality of the castle.
This done, he confronted the young man.
“Come, come!” he said with quiet severity.
He was extremely grateful to a kindly Providence which had arranged
that this interview should take place at a time when nobody but himself
was in the house.
“You say that you are Ralston McTodd, the author of these poems?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then what,” said Psmith incisively, “is a pale parabola of Joy?”
“Er--what?” said the new-comer in an enfeebled voice. There was
manifest in his demeanour now a marked nervousness.
“And here is another,” said Psmith. “‘The----’ Wait a minute, I’ll get
it soon. Yes. ‘The sibilant, scented silence that shimmered where we
sat.’ Could you oblige me with a diagram of that one?”
“I--I---- What are you talking about?”
Psmith stretched out a long arm and patted him almost affectionately on
the shoulder.
“It’s lucky you met me before you had to face the others,” he said.
“I fear that you undertook this little venture without thoroughly
equipping yourself. They would have detected your imposture in the
first minute.”
“What do you mean--imposture? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Psmith waggled his forefinger at him reproachfully.
“My dear Comrade, I may as well tell you at once that the genuine
McTodd is an old and dear friend of mine. I had a long and entertaining
conversation with him only a few days ago. So that, I think we may
confidently assert, is that. Or am I wrong?”
“Oh, hell!” said the young man. And, flopping bonelessly into a chair,
he mopped his forehead in undisguised and abject collapse.
Silence reigned for awhile.
“What,” inquired the visitor, raising a damp face that shone pallidly
in the dim light, “are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, Comrade--by the way, what is your name?”
“Cootes.”
“Nothing, Comrade Cootes. Nothing whatever. You are free to leg it
hence whenever you feel disposed. In fact, the sooner you do so, the
better I shall be pleased.”
“Say! That’s darned good of you.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“You’re an ace----”
“Oh, hush!” interrupted Psmith modestly. “But before you go tell me one
or two things. I take it that your object in coming here was to have a
pop at Lady Constance’s necklace?”
“Yes.”
“I thought as much. And what made you suppose that the real McTodd
would not be here when you arrived?”
“Oh, that was all right. I travelled over with that guy McTodd on the
boat, and saw a good deal of him when we got to London. He was full of
how he’d been invited here, and I got it out of him that no one here
knew him by sight. And then one afternoon I met him in the Strand, all
worked up. Madder than a hornet. Said he’d been insulted and wouldn’t
come down to this place if they came and begged him on their bended
knees. I couldn’t make out what it was all about, but apparently he
had met Lord Emsworth and hadn’t been treated right. He told me he was
going straight off to Paris.”
“And did he?”
“Sure. I saw him off myself at Charing Cross. That’s why it seemed such
a cinch coming here instead of him. It’s just my darned luck that the
first man I run into is a friend of his. How was I to know that he had
any friends this side? He told me he’d never been in England before.”
“In this life, Comrade Cootes,” said Psmith, “we must always
distinguish between the Unlikely and the Impossible. It was unlikely,
as you say, that you would meet any friend of McTodd’s in this
out-of-the-way spot; and you rashly ordered your movements on the
assumption that it was impossible. With what result? The cry goes round
the Underworld, ‘Poor old Cootes has made a bloomer!’”
“You needn’t rub it in.”
“I am only doing so for your good. It is my earnest hope that you
will lay this lesson to heart and profit by it. Who knows that it may
not be the turning-point in your career? Years hence, when you are
a white-haired and opulent man of leisure, having retired from the
crook business with a comfortable fortune, you may look back on your
experience of to-day and realise that it was the means of starting
you on the road to Success. You will lay stress on it when you are
interviewed for the _Weekly Burglar_ on ‘How I Began’ . . . But,
talking of starting on roads, I think that perhaps it would be as well
if you now had a dash at the one leading to the railway-station. The
household may be returning at any moment now.”
“That’s right,” agreed the visitor.
“I think so,” said Psmith. “I think so. You will be happier when you
are away from here. Once outside the castle precincts, a great weight
will roll off your mind. A little fresh air will put the roses in your
cheeks. You know your way out?”
He shepherded the young man to the door and with a cordial push started
him on his way. Then with long strides he ran upstairs to the library
to find Eve.
* * * * *
At about the same moment, on the platform of Market Blandings station,
Miss Aileen Peavey was alighting from the train which had left
Bridgeford some half an hour earlier. A headache, the fruit of standing
about in the hot sun, had caused her to forgo the pleasure of hearing
Lord Emsworth deliver his speech: and she had slipped back on a
convenient train with the intention of lying down and resting. Finding,
on reaching Market Blandings, that her head was much better, and the
heat of the afternoon being now over, she started to walk to the
castle, greatly refreshed by a cool breeze which had sprung up from the
west. She left the town at almost the exact time when the disconsolate
Mr. Cootes was passing out of the big gates at the end of the castle
drive.
§ 3
The grey melancholy which accompanied Mr. Cootes like a diligent
spectre as he began his walk back to the town of Market Blandings, and
which not even the delightful evening could dispel, was due primarily,
of course, to that sickening sense of defeat which afflicts a man whose
high hopes have been wrecked at the very instant when success has
seemed in sight. Once or twice in the life of every man there falls to
his lot something which can only be described as a soft snap, and it
had seemed to Mr. Cootes that this venture of his to Blandings Castle
came into that category. He had, like most members of his profession,
had his ups and downs in the past, but at last, he told himself, the
goddess Fortune had handed him something on a plate with watercress
round it. Once established in the castle, there would have been a
hundred opportunities of achieving the capture of Lady Constance’s
necklace: and it had looked as though all he had to do was to walk in,
announce himself, and be treated as the honoured guest. As he slouched
moodily between the dusty hedges that fringed the road to Market
Blandings, Edward Cootes tasted the bitterness that only those know
whose plans have been upset by the hundredth chance.
