Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (14 page)

Lord Emsworth gave vent to his loudest snort of the afternoon.

'Confound the lidy!'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Five minutes later Beach, the butler, enjoying a siesta in
the housekeeper's room, was roused from his slumbers by the
unexpected ringing of a bell. Answering its summons, he
found his employer in the library, and with him a surprising
young person in a velveteen frock, at the sight of whom his eyebrows
quivered and, but for his iron self-restraint, would have
risen.

'Beach!'

'Your lordship?'

'This young lady would like some tea.'

'Very good, your lordship.'

'Buns, you know. And apples, and jem – I mean jam-sandwiches,
and cake, and that sort of thing.'

'Very good, your lordship.'

And she has a brother, Beach.'

'Indeed, your lordship?'

'She will want to take some stuff away for him.' Lord Emsworth
turned to his guest. 'Ernest would like a little chicken,
perhaps?'

'Coo!'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

And a slice or two of ham?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

And – he has no gouty tendency?'

'No, sir. Thank you, sir.'

'Capital! Then a bottle of that new lot of port, Beach. It's
some stuff they've sent me down to try,' explained his lordship.
'Nothing special, you understand,' he added apologetically, 'but
quite drinkable. I should like your brother's opinion of it. See
that all that is put together in a parcel, Beach, and leave it on the
table in the hall. We will pick it up as we go out.'

A welcome coolness had crept into the evening air by the time
Lord Emsworth and his guest came out of the great door of the
castle. Gladys, holding her host's hand and clutching the parcel,
sighed contentedly. She had done herself well at the tea-table.
Life seemed to have nothing more to offer.

Lord Emsworth did not share this view. His spacious mood
had not yet exhausted itself.

'Now, is there anything else you can think of that Ernest
would like?' he asked. 'If so, do not hesitate to mention it.
Beach, can you think of anything?'

The butler, hovering respectfully, was unable to do so.

'No, your lordship. I ventured to add – on my own responsibility,
your lordship – some hard-boiled eggs and a pot of jam to
the parcel.'

'Excellent! You are sure there is nothing else?'

A wistful look came into Gladys's eyes.

'Could he 'ave some flarze?'

'Certainly,' said Lord Emsworth. 'Certainly, certainly, certainly.
By all means. Just what I was about to suggest my – er –
what
is
flarze?'

Beach, the linguist, interpreted.

'I think the young lady means flowers, your lordship.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Flarze.'

'Oh?' said Lord Emsworth. 'Oh? Flarze?' he said slowly. 'Oh,
ah, yes. Yes. I see. H'm!'

He removed his pince-nez, wiped them thoughtfully, replaced
them, and gazed with wrinkling forehead at the gardens that
stretched gaily out before him. Flarze! It would be idle to deny
that those gardens contained flarze in full measure. They were
bright with Achillea, Bignonia Radicans, Campanula, Digitalis,
Euphorbia, Funkia, Gypsophila, Helianthus, Iris, Liatris, Monarda,
Phlox Drummondi, Salvia, Thalictrum, Vinca and Yucca.
But the devil of it was that Angus McAllister would have a fit if
they were picked. Across the threshold of this Eden the ginger
whiskers of Angus McAllister lay like a flaming sword.

As a general rule, the procedure for getting flowers out of
Angus McAllister was as follows. You waited till he was in one
of his rare moods of complaisance, then you led the conversation
gently round to the subject of interior decoration, and then,
choosing your moment, you asked if he could possibly spare a
few to be put in vases. The last thing you thought of doing was to
charge in and start helping yourself.

'I – er –...' said Lord Emsworth.

