A good many surprising things had happened to Eve since first she had come to live in London, but nothing quite so surprising as this. For several minutes she stood where she was without moving, staring round-eyed at the building opposite. The episode was, however, apparently ended. The young man did not reappear. He did not even show himself at the window. The club had swallowed him up. And eventually Eve, deciding that this was not the sort of day on which to refuse umbrellas even if they dropped inexplicably from heaven, stepped out from under the awning, laughing helplessly, and started to resume her interrupted journey to Miss Clarkson’s.
∗∗∗∗∗
The offices of the Ada Clarkson International Employment Bureau (‘Promptitude – Courtesy – Intelligence’) are at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue, a little way past the Palace Theatre. Eve, closing the umbrella, which had prevented even a spot of rain falling on her hat, climbed the short stair leading to the door and tapped on the window marked ‘Enquiries’.
‘Can I see Miss Clarkson?’
‘What name, please?’ responded Enquiries promptly and with intelligent courtesy.
‘Miss Halliday.’
Brief interlude, involving business with speaking-tube.
‘Will you go into the private office, please,’ said Enquiries a moment later, in a voice which now added respect to the other advertised qualities, for she had had time to observe and digest the hat.
Eve passed in through the general waiting-room with its magazine-covered table, and tapped at the door beyond marked ‘Private’.
‘Eve, dear!’ exclaimed Miss Clarkson the moment she had entered, ‘I don’t know how to tell you, but I have been looking through my books and I have nothing, simply nothing. There is not a single place that you could possibly take. What is to be done?’
‘That’s all right, Clarkie.’
‘But . . .’
‘I didn’t come to talk business. I came to ask after Cynthia. How is she?’
Miss Clarkson sighed.
‘Poor child, she is still in a dreadful state, and no wonder. No news at all from her husband. He has simply deserted her.’
‘Poor darling! Can’t I see her?’
‘Not at present. I have persuaded her to go down to Brighton for a day or two. I think the sea air will pick her up. So much better than mooning about in a London hotel. She is leaving on the eleven o’clock train. I gave her your love, and she was most grateful that you should have remembered your old friendship and be sorry for her in her affliction.’
‘Well, I can write to her. Where is she staying?’
‘I don’t know her Brighton address, but no doubt the Cado-gan Hotel would forward letters. I think she would be glad to hear from you, dear.’
Eve looked sadly at the framed testimonials which decorated the wall. She was not often melancholy, but it was such a beast of a day and all her friends seemed to be having such a bad time.
‘Oh, Clarkie,’ she said, ‘what a lot of trouble there is in the world!’
‘Yes, yes!’ sighed Miss Clarkson, a specialist on this subject.
‘All the horses you back finish sixth and all the girls you like best come croppers. Poor little Phyllis! weren’t you sorry for her?’
‘But her husband, surely, is most devoted?’
‘Yes, but she’s frightfully hard up, and you remember how opulent she used to be at school. Of course, it must sound funny hearing me pitying people for having no money. But somehow other people’s hard-upness always seems so much worse than mine. Especially poor old Phyl’s, because she really isn’t fit to stand it. I’ve been used to being absolutely broke all my life. Poor dear father always seemed to be writing an article against time, with creditors scratching earnestly at the door.’ Eve laughed, but her eyes were misty. ‘He was a brick, wasn’t he? I mean, sending me to a first-class school like Wayland House when he often hadn’t enough money to buy tobacco, poor angel. I expect he wasn’t always up to time with fees, was he?’
‘Well, my dear, of course I was only an assistant mistress at Wayland House and had nothing to do with the financial side, but I did hear sometimes . . .’
‘Poor darling father! Do you know, one of my earliest recollections – 1 couldn’t have been more than ten – is of a ring at the front-door bell and father diving like a seal under the sofa and poking his head out and imploring me in a hoarse voice to hold the fort. I went to the door and found an indignant man with a blue paper. I prattled so prettily and innocently that he not only went away quite contentedly but actually patted me on the head and gave me a penny. And when the door had shut father crawled out from under the sofa and gave me twopence, making threepence in all – a good morning’s work. I bought father a diamond ring with it at a shop down the street, I remember. At least I thought it was a diamond. They may have swindled me, for I was very young.’
