‘Oh, come, old loofah! The honoured name of Fish?’
‘What do I care about anything now?’
Hugo was concerned. This morbid strain, he felt, was unworthy of a Nasturtium Villas Jones.
Aren’t you rather tending to make a bit too much heavy weather over this?’
‘Heavy weather!’
‘I think you are. After all, when you come right down to it, what has happened? You find poor little Sue . . .’
‘Don’t call her “poor little Sue”!’
‘You find the party of the second part,’ amended Hugo, ‘at a dance place. Well, why not? What, if you follow me, of it? Where’s the harm in her going out to dance?’
‘With a man she swore she didn’t know!’
‘Well, at the time when you asked her, probably she didn’t know him. Things move quickly in a great city. I wish I had a quid for every girl I’ve been out dancing with, whom I hadn’t known from Eve a couple of days before.’
‘She promised me she wouldn’t go out with a soul.’
‘Ah, but with a merry twinkle in her eye, no doubt? I mean to say, you can’t expect a girl nowadays to treat a promise like that seriously. I mean, dash it, be reasonable!’
‘And with that little worm of all people!’
Hugo cleared his throat. He was conscious of a slight embarrassment. He had not wished to touch on this aspect of the affair, but Ronnie’s last words gave a Carmody and a gentleman no choice.
As a matter of fact, Ronnie, old man,’ he said, ‘you are wrong in supposing that she went to Mario’s with the above Pilbeam. She went with me. Blameless Hugo, what. I mean, more like a brother than anything.’
Ronnie declined to be comforted.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘My dear chap!’
‘I suppose you think you’re damned clever, trying to smooth things over. She was at Mario’s with Pilbeam.’
‘I took her there.’
‘You may have taken her. But she was dining with Pilbeam.’
‘Nothing of the kind.’
‘Do you think I can’t believe my own eyes? It’s no use your saying anything, Hugo, I’m through with her. She’s let me down. Less than a week I’ve been away,’ said Ronnie, his voice trembling, ‘and she lets me down. Well, it serves me right for being such a fool as to think she ever cared a curse for me.’
He relapsed into silence. And Hugo, after turning over in his mind a few specimen remarks, decided not to make them. The cab drew up before the hotel, and Ronnie, getting out, uttered a wordless exclamation.
‘No, let me,’ said Hugo considerately. A bit rough on a man, he felt, after coughing up five quid to the hell-hounds of the Law, to be expected to pay the cab. He produced money and turned to the driver. It was some moments before he turned back again, for the driver, by the rules of the taxi-chauffeurs’ Union, kept his petty cash tucked into his underclothing. When he did so, he was considerably astonished to find that Ronnie, while his back was turned, had, in some unaccountable manner, become Sue. The changeling was staring unhappily at him from the exact spot where he had left his old friend.
‘Hullo!’ he said.
‘Ronnie’s gone,’ said Sue.
‘Gone?’
‘Yes. He walked off as quick as he could round the corner when he saw me. He . . .’ Sue’s voice broke. ‘He didn’t say a word.’
‘How did you get here?’ asked Hugo. There were other matters, of course, to be discussed later, but he felt he must get this point cleared up first.
‘I thought you would bring him back to your hotel, and I thought that if I could see him I could . . . say something.’
Hugo was alarmed. He was now practically certain that this girl was going to cry, and if there was one thing he disliked it was being with crying girls in a public spot. He would not readily forget the time when a female named Yvonne Something had given way to a sudden twinge of neuralgia in his company not far from Piccadilly Circus, and an old lady had stopped and said that it was brutes like him who caused all the misery in the world.
‘Come inside,’ he urged quickly. ‘Come and have a cocktail or a cup of tea or a bun or something. I say,’ he said, as he led the way into the hotel lobby and found two seats in a distant corner, ‘I’m frightfully sorry about all this. I can’t help feeling it’s my fault.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘If I hadn’t asked you to dinner . . .’
‘It isn’t that that’s the trouble. Ronnie might have been a little cross for a minute or two if he had found you and me together, but he would soon have got over it. It was finding me with that horrid little man Pilbeam. You see, I told him – and it was quite true – that I didn’t know him.’
Yes, so he was saying to me in the cab.’