He stopped. In a sudden blinding flash of clear vision he had
seen himself for what he was – the spineless, unspeakably
unworthy descendant of ancestors who, though they may have
had their faults, had certainly known how to handle employees.
It was 'How now, varlet!' and 'Marry come up, thou malapert
knave!' in the days of previous Earls of Emsworth. Of course,
they had possessed certain advantages which he lacked. It
undoubtedly helped a man in his dealings with the domestic
staff to have, as they had had, the rights of the high, the middle
and the low justice – which meant, broadly, that if you got
annoyed with your head-gardener you could immediately divide
him into four head-gardeners with a battle-axe and no questions
asked – but even so, he realized that they were better men than
he was and that, if he allowed craven fear of Angus McAllister to
stand in the way of this delightful girl and her charming brother
getting all the flowers they required, he was not worthy to be the
last of their line.

Lord Emsworth wrestled with his tremors.

'Certainly, certainly, certainly,' he said, though not without a
qualm. 'Take as many as you want.'

And so it came about that Angus McAllister, crouched in his
potting-shed like some dangerous beast in its den, beheld a sight
which first froze his blood and then sent it boiling through his
veins. Flitting to and fro through his sacred gardens, picking
his sacred flowers, was a small girl in a velveteen frock. And –
which brought apoplexy a step closer – it was the same small girl
who two days before had copped him on the shin with a stone.
The stillness of the summer evening was shattered by a roar that
sounded like boilers exploding, and Angus McAllister came out
of the potting-shed at forty-five miles per hour.

Gladys did not linger. She was a London child, trained from
infancy to bear herself gallantly in the presence of alarms and
excursions, but this excursion had been so sudden that it
momentarily broke her nerve. With a horrified yelp she scuttled
to where Lord Emsworth stood and, hiding behind him,
clutched the tails of his morning-coat.

'Oo-er!' said Gladys.

Lord Emsworth was not feeling so frightfully good himself.
We have pictured him a few moments back drawing inspiration
from the nobility of his ancestors and saying, in effect, 'That for
McAllister!' but truth now compels us to admit that this hardy
attitude was largely due to the fact that he believed the head-gardener
to be a safe quarter of a mile away among the swings
and roundabouts of the Fete. The spectacle of the man charging
vengefully down on him with gleaming eyes and bristling whiskers
made him feel like a nervous English infantryman at the
Battle of Bannockburn. His knees shook and the soul within
him quivered.

And then something happened, and the whole aspect of the
situation changed.

It was, in itself, quite a trivial thing, but it had an astoundingly
stimulating effect on Lord Emsworth's morale. What happened was that Gladys,
seeking further protection, slipped at this moment a small, hot hand into
his.

It was a mute vote of confidence, and Lord Emsworth
intended to be worthy of it.

'He's coming,' whispered his lordship's Inferiority Complex
agitatedly.

'What of it?' replied Lord Emsworth stoutly.

'Tick him off,' breathed his lordship's ancestors in his
other ear.

'Leave it to me,' replied Lord Emsworth.

He drew himself up and adjusted his pince-nez. He felt filled
with a cool masterfulness. If the man tendered his resignation,
let him tender his damned resignation.

'Well, McAllister?' said Lord Emsworth coldly.

He removed his top hat and brushed it against his sleeve.

'What is the matter, McAllister?'

He replaced his top hat.

'You appear agitated, McAllister.'

He jerked his head militantly. The hat fell off. He let it lie.
Freed from its loathsome weight he felt more masterful than
ever. It had just needed that to bring him to the top of his form.

'This young lady,' said Lord Emsworth, 'has my full permission
to pick all the flowers she wants, McAllister. If you do not
see eye to eye with me in this matter, McAllister, say so and we
will discuss what you are going to do about it, McAllister. These
gardens, McAllister, belong to me, and if you do not – er –
appreciate that fact you will, no doubt, be able to find another
employer – ah – more in tune with your views. I value your
services highly, McAllister, but I will not be dictated to in my
own garden, McAllister. Er – dash it,' added his lordship, spoiling
the whole effect.