‘You have had a hard life, dear.’
‘Yes, but hasn’t it been a lark! I’ve loved every minute of it. Besides, you can’t call me really one of the submerged tenth. Uncle Thomas left me a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and mercifully I’m not allowed to touch the capital. If only there were no hats or safety bets in the world, I should be smugly opulent. . . . But I mustn’t keep you any longer, Clarkie dear. I expect the waiting-room is full of dukes who want cooks and cooks who want dukes, all fidgeting and wondering how much longer you’re going to keep them. Good-bye, darling.’
And, having kissed Miss Clarkson fondly and straightened her hat, which the other’s motherly embrace had disarranged, Eve left the room.
4 PAINFUL SCENE AT THE DRONES CLUB
MEANWHILE, at the Drones Club, a rather painful scene had been taking place. Psmith, regaining the shelter of the building, had made his way to the wash-room, where, having studied his features with interest for a moment in the mirror, he smoothed his hair, which the rain had somewhat disordered, and brushed his clothes with extreme care. He then went to the cloak-room for his hat. The attendant regarded him as he entered with the air of one whose mind is not wholly at rest.
‘Mr Walderwick was in here a moment ago, sir,’ said the attendant.
‘Yes?’ said Psmith, mildly interested. ‘An energetic, bustling soul, Comrade Walderwick. Always somewhere. Now here, now there.’
Asking about his umbrella, he was,’ pursued the attendant with a touch of coldness.
‘Indeed? Asking about his umbrella, eh?’
‘Made a great fuss about it, sir, he did.’
And rightly,’ said Psmith with approval. ‘The good man loves his umbrella.’
‘Of course I had to tell him that you had took it, sir.’
‘I would not have it otherwise,’ assented Psmith heartily. ‘I like this spirit of candour. There must be no reservations, no subterfuges between you and Comrade Walderwick. Let all be open and above-board.’
‘He seemed very put out, sir. He went off to find you.’
‘I am always glad of a chat with Comrade Walderwick,’ said Psmith. ‘Always.’
He left the cloak-room and made for the hall, where he desired the porter to procure him a cab. This having drawn up in front of the club, he descended the steps and was about to enter it, when there was a hoarse cry in his rear, and through the front door there came bounding a pinkly indignant youth, who called loudly:
‘Here! Hi! Smith! Dash it!’
Psmith climbed into the cab and gazed benevolently out at the new-comer.
‘Ah, Comrade Walderwick!’ he said. ‘What have we on our mind?’
‘Where’s my umbrella?’ demanded the pink one. ‘The cloakroom waiter says you took my umbrella. I mean, a joke’s a joke, but that was a dashed good umbrella.’
‘It was, indeed,’ Psmith agreed cordially. ‘It maybe of interest to you to know that I selected it as the only possible one from among a number of competitors. I fear this club is becoming very mixed, Comrade Walderwick. You with your pure mind would hardly believe the rottenness of some of the umbrellas I inspected i
n the cloak-room.’
‘Where is it?’
‘The cloak-room? You turn to the left as you go in at the main entrance and . . .’
‘My umbrella, dash it! Where’s my umbrella?’
‘Ah, there,’ said Psmith, and there was a touch of manly regret in his voice, ‘you have me. I gave it to a young lady in the street. Where she is at the present moment I could not say.’
The pink youth tottered slightly.
‘You gave my umbrella to a girl?’
‘A very loose way of describing her. You would not speak of her in that light fashion if you had seen her. Comrade Walder-wick, she was wonderful! I am a plain, blunt, rugged man, above the softer emotions as a general thing, but I frankly confess that she stirred a chord in me which is not often stirred. She thrilled my battered old heart, Comrade Walderwick. There is no other word. Thrilled it!’
‘But, dash it! . . .’
Psmith reached out a long arm and laid his hand paternally on the other’s shoulder.