But this was not all. In addition to the sadness of frustrated hope, he
was also experiencing the anguish of troubled memories. Not only was
the Present torturing him, but the Past had come to life and jumped
out and bitten him. A sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier
things, and this was what Edward Cootes was doing now. It is at moments
like this that a man needs a woman’s tender care, and Mr. Cootes had
lost the only woman in whom he could have confided his grief, the only
woman who would have understood and sympathised.
We have been introduced to Mr. Cootes at a point in his career when he
was practising upon dry land; but that was not his chosen environment.
Until a few months back his business had lain upon deep waters. The
salt scent of the sea was in his blood. To put it more exactly, he had
been by profession a card-sharper on the Atlantic liners; and it was
during this period that he had loved and lost. For three years and
more he had worked in perfect harmony with the lady who, though she
adopted a variety of names for purposes of travel, was known to her
immediate circle as Smooth Lizzie. He had been the practitioner, she
the decoy, and theirs had been one of those ideal business partnerships
which one so seldom meets with in a world of cynicism and mistrust.
Comradeship had ripened into something deeper and more sacred, and it
was all settled between them that when they next touched New York, Mr.
Cootes, if still at liberty, should proceed to the City Hall for a
marriage-licence; when they had quarrelled--quarrelled irrevocably over
one of those trifling points over which lovers do quarrel. Some absurd
dispute as to the proper division of the quite meagre sum obtained
from a cattle millionaire on their last voyage had marred their golden
dreams. One word had led to another. The lady, after woman’s habit,
had the last of the series, and even Mr. Cootes was forced to admit
that it was a pippin. She had spoken it on the pier at New York, and
then passed out of his life. And with her had gone all his luck. It
was as if her going had brought a curse upon him. On the very next
trip he had had an unfortunate misunderstanding with an irritable
gentleman from the Middle West, who, piqued at what he considered--not
unreasonably--the undue proportion of kings and aces in the hands
which Mr. Cootes had been dealing himself, expressed his displeasure
by biting off the first joint of the other’s right index finger--thus
putting an abrupt end to a brilliant career. For it was on this finger
that Mr. Cootes principally relied for the almost magical effects
which he was wont to produce with a pack of cards after a little quiet
shuffling.
With an aching sense of what might have been he thought now of his lost
Lizzie. Regretfully he admitted to himself that she had always been
the brains of the firm. A certain manual dexterity he had no doubt
possessed, but it was ever Lizzie who had been responsible for the
finer work. If they had still been partners, he really believed that
she could have discovered some way of getting round the obstacles which
had reared themselves now between himself and the necklace of Lady
Constance Keeble. It was in a humble and contrite spirit that Edward
Cootes proceeded on his way to Market Blandings.
* * * * *
Miss Peavey, meanwhile, who, it will be remembered, was moving slowly
along the road from the Market Blandings end, was finding her walk both
restful and enjoyable. There were moments, it has to be recorded, when
the society of her hostess and her hostess’s relations was something of
a strain to Miss Peavey; and she was glad to be alone. Her headache had
disappeared, and she revelled in the quiet evening hush. About now, if
she had not had the sense to detach herself from the castle platoon,
she would, she reflected, be listening to Lord Emsworth’s speech on the
subject of the late Hartley Reddish, J.P., M.P.: a topic which even the
noblest of orators might have failed to render really gripping. And
what she knew of her host gave her little confidence in his powers of
oratory.
Yes, she was well out of it. The gentle breeze played soothingly upon
her face. Her delicately modelled nostrils drank in gratefully the
scent from the hedgerows. Somewhere out of sight a thrush was singing.
And so moved was Miss Peavey by the peace and sweetness of it all that
she, too, began to sing.
Had those who enjoyed the privilege of her acquaintance at Blandings
Castle been informed that Miss Peavey was about to sing, they would
doubtless have considered themselves on firm ground if called upon
to make a conjecture as to the type of song which she would select.
Something quaint, dreamy, a little wistful . . . that would have been
the universal guess . . . some old-world ballad, possibly . . .
What Miss Peavey actually sang--in a soft, meditative voice like that
of a linnet waking to greet a new dawn--was that curious composition
known as “The Beale Street Blues.”
As she reached the last line, she broke off abruptly. She was, she
perceived, no longer alone. Down the road toward her, walking
pensively like one with a secret sorrow, a man was approaching; and
for an instant, as she turned the corner, something in his appearance
seemed to catch her by the throat and her breath came sharply.
“Gee!” said Miss Peavey.
She was herself again the next moment. A chance resemblance had misled
her. She could not see the man’s face, for his head was bent, but how
was it possible . . .
And then, when he was quite close, he raised his head, and the county
of Shropshire, as far as it was visible to her amazed eyes, executed
a sudden and eccentric dance. Trees bobbed up and down, hedgerows
shimmied like a Broadway chorus; and from out of the midst of the
whirling country-side a voice spoke.
“Liz!”
“Eddie!” ejaculated Miss Peavey faintly, and sat down in a heap on a
grassy bank.
§ 4
“Well, for goodness’ sake!” said Miss Peavey.
Shropshire had become static once more. She stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Can you tie it!” said Miss Peavey.
She ran her gaze over him once again from head to foot.
“Well, if this ain’t the cat’s whiskers!” said Miss Peavey. And with
this final pronouncement she rose from her bank, somewhat restored, and
addressed herself to the task of picking up old threads.
“Wherever,” she inquired, “did you spring from, Ed?”
