‘And
Ricky happened to be passing, and he jumped in and rescued him.’
‘How
many men were there?’
‘Thousands,
I believe.’
‘But he
wouldn’t mind that?’
‘Oh,
no.’
‘He
just broke their necks.’
‘I
expect so. He had a black eye. I put steak on it.’
‘Romantic.
Did you fall in love at first sight?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘My
nephew Pongo always does. Perhaps it’s the best way. Saves time. Did he fall in
love with you at first sight?’
‘Oh,
yes.’
‘I
begin to think better of this Borstal exhibit. He will probably wind up in
Broad-moor, but he has taste.’
‘You
would never have thought so, though; he just sat and glared at me with his good
eye, and growled when I spoke to him.’
‘Uncouth
young wart—hog.’
‘He’s
nothing of the kind. He was shy. Later on, he got better.’
‘And
when he was better, was he good?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wish
I could have heard him propose. The sort of chap who would be likely to think
up something new.’
‘He
did, rather. He grabbed me by the wrist and nearly broke it and told me to
marry him. I said I would.’
‘Well,
you know your own business best, of course. What does your father think of it?’
‘He
doesn’t approve. He says Ricky isn’t worthy of me.’
‘What a
judge!’
‘And he’s
got an extraordinary idea into his head that if I’m encouraged I may marry
Horace. He was encouraging me all this morning. It’s just because Ricky hasn’t
any money, of course. But I don’t care. He’s sweet.’
‘Would
you call that the
mot juste?’
‘Yes, I
would. Most of the time he’s an absolute darling. He can’t help being jealous.’
‘Well,
all right. I suppose I shall have to give my consent. Bless you, my children. And
here is a piece of advice which you will find useful in your married life. Don’t
watch his eyes. Watch his knees. They will tell you when he is setting himself
for a swing. And when he swings, roll with the punch.’
‘But
when am I going to get any married life? He makes practically nothing with his
poetry.
‘Still,
he may have a flair for selling onion soup.’
‘But
how are we going to find the money to buy the bar? And his friend won’t hold
the offer open for ever.’
‘I see
what you mean, and I wish I could help you, my dear. But I can’t raise anything
like the sum you need. Hasn’t he any money at all?’
‘There’s
a little bit his mother left him, but he can’t get at the capital. He tried to
borrow some from his uncle. Do you know the Duke of Dunstable?’
‘Only
from hearing Horace speak of him.’
‘He
seems an awful old man. When Ricky told him he wanted five hundred pounds to
buy an onion soup bar, he was furious.’
‘Did he
say he wanted to get married?’
‘No. He
thought it would be better not to.’
‘I don’t
agree with him. He should have told Dunstable all about it and shown him your
photograph.’
‘He
didn’t dare risk it.’
‘Well,
I think he missed a trick. The ideal thing, of course, would be if you could
meet Dunstable without him knowing who you are and play upon him like a
stringed instrument. Because you could, you know. You’ve no notion what a
pretty, charming girl you are, Polly. You’d be surprised. When you came in just
now, I was stunned. I would have given you anything you asked, even unto half
my kingdom. And I see no reason why Dunstable’s reactions should not be the
same. Dukes are not above the softer emotions. If somehow we could work it so
that you slid imperceptibly into his life….’
He
looked up, annoyed. The door-bell had rung.
‘Callers?
Just when we need to be alone in order to concentrate. I’ll tell them to go to
blazes.’
He went
down the passage. His nephew Pongo was standing on the mat.
7
Pongo’s manner was marked
by the extreme of agitation. His eyes were bulging, and he began to pour out
his troubles almost before the door was open. There was nothing in his bearing
of a young man who has just concluded a satisfactory financial deal.
‘I say,
Uncle Fred, he’s not there! Horace, I mean. At his flat, I mean. He’s gone, I
mean.’
‘Gone?’
‘Webster
told me he had just left in his car with a gentleman.’
Lord
Ickenham, while appreciating his nephew’s natural chagrin, was disposed to make
light of the matter.