‘Did he what did he say?’
‘Well, he plainly resented the Pilbeam, I’m afraid. His manner, when touching on the Pilbeam, was austere. I tried to drive into his head that that was just an accidental meeting and that you had come to Mario’s with me, but he would have none of it. I fear, old thing, there’s nothing to be done but leave the whole binge to Time, the Great Healer.’
A page-boy was making a tour of the lobby. He seemed to be seeking a Mr Gregory.
‘If only I could get hold of him and make him listen. I haven’t been given a chance to explain.’
You think you could explain, even if given a chance?’
‘I could try. Surely he couldn’t help seeing that I really loved him, if we had a real talk?’
‘And the trouble is, you’re here and he’ll be back at Blandings in a few hours. Difficult,’ said Hugo, shaking his head. ‘Complex.’
‘Mr Carmody,’ chanted the page-boy, coming nearer. ‘Mr Carmody.’
‘Hi!’ cried Hugo.
‘Mr Carmody? Wanted on the telephone, sir.’
Hugo’s face became devout and saint-like.
Awfully sorry to leave you for an instant,’ he said, ‘but do you mind if I rush? It must be Millicent. She’s the only person who knows I’m here.’
He sped away, and Sue, watching him, found herself choking with sudden tears. It seemed to emphasize her forlornness so, this untimely evidence of another love-story that had not gone awry. She seemed to be listening to that telephone-conversation, hearing Hugo’s delighted yelps as the voice of the girl he loved floated to him over the wire.
She pulled herself together. Beastly of her to be jealous of Hugo just because he was happy . . . .
Sue sat up abruptly. She had had an idea.
It was a breath-taking idea, but simple. It called for courage, for audacity, for a reckless disregard of consequences, but nevertheless it was simple.
‘Hugo,’ she cried, as that lucky young man returned and dropped into the chair at her side. ‘Hugo, listen!’
‘I say,’ said Hugo.
‘I’ve suddenly thought . . .’
‘I say,’ said Hugo.
‘Do listen!’
‘I say,’ said Hugo, ‘that was Millicent on the phone.’
‘Was it? How nice. Listen, Hugo . . .’
‘Speaking from Blandings.’
‘Yes. But . . .’
‘And she has broken off the engagement!’
‘What!’
‘Broken off the bally engagement,’ repeated Hugo. He signalled urgently to a passing waiter. ‘Get me a brandy-and-soda, will you?’ he said. His face was pale and set. ‘A stiffish brandy-and-soda, please.’
‘Brandy-and-soda, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Hugo. ‘Stiffish.’
6 SUE HAS AN IDEA
Sue stared at him, bewildered.
‘Broken off the engagement?’
‘Broken off the engagement.’
In moments of stress, the foolish question is always the one that comes uppermost in the mind.
‘Are you sure?’
Hugo emitted a sound which resembled the bursting of a paper bag. He would have said himself, if asked, that he was
laughing mirthlessly.
‘Sure? Not much doubt about it.’
‘But why?’
‘She knows all.’
‘All what?’
‘Everything, you poor fish,’ said Hugo, forgetting in a strong man’s agony the polish of the Carmodys. ‘She’s found out that I took you to dinner last night.’
‘What!’
‘She has.’
‘But how?’
The paper bag exploded again. A look of intense bitterness came into Hugo’s face.
‘If ever I meet that slimy, slinking, marcel-waved byproduct Pilbeam again,’ he said, ‘let him commend his soul to God! If he has time,’ he added.
He took the brandy-and-soda from the waiter, and eyed Sue dully.
‘Anything on similar lines for you?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Just as you like. It’s not easy for a man in my position to realize,’ said Hugo, drinking deeply, ‘that refusing a brandy-and-soda is possible. I shouldn’t have said, off-hand, that it could be done.’
Sue was a warm-hearted girl. In the tragedy of this announcement she had almost forgotten that she had troubles herself.
‘Tell me all about it, Hugo.’
He put down the empty glass.
‘I came up from Blandings yesterday,’ he said, ‘to interview the Argus Enquiry Agency on the subject of sending a man down to investigate the theft of Lord Emsworth’s pig.’