There was nothing but affection in her voice. Her gaze was that of a
mother contemplating her long-lost child. The past was past and a new
era had begun. In the past she had been compelled to describe this man
as a hunk of cheese and to express the opinion that his crookedness
was such as to enable him to hide at will behind a spiral staircase;
but now, in the joy of this unexpected reunion, all these harsh views
were forgotten. This was Eddie Cootes, her old side-kick, come back to
her after many days, and only now was it borne in upon her what a gap
in her life his going had made. She flung herself into his arms with a
glad cry.
Mr. Cootes, who had not been expecting this demonstration of esteem,
staggered a trifle at the impact, but recovered himself sufficiently
to return the embrace with something of his ancient warmth. He was
delighted at this cordiality, but also surprised. The memory of the
lady’s parting words on the occasion of their last meeting was still
green, and he had not realised how quickly women forget and forgive,
and how a sensitive girl, stirred by some fancied injury, may address a
man as a pie-faced plugugly and yet retain in her inmost heart all the
old love and affection. He kissed Miss Peavey fondly.
“Liz,” he said with fervour, “you’re prettier than ever.”
“Now you behave,” responded Miss Peavey coyly.
The arrival of a baaing flock of sheep, escorted by a priggish dog and
followed by a couple of the local peasantry, caused an intermission in
these tender exchanges; and by the time the procession had moved off
down the road they were in a more suitable frame of mind to converse
quietly and in a practical spirit, to compare notes, and to fill up the
blanks.
“Wherever,” inquired Miss Peavey again, “did you spring from, Ed? You
could of knocked me down with a feather when I saw you coming along the
road. I couldn’t have believed it was you, this far from the ocean.
What are you doing inland like this? Taking a vacation, or aren’t you
working the boats any more?”
“No, Liz,” said Mr. Cootes sadly. “I’ve had to give that up.”
And he exhibited the hiatus where an important section of his finger
had been and told his painful tale. His companion’s sympathy was balm
to his wounded soul.
“The risks of the profession, of course,” said Mr. Cootes moodily,
removing the exhibit in order to place his arm about her slender waist.
“Still, it’s done me in. I tried once or twice, but I couldn’t seem to
make the cards behave no more, so I quit. Ah, Liz,” said Mr. Cootes
with feeling, “you can take it from me that I’ve had no luck since
you left me. Regular hoodoo there’s been on me. If I’d walked under a
ladder on a Friday to smash a mirror over the dome of a black cat I
couldn’t have had it tougher.”
“You poor boy!”
Mr. Cootes nodded sombrely.
“Tough,” he agreed, “but there it is. Only this afternoon my jinx
gummed the game for me and threw a spanner into the prettiest little
scenario you ever thought of . . . But let’s not talk about my
troubles. What are you doing now, Liz?”
“Me? Oh, I’m living near here.”
Mr. Cootes started.
“Not married?” he exclaimed in alarm.
“No!” cried Miss Peavey with vehemence, and shot a tender glance up at
his face. “And I guess you know why, Ed.”
“You don’t mean . . . you hadn’t forgotten me?”
“As if I could ever forget you, Eddie! There’s only one tintype on _my_
mantelpiece.”
“But it struck me . . . it sort of occurred to me as a passing thought
that, when we saw each other last, you were a mite peeved with your
Eddie . . .”
It was the first allusion either of them had made to the past
unpleasantness, and it caused a faint blush to dye Miss Peavey’s soft
cheek.
“Oh, shucks!” she said. “I’d forgotten all about that next day. I was
good and mad at the time, I’ll allow, but if only you’d called me up
next morning, Ed . . .”
There was a silence, as they mused on what might have been.
“What are you doing, living here?” asked Mr. Cootes after a pregnant
pause. “Have you retired?”
“No, _sir_. I’m sitting in at a game with real worthwhile stakes. But,
darn it,” said Miss Peavey regretfully, “I’m wondering if it isn’t too
big for me to put through alone. Oh, Eddie, if only there was some way
you and me could work it together like in the old days.”
“What is it?”
“Diamonds, Eddie. A necklace. I’ve only had one look at it so far, but
that was enough. Some of the best ice I’ve saw in years, Ed. Worth
every cent of a hundred thousand berries.”
The coincidence drew from Mr. Cootes a sharp exclamation.
“A necklace!”
“Listen, Ed, while I slip you the low-down. And, say, if you knew the
relief it was to me talking good United States again! Like taking off
a pair of tight shoes. I’m doing the high-toned stuff for the moment.
Soulful. _You_ remember, like I used to pull once or twice in the old
days. Just after you and me had that little spat of ours I thought I’d
take another trip in the old _Atlantic_--force of habit or something,
I guess. Anyway, I sailed, and we weren’t two days out from New York
when I made the biggest kind of a hit with the dame this necklace
belongs to. Seemed to take a shine to me right away . . .”
“I don’t blame her!” murmured Mr. Cootes devotedly.
“Now don’t you interrupt,” said Miss Peavey, administering a gratified
slap. “Where was I? Oh yes. This here now Lady Constance Keeble I’m
telling you about . . .”
“What!”
“What’s the matter now?”
“Lady Constance Keeble?”
“That’s the name. She’s Lord Emsworth’s sister, who lives at a big
place up the road. Blandings Castle it’s called. She didn’t seem like
she was able to let me out of her sight, and I’ve been with her off and
on ever since we landed. I’m visiting at the castle now.”
A deep sigh, like the groan of some great spirit in travail, forced
itself from between Mr. Cootes’s lips.
