‘It is scarcely for me, Mr. Galahad, to express derogatory opinions of the guests whom her ladyship sees fit to invite to—’
‘All right, I get your point. But however much you may wear the mask, you know in your heart that he’s utterly devoid of all the finer instincts which raise Man above the level of the beasts that perish. He’s a twister to end all twisters.’
‘Sir?’
‘Well, look at the way he’s doing down the unfortunate Trout.’
‘I am afraid I do not understand you, Mr. Galahad.’
‘Only because you weren’t there when he was telling me that story on the train. It appears that there is a harmless innocent American of the name of Wilbur Trout whose only fault is that he marries rather too often, which is the sort of thing that might happen to anyone. King Solomon, if you remember, had the same tendency. Well, Trout saw a picture in the window of an art gallery which was the image of his latest wife. She divorced him recently, but in spite of that he still loves her. He was planning to buy the picture, to remind him of her, and was ass enough to tell Dunstable so, with the result, of course, that Dunstable nipped in ahead of him and bought it, so as to be able to sell it to him at an exorbitant price. He knows Trout wants the thing so badly that he will cough up anything he’s asked, even unto half his kingdom. What do you think of that for chiselling and skulduggery, Beach?’
‘Tut, tut.’
‘You may well say Tut, tut. I wouldn’t blame you if you’d said Gorblimey. So there you have His Grace of Dunstable in a nutshell, and it’s not a pleasant thought that he will be with us for days and days, probably for weeks and weeks. One wonders how Clarence will bear up, especially as her ladyship will make him dress for dinner every night. She will, won’t she?’
‘I fear so, Mr. Galahad.’
‘And he hates it even more than having to wear a top hat at the school treat. Ah well, we must just hope that his frail form will not crack beneath the strain. And now, Beach, with many thanks for your hospitality, I must be leaving you. The train journey, as always, has left me feeling like a cinder track and an immediate plunge into the waters of the bath tub is of the essence. We shall meet at Philippi, if not sooner.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Two days elapsed before Linda Gilpin arrived. She came in her car late at night and went straight to bed, tired from the long journey, and after breakfast next morning Gally, naturally anxious to have a confidential talk with her, took her to see the yew alley which was one of the features of the place and often got flattering notices in books with titles like ‘British Gardens’ and ‘Olde Worlde England’. The brief glimpse he had had of her had impressed him favourably. She was, as John had said, slim, blue-eyed, just the right height, topped off with chestnut-coloured hair, and so unlike her uncle the Duke of Dunstable that it did him good to look at her. A girl, in short, whom any godfather would be glad to think his godson would at an early date be going off on honeymoons to Jamaica with. He could hardly wait to make her better acquaintance.
The Duke and Lady Constance were up in the portrait gallery. On the previous day the former’s reclining nude had been hung there, and Lady Constance was scrutinizing it without pleasure. She was a woman who, while not knowing much about Art, knew what she liked, and the kind of paintings she liked were those whose subjects were more liberally draped. A girl with nothing on except a quite inadequate wisp of some filmy material, she told the Duke, was out of place in the company of her ancestors, and the Duke in rebuttal replied that her ancestors were such a collection of ugly thugs that it was a charity to give the viewer something to divert his attention from them. With a flight of imagery of which few would have thought him capable he compared the Blandings Castle portrait gallery to the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s.
The critique ruffled Lady Constance, though anyone less prejudiced would have felt compelled to admit that some of the Earls of Emsworth, notably the third, fifth and seventh, had been rash to allow their portraits to be painted, but she checked the sharp response she would have liked to make. The Duke, when responded to sharply, was apt to take offence, and she had that to say to him which called for amiability on his part, or something as close to amiability as could be expected of him.
