Galahad at Blandings (7 page)

I’ll
tell you. It’s because she remembers that old romance and hopes it may flare up
again. I’m not absolutely certain of my facts, mind you, and it may be that I
am alarming you unnecessarily, but from something Egbert let fall when I was
talking to him last night I received the distinct impression that she’s
planning to marry you off this season.

‘What!’

‘And
Daphne, I gather, is all for it. She feels that little Huxley needs a father.’

Lord
Emsworth had sunk back in his chair and was looking like the Good Old Man in
old-fashioned melodrama when the villain has foreclosed the mortgage on the
ancestral farm. There was not a great deal of flesh on his angular form, but
what there was was creeping. Over in a corner of the grill-room a luncher was
dealing with madrilene soup. It quivered beneath his spoon, but not so
wholeheartedly as Lord Emsworth was quivering.

He knew
Hermione. His sister Constance had always been able to dominate him and force
him into courses against which his whole nature rebelled, like wearing a top
hat and a stiff collar at the school treat, and Hermione had twice Constance’s
determination and will to win. If Galahad was right, the peril that threatened
him was appalling and never before had his diving duck technique been so sorely
needed. But would even the elusiveness of the diving duck be enough to save
him?

‘You
can’t be sure, Galahad,’ was all he could find to say.

‘I told
you I wasn’t, but Egbert’s remarks seemed to me capable of only one interpretation,
and I strongly urge you, old man, to be alert and on your guard. Only ceaseless
vigilance can save you. Don’t let her get you alone in the rose garden or on
the terrace by moonlight. If she starts talking about the dear old days, change
the subject. On no account pat little Huxley on the head and take him for
walks. And above all be wary if she asks you to read her extracts from the
Indian
Love Lyrics
after dinner. The advice I would give to every young man
starting out in life, and that includes you, though of course it’s some time
since you started, is to avoid the
Indian Love Lyrics
like poison. I
remember poor Puffy Benger, a great pal of mine in the Pelican days, getting
irretrievably hooked just because in a careless moment he allowed a girl to
lure him into reading
Pale Hands I Loved Beside The Shalimar
to her. And
I myself… Ah,’ said Gally, breaking off as he saw the waiter approaching the
table. ‘Coffee at last. You’ll probably need a drop of brandy in yours,
Clarence.’

CHAPTER 4

I

It was a little past two
o’clock when Gally helped a still stupefied Lord Emsworth into the car,
adjusted his legs, which always tended to behave like the tentacles of an
octopus when he rode in any conveyance, and started on the homeward journey,
easing his way through the London traffic with practised skill. At five, Beach,
ably assisted by two footmen, served tea in the amber drawing-room of Blandings
Castle, and the company awaiting the wanderer’s return settled down to keep
body and soul together with buttered toast, cucumber sandwiches and cake. Lady
Hermione Wedge officiated at the tea pot. Colonel Egbert Wedge stood supporting
his shoulderblades against the mantelpiece over the fireplace. Dame Daphne
Winkworth sat very upright on what looked an uncomfortable chair and her son
Huxley perched on a footstool as near as he could get to the gate-leg table
where the food was. Wilfred Allsop was not present. He was making a point, when
possible, of avoiding Dame Daphne’s society. Hers, as Gally had said, was a
formidable personality. It had been so even in her youth, and many years of
conducting a large school for girls had increased its intensity, giving her an
imperious air calculated to intimidate all but the toughest. The thought that
before many weeks had passed he would become a member of her staff, permanently
under that eye of hers, never failed to induce in Wilfred a sinking feeling.

Sandy
Callender came in with a slip of paper in her hand.

‘The
post office has just telephoned this telegram, Lady Hermione,’ she said.

‘Oh,
thank you, Miss Callender. It is from Tipton, Egbert,’ said Lady Hermione as
the door closed behind Lord Emsworth’s conscientious secretary. ‘He has arrived
in London and will be coming here tomorrow. Tipton,’ she explained to Dame
Daphne, ‘is the charming young American who is marrying Veronica.’