‘Be brave, Comrade Walderwick!’ he said. ‘Face this thing like a man! I am sorry to have been the means of depriving you of an excellent umbrella, but as you will readily understand I had no alternative. It was raining. She was over there, crouched despairingly beneath the awning of that shop. She wanted to be elsewhere, but the moisture lay in wait to damage her hat. What could I do? What could any man worthy of the name do but go down to the cloak-room and pinch the best umbrella in sight and take it to her? Yours was easily the best. There was absolutely no comparison. I gave it to her, and she has gone off with it, happy once more. This explanation,’ said Psmith, ‘will, I am sure, sensibly diminish your natural chagrin. You have lost your umbrella, Comrade Walderwick, but in what a cause! In what a cause, Comrade Walderwick! You are now entitled to rank with Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Ralegh. The latter is perhaps the closer historical parallel. He spread his cloak to keep a queen from wetting her feet. You – by proxy – yielded up your umbrella to save a girl’s hat. Posterity will be proud of you, Comrade Walderwick. I shall be vastly surprised if you do not go down in legend and song. Children in ages to come will cluster about their grandfather’s knees, saying, “Tell us how the great Walderwick lost his umbrella, grandpapa!” And he will tell them, and they will rise from the recital better, deeper, broader children. . . . But now, as I see that the driver has started his meter, I fear I must conclude this little chat – which I, for one, have heartily enjoyed. Drive on,’ he said, leaning out of the window. ‘I want to go to Ada Clarkson’s International Employment Bureau in Shaftesbury Avenue.’
The cab moved off. The Hon. Hugo Walderwick, after one passionate glance in its wake, realised that he was getting wet and went back into the club.
∗∗∗∗∗
Arriving at the address named, Psmith paid his cab and, having mounted the stairs, delicately knuckled the ground-glass window of Enquiries.
‘My dear Miss Clarkson,’ he began in an affable voice, the instant the window had shot up, ‘if you can spare me a few moments of your valuable time . . .’
‘Miss Clarkson’s engaged.’
Psmith scrutinised her gravely through his monocle.
‘Aren’t you Miss Clarkson?’
Enquiries said she was not.
‘Then,’ said Psmith, ‘there has been a misunderstanding, for which,’ he added cordially, ‘I am to blame. Perhaps I could see her anon? You will find me in the waiting-room when required.’
He went into the waiting-room, and, having picked up a magazine from the table, settled down to read a story in The Girl’s Pet – the January number of the year 1919, for Employment Agencies, like dentists, prefer their literature of a matured vintage. He was absorbed in this when Eve came out of the private office.
5 PSMITH APPLIES FOR EMPLOYMENT
PSMITH rose courteously as she entered.
‘My dear Miss Clarkson,’ he said, ‘if you can spare me a moment of your valuable time . . .’
‘Good gracious!’ said Eve. ‘How extraordinary!’
‘A singular coincidence,’ agreed Psmith.
‘You never gave me time to thank you for the umbrella,’ said Eve reproachfully. ‘You must have thought me awfully rude. But you took my breath away.’
‘My dear Miss Clarkson, please do not . . .’
‘Why do you keep calling me that?’
‘Aren’t you Miss Clarkson either?’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Then,’ said Psmith, ‘I must start my quest all over again. These constant checks are trying to an ardent spirit. Perhaps you are a young bride come to engage her first cook?’
‘No. I’m not married.’
‘Good!’
Eve found his relieved thankfulness a little embarrassing. In the momentary pause which followed his remark, Enquiries entered alertly.
‘Miss Clarkson will see you now, sir.’
‘Leave us,’ said Psmith with a wave of his hand. ‘We would be alone.’
Enquiries stared; then, awed by his manner and general appearance of magnificence, withdrew.
‘I suppose really,’ said Eve, toying with the umbrella, ‘I ought to give this back to you.’ She glanced at the dripping window. ‘But it is raining rather hard, isn’t it?’
‘Like the dickens,’ assented Psmith.
‘Then would you mind very much if I kept it till this evening?’
‘Please do.’
‘Thanks ever so much. I will send it back to you to-night if you will give me the name and address.’
Psmith waved his hand deprecatingly.
‘No, no. If it is of any use to you, I hope that you will look on it as a present.’
‘A present!’
‘A gift,’ explained Psmith.
