'Oh, yes. Very like.'
'Thank you, my dear. That was all I wanted to know. I will leave you now. You will wish to be alone. You must come down to Blandings, my dear child, at the very earliest opportunity.'
He walked thoughtfully from the room.
'Does this hotel,' he inquired of the man who took him down in the lift, 'contain a barber's shop?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I wonder if you would direct me to it?' said his lordship.
Lord Emsworth sat in his library at Blandings Castle, drinking that last restful whisky and soda of the day. Through the open window came the scent of flowers and the little noises of the summer night.
He should have been completely at rest, for much had happened since his return to sweeten life for him. Angus McAllister had reported that the green-fly were yielding to treatment with whale-oil solution; and the stricken cow had taken a sudden turn for the better, and at last advices was sitting up and taking nourishment with something of the old appetite. Moreover, as he stroked his shaven chin, his lordship felt a better, lighter man, as if some burden had fallen from him.
And yet, as he sat there, a frown was on his forehead.
He rang the bell.
'M'lord?'
Lord Emsworth looked at his faithful butler with appreciation. Deuce of a long time Beach had been at the Castle, and would, no doubt, be there for many a year to come. A good fellow. Lord Emsworth had liked the way the man's eyes had lighted up on his return, as if the sight of his employer had removed a great weight from his mind.
'Oh, Beach,' said his lordship, 'kindly put in a trunk-call to London on the telephone.'
'Very good, m'lord.'
'Get through to Suite Number Sixty-seven at the Savoy Hotel, and speak to Mr Frederick.'
'Yes, your lordship.'
'Say that I particularly wish to know how that scenario of his ended.'
'Scenario, your lordship?'
'Scenario.'
'Very good, m'lord.'
Lord Emsworth returned to his reverie. Time passed. The butler returned.
'I have spoken to Mr Frederick, your lordship.'
'Yes?'
'He instructed me to give your lordship his best wishes, and to tell you that, when the millionaire and Mr Cove's wife entered the bedroom, there was a black jaguar tied to the foot of the bed.'
'A jaguar?'
'A jaguar, your lordship. Mrs Cove stated that it was there to protect her honour, whereupon the millionaire, touched by this, gave her the money, and they sang the Theme Song as a duet. Mr Cove made a satisfactory recovery after his operation, your lordship.'
Ah!' said Lord Emsworth, expelling a deep breath. 'Thank you, Beach, that is all.'
3 PIG-HOO-O-O-O-EY!
THANKS to the publicity given to the matter by The Bridgnorth, Shifnal, and Albrighton Argus (with which is incorporated The Wheat-Growers' Intelligencer and Stock Breeders' Gazetteer), the whole world to-day knows that the silver medal in the Fat Pigs class at the eighty-seventh annual Shropshire Agricultural Show was won by the Earl of Emsworth's black Berkshire sow, Empress of Blandings.
Very few people, however, are aware how near that splendid animal came to missing the coveted honour.
Now it can be told.
This brief chapter of Secret History may be said to have begun on the night of the eighteenth of July, when George Cyril Wellbeloved (twenty-nine), pig-man in the employ of Lord Emsworth, was arrested by Police-Constable Evans of Market Blandings for being drunk and disorderly in the tap-room of the Goat and Feathers. On July the nineteenth, after first offering to apologize, then explaining that it had been his birthday, and finally attempting to prove an alibi, George Cyril was very properly jugged for fourteen days without the option of a fine.
On July the twentieth, Empress of Blandings, always hitherto a hearty and even a boisterous feeder, for the first time on record declined all nourishment. And on the morning of July the twenty-first, the veterinary surgeon called in to diagnose and deal with this strange asceticism, was compelled to confess to Lord Emsworth that the thing was beyond his professional skill.
Let us just see, before proceeding, that we have got these dates correct:
July 18. – Birthday Orgy of Cyril Wellbeloved.
July 19. – Incarceration of Ditto.
July 20. – Pig Lays off the Vitamins.