‘A
little after-luncheon spin through the park with a crony, no doubt. He will
return.’
‘But he
won’t, dash it!’ cried Pongo, performing the opening steps of a sort of tarantella.
‘That’s the whole point. He took a lot of luggage with him. He may be away for
weeks. And George Budd planning to unleash Erb on me if I don’t pay up by
Wednesday!’
Lord
Ickenham perceived that the situation was more serious than he had supposed.
‘Did
Webster say where he was off to?’
‘No. He
didn’t know.’
‘Tell
me the whole story in your own words, my boy, omitting no detail, however
slight.’
Pongo
marshalled his facts.
‘Well,
apparently the first thing that happened was that Horace, having lunched
frugally off some tinned stuff, sent Webster out to take a look round and see
if Ricky was hanging about, telling him — if he wasn’t — to go round to the
garage and get his car, as he thought he would take a drive in order to correct
a slight headache. He said it caught him just above the eyebrows,’ added Pongo,
mindful of the injunction not to omit details.
‘I see.
And then?’
‘Webster
came back and reported that the car was outside but Ricky wasn’t, and Horace
said “Thanks”. And Horace went to the front door and opened it, as a preliminary
to making his getaway, and there on the mat, his hand just raised to press the
bell, was this bloke.’
‘What
sort of bloke?’
‘Webster
describes him as a pink chap.’
‘Park
Lane seems to have been very much congested with pink chaps today. I had a chat
there with one this morning. Some convention up in town, perhaps. What was his
name?’
‘No
names were exchanged. Horace said “Oh, hullo!” and the chap said “Hullo!” and
Horace said “Did you come to see me?” and the chap said “Yes,” and Horace said “Step
this way,” or words to that effect, and they went into the library. Webster
states that they were closeted there for some ten minutes, and then Horace rang
for Webster and told him to pack his things and put them in the car. And
Webster packed his things and put them in the car and came back to Horace and
said “I have packed your things and put them in the car, sir,” and Horace said “Right
ho” and shot out, followed by the pink chap. Webster describes him as pale and
anxious-looking, as if he were going to meet some doom.’
Lord
Ickenham pondered. The story, admirably clear in its construction and delivery,
left no room for doubt concerning the probability of an extended absence on the
part of the young seigneur of 52, Bloxham Mansions.
‘H’m!’
he said. ‘Well, it’s a little awkward that this should have arisen just now, my
boy, because I am not really at liberty to weigh the thing and decide what is
to be done for the best. Just at the moment my brain is bespoke. I am immersed
in a discussion of ways and means with Polly. She is in trouble, poor child.’
All
that was fine and chivalrous in Pongo Twistleton rose to the surface. He had
been expecting to reel for some time beneath the stunning blow of Horace’s
disappearance, but now he forgot self.
‘Trouble?’
He was
deeply concerned. As a rule, when he fell in love at first sight, his primary
impulse was a desire to reach out for the adored object and start handling her
like a sack of coals, but the love with which this girl inspired him was a
tender, chivalrous love. Her appeal was to his finer side, not to the caveman
who lurked in all the Twistletons. He wanted to shield her from a harsh world.
He wanted to perform knightly services for her. She was the sort of girl he
could see himself kissing gently on the forehead and then going out into the
sunset. And the thought of her being in trouble gashed him like a knife.
‘Trouble?
Oh, I say! Why, what’s the matter?’
‘The
old, old story. Like so many of us, she is in sore need of the ready, and does
not see where she is going to get it. Her young man has this glittering
opportunity of buying a lucrative onion-soupery, which would enable them to get
married, but he seeks in vain for someone to come across with the purchase
price. Owing to that unfortunate affair at the Ball, he failed to enlist Horace’s
sympathy. The Duke of Dunstable, whom he also approached, proved equally
unresponsive. I was starting to tell Polly, when you arrived, that the only
solution is for her to meet Dunstable and fascinate him, and we were wondering
how this was to be contrived. Step along and join us. Your fresh young
intelligence may be just what we require. Here is Pongo, Polly,’ he said,
rejoining the girl. ‘It is possible that he may have an idea. He nearly had one
about three years ago. At any rate, he wishes to espouse your cause. Eh, Pongo?’
