Blandings Castle and Elsewhere Page 3

  Much has been written of the psychology of crowds, designed to show how extraordinary and inexplicable it is, but most of such writing is exaggeration. A crowd generally behaves in a perfectly natural and intelligible fashion. When, for instance, it sees a man in a badly-fitting tweed suit and a hat he ought to be ashamed of getting put through it for pinching flowers in the Park, and the man says he is an earl, it laughs. This crowd laughed.

  'Ho?' The constable did not stoop to join in the merriment of the rabble, but his lip twitched sardonically. 'Have you a card, your lordship?'

  Nobody intimate with Lord Emsworth would have asked such a foolish question. His card-case was the thing he always lost second when visiting London – immediately after losing his umbrella.

  'I – er – I'm afraid—'

  'R!' said the constable. And the crowd uttered another happy, hyena-like laugh, so intensely galling that his lordship raised his bowed head and found enough spirit to cast an indignant glance. And, as he did so, the hunted look faded from his eyes.

  'McAllister!' he cried.

  Two new arrivals had just joined the throng, and, being of rugged and nobbly physique, had already shoved themselves through to the ringside seats. One was a tall, handsome, smooth-faced gentleman of authoritative appearance, who, if he had not worn rimless glasses, would have looked like a Roman emperor. The other was a shorter, sturdier man with a bristly red beard.

  'McAllister!' moaned his lordship piteously. 'McAllister, my dear fellow, do please tell this man who I am.'

  After what had passed between himself and his late employer, a lesser man than Angus McAllister might have seen in Lord Emsworth's predicament merely a judgment. A man of little magnanimity would have felt that here was where he got a bit of his own back.

  Not so this splendid Glaswegian.

  Aye,' he said. 'Yon's Lorrud Emsworruth.'

  'Who are you?' inquired the constable searchingly.

  'I used to be head-gardener at the cassel.'

  'Exactly,' bleated Lord Emsworth. 'Precisely. My head-gardener.'

  The constable was shaken. Lord Emsworth might not look like an earl, but there was no getting away from the fact that Angus McAllister was supremely head-gardeneresque. A staunch admirer of the aristocracy, the constable perceived that zeal had caused him to make a bit of a bloomer.

  In this crisis, however, he comported himself with masterly tact. He scowled blackly upon the interested throng.

  'Pass along there, please. Pass along,' he commanded austerely. 'Ought to know better than block up a public thoroughfare like this. Pass along!'

  He moved off, shepherding the crowd before him. The Roman emperor with the rimless glasses advanced upon Lord Emsworth, extending a large hand.

  'Pleased to meet you at last,' he said. 'My name is Donaldson, Lord Emsworth.'

  For a moment the name conveyed nothing to his lordship. Then its significance hit him, and he drew himself up with hauteur.

  'You'll excuse us, Angus,' said Mr Donaldson. 'High time you and I had a little chat, Lord Emsworth.'

  Lord Emsworth was about to speak, when he caught the other's eye. It was a strong, keen, level grey eye, with a curious forcefulness about it that made him feel strangely inferior. There is every reason to suppose that Mr Donaldson had subscribed for years to those personality courses advertised in the magazines which guarantee to impart to the pupil who takes ten correspondence lessons the ability to look the boss in the eye and make him wilt. Mr Donaldson looked Lord Emsworth in the eye, and Lord Emsworth wilted.

  'How do you do?' he said weakly.

  'Now listen, Lord Emsworth,' proceeded Mr Donaldson. 'No sense in having hard feelings between members of a family. I take it you've heard by this that your boy and my girl have gone ahead and fixed it up? Personally, I'm delighted. That boy is a fine young fellow.'

  Lord Emsworth blinked.

  'You are speaking of my son Frederick?' he said incredulously.

  'Of your son Frederick. Now, at the moment, no doubt, you are feeling a trifle sore. I don't blame you. You have every right to be sorer than a gumboil. But you must remember – young blood, eh? It will, I am convinced, be a lasting grief to that splendid young man—'

  'You are still speaking of my son Frederick?'

  'Of Frederick, yes. It will, I say, be a lasting grief to him if he feels he has incurred your resentment. You must forgive him, Lord Emsworth. He must have your support.'

  'I suppose he'll have to have it, dash it!' said his lordship unhappily. 'Can't let the boy starve.'