July 21. – Veterinary Surgeon Baffled.
Right.
The effect of the veterinary surgeon's announcement on Lord Emsworth was overwhelming. As a rule, the wear and tear of our complex modern life left this vague and amiable peer unscathed. So long as he had sunshine, regular meals, and complete freedom from the society of his younger son Frederick, he was placidly happy. But there were chinks in his armour, and one of these had been pierced this morning. Dazed by the news he had received, he stood at the window of the great library of Blandings Castle, looking out with unseeing eyes.
As he stood there, the door opened. Lord Emsworth turned; and having blinked once or twice, as was his habit when confronted suddenly with anything, recognized in the handsome and imperious-looking woman who had entered his sister, Lady Constance Keeble. Her demeanour, like his own, betrayed the deepest agitation.
'Clarence,' she cried, 'an awful thing has happened!'
Lord Emsworth nodded dully.
'I know. He's just told me.'
'What! Has he been here?'
'Only this moment left.'
'Why did you let him go? You must have known I would want to see him.'
'What good would that have done?'
'I could at least have assured him of my sympathy,' said Lady Constance stiffly.
'Yes, I suppose you could,' said Lord Emsworth, having considered the point. 'Not that he deserves any sympathy. The man's an ass.'
'Nothing of the kind. A most intelligent young man, as young men go.'
'Young? Would you call him young? Fifty, I should have said, if a day.'
'Are you out of your senses? Heacham fifty?'
'Not Heacham. Smithers.'
As frequently happened to her when in conversation with her brother, Lady Constance experienced a swimming sensation in the head.
'Will you kindly tell me, Clarence, in a few simple words, what you imagine we are talking about?'
'I'm talking about Smithers. Empress of Blandings is refusing her food, and Smithers says he can't do anything about it. And he calls himself a vet!'
'Then you haven't heard? Clarence, a dreadful thing has happened. Angela has broken off her engagement to Heacham.'
And the Agricultural Show on Wednesday week!'
'What on earth has that got to do with it?' demanded Lady Constance, feeling a recurrence of the swimming sensation.
'What has it got to do with it?' said Lord Emsworth warmly. 'My champion sow, with less than ten days to prepare herself for a most searching examination in competition with all the finest pigs in the county, starts refusing her food—'
'Will you stop maundering on about your insufferable pig and give your attention to something that really matters? I tell you that Angela – your niece Angela – has broken off her engagement to Lord Heacham and expresses her intention of marrying that hopeless ne'er-do-well, James Belford.'
'The son of old Belford, the parson?'
'Yes.'
'She can't. He's in America.'
'He is not in America. He is in London.'
'No,' said Lord Emsworth, shaking his head sagely. 'You're wrong. I remember meeting his father two years ago out on the road by Meeker's twenty-acre field, and he distinctly told me the boy was sailing for America next day. He must be there by this time.'
'Can't you understand? He's come back.'
'Oh? Come back? I see. Come back?'
'You know there was once a silly sentimental sort of affair between him and Angela; but a year after he left she became engaged to Heacham and I thought the whole thing was over and done with. And now it seems that she met
this young man Belford when she was in London last week, and it has started all over again. She tells me she has written to Heacham and broken the engagement.'
There was a silence. Brother and sister remained for a space plunged in thought. Lord Emsworth was the first to speak.
'We've tried acorns,' he said. 'We've tried skim milk. And we've tried potato-peel. But, no, she won't touch them.'
Conscious of two eyes raising blisters on his sensitive skin, he came to himself with a start.
'Absurd! Ridiculous! Preposterous!' he said, hurriedly. 'Breaking the engagement? Pooh! Tush! What nonsense! I'll have a word with that young man. If he thinks he can go about the place playing fast and loose with my niece and jilting her without so much as a—'
'Clarence!'
Lord Emsworth blinked. Something appeared to be wrong, but he could not imagine what. It seemed to him that in his last speech he had struck just the right note – strong, forceful, dignified.
'Eh?'