She was about to take up once again the matter of his marrying. For many years he had been a widower, and her own happy union with James Schoonmaker had made her feel more strongly than ever that this was a state of affairs that should be adjusted. She was a firm believer in a wife’s influence for good over her husband, and she held the view that the Duke needed all the influence for good that he could get. Someone who would improve his manners and habits and general outlook on life was, in her opinion, what he ought to be supplied with as soon as possible.
She had often spoken to him on the subject before, but only in a vague, general way. Now that Vanessa Polk had come into her life and was actually here at Blandings with him, it seemed to her that the time had come to be more specific; to get, though she would never have used such an expression, down to brass tacks and talk turkey. She edged gently into her theme.
‘How charming American women are,’ she said. ‘So pretty, so chic, so well dressed.’
The Duke saw that she was under a misapprehension. Only to be expected of a female, of course. In the sex to which she belonged one took muddleheadedness for granted.
‘She isn’t American. Chap who did the thing was French, so she must have been French, too. Stands to reason a fellow painting in France would have a French model. Probably her name was Gaby or Brigitte or Mimi or something. And if you think she’s well dressed, you’re potty. She hasn’t got a ruddy stitch on.’
Lady Constance bit her lip and had to pause for a moment before speaking. The uncharitable thought floated into her mind that there were times when Alaric was just like her brother Clarence.
‘I was not alluding to the woman in that picture,’ she said coldly. ‘I was thinking of—’
‘Does she remind you of anyone?’ the Duke proceeded. It was only inadvertently that he ever allowed anyone to finish a sentence. ‘I ask because a fellow I know, an American fellow called Trout, says she’s the image of his third wife, while Emsworth insists that she has a distinct look of that pig of his.’
‘I was thinking—’
‘Something about the expression in her eyes, he said, and the way she’s lying. He said he had seen his pig lying like that a hundred times. It does it after a heavy meal.’
‘What I was going to say—’
‘And oddly enough I notice quite a resemblance to our vicar’s wife down in Wiltshire. Only the face, of course, for I never saw her lying in the nude on a mossy bank. I doubt if the vicar would let her.’
‘If you would just listen, Alaric—’
‘By the way, meant to have told you before, I’ve invited Trout here. I thought it was the decent thing to do. His wife divorced him, and he’s carrying the torch for her, so naturally the more he sees of a picture that reminds him of her, the better he’ll like it. He’s arriving this afternoon.’
Had Lady Constance been conversing with Lord Emsworth and had he let fall the statement that he had invited an American fellow called Trout to Blandings Castle without her permission, something reminiscent of the San Francisco earthquake must inevitably have resulted. But true to her policy of keeping the Duke in the best mood of which he was capable she allowed only the merest suggestion of annoyance to creep into her words.
‘I wish you would not invite people to my house, Alaric.’
The Duke, a clear-headed man, saw the objection to this immediately, and once again the inability of females to reason anything out impressed itself upon him. It was something, he believed, to do with the bone structure of their heads.
‘How the devil are they to get here, if they aren’t invited?’
Lady Constance might have retorted that men who invited themselves were not unknown to her, but she merely heaved a weary sigh.
‘Who is this Trout?’
‘Why do you call him that?’
‘Marrying all those women. As far as I can make out, he does it every hour on the hour. Do you remember that song “They call me Otto of roses” in one of those Gaiety shows? “If you don’t like what you’ve go-to, pick another from the grotto, that’s the motto of Otto of roses”. That’s Trout.’
‘He sounds charming.’
‘He’s all right. Tight all the time, I imagine. At least he was when I met him. He was crying into a cocktail, and he told me about his wife. This was his third wife, or it may have been his fourth. He marries at the drop of a hat. Odd hobby to have, but everyone to his taste and I suppose he enjoys it.’
He had given Lady Constance the cue she needed. Pigeonholing for the moment the rather disquieting thought that in her capacity of chatelaine of Blandings Castle she was about to entertain for an indeterminate visit a mentally unbalanced alcoholic, she said:
‘Don’t you think it’s time you married again, Alaric?’