‘Oh,
rather.’
‘Well,
then, as I was saying, Polly, the solution is for you to meet the Duke, but it
must not be as Ricky’s fiancée —’
‘Why
not?’ asked Pongo, starting to display the fresh young intelligence.
‘Because
he wouldn’t think me good enough,’ said Polly.
‘My
dear,’ Lord Ickenham assured her, patting her hand, ‘if you are good enough for
me, you are good enough for a blasted, pop-eyed Duke. But the trouble is that
he is the one who has to be conciliated, and it would be fatal to make a bad
start. You must meet him as a stranger. You must glide imperceptibly into his
life and fascinate him before he knows who you are. We want to get him saying
to himself “A charming girl, egad! Just the sort I could wish my nephew Ricky
to marry.” And then along comes the anthropoid ape to whom you have given your
heart and says he thinks so, too. All that is quite straight. But how the
dickens are you to glide imperceptibly into his life? How do you establish
contact?’
Pongo
bent himself frowningly to the problem. He was aware of a keen agony at the
reflection that the cream of his brain was being given to thinking up ways of
getting this girl married to another man, but together with the agony there was
a comfortable glow, as he felt that the opportunity of helping her had been
accorded him. He reminded himself of Cyrano de Bergerac.
‘Difficult,’
he said. ‘For one thing, the Duke’s away somewhere. I remember Horace telling
me that it was because he wouldn’t go to the station and see him off that he
broke up the sitting room with the poker. Of course, he may just have been
going home. He has a lair in Wiltshire, I believe.’
‘No, I
know where he’s gone. He is at Blandings Castle.’
‘Isn’t
that your pal Emsworth’s place?’
‘It is.’
‘Well,
then, there you are,’ said Pongo, feeling how lucky it was that there was a
trained legal mind present to solve all perplexities. ‘You get Emsworth to
invite Miss Pott down there.’
Lord
Ickenham shook his head.
‘It is
not quite so simple as that, I fear. You have a rather inaccurate idea of
Emsworth’s position at Blandings. He was telling me about it at lunch and, broadly,
what it amounts to is this. There may be men who are able to invite unattached
and unexplained girls of great personal charm to their homes, but Emsworth is
not one of them. He has a sister, Lady Constance Keeble, who holds revisionary
powers over his visiting list.’
Pongo
caught his drift. He remembered having heard his friend Ronnie Fish speak of
Lady Constance Keeble in a critical spirit, and Ronnie’s views had been
endorsed by others of his circle who had encountered the lady.
‘If
Emsworth invited Polly to stay, Lady Constance would have her out of the place
within five minutes of her arrival.’
‘Yes, I
understand she’s more or less of a fiend in human shape,’ assented Pongo. ‘Never
met her myself, but I have it from three separate sources — Ronnie Fish, Hugh
Carmody and Monty Bodkin — that strong men run like rabbits to avoid meeting
her.’
‘Precisely.
And so…. Oh, my Lord, that bell again!’
‘I’ll
go,’ said Polly, and vanished in the direction of the front door.
Lord
Ickenham took advantage of her absence to point out the fundamental difficulty
of the position.
‘You
see, Pongo, the real trouble is old Mustard. If Polly had a presentable father,
everything would be simple. Emsworth may not be able to issue invitations to
unattached girls, but even he, I imagine, would be allowed to bring a friend
and his daughter to stay. But with a father like hers this is not practicable.
I wouldn’t for the world say a word against Mustard — one of Nature’s gentlemen
— but his greatest admirer couldn’t call him a social asset to a girl. Mustard
— there is no getting away from it — looks just what he is — a retired Silver
Ring bookie who for years has been doing himself too well on the starchy foods.
And even if he were an Adonis, I would still be disinclined to let him loose in
a refined English home. I say this is in no derogatory sense, of course. One of
my oldest pals. Still, there it is.’