'It is Angela who has broken the engagement.'
'Oh, Angela?'
'She is infatuated with this man Belford. And the point is, what are we to do about it?'
Lord Emsworth reflected.
'Take a strong line,' he said firmly. 'Stand no nonsense. Don't send 'em a wedding-present.'
There is no doubt that, given time, Lady Constance would have found and uttered some adequately corrosive comment on this imbecile suggestion; but even as she was swelling preparatory to giving tongue, the door opened and a girl came in.
She was a pretty girl, with fair hair and blue eyes which in their softer moments probably reminded all sorts of people of twin lagoons slumbering beneath a southern sky. This, however, was not one of those moments. To Lord Emsworth, as they met his, they looked like something out of an oxy-acetylene blowpipe; and, as far as he was capable of being disturbed by anything that was not his younger son Frederick, he was disturbed. Angela, it seemed to him, was upset about something; and he was sorry. He liked Angela.
To ease a tense situation, he said:
'Angela, my dear, do you know anything about pigs?'
The girl laughed. One of those sharp, bitter laughs which are so unpleasant just after breakfast.
'Yes, I do. You're one.'
'Me?'
'Yes, you. Aunt Constance says that, if I marry Jimmy, you won't let me have my money.'
'Money? Money?' Lord Emsworth was mildly puzzled. 'What money? You never lent me any money.'
Lady Constance's feelings found vent in a sound like an overheated radiator.
'I believe this absent-mindedness of yours is nothing but a ridiculous pose, Clarence. You know perfectly well that when poor Jane died she left you Angela's trustee.'
And I can't touch my money without your consent till I'm twenty-five.'
'Well, how old are you?'
'Twenty-one.'
'Then what are you worrying about?' asked Lord Emsworth, surprised. 'No need to worry about it for another four years. God bless my soul, the money is quite safe. It is in excellent securities.'
Angela stamped her foot. An unladylike action, no doubt, but how much better than kicking an uncle with it, as her lower nature prompted.
'I have told Angela,' explained Lady Constance, 'that, while we naturally cannot force her to marry Lord Heacham, we can at least keep her money from being squandered by this wastrel on whom she proposes to throw herself away.'
'He isn't a wastrel. He's got quite enough money to marry me on, but he wants some capital to buy a partnership in a—'
'He is a wastrel. Wasn't he sent abroad because—'
'That was two years ago. And since then—'
'My dear Angela, you may argue until—'
'I'm not arguing. I'm simply saying that I'm going to marry Jimmy, if we both have to starve in the gutter.'
'What gutter?' asked his lordship, wrenching his errant mind away from thoughts of acorns.
Any gutter.'
'Now, please listen to me, Angela.'
It seemed to Lord Emsworth that there was a frightful amount of conversation going on. He had the sensation of having become a mere bit of flotsam upon a tossing sea of female voices. Both his sister and his niece appeared to have much to say, and they were saying it simultaneously and fortissimo. He looked wistfully at the door.
It was smoothly done. A twist of the handle, and he was where beyond those voices there was peace. Galloping gaily down the stairs, he charged out into the sunshine.
His gaiety was not long-lived. Free at last to concentrate itself on the really serious issues of life, his mind grew sombre and grim. Once more there descended upon him the cloud which had been oppressing his soul before all this Heacham-Angela-Belford business began. Each step that took him nearer to the sty where the ailing Empress resided seemed a heavier step than the last. He reached the sty; and, draping himself over the rails, peered moodily at the vast expanse of pig within.
For, even though she had been doing a bit of dieting of late, Empress of Blandings was far from being an ill-nourished animal. She resembled a captive balloon with ears and a tail, and was as nearly circular as a pig can be without bursting. Nevertheless, Lord Emsworth, as he regarded her, mourned and would not be comforted. A few more square meals under her belt, and no pig in all Shropshire could have held its head up in the Empress's presence. And now, just for lack of those few meals, the supreme animal would probably be relegated to the mean obscurity of an 'Honourably Mentioned.' It was bitter, bitter.