An exasperated snort echoed through the portrait gallery like a fog horn.
‘That’s what you say every blasted time I see you. Nag, nag, nag. Who do you want me to marry now?’
‘Vanessa Polk.’
‘That American female you’ve brought along? Who is she? One of your New York friends?’
‘No, I met her on the boat. I had an attack of neuralgia, and she was very good to me. I was obliged to spend two days in bed, and she came and sat with me and looked after me.’
‘Probably working up to a touch.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Has she tried to borrow money?’
‘Of course she has not. She’s much richer than I am. At least, her father is.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She told me. She is J. B. Polk’s daughter. You must have heard of J. B. Polk.’
‘I seem to know the name.’
‘Of course you do. He’s a financial emperor. Controls all sorts of businesses … banks, railroads, mines, everything.’
‘Does he?’ said the Duke.
‘Nobody could call James a pauper, but he feels like one when he compares himself with J. B. Polk. And he has a very high blood pressure.’
‘James has?’
‘Polk has. He might die of apoplexy at any moment, and Vanessa would become one of the wealthiest women in America.’
‘Would she?’ said the Duke thoughtfully. ‘Would she?’
The gleam which had come into his prominent eyes did not escape Lady Constance’s notice, nor did it surprise her. She had expected her words to create a powerful reaction. Revolted though she would have been had someone informed her that her views on anything could coincide with those of her brother Galahad, on the subject of the Duke’s affection for money they were identical. This partiality of his for coin of the realm had been drawn to her attention twenty years ago, when he had informed her that their engagement was at an end because her father refused to meet his terms in the matter of dowry, and she could never be sufficiently grateful to her late parent for his parsimony. She was fond of Alaric in a sisterly way, but her intelligence told her that for one of her impatient temperament marriage with him would have been a disaster. Vanessa was different. Her cheerful equable nature would enable her to cope even with an Alaric.
‘She would be ideal for you,’ she said.
‘Seems nice,’ the Duke agreed.
‘And of course it would be a wonderful match for her.’
‘Of course.’
‘She went to the library after breakfast. Why don’t you go there and talk to her?’
‘I will.’
‘She will be delighted to see you.’
‘I suppose so. I’ll go at once. And I don’t want you coming along, Connie, so buzz off.’
2
Gally had had to change his plans. He had not been able to fulfil his intention of showing Linda Gilpin the beauties of the yew alley, for after the briefest of conversations on the way there they had parted, she to return to the house, he to go to the Empress’s sty, where he knew Lord Emsworth was to be found. As the result of his talk with the moon of his godson’s delight he was feeling perplexed and bewildered, and he had a faint hope that Clarence might have something constructive to suggest. Such a miracle was not of course likely, for Clarence in the course of a longish life had never suggested anything constructive to anybody on any subject whatsoever, but it often happens that talking something over with someone has the effect of clarifying one’s thoughts, even if that someone merely gapes at one like a goldfish.
He found Lord Emsworth, as usual, draped like a wet sock over the rail of the Empress’s G.H.Q. with a large potato in his hand, and came immediately to the point.
‘Clarence,’ he said, ‘I’m worried.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Galahad,’ said Lord Emsworth, courteously transferring to him the attention monopolized till then by the silver medallist, who was busying herself among the proteins and carbohydrates with a gusto which would have drawn a smile of approval from Wolff-Lehman. ‘Is it Connie?’ he asked, seizing on what he thought the obvious explanation for anyone’s mental disturbance at Blandings Castle.
‘No, not Connie. It’s about a godson of mine.’
‘I did not know you had a godson.’
‘I have several. People ask you to officiate, and you can’t very well refuse. Not that I have any complaints to make about my little lot. I’m very fond of them all, particularly this one. I hope I am not interrupting you in an early lunch, Clarence.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That potato you’re brandishing.’
‘Oh, that is for the Empress. I was about to give it to her.’