A long moment followed in which Nature stood still, breathless.
The Achillea stood still. So did the Bignonia Radicans. So
did the Campanula, the Digitalis, the Euphorbia, the Funkia,
the Gypsophila, the Helianthus, the Iris, the Liatris, the Monarda,
the Phlox Drummondi, the Salvia, the Thalictrum, the
Vinca and the Yucca. From far off in the direction of the park
there sounded the happy howls of children who were probably
breaking things, but even these seemed hushed. The evening
breeze had died away.

Angus McAllister stood glowering. His attitude was that of
one sorely perplexed. So might the early bird have looked if the
worm ear-marked for its breakfast had suddenly turned and
snapped at it. It had never occurred to him that his employer
would voluntarily suggest that he sought another position, and
now that he had suggested it Angus McAllister disliked the idea
very much. Blandings Castle was in his bones. Elsewhere, he
would feel an exile. He fingered his whiskers, but they gave him
no comfort.

He made his decision. Better to cease to be a Napoleon than
be a Napoleon in exile.

'Mphm,' said Angus McAllister.

'Oh, and by the way, McAllister,' said Lord Emsworth, 'that
matter of the gravel path through the yew alley. I've been
thinking it over, and I won't have it. Not on any account.
Mutilate my beautiful moss with a beastly gravel path? Make
an eyesore of the loveliest spot in one of the finest and oldest
gardens in the United Kingdom? Certainly not. Most decidedly
not. Try to remember, McAllister, as you work in the gardens of
Blandings Castle, that you are not back in Glasgow, laying out
recreation grounds. That is all, McAllister. Er – dash it – that
is all.'

'Mphm,' said Angus McAllister.

He turned. He walked away. The potting-shed swallowed
him up. Nature resumed its breathing. The breeze began to blow
again. And all over the gardens birds who had stopped on their
high note carried on according to plan.

Lord Emsworth took out his handkerchief and dabbed with
it at his forehead. He was shaken, but a novel sense of being a
man among men thrilled him. It might seem bravado, but he
almost wished – yes, dash it, he almost wished – that his sister
Constance would come along and start something while he felt
like this.

He had his wish.

'Clarence!'

Yes, there she was, hurrying towards him up the garden path.
She, like McAllister, seemed agitated. Something was on her
mind.

'Clarence!'

'Don't keep saying "Clarence!" as if you were a dashed parrot,'
said Lord Emsworth haughtily. 'What the dickens is the matter,
Constance?'

'Matter? Do you know what the time is? Do you know that
everybody is waiting down there for you to make your
speech?'

Lord Emsworth met her eye sternly.

'I do not,' he said. And I don't care. I'm not going to make any
dashed speech. If you want a speech, let the vicar make it. Or
make it yourself. Speech! I never heard such dashed nonsense in
my life.' He turned to Gladys. 'Now, my dear,' he said, 'if you will
just give me time to get out of these infernal clothes and this
ghastly collar and put on something human, we'll go down to the
village and have a chat with Ern.'

M
R John Hamilton Potter,
founder and proprietor of the well-known
New York publishing house of J. H. Potter, Inc., laid down the typescript
which had been engaging his leisurely attention, and from the depths of his
basket-chair gazed dreamily across the green lawns and gleaming flower-beds
to where Skeldings Hall basked in the pleasant June sunshine. He was feeling
quietly happy. The waters of the moat glittered like liquid silver; a gentle
breeze brought to his nostrils the scent of newly-cut grass; the doves in
the immemorial elms cooed with precisely the right gentlemanly intonation;
and he had not seen Clifford Gandle since luncheon. God, it seemed to Mr Potter,
was in His Heaven and all was right with the world.

