Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  And then, years afterward, he had suddenly blossomed out as a student—only, it is true, a student of the Adventures of Gridley Quayle; but still a student. His was a dull life and Gridley Quayle was the only person who brought romance into it. Existence for the Honorable Freddie was simply a sort of desert, punctuated with monthly oases in the shape of new Quayle adventures. It was his ambition to meet the man who wrote them.

  Lord Emsworth sat and smoked, and sipped and smoked again, at peace with all the world. His mind was as nearly a blank as it is possible for the human mind to be. The hand that had not the task of holding the cigar was at rest in his trousers pocket. The fingers of it fumbled idly with a small, hard object.

  Gradually it filtered into his lordship’s mind that this small, hard object was not familiar. It was something new—something that was neither his keys nor his pencil; nor was it his small change. He yielded to a growing curiosity and drew it out. He examined it. It was a little something, rather like a fossilized beetle. It touched no chord in him. He looked at it with amiable distaste.

  “Now how in the world did that get there?” he said.

  The Honorable Freddie paid no attention to the remark. He was now at the very crest of his story, when every line intensified the thrill. Incident was succeeding incident. The Secret Six were here, there and everywhere, like so many malignant June bugs.

  Annabel, the heroine, was having a perfectly rotten time—kidnapped, and imprisoned every few minutes. Gridley Quayle, hot on the scent, was covering somebody or other with his revolver almost continuously. Freddie Threepwood had no time for chatting with his father. Not so Rupert Baxter. Chatting with Lord Emsworth was one of the things for which he received his salary. He looked up from his cards.

  “Lord Emsworth?”

  “I have found a curious object in my pocket, Baxter. I was wondering how it got there.”

  He handed the thing to his secretary. Rupert Baxter’s eyes lit up with sudden enthusiasm. He gasped.

  “Magnificent!” he cried. “Superb!”

  Lord Emsworth looked at him inquiringly.

  “It is a scarab, Lord Emsworth; and unless I am mistaken—and I think I may claim to be something of an expert—a Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty. A wonderful addition to your museum!”

  “Is it? By Gad! You don’t say so, Baxter!”

  “It is, indeed. If it is not a rude question, how much did you give for it, Lord Emsworth? It must have been the gem of somebody’s collection. Was there a sale at Christie’s this afternoon?”

  Lord Emsworth shook his head. “I did not get it at Christie’s, for I recollect that I had an important engagement which prevented my going to Christie’s. To be sure; yes—I had promised to call on Mr. Peters and examine his collection of—Now I wonder what it was that Mr. Peters said he collected!”

  “Mr. Peters is one of the best-known living collectors of scarabs.”

  “Scarabs! You are quite right, Baxter. Now that I recall the episode, this is a scarab; and Mr. Peters gave it to me.”

  “Gave it to you, Lord Emsworth?”

  “Yes. The whole scene comes back to me. Mr. Peters, after telling me a great many exceedingly interesting things about scarabs, which I regret to say I cannot remember, gave me this. And you say it is really valuable, Baxter?”

  “It is, from a collector’s point of view, of extraordinary value.”

  “Bless my soul!” Lord Emsworth beamed. “This is extremely interesting, Baxter. One has heard so much of the princely hospitality of Americans. How exceedingly kind of Mr. Peters! I shall certainly treasure it, though I must confess that from a purely spectacular standpoint it leaves me a little cold. However, I must not look a gift horse in the mouth—eh, Baxter?”

  From afar came the silver booming of a gong. Lord Emsworth rose.

  “Time to dress for dinner? I had no idea it was so late. Baxter, you will be going past the museum door. Will you be a good fellow and place this among the exhibits? You will know what to do with it better than I. I always think of you as the curator of my little collection, Baxter—ha-ha! Mind how you step when you are in the museum. I was painting a chair there yesterday and I think I left the paint pot on the floor.”

  He cast a less amiable glance at his studious son.

  “Get up, Frederick, and go and dress for dinner. What is that trash you are reading?”

  The Honorable Freddie came out of his book much as a sleepwalker wakes—with a sense of having been violently assaulted. He looked up with a kind of stunned plaintiveness.

  “Eh, gov’nor?”

  “Make haste! Beach rang the gong five minutes ago. What is that you are reading?”

  “Oh, nothing, gov’nor—just a book.”