‘Splendid
chap,’ said Colonel Wedge, whose spirits always rose when he thought of his
future son-in-law’s millions.

‘Yes,
we are devoted to dear Tipton. Veronica, of course, adores him.’

‘Love
at first sight,’ said Colonel Wedge. ‘Very romantic.’

‘He has
been in New York, looking after his business interests. He inherited a great
deal of money from an uncle.’

‘Chester
Tipton. Chet, they called him. Galahad used to know him.’

‘I
wonder if Clarence and he met when he was over there.’

‘We
must ask him. Ah, that must be Clarence now.

A
tooting had made itself heard from the direction of the front door, and
presently footsteps sounded outside. It was not, however Lord Emsworth who
entered, but Beach. His presence surprised Lady Hermione.

‘Was
that the car, Beach?’

‘Yes,
m’lady.’

‘Then
where is Lord Emsworth?’

‘His
lordship desired me to say that he would be delayed a few moments, as he has
gone to see his pig, m’lady,’ said Beach and, his mission accomplished,
withdrew.

Dame
Daphne seemed puzzled.

‘Where
did he say Clarence had gone?’

‘To see
his pig,’ said Lady Hermione, speaking the final word as if it soiled her lips.

‘Prize
pig. Empress of Blandings it’s called,’ Colonel Wedge explained. ‘Clarence is
crazy about it.’

‘That
pig needs exercise,’ said Huxley, speaking thickly through a mouthful of cake.
He was a small, wizened, supercilious boy with a penetrating eye, who had
inherited some of the qualities of both his parents — from his mother that air
of hers of calm superiority, from his father the sardonic manner which had made
him so unpopular in the Common Room of his college at Cambridge. ‘Too fat. I’m
going to let it out of the sty and make it run.’

And
with the feeling that there was no time like the present, he left the room. It
had occurred to him that at this hour Monica Simmons might be off somewhere
having her cup of tea, and her absence was vital to his plans. He had a
wholesome fear of that well-muscled girl, and her statement at their last
meeting that if she caught him hanging around the Empress’s boudoir again, she
would skin him alive had not failed to make an impression on him. It was only
when he was halfway down the stairs that he remembered that Lord Emsworth was
at the sty, and he decided to give the thing up for the moment. It would, he
saw, be necessary to bide his time.

‘Crazy,’
said Colonel Wedge, continuing his remarks. ‘Let me tell you an incident that
happened when we were here a year or two ago. I came back late one night from a
Loyal Sons Of Shropshire dinner in London and went for a stroll in the grounds
to stretch my legs after the long train journey, and I was passing the
Empress’s sty when something I had taken for a suit of overalls hanging on the
rail suddenly reared itself up, and it was Clarence. Gave me no end of a start.
I asked him what he was doing there at that time of night — it was about twelve
o’clock —and he said he was listening to his pig. And what was the pig doing,
as I said to Hermione when I talked it over with her later? Singing? Reciting
Gunga Din? Not at all. It was just breathing and Clarence was listening to it —
courting lumbago, as I told him.’

There
had been a frown on Lady Hermione’s face as this anecdote proceeded. She was
not pleased with her husband for telling a story which might well make Lord
Emsworth’s destined bride dubious as to the advisability of linking her lot
with a man who went out at midnight to listen to pigs breathing. It seemed to
her that Dame Daphne was pursing her lips as she might have pursed them in her
study at school, had she been informed by an undermistress that Angela and
Phyllis had been found smoking cigarettes behind the gymnasium.

‘All it
was doing,’ said Colonel Wedge, driving home his point in case it might have
been missed, ‘was breathing. You remember what I said to you, old girl? “Old girl,”
I said to you, “we’ve got to face it, Clarence is dotty.”‘

‘Nothing
of the kind,’ said Lady Hermione sharply, and would have gone on to add that
what her brother needed was a wife who would put a stop to all this fussing
over a ridiculous pig, when Lord Emsworth made his belated appearance.

‘Ah,
Hermione,’ he said. ‘Ah, Egbert. Quite, quite.’

