'Freddie, is that your father?'
'Oh, yes. Rather. Of course. Absolutely. But he said he wasn't coming.'
'I changed my mind,' said Lord Emsworth in a low, stricken voice.
'I told you so, Jane,' said the girl. 'I thought he was Lord Emsworth all the time. Surely you can see the likeness now?'
A kind of wail escaped his lordship.
'Do I look like that?' he said brokenly. He gazed at his son once more and shut his eyes.
'Well,' said Miss Yorke, in her detestable managing way, turning her forceful personality on the newcomer, 'now that you are here, Freddie Threepwood, looking like Father Christmas, what's the idea? Aggie told you never to come near her again.'
A young man of his natural limpness of character might well have retired in disorder before this attack, but Love had apparently made Frederick Threepwood a man of steel. Removing his beard and eyebrows, he directed a withering glance at Miss Yorke.
'I don't want to talk to you,' he said. 'You're a serpent in the bosom. I mean a snake in the grass.'
'Oh, am I?'
'Yes, you are. You poisoned Aggie's mind against me. If it hadn't been for you, I could have got her alone and told her my story as man to man.'
'Well, let's hear it now. You've had plenty of time to rehearse it.'
Freddie turned to his wife with a sweeping gesture.
'I—' He paused. 'I say, Aggie, old thing, you look perfectly topping in that kimono.'
'Stick to the point,' said Miss Yorke.
'That is the point,' said Mrs. Freddie, not without a certain softness. 'But if you think I look perfectly topping, why do you go running around with movie-actresses with carroty hair?'
'Red-gold,' suggested Freddie deferentially.
'Carroty!'
'Carroty it is. You're absolutely right. I never liked it all along.'
'Then why were you dining with it?'
'Yes, why?' inquired Miss Yorke.
'I wish you wouldn't butt in,' said Freddie petulantly. 'I'm not talking to you.'
'You might just as well, for all the good it's going to do you.'
'Be quiet, Jane. Well, Freddie?'
'Aggie,' said the Hon. Freddie, 'it was this way'
'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.'
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.'