  “I wonder you can waste your time on such trash. Make haste!”

  He turned to the door, and the benevolent expression once more wandered athwart his face.

  “Extremely kind of Mr. Peters!” he said. “Really, there is something almost Oriental in the lavish generosity of our American cousins.”

  * * *

  It had taken R. Jones just six hours to discover Joan Valentine’s address. That it had not taken him longer is a proof of his energy and of the excellence of his system of obtaining information; but R. Jones, when he considered it worth his while, could be extremely energetic, and he was a past master at the art of finding out things.

  He poured himself out of his cab and rang the bell of Number Seven. A disheveled maid answered the ring.

  “Miss Valentine in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  R. Jones produced his card.

  “On important business, tell her. Half a minute—I’ll write it.”

  He wrote the words on the card and devoted the brief period of waiting to a careful scrutiny of his surroundings. He looked out into the court and he looked as far as he could down the dingy passage; and the conclusions he drew from what he saw were complimentary to Miss Valentine.

  “If this girl is the sort of girl who would hold up Freddie’s letters,” he mused, “she wouldn’t be living in a place like this. If she were on the make she would have more money than she evidently possesses. Therefore, she is not on the make; and I am prepared to bet that she destroyed the letters as fast as she got them.”

  Those were, roughly, the thoughts of R. Jones as he stood in the doorway of Number Seven; and they were important thoughts inasmuch as they determined his attitude toward Joan in the approaching interview. He perceived that this matter must be handled delicately—that he must be very much the gentleman. It would be a strain, but he must do it.

  The maid returned and directed him to Joan’s room with a brief word and a sweeping gesture.

  “Eh?” said R. Jones. “First floor?”

  “Front,” said the maid.

  R. Jones trudged laboriously up the short flight of stairs. It was very dark on the stairs and he stumbled. Eventually, however, light came to him through an open door. Looking in, he saw a girl standing at the table. She had an air of expectation; so he deduced that he had reached his journey’s end.

  “Miss Valentine?”

  “Please come in.”

  R. Jones waddled in.

  “Not much light on your stairs.”

  “No. Will you take a seat?”

  “Thanks.”

  One glance at the girl convinced R. Jones that he had been right. Circumstances had made him a rapid judge of character, for in the profession of living by one’s wits in a large city the first principle of offense and defense is to sum people up at first sight. This girl was not on the make.

  Joan Valentine was a tall girl with wheat-gold hair and eyes as brightly blue as a November sky when the sun is shining on a frosty world. There was in them a little of November’s cold glitter, too, for Joan had been through much in the last few years; and experience, even though it does not harden, erects a defensive barrier between its children and the world.

  Her eyes were eyes that looked straight and challen
ged. They could thaw to the satin blue of the Mediterranean Sea, where it purrs about the little villages of Southern France; but they did not thaw for everybody. She looked what she was—a girl of action; a girl whom life had made both reckless and wary—wary of friendly advances, reckless when there was a venture afoot.

  Her eyes, as they met R. Jones’ now, were cold and challenging. She, too, had learned the trick of swift diagnosis of character, and what she saw of R. Jones in that first glance did not impress her favorably.

  “You wished to see me on business?”

  “Yes,” said R. Jones. “Yes… . Miss Valentine, may I begin by begging you to realize that I have no intention of insulting you?”

  Joan’s eyebrows rose. For an instant she did her visitor the injustice of suspecting that he had been dining too well.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain: I have come here,” R. Jones went on, getting more gentlemanly every moment, “on a very distasteful errand, to oblige a friend. Will you bear in mind that whatever I say is said entirely on his behalf?”

  By this time Joan had abandoned the idea that this stout person was a life-insurance tout, and was inclining to the view that he was collecting funds for a charity.

  “I came here at the request of the Honorable Frederick Threepwood.”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “You never met him, Miss Valentine; but when you were in the chorus at the Piccadilly Theatre, I believe, he wrote you some very foolish letters. Possibly you have forgotten them?”

  “I certainly have.”

  “You have probably destroyed them—eh?”

  “Certainly! I never keep letters. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you see, Miss Valentine, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood is about to be married; and he thought that possibly, on the whole, it would be better that the letters—and poetry—which he wrote you were nonexistent.”