And how near, he reflected, he had come to missing all this
delightful old-world peace. When, shortly after his arrival in England, he
had met Lady Wickham at a Pen and Ink Club dinner and she had invited him
to pay a visit to Skeldings, his first impulse had been to decline. His hostess
was a woman of rather markedly overwhelming personality; and, inasmuch as
he had only recently recovered from a nervous breakdown and had been ordered
by his doctor complete rest and tranquillity, it had seemed to him that at
close range and over an extended period of time she might be a little too
much for the old system. Furthermore, she wrote novels: and that instinct
of self preservation which lurks in every publisher had suggested to him that
behind her invitation lay a sinister desire to read these to him one by one
with a view to getting him to produce them in America. Only the fact that
he was a lover of the old and picturesque, coupled with the fact that Skeldings
Hall dated back to the time of the Tudors, had caused him to accept.

Not once, however – not even when Clifford Gandle was
expressing to him with a politician's trained verbosity his views
on the Gold Standard and other weighty matters – had he
regretted his decision. When he looked back on his life of the
past eighteen months – a life spent in an inferno of shrilling
telephones and authors, many of them female, popping in to
abuse him for not advertising their books better – he could
almost fancy that he had been translated to Paradise.

A Paradise, moreover, which was not without its Peri. For at
this moment there approached Mr Potter across the lawn, walking
springily as if she were constructed of whalebone and indiarubber,
a girl. She was a boyish-looking girl, slim and graceful,
and the red hair on her bare head glowed pleasingly in the sun.

'Hullo, Mr Potter!' she said.

The publisher beamed upon her. This was Roberta Wickham,
his hostess's daughter, who had returned to her ancestral
home two days ago from a visit to friends in the North.
A friendly young thing, she had appealed to Mr Potter from
the first.

'Well, well, well!' said Mr Potter.

'Don't get up. What are you reading?' Bobbie Wickham
picked up the manuscript. '"Ethics of Suicide,"' she read.
'Cheery!'

Mr Potter laughed indulgently.

'No doubt it seems an odd thing to be reading on such a day
and in such surroundings. But a publisher is never free. This was
sent over for my decision from my New York office. They won't
leave me alone, you see, even when I am on vacation.'

Bobbie Wickham's hazel eyes clouded pensively.

'There's a lot to be said for suicide,' she murmured. 'If I had to
see much of Clifford Gandle, I'd commit suicide myself

Mr Potter started. He had always liked this child, but he had
never dreamed that she was such a completely kindred soul.

'Don't you like Mr Gandle?'

'No.'

'Nor do I.'

'Nor does anyone,' said Bobbie, 'except mother.' Her eyes
clouded again. 'Mother thinks he's wonderful.'

'She does?'

'Yes.'

'Well, well!' said Mr Potter.

Bobbie brooded.

'He's a member of Parliament, you know.'

'Yes.'

'And they say he may be in the Cabinet any day.'

'So he gave me to understand.'

'And all that sort of thing is very bad for a man, don't you
think? I mean, it seems to make him so starchy.'

'The very word.'

And pompous.'

'The exact adjective I would have selected,' agreed Mr Potter.
'In our frequent conversations, before you arrived, he addressed
me as if I were a half-witted deputation of his constituents.'

'Did you see much of him before I came?'

A great deal, though I did my best to avoid him.'

'He's a difficult man to avoid.'

'Yes.' Mr Potter chuckled sheepishly. 'Shall I tell you something
that happened a day or two ago? You must not let it go
any farther, of course. I was coming out of the smoking-room
one morning, and I saw him approaching me along the
passage. So – so I jumped back and – ha, ha! – hid in a small
cupboard.'

'Jolly sensible.'

'Yes. But unfortunately he opened the cupboard door and
discovered me. It was exceedingly embarrassing.'

'What did you say?'

'There was nothing much I could say. I'm afraid he must have
thought me out of my senses.'

'Well, I— All right, mother. Coming.'

The rich contralto of a female novelist calling to its young had
broken the stillness of the summer afternoon. Mr Potter looked
up with a start. Lady Wickham was standing on the lawn. It
seemed to Mr Potter that, as his little friend moved towards her,
something of the springiness had gone out of her walk. It was as
if she moved reluctantly.