Lady
Hermione regarded him austerely. Considering that he was returning from travels
which had involved facing all the perils of New York and two ship’s concerts,
at one of which he had had to take the chair, her greeting might have been more
affectionate.

‘So
here you are at last, Clarence. We had almost given you up. You remember Daphne
Winkworth who used to be Daphne Littlewood?’

‘Oh,
quite. Yes, quite,’ said Lord Emsworth.

He
spoke with splendid fortitude. There was nothing in his manner or his voice to
show that the sight of this woman was making him feel like the hero of a novel
of suspense trapped in an underground den by the personnel of the Black
Moustache gang. Your English aristocrat learns to wear the mask.

‘Daphne
is staying with us till her school re-opens.

‘Quite.’

Feeling
possibly that if not checked he would go on saying ‘Quite’ for the rest of the
evening, Lady Hermione asked him coldly if he would like some tea and with a
final ‘Quite’ and a ‘Tea? Tea? Yes, that would be capital, capital’ he sat down
and began to sip. Colonel Wedge offered him a hospitable cucumber sandwich.

‘Glad
to see you again, Clarence,’ he said. ‘You’ve caught me just in time. I’m off
tomorrow.

A quick
gleam of hope shone on Lord Emsworth’s darkness. ‘Hermione, too?’ he said,
feeling that things were looking up. ‘Good Lord, no. Hermione isn’t coming with
me. I shall only be away a day or two. My godmother in Worcestershire, it’s her
birthday the day after tomorrow, and I always have to be with her for that. Sort
of a royal command.’

‘Oh?’
said Lord Emsworth, his hopes shattered.

He was
feeling bewildered. Eyeing Dame Daphne furtively over his cup, he found it
incredible that even twenty years ago, when he was younger and sprightlier than
he was today and presumably capable of feats of daring now beyond him, he
could have contemplated getting engaged to so forbidding a woman.

And the
thought of actually marrying her made him feel that instead of the cucumber
sandwich at which he was nibbling he was swallowing butterflies. He was willing
to respect Dame Daphne Winkworth, to wish her continued success in her chosen
career and to recommend her seminary to parents with daughters requiring
education, but that was as far as he was prepared to go.

He was
roused from the coma into which he had fallen by the sound of Dame Daphne’s
voice. She was saying that she had letters to write. With an unusual glimmering
of the social sense he rose and opened the door for her.

‘Strange,’
he said, returning to his chair. ‘Galahad assures me that she and I were
acquainted many years ago, but I can honestly say I didn’t know her from Eve.
What did you tell me her name used to be?’

‘Never
mind her name,’ said Lady Hermione tartly. ‘Clarence, you really are
impossible.’

‘Eh?’

‘Going
off like that instead of coming here when you arrived.’

‘But I
wanted to see my pig.’

‘No
manners whatever. I could see that Daphne was offended. Anyone would have been.
I hope you will take the trouble to be more polite to Tipton.’

‘Eh?’

A
telegram has come from Tipton saying that he will be here tomorrow.’

‘Who is
Tipton?’

‘Oh,
Clarence! Tipton Plimsoll is the man who is marrying Veronica.’

‘Who—’
Lord Emsworth began, but was able to save himself in time. ‘Yes, yes, of
course. Your daughter Veronica, you mean. Quite.’

‘Did
you see anything of Tipton when you were in New York?’ asked Colonel Wedge.

An ‘Eh?
What? No, I didn’t’ was trembling on Lord Emsworth’s lips, when recollection
flooded in on him. Plimsoll. Tipton Plimsoll. Of course, yes. It all came back
to him.

‘No, we
didn’t meet,’ he said, ‘but he rang me up one night on the telephone. Nice
fellow, I thought. Rather a husky voice, but very civil. Too bad he’s lost all
his money.

II

It was not often that Lord
Emsworth’s
obiter dicta
attracted any close attention. People when he
spoke were inclined either not to listen to him at all or if his remarks did
reach their ears, to dismiss them as unworthy of their notice. But not even
Gally, telling the latest good story to an admiring circle at the Pelican Club,
could have gripped his audience more surely than he with these few simple words
had done.