“Well, wouldn’t that jar you!” he demanded of circumambient space. “Of
all the lucky ones! getting into the place like that, with the band
playing and a red carpet laid down for you to walk on! Gee, if you
fell down a well, Liz, you’d come up with the bucket. You’re a human
horseshoe, that’s what you are. Say, listen. Lemme-tell-ya-sumf’n. Do
you know what _I’ve_ been doing this afternoon? Only trying to edge
into the dam’ place myself and getting the air two minutes after I was
past the front door.”
“What! _You_, Ed?”
“Sure. You’re not the only one that’s heard of that collection of ice.”
“Oh, Ed!” Bitter disappointment rang in Miss Peavey’s voice. “If only
you could have worked it! Me and you partners again! It hurts to think
of it. What was the stuff you pulled to get you in?”
Mr. Cootes so far forgot himself in his agony of spirit as to
expectorate disgustedly at a passing frog. And even in this trivial
enterprise failure dogged him. He missed the frog, which withdrew into
the grass with a cold look of disapproval.
“Me?” said Mr. Cootes. “I thought I’d got it smooth. I’d chummed up
with a fellow who had been invited down to the place and had thought it
over and decided not to go, so I said to myself what’s the matter with
going there instead of him. A gink called McTodd this was, a poet, and
none of the folks had ever set eyes on him, except the old man, who’s
too short-sighted to see anyone, so . . .”
Miss Peavey interrupted.
“You don’t mean to tell me, Ed Cootes, that you thought you could get
into the castle by pretending to be Ralston McTodd?”
“Sure I did. Why not? It didn’t seem like there was anything to it.
A cinch, that’s what it looked like. And the first guy I meet in the
joint is a mutt who knows this McTodd well. We had a couple of words,
and I beat it. I know when I’m not wanted.”
“But, Ed! Ed! What do you mean? Ralston McTodd is at the castle now,
this very moment.”
“How’s that?”
“Sure. Been there coupla days and more. Long, thin bird with an
eyeglass.”
Mr. Cootes’s mind was in a whirl. He could make nothing of this matter.
“Nothing like it! McTodd’s not so darned tall or so thin, if it comes
to that. And he didn’t wear no eyeglass all the time I was with him.
This . . .” He broke off sharply. “My gosh! I wonder!” he cried. “Liz!
How many men are there in the joint right now?”
“Only four besides Lord Emsworth. There’s a big party coming down for
the County Ball, but that’s all there is at present. There’s Lord
Emsworth’s son, Freddie . . .”
“What does he look like?”
“Sort of a dude with blond hair slicked back. Then there’s Mr. Keeble.
He’s short with a red face.”
“And?”
“And Baxter. He’s Lord Emsworth’s secretary. Wears spectacles.”
“And that’s the lot?”
“That’s all there is, not counting this here McTodd and the help.”
Mr. Cootes brought his hand down with a resounding report on his leg.
The mildly pleasant look which had been a feature of his appearance
during his interview with Psmith had vanished now, its place taken by
one of an extremely sinister malevolence.
“And I let him shoo me out as if I was a stray pup!” he muttered
through clenched teeth. “Of all the bunk games!”
“What _are_ you talking about, Ed?”
“And I thanked him! _Thanked_ him!” moaned Edward Cootes, writhing at
the memory. “I thanked him for letting me go!”
“Eddie Cootes, whatever are you . . . ?”
“Listen, Liz.” Mr. Cootes mastered his emotion with a strong effort. “I
blew into that joint and met this fellow with the eyeglass, and he told
me he knew McTodd well and that I wasn’t him. And, from what you tell
me, this must be the very guy that’s passing himself off as McTodd!
Don’t you see? This baby must have started working on the same lines
I did. Got to know McTodd, found he wasn’t coming to the castle, and
came down instead of him, same as me. Only he got there first, damn
him! Wouldn’t that give you a pain in the neck!”
Amazement held Miss Peavey dumb for an instant. Then she spoke.
“The big stiff!” said Miss Peavey.
Mr. Cootes, regardless of a lady’s presence, went even further in his
censure.
“I had a feeling from the first that there was something not on the
level about that guy!” said Miss Peavey. “Gee! He must be after that
necklace too.”
“Sure he’s after the necklace,” said Mr. Cootes impatiently. “What did
you think he’d come down for? A change of air?”
“But, Ed! Say! Are you going to let him get away with it?”
“Am _I_ going to let him get away with it!” said Mr. Cootes, annoyed by
the foolish question. “Wake me up in the night and ask me!”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Do!” said Mr. Cootes. “Do! I’ll tell you what I’m going to . . .” He
paused, and the stern resolve that shone in his face seemed to flicker.
“Say, what the hell _am_ I going to do?” he went on somewhat weakly.
“You won’t get anything by putting the folks wise that he’s a fake.
That would be the finish of him, but it wouldn’t get _you_ anywhere.”
“No,” said Mr. Cootes.
“Wait a minute while I think,” said Miss Peavey.
There was a pause. Miss Peavey sat with knit brows.
“How would it be . . . ?” ventured Mr. Cootes.
“Cheese it!” said Miss Peavey.
Mr. Cootes cheesed it. The minutes ticked on.
“I’ve got it,” said Miss Peavey. “This guy’s ace-high with Lady
Constance. You’ve got to get him alone right away and tell him he’s got
to get you invited to the place as a friend of his.”
“I knew you’d think of something, Liz,” said Mr. Cootes, almost humbly.
“You always were a wonder like that. How am I to get him alone?”
“I can fix that. I’ll ask him to come for a stroll with me. He’s not
what you’d call crazy about me, but he can’t very well duck if I keep
after him. We’ll go down the drive. You’ll be in the bushes--I’ll show
you the place. Then I’ll send him to fetch me a wrap or something, and
while I walk on he’ll come back past where you’re hiding, and you jump
out at him.”