Sue would have liked to hear more about this pig, but she knew that this was no time for questions.
‘I went to the Argus and saw this wen Pilbeam, who runs it.’
Again Sue would have liked to speak. Once more she refrained. She felt as if she were at a sick-bed, hearing a dying man’s last words. On such occasions one does not interrupt.
‘Meanwhile,’ proceeded Hugo tonelessly, ‘Millicent, suspecting – and I am surprised at her having a mind like that. I always looked on her as a pure, white soul – suspecting that I might be up to something in London, got the Argus on the long-distance telephone and told them to follow my movements and report to her. And, apparently, just before she called me up, she had been talking to them on the wire and getting their statement. All this she revealed to me in short, burning sentences, and then she said that if I thought we were still engaged, I could have three more guesses. But, to save me trouble, she would tell me the answer – viz.: No wedding-bells for me. And to think,’ said Hugo, picking up the glass and putting it down again, after inspection, with a hurt and disappointed look, ‘that I actually rallied this growth Pilbeam on the subject of following people and reporting on their movements. Yes, I assure you. Rallied him blithely. Just as I was leaving his office, we kidded merrily back and forth. And then I went out into the world, happy and carefree, little knowing that my every step was dogged by a blasted bloodhound. Well, all I can say is that, if Ronnie wants this Pilbeam’s gore, and I gather that he does, he will jolly well have to wait till I’ve helped myself.’
Sue, womanlike, blamed the woman.
‘I don’t think Millicent can be a very nice girl,’ she said, primly.
An angel,’ said Hugo. ‘Always was. Celebrated for it. I don’t blame her.’
‘I do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I do.’
‘Well, have it your own way,’ said Hugo handsomely. He beckoned to the waiter. Another of the same, please.’
‘This settles it,’ said Sue.
Her eyes were sparkling. Her chin a resolute tilt.
‘Settles what?’
‘While you were at the telephone, I had an idea.’
‘I have had ideas in my time,’ said Hugo. ‘Many of them. At the moment, I have but one. To get within arm’s length of the yam Pilbeam and twist his greasy neck till it comes apart in my hands. “What do you do here?” I said. “Measure footprints?” “We follow people and report on their movements,” said he. “Ha, ha!” I laughed carelessly. “Ha, ha!” laughed he. General mirth and jollity. And all the while . . .’
‘Hugo, will you listen?’
‘And this is the bitter thought that now strikes me. What chance have I of scooping out the man’s inside with my bare hands? I’ve got to go back to Blandings on the two-fifteen, or I lose my job. Leaving him unscathed in his bally lair, chuckling over my downfall and following some other poor devil’s movements.’
‘Hugo!’
The broken man passed a weary hand over his forehead.
‘You spoke?’
‘I’ve been speaking for the last ten minutes, only you won’t listen.’
‘Say on,’ said Hugo, listlessly starting on the second restorative.
‘Have you ever heard of a Miss Schoonmaker?’
‘I seem to know the name. Who is she?’
‘Me.’
Hugo lowered his glass, pained.
‘Don’t talk drip to a broken-hearted man,’ he begged. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When Ronnie was driving me in his car, we met Lady Constance Keeble.’
A blister,’ said Hugo. Always was. Generally admitted all over Shropshire.’
‘She thought I was this Miss Schoonmaker.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Ronnie said I was.’
Hugo sighed hopelessly.
‘Complex. Complex. My God! How complex.’
‘It was quite simple and natural. Ronnie had just been telling me about this girl – how he had met her at Biarritz and that she was coming to Blandings and so on, and when he saw Lady Constance looking at me with frightful suspicion it suddenly occurred to him to say that I was her.’
‘That you were Lady Constance?’
‘No, idiot. Miss Schoonmaker. And now I’m going to wire her – Lady Constance, not Miss Schoonmaker, in case you were going to ask – saying that I’m coming to Blandings right away.’
‘Pretending to be this Miss Schoonmaker?’
Yes.’
Hugo shook his head.
‘Imposs.’
‘Why?’
‘Absolutely out of the q.’
‘Why? Lady Constance is expecting me. Do be sensible.’
‘I’m being sensible all right. But somebody is gibbering and, naming no names, it’s you. Don’t you realize that, just as you reach the front door, this Miss Schoonmaker will arrive in person, dishing the whole thing?’