  Mr Donaldson's hand swept round in a wide, grand gesture.

  'Don't you worry about that. I'll look after that end of it. I am not a rich man—'

  'Ah!' said Lord Emsworth rather bleakly. There had been something about the largeness of the other's manner which had led him to entertain hopes.

  'I doubt,' continued Mr Donaldson frankly, for he was a man who believed in frankness in these matters, 'if, all told, I have as much as ten million dollars in the world.'

  Lord Emsworth swayed like a sapling in the breeze.

  'Ten million? Ten million? Did you say you had ten million dollars?'

  'Between nine and ten, I suppose. Not more. You must remember,' said Mr Donaldson, with a touch of apology, 'that conditions have changed very much in America of late. We have been through a tough time, a mighty tough time. Many of my friends have been harder hit than I have. But things are coming back. Yes, sir, they're coming right back. I am a firm believer in President Roosevelt and the New Deal. Under the New Deal, the American dog is beginning to eat more biscuits. That, I should have mentioned, is my line. I am Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits.'

  'Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits? Indeed? Really! Fancy that!'

  'You have heard of Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits?' asked their proprietor eagerly.

  'Never,' said Lord Emsworth cordially.

  'Oh! Well, that's who I am. And, as I say, the business is beginning to pick up nicely after the slump. All over the country our salesmen are reporting that the American dog is once more becoming biscuit-conscious. And so I am in a position, with your approval, to offer Frederick a steady and possibly a lucrative job. I propose, always with your consent, of course, to send him over to Long Island City to start learning the business. I have no doubt that he will in time prove a most valuable asset to the firm.'

  Lord Emsworth could conceive of no way in which Freddie could be of value to a dog-biscuit firm, except possibly as a taster; but he refrained from damping the other's enthusiasm by saying so. In any case, the thought of the young man actually earning his living, and doing so three thousand miles from Blandings Castle, would probably have held him dumb.

  'He seems full of keenness. But, in my opinion, to be able to give of his best and push the Donaldson biscuit as it should be pushed, he must feel that he has your moral support, Lord Emsworth – his father's moral support.'

  'Yes, yes, yes!' said Lord Emsworth heartily. A feeling of positive adoration for Mr Donaldson was thrilling him. The getting rid of Freddie, which he himself had been unable to achieve in twenty-six years, this godlike dog-biscuit manufacturer had accomplished in less than a week. What a man! felt Lord Emsworth. 'Oh, yes, yes, yes!' he said. 'Yes, indeed. Most decidedly.'

  'They sail on Wednesday.'

  'Capital!'

  'Early in the morning.'

  'Splendid!'

  'I may give them a friendly message from you? A forgiving, fatherly message?'

  'Certainly, certainly, certainly. Inform Frederick that he has my best wishes.'

  'I will.'

  'Mention that I shall watch his future progress with considerable interest.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Say that I hope he will work hard and make a name for himself.'

  'Just so.'

  'And,' concluded Lord Emsworth, speaking with a paternal earnestness well in keeping with this solemn moment, 'tell him – er – not to hurry home.'

  He pressed Mr Donaldson's hand with f
eelings too deep for further speech. Then he galloped swiftly to where Angus McAllister stood brooding over the tulip bed.

  'McAllister!'

  The head-gardener's beard waggled grimly. He looked at his late employer with cold eyes. It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine, and Lord Emsworth, gazing upon the dour man, was able to see at a glance into which category Angus McAllister fell. His tongue seemed to cleave to his palate, but he forced himself to speak.

  'McAllister ... I wish ... I wonder ...'

  'Weel?'

  'I wonder ... I wish ... What I want to say,' faltered Lord Emsworth humbly, 'is, have you accepted another situation yet?'

  'I am conseederin' twa.'

  'Come back to me!' pleaded his lordship, his voice breaking. 'Robert Barker is worse than useless. Come back to me!'

  Angus McAllister gazed woodenly at the tulips.

  'A' weel—' he said at length.

  'You will?' cried Lord Emsworth joyfully. 'Splendid! Capital! Excellent!'

  'A' didna say I wud.'

  'I thought you said "I will,"' said his lordship, dashed.

  'I didna say "A' weel"; I said "A weel,"' said Mr McAllister stiffly. 'Meanin' mebbe I might, mebbe not.'