“Liz,” said Mr. Cootes, lost in admiration, “when it comes to doping
out a scheme, you’re the snake’s eyebrows!”
“But what are you going to do if he just turns you down?”
Mr. Cootes uttered a bleak laugh, and from the recesses of his costume
produced a neat little revolver.
“_He_ won’t turn me down!” he said.
§ 5
“Fancy!” said Miss Peavey. “If I had not had a headache and come back
early, we should never have had this little chat!”
She gazed up at Psmith in her gentle, wistful way as they started
together down the broad gravel drive. A timid, soulful little thing she
looked.
“No,” said Psmith.
It was not a gushing reply, but he was not feeling at his sunniest.
The idea that Miss Peavey might return from Bridgeford in advance of
the main body had not occurred to him. As he would have said himself,
he had confused the Unlikely with the Impossible. And the result had
been that she had caught him beyond hope of retreat as he sat in his
garden-chair and thought of Eve Halliday, who on their return from the
lake had been seized with a fresh spasm of conscience and had gone back
to the library to put in another hour’s work before dinner. To decline
Miss Peavey’s invitation to accompany her down the drive in order to
see if there were any signs of those who had been doing honour to the
late Hartley Reddish, M.P., had been out of the question. But Psmith,
though he went, went without pleasure. Every moment he spent in her
society tended to confirm him more and more in the opinion that Miss
Peavey was the curse of the species.
“And I have been so longing,” continued his companion, “to have a nice,
long talk. All these days I have felt that I haven’t been able to get
as _near_ you as I should wish.”
“Well, of course, with the others always about . . .”
“I meant in a spiritual sense, of course.”
“I see.”
“I wanted so much to discuss your wonderful poetry with you. You
haven’t so much as _mentioned_ your work since you came here. _Have_
you!”
“Ah, but, you see, I am trying to keep my mind off it.”
“Really? Why?”
“My medical adviser warned me that I had been concentrating a trifle
too much. He offered me the choice, in fact, between a complete rest
and the loony-bin.”
“The _what_, Mr. McTodd?”
“The lunatic asylum, he meant. These medical men express themselves
oddly.”
“But surely, then, you ought not to _dream_ of trying to compose if it
is as bad as that? And you told Lord Emsworth that you wished to stay
at home this afternoon to write a poem.”
Her glance showed nothing but tender solicitude, but inwardly Miss
Peavey was telling herself that _that_ would hold him for awhile.
“True,” said Psmith, “true. But you know what Art is. An inexorable
mistress. The inspiration came, and I felt that I must take the risk.
But it has left me weak, weak.”
“You BIG STIFF!” said Miss Peavey. But not aloud.
They walked on a few steps.
“In fact,” said Psmith, with another inspiration, “I’m not sure I ought
not to be going back and resting now.”
Miss Peavey eyed a clump of bushes some dozen yards farther down the
drive. They were quivering slightly, as though they sheltered some
alien body; and Miss Peavey, whose temper was apt to be impatient,
registered a resolve to tell Edward Cootes that, if he couldn’t hide
behind a bush without dancing about like a cat on hot bricks, he had
better give up his profession and take to selling jellied eels. In
which, it may be mentioned, she wronged her old friend. He had been as
still as a statue until a moment before, when a large and excitable
beetle had fallen down the space between his collar and his neck, an
experience which might well have tried the subtlest woodsman.
“Oh, please don’t go in yet,” said Miss Peavey. “It is such a lovely
evening. Hark to the music of the breeze in the tree-tops. So soothing.
Like a far-away harp. I wonder if it is whispering secrets to the
birds.”
Psmith forbore to follow her into this region of speculation, and they
walked past the bushes in silence.
Some little distance farther on, however, Miss Peavey seemed to relent.
“You _are_ looking tired, Mr. McTodd,” she said anxiously. “I am afraid
you really have been overtaxing your strength. Perhaps after all you
had better go back and lie down.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it. I will just stroll on to the gates and see if the car
is in sight.”
“I feel that I am deserting you.”
“Oh, please!” said Miss Peavey deprecatingly.
With something of the feelings of a long-sentence convict unexpectedly
released immediately on his arrival in jail, Psmith retraced his steps.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Miss Peavey had disappeared
round a bend in the drive; and he paused to light a cigarette. He had
just thrown away the match and was walking on, well content with life,
when a voice behind him said “Hey!” and the well-remembered form of Mr.
Edward Cootes stepped out of the bushes.
“See this?” said Mr. Cootes, exhibiting his revolver.
“I do indeed, Comrade Cootes,” replied Psmith. “And, if it is not an
untimely question, what is the idea?”
“That,” said Mr. Cootes, “is just in case you try any funny business.”
And, replacing the weapon in a handy pocket, he proceeded to slap
vigorously at the region between his shoulder blades. He also wriggled
with not a little animation.
Psmith watched these manœuvres gravely.
“You did not stop me at the pistol’s point merely to watch you go
through your Swedish exercises?” he said.
Mr. Cootes paused for an instant.
“Got a beetle or something down my back,” he explained curtly.
“Ah? Then, as you will naturally wish to be alone in such a sad moment,
I will be bidding you a cordial good evening and strolling on.”
“No, you don’t!”
“Don’t I?” said Psmith resignedly. “Perhaps you are right, perhaps you
are right.” Mr. Cootes replaced the revolver once more. “I take it,
then, Comrade Cootes, that you would have speech with me. Carry on, old
friend, and get it off your diaphragm. What seems to be on your mind?”
A lucky blow appeared to have stunned Mr. Cootes’s beetle, and he was
able to give his full attention to the matter in hand. He stared at
Psmith with considerable distaste.