'Where have you been, Roberta?' asked Lady Wickham, as
her daughter came within earshot of the normal tone of voice.
'I have been looking everywhere for you.'

'Anything special, mother?'

'Mr Gandle wants to go to Hertford. He has to get some
books. I think you had better drive him in your car.'

'Oh, mother!'

Mr Potter, watching from his chair, observed a peculiar
expression flit into Lady Wickham's face. Had he been her
English publisher, instead of merely her prospective American
publisher, he would have been familiar with that look. It meant
that Lady Wickham was preparing to exercise her celebrated
will-power.

'Roberta,' she said, with dangerous quiet, 'I particularly wish
you to drive Mr Gandle to Hertford.'

'But I had promised to go over and play tennis at the
Crufts'.'

'Mr Gandle is a much better companion for you than a young
waster like Algy Crufts. You must run over and tell him that you
cannot play to-day.'

A few minutes later a natty two-seater drew up at the front
door of the Crufts' residence down the road; and Bobbie Wickham,
seated at the wheel, gave tongue.

'Algy!'

The flannel-clad form of Mr Algernon Crufts appeared at
a window.

'Hullo! Down in a jiffy.'

There was an interval. Then Mr Crufts joined her on the
drive.

'Hullo! I say, you haven't brought your racket, you poor
chump,' he said.

'Tennis is off,' announced Bobbie briefly. 'I've got to drive
Clifford Gandle in to Hertford.' She paused. 'I say, Algy, shall
I tell you something?'

'What?'

'Between ourselves.'

Absolutely.'

'Mother wants me to marry Clifford Gandle.'

Algy Crufts uttered a strangled exclamation. Such was his
emotion that he nearly swallowed the first eight inches of
his cigarette-holder.

'Marry Clifford Gandle!'

'Yes. She's all for it. She says he would have a steadying
influence on me.'

'Ghastly! Take my advice and give the project the most
absolute go-by. I was up at Oxford with the man. A blighter, if
ever there was one. He was President of the Union and all sorts
of frightful things.'

'It's all very awkward. I don't know what to do.'

'Kick him in the eye and tell him to go to blazes. That's the
procedure.'

'But it's so hard not to do anything mother wants you to do.
You know mother.'

'I do,' said Mr Crufts, who did.

'Oh, well,' said Bobbie, 'you never know. There's always the
chance that she may take a sudden dislike to him for some reason
or other. She does take sudden dislikes to people.'

'She does,' said Mr Crufts. Lady Wickham had disliked him
at first sight.

'Well, let's hope she will suddenly dislike Clifford Gandle.
But I don't mind telling you, Algy, that at the moment things are
looking pretty black.'

'Keep smiling,' urged Mr Crufts.

'What's the good of smiling, you fathead?' said Bobbie morosely.

Night had fallen on Skeldings Hall. Lady Wickham was in
her study, thinking those great thoughts which would subsequently
be copyrighted in all languages, including the Scandinavian.
Bobbie was strolling somewhere in the grounds, having
eluded Mr Gandle after dinner. And Mr Gandle, baffled but not
defeated, had donned a light overcoat and gone out to try to find
Bobbie.

As for Mr Potter, he was luxuriating in restful solitude in a
punt under a willow by the bank of the moat.

From the first moment he had set eyes on it, Hamilton Potter
had loved the moat at Skeldings Hall. Here, by the willow, it
broadened out almost into the dimensions of a lake; and there
was in the glitter of stars on its surface and the sleepy rustling of
birds in the trees along its bank something infinitely soothing.
The healing darkness wrapped the publisher about like a blanket;
the cool night-wind fanned caressingly a forehead a little
heated by Lady Wickham's fine old port; and gradually, lulled by
the beauty of the scene, Mr Potter allowed himself to float into
one of those reveries which come to publishers at moments such
as this.