‘No, she won’t.’
‘Why won’t she?’
‘Because Ronnie sent her a telegram, in Lady Constance’s name, saying that there’s scarlet fever or something at Blandings and she wasn’t to come.’
Hugo’s air of the superior critic fell from him like a garment. He sat up in his chair. So moved was he that he spilled his brandy-and-soda and did not give it so much as a look of regret. He let it soak into the carpet, unheeded.
‘Sue!’
‘Once I’m at Blandings, I shall be able to see Ronnie and make him be sensible.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And then you’ll be able to tell Millicent that there couldn’t have been much harm in my being out with you last night, because I’m engaged to Ronnie.’
‘That’s right, too.’
‘Can you see any flaws?’
‘Not a flaw.’
‘I suppose, as a matter of fact, you’ll give the whole thing away in the first five minutes by calling me Sue.’
Hugo waved an arm buoyantly.
‘Don’t give the possibility another thought,’ he said. ‘If I do, I’ll cover it up adroitly by saying I meant, “Schoo”. Short for Schoonmaker. And now go and send her another telegram. Keep on sending telegrams. Leave nothing to chance. Send a dozen and pitch it strong. Say that Blandings Castle is ravaged with disease. Not merely scarlet fever. Scarlet fever and mumps. Not to mention housemaid’s knee, diabetes, measles, shingles, and the botts. We’re on to a big thing, my Susan. Let us push it along.’
7 A JOB FOR PERCY PILBEAM
I
Sunshine, calling to all right-
thinking men to come out and revel in its heartening warmth, poured in at the windows of the great library of Blandings Castle. But to Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, much as he liked sunshine as a rule, it brought no cheer. His face drawn, his pince-nez askew, his tie drooping away from its stud like a languorous lily, he sat staring sightlessly before him. He looked like something that had just been prepared for stuffing by a taxidermist.
A moralist, watching Lord Emsworth in his travail, would have reflected smugly that it cuts both ways, this business of being a peer of the realm with large private means and a good digestion. Unalloyed prosperity, he would have pointed out in his offensive way, tends to enervate; and in this world of ours, full of alarms and uncertainties, where almost anything is apt to drop suddenly on top of your head without warning at almost any moment, what one needs is to be tough and alert.
When some outstanding disaster happens to the ordinary man, it finds him prepared. Years of missing the eight-forty-five, taking the dog for a run on rainy nights, endeavouring to abate smoky chimneys, and coming down to breakfast and discovering that they have burned the bacon again, have given his soul a protective hardness, so that by the time his wife’s relations arrive for a long visit he is ready for them.
Lord Emsworth had had none of this salutary training. Fate, hitherto, had seemed to spend its time thinking up ways of pampering him. He ate well, slept well, and had no money troubles. He grew the best roses in Shropshire. He had won a first prize for Pumpkins at that county’s Agricultural Show, a thing no Earl of Emsworth had ever done before. And, just previous to the point at which this chronicle opens, his younger son, Frederick, had married the daughter of an American millionaire and had gone to live three thousand miles away from Blandings Castle, with lots of good, deep water in between him and it. He had come to look on himself as Fate’s spoiled darling.
Can we wonder, then, that in the agony of this sudden, treacherous blow he felt stunned and looked eviscerated? Is it surprising that the sunshine made no appeal to him? May we not consider him justified, as he sat there, in swallowing a lump in his throat like an ostrich gulping down a brass door-knob?
The answer to these questions, in the order given, is No, No, and Yes.
The door of the library opened, revealing the natty person of his brother Galahad. Lord Emsworth straightened his pince-nez and looked at him apprehensively. Knowing how little reverence there was in the Hon. Galahad’s composition, and how tepid was his interest in the honourable struggles for supremacy of Fat Pigs, he feared that the other was about to wound him in his bereavement with some jarring flippancy. Then his gaze softened and he was conscious of a soothing feeling of relief. There was no frivolity in his brother’s face, only a gravity which became him well. The Hon. Galahad sat down, hitched up the knees of his trousers, cleared his throat, and spoke in a tone that could not have been more sympathetic or in better taste.
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