Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (5 page)

'Never believe a man who starts a story like that,' said Miss
Yorke.

'Do please be quiet, Jane. Yes, Freddie?'

'I was trying to sell that carroty female a scenario, and I was
keeping it from you because I wanted it to be a surprise.'

'Freddie darling! Was that really it?'

'You don't mean to say—' began Miss Yorke incredulously.

'Absolutely it. And, in order to keep in with the woman – whom,
I may as well tell you, I disliked rather heartily from the
start – I had to lush her up a trifle from time to time.'

'Of course.'

'You have to with these people.'

'Naturally.'

'Makes all the difference in the world if you push a bit of food
into them preparatory to talking business.'

All the difference in the world.'

Miss Yorke, who seemed temporarily to have lost her breath,
recovered it.

'You don't mean to tell me,' she cried, turning in a kind of wild
despair to the injured wife, 'that you really believe this apple
sauce?'

'Of course she does,' said Freddie. 'Don't you, precious?'

'Of course I do, sweetie-pie.'

'And, what's more,' said Freddie, pulling from his breast-pocket
a buff-coloured slip of paper with the air of one who
draws from his sleeve that extra ace which makes all the difference
in a keenly-contested game, 'I can prove it. Here's a cable
that came this morning from the Super-Ultra-Art Film Company,
offering me a thousand solid dollars for the scenario. So
another time, you, will you kindly refrain from judging your – er – fellows
by the beastly light of your own – ah – foul
imagination?'

'Yes,' said his wife, 'I must say, Jane, that you have made as
much mischief as anyone ever did. I wish in future you would
stop interfering in other people's concerns.'

'Spoken,' said Freddie, 'with vim and not a little terse good
sense. And I may add—'

'If you ask me,' said Miss Yorke, 'I think it's a fake.'

'What's a fake?'

'That cable.'

'What do you mean, a fake?' cried Freddie indignantly. 'Read
it for yourself.'

'It's quite easy to get cables cabled you by cabling a friend in
New York to cable them.'

'I don't get that,' said Freddie, puzzled.

'I do,' said his wife; and there shone in her eyes the light that
shines only in the eyes of wives who, having swallowed their
husband's story, resent destructive criticism from outsiders. And
I never want to see you again, Jane Yorke.'

'Same here,' agreed Freddie. 'In Turkey they'd shove a girl like
that in a sack and drop her in the Bosphorus.'

'I might as well go,' said Miss Yorke.

'And don't come back,' said Freddie. 'The door is behind you.'

The species of trance which had held Lord Emsworth in its
grip during the preceding conversational exchanges was wearing
off. And now, perceiving that Miss Yorke was apparently as
unpopular with the rest of the company as with himself, he
came gradually to life again. His recovery was hastened by the
slamming of the door and the spectacle of his son Frederick
clasping in his arms a wife who, his lordship had never forgotten,
was the daughter of probably the only millionaire in existence
who had that delightful willingness to take Freddie off his hands
which was, in Lord Emsworth's eyes, the noblest quality a
millionaire could possess.

He sat up and blinked feebly. Though much better, he was
still weak.

'What was your scenario about, sweetness?' asked Mrs
Freddie.

'I'll tell you, angel-face. Or should we stir up the guv'nor?
He seems a bit under the weather.'

'Better leave him to rest for awhile. That woman Jane Yorke
upset him.'

'She would upset anybody. If there's one person I bar, it's the
blister who comes between man and wife. Not right, I mean,
coming between man and wife. My scenario's about a man and
wife. This fellow, you understand, is a poor cove – no money, if
you see what I mean – and he has an accident, and the hospital
blokes say they won't operate unless he can chip in with five
hundred dollars down in advance. But where to get it? You see
the situation?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Strong, what?'

Awfully strong.'

'Well, it's nothing to how strong it gets later on. The cove's
wife gets hold of a millionaire bloke and vamps him and lures
him to the flat and gets him to promise he'll cough up the cash.
Meanwhile, cut-backs of the doctor at the hospital on the
'phone. And she laughing merrily so as not to let the millionaire
bloke guess that her heart is aching. I forgot to tell you the cove
had to be operated on immediately or he would hand in his
dinner-pail. Dramatic, eh?'

'Frightfully.'

'Well, then the millionaire bloke demands his price. I thought
of calling it "A Woman's Price."'

'Splendid.'

And now comes the blow-out. They go into the bedroom
and— Oh, hullo, guv'nor! Feeling better?'

Lord Emsworth had risen. He was tottering a little as he
approached them, but his mind was at rest.

'Much better, thank you.'

'You know my wife, what?'

'Oh, Lord Emsworth,' said Mrs. Freddie, 'I'm so dreadfully
sorry. I wouldn't have had anything like this happen for the
world. But—'

Lord Emsworth patted her hand paternally. Once more he
was overcome with astonishment that his son Frederick should
have been able to win the heart of a girl so beautiful, so sympathetic,
so extraordinarily rich.

'The fault was entirely mine, my dear child. But—' He
paused. Something was plainly troubling him. 'Tell me,
when Frederick was wearing that beard – when Frederick was
– was – when he was wearing that beard, did he really look like
me?'

'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.'

T
HANKS
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 you 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?'