‘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 gaffinto 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 chitchat, 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 butterscotch, 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 m
apped 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 ofthing 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 ofthing.’
‘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 de
ar 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.’
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