He mused on jackets and remainders and modes of distribution;
on royalties and advertisements and spring lists and booksellers'
discounts. And his random thoughts, like fleeting
thistledown, had just drifted to the question of the growing
price of pulp-paper, when from somewhere near by there came
the sound of a voice, jerking him back to the world again.

'Oh, let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet before that
I have found what some have found so sweet,' said the voice.

A moderate request, one would have supposed; and yet it
irritated Mr Potter like the bite of a mosquito. For the voice was
the voice of Clifford Gandle.

'Robertah,' proceeded the voice, and Mr Potter breathed
again. He had taken it for granted that the man had perceived
and was addressing himself. He gathered now that his presence
had not been discovered.

'Robertah,' said Mr Gandle, 'surely you cannot have been
blind to the na-chah of my feelings? Surely you must have
guessed that it was love that—'

Hamilton Potter congealed into a solid mass of frozen horror.
He was listening-in on a proposal of marriage.

The emotions of any delicate-minded man who finds himself
in such a position cannot fail to be uncomfortable; and the
greater his delicacy of mind the more acute must the discomfort
be. Mr Potter, being, as are all publishers, more like a shrinking
violet than anything else in the world, nearly swooned. His scalp
tingled; his jaw fell; and his toes began to open and shut like
poppet-valves.

'Heart of my heart—' said Mr Gandle.

Mr Potter gave a convulsive shudder. And the punt-pole,
which had been resting on the edge of the boat, clattered
down with a noise like a machine-gun.

There was a throbbing silence. Then Mr Gandle spoke
sharply.

'Is anybody they-ah?'

There are situations in which a publisher can do only one
thing. Raising himself noiselessly, Mr Potter wriggled to the
side of the punt and lowered himself into the water.

'Who is they-ah?'

Mr Potter with a strong effort shut his mouth, which was
trying to emit a howl of anguish. He had never supposed that
water could be so cold. Silently he waded out towards the
opposite bank. The only thing that offered any balm in this
black moment was the recollection that his hostess had informed
him that the moat was not more than four feet deep.

But what Lady Wickham had omitted to inform him was
that in one or two places there were ten-foot holes. It came,
therefore, as a surprise to Mr Potter, when, after he had travelled
some six yards, there happened to him that precise disaster
which Mr Gandle, in his recent remarks, had expressed himself
as so desirous of avoiding. As the publisher took his next step
forward, the solid ground failed beneath his feet.

'Oosh!' ejaculated Mr Potter.

Clifford Gandle was a man of swift intuition. Hearing the cry
and becoming aware at the same time of loud splashing noises,
he guessed in one masterly flash of inductive reasoning that
someone had fallen in. He charged down the bank and perceived
the punt. He got into the punt. Bobbie Wickham got into the
punt. Mr Gandle seized the pole and propelled the punt out into
the waste of waters.

'Are you they-ah?' inquired Mr Gandle.

'Glub!' exclaimed Mr Potter.

'I see him,' said Bobbie. 'More to the left.'

Clifford Gandle drove the rescuing craft more to the left, and
was just digging the pole into the water when Mr Potter, coming
up for the third time, found it within his reach. The partiality of
drowning men for straws is proverbial; but, as a class, they are
broad-minded and will clutch at punt-poles with equal readiness.
Mr Potter seized the pole and pulled strongly; and Clifford
Gandle, who happened to be leaning his whole weight on it at
the moment, was not proof against what practically amounted to
a formal invitation. A moment later he had joined Mr Potter in
the depths.

Bobbie Wickham rescued the punt-pole, which was floating
away on the tide, and peered down through the darkness. Stirring
things were happening below. Clifford Gandle had grasped
Mr Potter. Mr Potter had grasped Clifford Gandle. And Bobbie,
watching from above, was irresistibly reminded of a picture she
had seen in her childhood of alligators fighting in the River
Hooghly. She raised the pole, and, with the best intentions,
prodded at the tangled mass.