“I’m on to you, Bill!” he said.
“My name is not Bill,” said Psmith.
“No,” snapped Mr. Cootes, his annoyance by this time very manifest.
“And it’s not McTodd.”
Psmith looked at his companion thoughtfully. This was an unforeseen
complication, and for the moment he would readily have admitted that he
saw no way of overcoming it. That the other was in no genial frame of
mind towards him the expression on his face would have showed, even if
his actions had not been sufficient indication of the fact. Mr. Cootes,
having disposed of his beetle and being now at leisure to concentrate
his whole attention on Psmith, was eyeing that immaculate young man
with a dislike which he did not attempt to conceal.
“Shall we be strolling on?” suggested Psmith. “Walking may assist
thought. At the moment I am free to confess that you have opened up
a subject which causes me some perplexity. I think, Comrade Cootes,
having given the position of affairs a careful examination, that we may
say that the next move is with you. What do you propose to do about it?”
“I’d like,” said Mr. Cootes with asperity, “to beat your block off.”
“No doubt. But . . .”
“I’d like to knock you for a goal!”
Psmith discouraged these Utopian dreams with a deprecating wave of the
hand.
“I can readily understand it,” he said courteously. “But, to keep
within the sphere of practical politics, what is the actual move which
you contemplate? You could expose me, no doubt, to my host, but I
cannot see how that would profit you.”
“I know that. But you can remember I’ve got that up my sleeve in case
you try any funny business.”
“You persist in harping on that possibility, Comrade Cootes. The idea
seems to be an obsession with you. I can assure you that I contemplate
no such thing. What, to return to the point, do you intend to do?”
They had reached the broad expanse opposite the front door, where the
drive, from being a river, spread out into a lake of gravel. Psmith
stopped.
“You’ve got to get me into this joint,” said Mr. Cootes.
“I feared that that was what you were about to suggest. In my peculiar
position I have naturally no choice but to endeavour to carry out your
wishes. Any attempt not to do so would, I imagine, infallibly strike so
keen a critic as yourself as ‘funny business.’ But how can I get you
into what you breezily describe as ‘this joint’?”
“You can say I’m a friend of yours and ask them to invite me.”
Psmith shook his head gently.
“Not one of your brightest suggestions, Comrade Cootes. Tactfully
refraining from stressing the point that an instant lowering of my
prestige would inevitably ensue should it be supposed that you were a
friend of mine, I will merely mention that, being myself merely a guest
in this stately home of England, I can hardly go about inviting my
chums here for indefinite visits. No, we must find another way. . . .
You’re sure you want to stay? Quite so, quite so, I merely asked. . . .
Now, let us think.”
Through the belt of rhododendrons which jutted out from one side of the
castle a portly form at this point made itself visible, moving high and
disposedly in the direction of the back premises. It was Beach, the
butler, returning from the pleasant ramble in which he had indulged
himself on the departure of his employer and the rest of the party.
Revived by some gracious hours in the open air, Beach was returning to
duty. And with the sight of him there came to Psmith a neat solution of
the problem confronting him.
“Oh, Beach,” he called.
“Sir?” responded a fruity voice. There was a brief pause while the
butler navigated into the open. He removed the straw hat which he had
donned for his excursion, and enfolded Psmith in a pop-eyed but not
unkindly gaze. A thoughtful critic of country-house humanity, he had
long since decided that he approved of Psmith. Since Lady Constance had
first begun to offer the hospitality of the castle to the literary and
artistic world, he had been profoundly shocked by some of the rare and
curious specimens who had nodded their disordered locks and flaunted
their ill-cut evening clothes at the dinner-table over which he
presided; and Psmith had come as a pleasant surprise.
“Sorry to trouble you, Beach.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“This,” said Psmith, indicating Mr. Cootes, who was viewing the scene
with a wary and suspicious eye, an eye obviously alert for any signs
of funny business, “is my man. My valet, you know. He has just arrived
from town. I had to leave him behind to attend the bedside of a sick
aunt. Your aunt was better when you came away, Cootes?” he inquired
graciously.
Mr. Cootes correctly interpreted this question as a feeler with regard
to his views on this new development, and decided to accept the
situation. True, he had hoped to enter the castle in a slightly higher
capacity than that of a gentleman’s personal gentleman, but he was an
old campaigner. Once in, as he put it to himself with admirable common
sense, he would be in.
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Capital,” said Psmith. “Capital. Then will you look after Cootes,
Beach.”
“Very good, sir,” said the butler in a voice of cordial approval. The
only point he had found to cavil at in Psmith had been removed; for it
had hitherto pained him a little that a gentleman with so nice a taste
in clothes as that dignified guest should have embarked on a visit to
such a place as Blandings Castle without a personal attendant. Now
all was explained and, as far as Beach was concerned, forgiven. He
proceeded to escort Mr. Cootes to the rear. They disappeared behind the
rhododendrons.
They had hardly gone when a sudden thought came to Psmith as he sat
once more in the coolness of the hall. He pressed the bell. Strange,
he reflected, how one overlooked these obvious things. That was how
generals lost battles.
“Sir?” said Beach, appearing through the green baize door.
“Sorry to trouble you again, Beach.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“I hope you will make Cootes comfortable. I think you will like him.
His, when you get to know him, is a very winning personality.”
“He seems a nice young fellow, sir.”
“Oh, by the way, Beach. You might ask him if he brought my revolver
from town with him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Beach, who would have scorned to betray emotion if it
had been a Lewis gun.
“I think I saw it sticking out of his pocket. You might bring it to me,
will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
Beach retired, to return a moment later. On the silver salver which he
carried the lethal weapon was duly reposing.