  Lord Emsworth laid a trembling hand upon his shoulder.

  'McAllister, I will raise your salary.'

  The beard twitched.

  'Dash it, I'll double it!'

  The eyebrows flickered.

  'McAllister ... Angus ...' said Lord Emsworth in a low voice. 'Come back! The pumpkin needs you.'

  In an age of rush and hurry like that of to-day, an age in which there are innumerable calls on the time of everyone, it is possible that here and there throughout the ranks of those who have read this chronicle there may be one or two who for various reasons found themselves unable to attend the last Agricultural Show at Shrewsbury. For these a few words must be added.

  Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, of Matchingham Hall, was there, of course, but it would not have escaped the notice of a close observer that his mien lacked something of the haughty arrogance which had characterized it in other years. From time to time, as he paced the tent devoted to the exhibition of vegetables, he might have been seen to bite his lip, and his eye had something of that brooding look which Napoleon's must have worn at Waterloo.

  But there was the right stuff in Sir Gregory. He was a gentleman and a sportsman. In the Parsloe tradition there was nothing small or mean. Half-way down the tent he stopped, and with a quick, manly gesture thrust out his hand.

  'Congratulate you, Emsworth,' he said huskily.

  Lord Emsworth looked up with a start. He had been deep in his thoughts.

  'Eh? Oh, thanks. Thanks, my dear fellow, thanks, thanks. Thank you very much.' He hesitated. 'Er – can't both win, eh?'

  Sir Gregory puzzled it out and saw that he was right.

  'No,' he said. 'No. See what you mean. Can't both win. No getting round that.'

  He nodded and walked on, with who knows what vultures gnawing at his broad bosom. And Lord Emsworth – with Angus McAllister, who had been a silent, beard-waggling witness of the scene, at his side – turned once more to stare reverently at that which lay on the strawy bottom of one of the largest packing-cases ever seen in Shrewsbury town.

  A card had been attached to the exterior of the packing-case. It bore the simple legend:

  PUMPKINS. FIRST PRIZE

  2 LORD EMSWORTH ACTS FOR THE BEST

  THE housekeeper's room at Blandings Castle, G.H.Q. of the domestic staff that ministered to the needs of the Earl of Emsworth, was in normal circumstances a pleasant and cheerful apartment. It caught the afternoon sun; and the paper which covered its walls had been conceived in a jovial spirit by someone who held that the human eye, resting on ninety-seven simultaneous pink birds perched upon ninety-seven blue rose-bushes, could not but be agreeably stimulated and refreshed. Yet, with the entry of Beach, the butler, it was as though there had crept into its atmosphere a chill dreariness; and Mrs Twemlow, the housekeeper, laying down her knitting, gazed at him in alarm.

  'Whatever is the matter, Mr Beach?'

  The butler stared moodily out of the window. His face was drawn and he breathed heavily, as a man will who is suffering from a combination of strong emotion and adenoids. A ray of sunshine, which had been advancing jauntily along the carpet, caught sight of his face and slunk out, abashed.

  'I have come to a decision, Mrs Twemlow.'

  'What about?'

  'Ever since his lordship started to grow it I have seen the writing on the wall plainer and plainer, and now I have made up my mind. The moment his lordship returns from London, I tender my resignation. Eighteen years have I served in his lordship's household, commencing as under-footman and rising to my present position, but now the end has come.'

  'You don't mean you're going just because his lordship has grown a beard?'

  'It is the only way, Mrs Twemlow. That beard is weakening his lordship's position throughout the entire country-side. Are you aware that at the recent Sunday school treat I heard cries of "Beaver!"?'

  'No!'

  'Yes! And this spirit of mockery and disrespect will spread. And, what is more, that beard is alienating the best elements in the County. I saw Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe look very sharp at it when he dined with us last Friday.'

  'It is not a handsome beard,' admitted the housekeeper.

  'It is not. And his lordship must be informed. As long as I remain in his lordship's service, it is impossible for me to speak. So I shall tender my resignation. Once that is done, my lips will no longer be sealed. Is that buttered toast under that dish, Mrs Twemlow?'

  'Yes, Mr Beach. Take a slice. It will cheer you up.'

  'Cheer me up!' said the butler, with a hollow laugh that sounded like a knell.