‘But I really can’t go about accepting expensive umbrellas from people. Where shall I send it?’
‘If you insist, you may send it to the Hon. Hugo Walderwick, Drones Club, Dover Street. But it really isn’t necessary.’
‘I won’t forget. And thank you very much, Mr Walderwick.’
‘Why do you call me that?’
‘Well, you said . . .’
Ah, I see. A slight confusion of ideas. No, I am not Mr Walderwick. And between ourselves I should hate to be. His is a very C3 intelligence. Comrade Walderwick is merely the man to whom the umbrella belongs.’
Eve’s eyes opened wide.
‘Do you mean to say you gave me somebody else’s umbrella?’
‘I had unfortunately omitted to bring my own out with me this morning.’
‘I never heard of such a thing!’
‘Merely practical Socialism. Other people are content to talk about the Redistribution of Property. I go out and do it.’
‘But won’t he be awfully angry when he finds out it has gone?’
‘He has found out. And it was pretty to see his delight. I explained the circumstances, and he was charmed to have been of service to you.’
The door opened again, and this time it was Miss Clarkson in person who entered. She had found Enquiries’ statement over the speaking-tube rambling and unsatisfactory, and had come to investigate for herself the reason why the machinery of the office was being held up.
‘Oh, I must go,’ said Eve, as she saw her. ‘I’m interrupting your business.’
‘I’m so glad you’re still here, dear,’ said Miss Clarkson. ‘I have just been looking over my files, and I see that there is one vacancy. For a nurse,’ said Miss Clarkson with a touch of the apologetic in her voice.
‘Oh, no, that’s all right,’ said Eve. ‘I don’t really need anything. But thanks ever so much for bothering.’
She smiled affectionately upon the proprietress, bestowed another smile upon Psmith as he opened the door for her, and went out. Psmith turned away from the door with a thoughtful look upon his face.
‘Is that young lady a nurse?’ he asked.
‘Do you want a nurse?’ inquired Miss Clarkson, at once the woman of busi
ness.
‘I want that nurse,’ said Psmith with conviction.
‘She is a delightful girl,’ said Miss Clarkson with enthusiasm. ‘There is no one in whom I would feel more confidence in recommending to a position. She is a Miss Halliday, the daughter of a very clever but erratic writer, who died some years ago. I can speak with particular knowledge of Miss Halliday, for I was for many years an assistant mistress at Wayland House, where she was at school. She is a charming, warm-hearted, impulsive girl. . . . But you will hardly want to hear all this.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Psmith, ‘I could listen for hours. You have stumbled upon my favourite subject.’
Miss Clarkson eyed him a little doubtfully, and decided that it would be best to reintroduce the business theme.
‘Perhaps, when you say you are looking for a nurse, you mean you need a hospital nurse?’
‘My friends have sometimes suggested it.’
‘Miss Halliday’s greatest experience has, of course, been as a governess.’
‘A governess is just as good,’ said Psmith agreeably.
Miss Clarkson began to be conscious of a sensation of being out of her depth.
‘How old are your children, sir?’ she asked.
‘I fear,’ said Psmith, ‘you are peeping into Volume Two. This romance has only just started.’
‘I am afraid,’ said Miss Clarkson, now completely fogged, ‘I do not quite understand. What exactly are you looking for?’
Psmith flicked a speck of fluff from his coat-sleeve.
‘A job,’ he said.
‘A job!’ echoed Miss Clarkson, her voice breaking in an amazed squeak.
Psmith raised his eyebrows.
‘You seem surprised. Isn’t this a job emporium?’
‘This is an Employment Bureau,’ admitted Miss Clarkson.
‘I knew it, I knew it,’ said Psmith. ‘Something seemed to tell me. Possibly it was the legend “Employment Bureau” over the door. And those framed testimonials would convince the most sceptical. Yes, Miss Clarkson, I want a job, and I feel somehow that you are the woman to find it for me. I have inserted an advertisement in the papers, expressing my readiness to undertake any form of employment, but I have since begun to wonder if after all this will lead to wealth and fame. At any rate, it is wise to attack the great world from another angle as well, so I come to you.’
Leave It to Psmith Page 6
