Sue stood staring, wide eyed. This was the moment that she had tried
to picture to herself a hundred times. And always her imagination had
proved unequal to the task. Sometimes she had seen Ronnie in her mind's
eye cold, aloof, hostile; sometimes gasping and tottering, dumb with
amazement; sometimes pointing a finger at her like a character in a
melodrama and denouncing her as an impostor. The one thing for which
she had not been prepared was what happened now.
Eton and Cambridge train their sons well. Once they have grasped the
fundamental fact of life that all exhibitions of emotion are bad form,
bombshells cannot disturb their poise and earthquakes are lucky if
they get so much as an "Eh, what?" from them. But Cambridge has its
limitations, and so has Eton. And remorse had goaded Ronnie Fish to a
point where their iron discipline had ceased to operate. He was stirred
to his depths, and his scarlet face, his rumpled hair, his starting
eyes, and his twitching fingers all proclaimed the fact.
"Ronnie!" cried Sue.
It was all she had time to say. The thought of what she had done for
his sake; the thought that for love of him she had come to Blandings
Castle under false colours--an impostor--faced at every turn by the
risk of detection--liable at any moment to be ignominiously exposed
and looked at through a lorgnette by his Aunt Constance; the thought of
the shameful way he had treated her--all these thoughts were racking
Ronald Fish with a searing anguish. They had brought the hot blood of
the Fishes to the boil, and now, face to face with her, he did not
hesitate.
He sprang forward, clasped her in his arms, hugged her to him. To
Baxter's revolted ears, though he tried not to listen, there came in a
husky cataract the sound of a Fish's self-reproaches. Ronnie was saying
what he thought of himself, and his opinion appeared not to be high. He
said he was a beast, a brute, a swine, a cad, a hound, and a worm. If
he had been speaking of Percy Pilbeam he could scarcely have been less
complimentary.
Even up to this point Baxter had not liked the dialogue. It now became
perfectly nauseating. Sue said it had all been her fault. Ronnie said,
No, his. No, hers, said Sue. No, his, said Ronnie. No, hers, said Sue,
No, altogether his, said Ronnie. It must have been his, he pointed out,
because, as he had observed before, he was a hound and a worm. He now
went further. He revealed himself as a blister, a tick, and a perishing
outsider.
"You're not!"
"I am!"
"You're not!"
"I am!"
"Of course you're not!"
"I certainly am!"
"Well, I love you, anyway."
"You can't."
"I do!"
"You can't."
"I do."
Baxter writhed in silent anguish.
"How long?" said Baxter to his immortal soul. "How long?" The question
was answered with a startling promptitude. From the neighbourhood of
the French windows there sounded a discreet cough. The debaters sprang
apart, two minds with but a single thought.
"Your manuscript, miss," said Beach sedately.
Sue looked at him. Ronnie looked at him. Sue until this moment had
forgotten his existence. Ronnie had supposed him downstairs, busy about
his butlerine duties. Neither seemed very glad to see him.
Ronnie was the first to speak.
"Oh--hullo, Beach!"
There being no answer to this except "Hullo, sir!" which is a thing
that butlers do not say, Beach contented himself with a benignant
smile. It had the unfortunate effect of making Ronnie think that the
man was laughing at him, and the Fishes were men at whom butlers may
not lightly laugh. He was about to utter a heated speech, indicating
this, when the injudiciousness of such a course presented itself to
his mind. Beach must be placated. He forced his voice to a note of
geniality.
"So there you are, Beach?"
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose all this must seem tolerably rummy to you?"
"No, sir."
"No?"
"I had already been informed, Mr. Ronald, of the nature of your
feelings toward this lady."
"What!"
"Yes, sir."
"Who told you?"
"Mr. Pilbeam, sir."
Ronnie uttered a gasp. Then he became calmer. He had suddenly
remembered that this man was his ally, his accomplice, linked to
him not only by a friendship dating back to his boyhood but by the
even stronger bond of a mutual crime. Between them there need be no
reserves. Delicate though the situation was, he now felt equal to it.
"Beach," he said, "how much do you know?"
"All, sir."
"All?"
"Yes, sir."
"Such as----?"
Beach coughed.
"I am aware that this lady is a Miss Sue Brown. And, according to my
informant, she is employed in the chorus of the Regal Theatre."
"Quite the Encyclopædia, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want to marry Miss Brown, Beach."
"I can readily appreciate such a desire on your part, Mr. Ronald," said
the butler with a paternal smile.
Sue caught at the smile.
"Ronnie! He's all right. I believe he's a friend."
"Of course he's a friend! Old Beach. One of my earliest and stoutest
pals."
"I mean, he isn't going to give us away."
"Me, miss?" said Beach, shocked. "Certainly not."
"Splendid fellow, Beach!"
"Thank you, sir."
"Beach," said Ronnie, "the time has come to act. No more delay. I've
got to make myself solid with Uncle Clarence at once. Directly he gets
back to-night I shall go to him and tell him that Empress of Blandings
is in the gamekeeper's cottage in the west wood, and then, while he's
still weak, I shall spring on him the announcement of my engagement."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Ronald, the animal is no longer in the cottage."
"You've moved it?"
"Not I, sir. Mr. Carmody. By a most regrettable chance Mr. Carmody
found me feeding it this afternoon. He took it away and deposited it in
some place of which I am not cognizant, sir."
"But, good heavens, he'll dish the whole scheme. Where is he?"
"You wish me to find him, sir?"
"Of course I wish you to find him. Go at once and ask him where that
pig is. Tell him it's vital."
"Very good, sir."
Sue had listened with bewilderment to this talk of pigs.
"I don't understand, Ronnie."
Ronnie was pacing the room in agitation. Once he came so close to where
Baxter lay in his snug harbour that the ex-secretary had a flashing
glimpse of a sock with a lavender clock. It was the first object of
beauty that he had seen for a long time, and he should have appreciated
it more than he did.
"I can't explain now," said Ronnie. "It's too long. But I can tell you
this. If we don't get that pig back we're in the soup."
"Ronnie!"
Ronnie had ceased to pace the room. He was standing in a listening
attitude.
"What's that?"
He sprang quickly to the balcony, looked over the parapet and came
softly back.
"Sue!"
"What!"
"It's that blighter Pilbeam," said Ronnie in a guarded undertone. "He's
climbing up the waterspout!"