  It was fortunate that Lord Emsworth, seated at the time of this conversation in the smoking-room of the Senior Conservative Club in London, had no suspicion of the supreme calamity that was about to fall upon him; for there was already much upon his mind.

  In the last few days, indeed, everything seemed to have gone wrong. Angus McAllister, his head-gardener, had reported an alarming invasion of greenfly among the roses. A favourite and respected cow, strongly fancied for the Milk-Giving Jerseys event at the forthcoming Cattle Show, had contracted a mysterious ailment which was baffling the skill of the local vet. And on top of all this a telegram had arrived from his lordship's younger son, the Hon. Frederick Threepwood, announcing that he was back in England and desirous of seeing his father immediately.

  This, felt Lord Emsworth, as he stared bleakly before him at the little groups of happy Senior Conservatives, was the most unkindest cut of all. What on earth was Freddie doing in England? Eight months before he had married the only daughter of Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits, of Long Island City, in the United States of America; and in Long Island City he ought now to have been, sedulously promoting the dog-biscuit industry's best interests. Instead of which, here he was in London – and, according to his telegram, in trouble.

  Lord Emsworth passed a hand over his chin, to assist thought, and was vaguely annoyed by some obstacle that intruded itself in the path of his fingers. Concentrating his faculties, such as they were, on this obstacle, he discovered it to be his beard. It irritated him. Hitherto, in moments of stress, he had always derived comfort from the feel of a clean-shaven chin. He felt now as if he were rubbing his hand over seaweed; and most unjustly – for it was certainly not that young man's fault that he had decided to grow a beard – he became aware of an added sense of grievance against the Hon. Freddie.

  It was at this moment that he perceived his child approaching him across the smoking-room floor.

  'Hullo, guv'nor!' said Freddie.

  'Well, Frederick?' said Lord Emsworth.

  There followed a silence. Freddie was remembering that he had not met his father since the day when he had slipped into the latter's hand a note an
nouncing his marriage to a girl whom Lord Emsworth had never seen – except once, through a telescope, when he, Freddie, was kissing her in the grounds of Blandings Castle. Lord Emsworth, on his side, was brooding on that phrase 'in trouble,' which had formed so significant a part of his son's telegram. For fifteen years he had been reluctantly helping Freddie out of trouble; and now, when it had seemed that he was off his hands for ever, the thing had started all over again.

  'Do sit down,' he said testily.

  Freddie had been standing on one leg, and his constrained attitude annoyed Lord Emsworth.

  'Right-ho,' said Freddie, taking a chair. 'I say, guv'nor, since when the foliage?'

  'What?'

  'The beard. I hardly recognized you.'

  Another spasm of irritation shot through his lordship.

  'Never mind my beard!'

  'I don't if you don't,' said Freddie agreeably. 'It was dashed good of you, guv'nor, to come bounding up to town so promptly.'

  'I came because your telegram said that you were in trouble.'

  'British,' said Freddie approvingly. 'Very British.'

  'Though what trouble you can be in I cannot imagine. It is surely not money again?'

  'Oh, no. Not money. If that had been all, I would have applied to the good old pop-in-law. Old Donaldson's an ace. He thinks the world of me.'

  'Indeed? I met Mr Donaldson only once, but he struck me as a man of sound judgment.'

  'That's what I say. He thinks I'm a wonder. If it were simply a question of needing a bit of the ready, I could touch him like a shot. But it isn't money that's the trouble. It's Aggie. My wife, you know.'

  'Well?'

  'She's left me.'

  'Left you!'

  'Absolutely flat. Buzzed off, and the note pinned to the pincushion. She's now at the Savoy and won't let me come near her; and I'm at a service-flat in King Street, eating my jolly old heart out, if you know what I mean.'

  Lord Emsworth uttered a deep sigh. He gazed drearily at his son, marvelling that it should be in the power of any young man, even a specialist like Freddie, so consistently to make a mess of his affairs. By what amounted to a miracle this offspring of his had contrived to lure a millionaire's daughter into marrying him; and now, it seemed, he had let her get away. Years before, when a boy, and romantic as most boys are, his lordship had sometimes regretted that the Emsworths, though an ancient clan, did not possess a Family Curse. How little he had suspected that he was shortly about to become the father of it.