‘Do it now. Then you will be able to concentrate on my story.’
‘Quite. Yes, go on, Galahad. You were saying you were thinking of adopting a godson.’
‘I wasn’t saying anything of the sort. You don’t adopt godsons, they just adhere to you like some sort of growth. This one is the son of an old friend of mine, and he’s in trouble.’
Lord Emsworth was concerned.
‘Money? I should be glad to do anything in my power.’
‘That’s extremely kind of you, Clarence, but he’s all right as far as money is concerned. He’s doing well at the bar and has an interest in one of those Bond Street picture galleries. It’s his love life that has come a stinker. You remember that night you phoned me about Connie breaking out again. He was with me at the time, and he had just been telling me he had become engaged to be married.’
‘Indeed?’
‘To the Gilpin girl.’
‘Who is the Gilpin girl?’
‘You’ve met her. She’s staying here. Came last night. Smallish, with blue eyes and chestnut hair.’
‘Ah yes, I do seem to have some sort of recollection. Isn’t she something to do with Alaric?’
‘His niece.’
‘And she is going to marry your godson?’
‘According to him it was all set. He babbled about how much he loved her and distinctly gave me to understand that she loved him with equal intensity.’
‘They loved each other?’ said Lord Emsworth, having worked it out.
‘Exactly. It seemed as if it was all over except buying the licence and rounding up the parson.’
‘When is the wedding to be? And will it mean,’ said Lord Emsworth in sudden panic, ‘that I shall have to wear a top hat?’
‘The way it looks, you need have no anxiety.’
‘You don’t think Connie will insist?’
‘She won’t be given the opportunity.’
‘She makes me wear one for the school treat.’
‘What I’m trying to tell you is that there probably won’t be a wedding.’
‘You said there would.’
‘She ought to know. Well, that’s a relief. It isn’t the top hat I really object to, it’s the clothes that go with it. The stiff collar—’
‘If you will just let me get on with it, Clarence.’
‘Certainly, my dear fellow, certainly.’
‘Then I will proceed. Not so many minutes ago I took her— or started to take her—to see the yew valley. It being the first time I had been able to get her alone, my opening move was naturally to touch on the engagement.’
‘To your godson?’
‘To my godson. “I hear I have to wish you happiness,” I said. To which she replied with a simple “Why?”. A little surprised by her slowness at the uptake, I explained that I was referring to her betrothal.’
‘To your godson?’
‘To my godson. And she gave me a quick, cold, haughty look, as if I had offended her with a four-letter word. “Are you under the impression,” she said, “that it is my intention to marry that ruddy Gawd-help-us? If so, here is something for your files. I wouldn’t marry him to please a dying grandmother. If I saw him perishing of thirst, I wouldn’t give him the dew off a Brussels sprout. And if I heard that he had been run over by a motor omnibus and had broken his spine in three places, I would go about Blandings Castle trilling like a nightingale.” Those may not have been her exact words, but that was the gist, and her attitude left me disturbed. I may be hypersensitive, but I got the definite feeling that the wedding was off. I can’t imagine what Johnny has done to get her thinking along those lines. It’ll probably turn out to be something quite trivial. A thing I’ve noticed as I’ve gone through life is that girls never need much of a reason for breaking engagements. It’s their first move when anything goes wrong. I remember a fellow named Ponderby at the old Pelican— Legs Ponderby we used to call him—short for Hollow Legs— because of his remarkable capacity for absorbing buttered rums—who got engaged to a girl who did a snake act on the suburban Halls and always took her supporting artists around with her in a wickerwork basket. And one night, when they were having a bite of supper at the Bodega, a long green member of the troupe got loose and crawled up Legs’s leg, and wanting to sell his life dearly he hit it on the nose with a bread stick. He explained to the girl that seeing snakes always affected him profoundly, but she broke the engagement just the same and went off and married a comedy juggler. And then there was poor Binks Holloway—’
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