“Your revolver, sir,” said Beach.
“Thank you,” said Psmith.
§ 6
For some moments after the butler had withdrawn in his stately
pigeon-toed way through the green baize door, Psmith lay back in his
chair with the feeling that something attempted, something done, had
earned a night’s repose. He was not so sanguine as to suppose that he
had actually checkmated an adversary of Mr. Cootes’s strenuousness
by the simple act of removing a revolver from his possession; but
there was no denying the fact that the feel of the thing in his
pocket engendered a certain cosy satisfaction. The little he had seen
of Mr. Cootes had been enough to convince him that the other was a
man who was far better off without an automatic pistol. There was
an impulsiveness about his character which did not go well with the
possession of fire-arms.
Psmith’s meditations had taken him thus far when they were interrupted
by an imperative voice.
“Hey!”
Only one person of Psmith’s acquaintance was in the habit of opening
his remarks in this manner. It was consequently no surprise to him to
find Mr. Edward Cootes standing at his elbow.
“Hey!”
“All right, Comrade Cootes,” said Psmith with a touch of austerity,
“I heard you the first time. And may I remind you that this habit of
yours of popping out from unexpected places and saying ‘Hey!’ is one
which should be overcome. Valets are supposed to wait till rung for. At
least, I think so. I must confess that until this moment I have never
had a valet.”
“And you wouldn’t have one now if I could help it,” responded Mr.
Cootes.
Psmith raised his eyebrows.
“Why,” he inquired, surprised, “this peevishness? Don’t you like being
a valet?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You astonish me. I should have thought you would have gone singing
about the house. Have you considered that the tenancy of such a
position throws you into the constant society of Comrade Beach, than
whom it would be difficult to imagine a more delightful companion?”
“Old stiff!” said Mr. Cootes sourly. “If there’s one thing that makes
me tired, it’s a guy that talks about his darned stomach all the time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Beach gook,” explained Mr. Cootes, “has got something wrong with
the lining of his stomach, and if I hadn’t made my getaway he’d be
talking about it yet.”
“If you fail to find entertainment and uplift in first-hand information
about Comrade Beach’s stomach, you must indeed be hard to please. I
am to take it, then, that you came snorting out here, interrupting my
daydreams, merely in order to seek my sympathy?”
Mr. Cootes gazed upon him with a smouldering eye.
“I came to tell you I suppose you think you’re darned smart.”
“And very nice of you, too,” said Psmith, touched. “A pretty
compliment, for which I am not ungrateful.”
“You got that gun away from me mighty smoothly, didn’t you?”
“Since you mention it, yes.”
“And now I suppose you think you’re going to slip in ahead of me and
get away with that necklace? Well, say, listen, lemme tell you it’ll
take someone better than a half-baked string-bean like you to put one
over on me.”
“I seem,” said Psmith, pained, “to detect a certain animus creeping
into your tone. Surely we can be trade rivals without this spirit of
hostility. My attitude towards you is one of kindly tolerance.”
“Even if you get it, where do you think you’re going to hide it? And,
believe me, it’ll take some hiding. Say, lemme tell you something.
I’m your valet, ain’t I? Well, then, I can come into your room and
be tidying up whenever I darn please, can’t I? Sure I can. I’ll tell
the world I can do just that little thing. And you take it from me,
Bill . . .”
“You persist in the delusion that my name is William . . .”
“You take it from me, Bill, that if ever that necklace disappears and
it isn’t me that’s done the disappearing, you’ll find me tidying up in
a way that’ll make you dizzy. I’ll go through that room of yours with a
fine-tooth comb. So chew on that, will you?”
And Edward Cootes, moving sombrely across the hall, made a sinister
exit. The mood of cool reflection was still to come, when he would
realise that, in his desire to administer what he would have described
as a hot one, he had acted a little rashly in putting his enemy on
his guard. All he was thinking now was that his brief sketch of the
position of affairs would have the effect of diminishing Psmith’s
complacency a trifle. He had, he flattered himself, slipped over
something that could be classed as a jolt.
Nor was he unjustified in this view. The aspect of the matter on which
he had touched was one that had not previously presented itself to
Psmith: and, musing on it as he resettled himself in his chair, he
could see that it afforded food for thought. As regarded the disposal
of the necklace, should it ever come into his possession, he had formed
no definite plan. He had assumed that he would conceal it somewhere
until the first excitement of the chase slackened, and it was only now
that he realised the difficulty of finding a suitable hiding-place
outside his bedroom. Yes, it was certainly a matter on which, as Mr.
Cootes had suggested, he would do well to chew. For ten minutes,
accordingly, he did so. And--it being practically impossible to keep a
good man down--at the end of that period he was rewarded with an idea.
He rose from his chair and pressed the bell.
“Ah, Beach,” he said affably, as the green baize door swung open, “I
must apologise once more for troubling you. I keep ringing, don’t I?”
“No trouble at all, sir,” responded the butler paternally. “But if
you were ringing to summon your personal attendant, I fear he is not
immediately available. He left me somewhat abruptly a few moments ago.
I was not aware that you would be requiring his services until the
dressing-gong sounded, or I would have detained him.”
“Never mind. It was you I wished to see. Beach,” said Psmith, “I am
concerned about you. I learn from my man that the lining of your
stomach is not all it should be.”
“That is true, sir,” replied Beach, an excited gleam coming into his
dull eyes. He shivered slightly, as might a war-horse at the sound of
the bugle. “I do have trouble with the lining of my stomach.”
“Every stomach has a silver lining.”
“Sir?”
“I said, tell me all about it.”
“Well, really, sir . . .” said Beach wistfully.
“To please me,” urged Psmith.