He became aware that somebody was speaking to him; and, turning, perceived a solemn young man in riding breeches.
'I say,' said the young man.
Lord Emsworth, though he would have preferred solitude, was relieved to find that the intruder was at least one of his own sex. Women are apt to stray off into side-issues, but men are practical and can be relied on to stick to the fundamentals. Besides, young Heacham probably kept pigs himself and might have a useful hint or two up his sleeve.
'I say, I've just ridden over to see if there was anything I could do about this fearful business.'
'Uncommonly kind and thoughtful of you, my dear fellow,' said Lord Emsworth, touched. 'I fear things look very black.'
'It's an absolute mystery to me.'
'To me, too.'
'I mean to say, she was all right last week.'
'She was all right as late as the day before yesterday.'
'Seemed quite cheery and chirpy and all that.'
'Entirely so.'
And then this happens – out of a blue sky, as you might say.'
'Exactly. It is insoluble. We have done everything possible to tempt her appetite.'
'Her appetite? Is Angela ill?'
'Angela? No, I fancy not. She seemed perfectly well a few minutes ago.'
'You've seen her this morning, then? Did she say anything about this fearful business?'
'No. She was speaking about some money.'
'It's all so dashed unexpected.'
'Like a bolt from the blue,' agreed Lord Emsworth. 'Such a thing has never happened before. I fear the worst. According to the Wolff-Lehmann feeding standards, a pig, if in health, should consume daily nourishment amounting to fifty-seven thousand eight hundred calories, these to consist of proteids four pounds five ounces, carbohydrates twenty-five pounds—'
'What has that got to do with Angela?'
Angela?'
'I came to find out why Angela has broken off our engagement.'
Lord Emsworth marshalled his thoughts. He had a misty idea that he had heard something mentioned about that. It came back to him.
'Ah, yes, of course. She has broken off the engagement, hasn't she? I believe it is because she is in love with someone else. Yes, now that I recollect, that was distinctly stated. The whole thing comes back to me quite clearly. Angela has decided to marry someone else. I knew there was some satisfactory explanation. Tell me, my dear fellow, what are your views on linseed meal.'
'What do y
ou mean, linseed meal?'
'Why, linseed meal,' said Lord Emsworth, not being able to find a better definition. As a food for pigs.'
'Oh, curse all pigs!'
'What!' There was a sort of astounded horror in Lord Emsworth's voice. He had never been particularly fond of young Heacham, for he was not a man who took much to his juniors, but he had not supposed him capable of anarchistic sentiments like this. 'What did you say?'
'I said, "Curse all pigs!" You keep talking about pigs. I'm not interested in pigs. I don't want to discuss pigs. Blast and damn every pig in existence!'
Lord Emsworth watched him, as he strode away, with an emotion that was partly indignation and partly relief – indignation that a landowner and a fellow son of Shropshire could have brought himself to utter such words, and relief that one capable of such utterance was not going to marry into his family. He had always in his woollen-headed way been very fond of his niece Angela, and it was nice to think that the child had such solid good sense and so much cool discernment. Many girls of her age would have been carried away by the glamour of young Heacham's position and wealth; but she, divining with an intuition beyond her years that he was unsound on the subject of pigs, had drawn back while there was still time and refused to marry him.
A pleasant glow suffused Lord Emsworth's bosom, to be frozen out a few moments later as he perceived his sister Constance bearing down upon him. Lady Constance was a beautiful woman, but there were times when the charm of her face was marred by a rather curious expression; and from nursery days onward his lordship had learned that this expression meant trouble. She was wearing it now.
'Clarence,' She said, 'I have had enough of this nonsense of Angela and young Belford. The thing cannot be allowed to go drifting on. You must catch the two o'clock train to London.'
'What! Why?'
'You must see this man Belford and tell him that, if Angela insists on marrying him, she will not have a penny for four years. I shall be greatly surprised if that piece of information does not put an end to the whole business.'
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