“Well, sir, it is extremely kind of you to take an interest. It
generally starts with a dull shooting pain on the right side of the
abdomen from twenty minutes to half an hour after the conclusion of a
meal. The symptoms . . .”
There was nothing but courteous sympathy in Psmith’s gaze as he
listened to what sounded like an eyewitness’s account of the San
Francisco earthquake, but inwardly he was wishing that his companion
could see his way to making it a bit briefer and snappier. However, all
things come to an end. Even the weariest river winds somewhere to the
sea. With a moving period, the butler finally concluded his narrative.
“Parks’ Pepsinine,” said Psmith promptly.
“Sir?”
“That’s what you want. Parks’ Pepsinine. It would set you right in no
time.”
“I will make a note of the name, sir. The specific has not come to my
notice until now. And, if I may say so,” added Beach, with a glassy but
adoring look at his benefactor, “I should like to express my gratitude
for your kindness.”
“Not at all, Beach, not at all. Oh, Beach,” he said, as the other
started to manœuvre towards the door, “I’ve just remembered. There was
something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I thought it might be as well to speak to you about it before
approaching Lady Constance. The fact is, Beach, I am feeling cramped.”
“Indeed, sir? I forgot to mention that one of the symptoms from which I
suffer is a sharp cramp.”
“Too bad. But let us, if you do not mind, shelve for the moment the
subject of your interior organism and its ailments. When I say I am
feeling cramped, I mean spiritually. Have you ever written poetry,
Beach?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! Then it may be a little difficult for you to understand my
feelings. My trouble is this. Out in Canada, Beach, I grew accustomed
to doing my work in the most solitary surroundings. You remember that
passage in my _Songs of Squalor_ which begins ‘Across the pale parabola
of Joy . . .’?”
“I fear, sir . . .”
“You missed it? Tough luck. Try to get hold of it some time. It’s a
bird. Well, that passage was written in a lonely hut on the banks of
the Saskatchewan, miles away from human habitation. I am like that,
Beach. I need the stimulus of the great open spaces. When I am
surrounded by my fellows, inspiration slackens and dies. You know how
it is when there are people about. Just as you are starting in to write
a nifty, someone comes and sits down on the desk and begins talking
about himself. Every time you get going nicely, in barges some alien
influence and the Muse goes blooey. You see what I mean?”
“Yes, sir,” said Beach, gaping slightly.
“Well, that is why for a man like me existence in Blandings Castle
has its drawbacks. I have got to get a place where I can be alone,
Beach--alone with my dreams and visions. Some little eyrie perched
on the cliffs of Time. . . . In other words, do you know of an empty
cottage somewhere on the estate where I could betake myself when in the
mood and swing a nib without any possibility of being interrupted?”
“A little cottage, sir?”
“A little cottage. With honeysuckle over the door, and Old Mister Moon
climbing up above the trees. A cottage, Beach, where I can meditate,
where I can turn the key in the door and bid the world go by. Now that
the castle is going to be full of all these people who are coming
for the County Ball, it is imperative that I wangle such a haven.
Otherwise, a considerable slab of priceless poetry will be lost to
humanity for ever.”
“You desire,” said Beach, feeling his way cautiously, “a small cottage
where you can write poetry, sir?”
“You follow me like a leopard. Do you know of such a one?”
“There is an unoccupied gamekeeper’s cottage in the west wood, sir, but
it is an extremely humble place.”
“Be it never so humble, it will do for me. Do you think Lady Constance
would be offended if I were to ask for the loan of it for a few days?”
“I fancy that her ladyship would receive the request with equanimity,
sir. She is used to . . . She is not unaccustomed . . . Well, I can
only say, sir, that there was a literary gentleman visiting the castle
last summer who expressed a desire to take sun-baths in the garden each
morning before breakfast. In the nood, sir. And, beyond instructing me
to warn the maids, her ladyship placed no obstacle in the way of the
fulfilment of his wishes. So . . .”
“So a modest request like mine isn’t likely to cause a heart-attack?
Admirable! You don’t know what it means to me to feel that I shall
soon have a little refuge of my own, to which I can retreat and be in
solitude.”
“I can imagine that it must be extremely gratifying, sir.”
“Then I will put the motion before the Board directly Lady Constance
returns.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I should like to splash it on the record once more, Beach, that I am
much obliged to you for your sympathy and advice in this matter. I knew
you would not fail me.”
“Not at all, sir. I am only too glad to have been able to be of
assistance.”
“Oh, and, Beach . . .”
“Sir?”
“Just one other thing. Will you be seeing Cootes, my valet, again
shortly?”
“Quite shortly, sir, I should imagine.”
“Then would you mind just prodding him smartly in the lower ribs . . .”
“Sir?” cried Beach, startled out of his butlerian calm. He swallowed
a little convulsively. For eighteen months and more, ever since Lady
Constance Keeble had first begun to cast her fly and hook over the
murky water of the artistic world and jerk its denizens on to the pile
carpets of Blandings Castle, Beach had had his fill of eccentricity.
But until this moment he had hoped that Psmith was going to prove an
agreeable change from the stream of literary lunatics which had been
coming and going all that weary time. And lo! Psmith’s name led all the
rest. Even the man who had come for a week in April and had wanted to
eat jam with his fish paled in comparison.
“Prod him in the ribs, sir?” he quavered.
“Prod him in the ribs,” said Psmith firmly. “And at the same time
whisper in his ear the word ‘Aha!’” Beach licked his dry lips.
“Aha, sir?”
“Aha! And say it came from me.”
“Very good, sir. The matter shall be attended to,” said Beach. And with
a muffled sound that was half a sigh, half a death-rattle, he tottered
through the green-baize door.