  Not all R. Jones’ gentlemanliness—and during this speech he diffused it like a powerful scent in waves about him—could hide the unpleasant meaning of the words.

  “He was afraid I might try to blackmail him?” said Joan, with formidable calm.

  R. Jones raised and waved a fat hand deprecatingly.

  “My dear Miss Valentine!”

  Joan rose and R. Jones followed her example. The interview was plainly at an end.

  “Please tell Mr. Threepwood to make his mind quite easy. He is in no danger.”

  “Exactly—exactly; precisely! I assured Threepwood that my visit here would be a mere formality. I was quite sure you had no intention whatever of worrying him. I may tell him definitely, then, that you have destroyed the letters?”

  “Yes. Good-evening.”

  “Good-evening, Miss Valentine.”

  The closing of the door behind him left him in total darkness, but he hardly liked to return and ask Joan to reopen it in order to light him on his way. He was glad to be out of her presence. He was used to being looked at in an unfriendly way by his fellows, but there had been something in Joan’s eyes that had curiously discomfited him.

  R. Jones groped his way down, relieved that all was over and had ended well. He believed what she had told him, and he could conscientiously assure Freddie that the prospect of his sharing the fate of poor old Percy was nonexistent. It is true that he proposed to add in his report that the destruction of the letters had been purchased with difficulty, at a cost of just five hundred pounds; but that was a mere business formality.

  He had almost reached the last step when there was a ring at the front door. With what he was afterward wont to call an inspiration, he retreated with unusual nimbleness until he had almost reached Joan’s door again. Then he leaned over the banister and listened.

  The disheveled maid opened the door. A girl’s voice spoke:

  “Is Miss Valentine in?”

  “She’s in; but she’s engaged.”

  “I wish you would go up and tell her that I want to see her. Say it’s Miss Peters—Miss Aline Peters.”

  The banister shook beneath R. Jones’ sudden clutch. For a moment he felt almost faint. Then he began to think swiftly. A great light had dawned on him, and the thought outstanding in his mind was that never again would he trust a man or woman on the evidence of his senses. He could have sworn that this Valentine girl was on the level. He had been perfectly satisfied with her statement that she had destroyed the letters. And all the while she had been playing as deep a game as he had come across in the whole course of his professional career! He almost admired her. How she had taken him in!

  It was obvious now what her game was. Previous to his visit she had arranged a meeting with Freddie’s fiancee, with the view of opening negotiations for the sale of the letters. She had held him, Jones, at arm’s length because she was going to sell the letters to whoever would pay the best price. But for the accident of his happening to be here when Miss Peters arrived, Freddie and his fiancee would have been bidding against each other and raising each other’s price. He had worked the same game himself a dozen times, and he resented the entry of female competition into what he regarded as essentially a male field of enterprise.

  As the maid stumped up the stairs he continued his retreat. He heard Joan’s door open, and the stream of light showed him the disheveled maid standing in the doorway.

  “Ow, I thought there was a gentleman with you, miss.”

  “He left a moment ago. Why?”

  “There’s a lady wants to see you. Miss Peters, her name is.”

  “Will you ask her to come up?”

  The disheveled maid was no polished mistress of ceremonies. She leaned down into the void and hailed Aline.

  “She says will you come up?”

  Aline’s feet became audible on the staircase. There were greetings.

  “Whatever brings you here, Aline?”

  “Am I interrupting you, Joan, dear?”

  “No. Do come in! I was only surprised to see you so late. I didn’t know you paid calls at this hour. Is anything wrong? Come in.”

  The door closed, the maid retired to the depths, and R. Jones stole cautiously down again. He was feeling absolutely bewildered. Apparently his deductions, his second thoughts, had been all wrong, and Joan was, after all, the honest person he had imagined at first sight. Those two girls had talked to each other as though they were old friends; as though they had known each other all their lives. That was the thing which perplexed R. Jones.

  With the tread of a red Indian, he approached the door and put his ear to it. He found he could hear quite comfortably.

  Aline, meantime, inside the room, had begun to draw comfort from Joan’s very appearance, she looked so capable.

  Joan’s eyes had changed the expression they had contained during the recent interview. They were soft now, with a softness that was half compassionate, half contemptuous. It is the compensation which life gives to those whom it has handled roughly in order that they shall be able to regard with a certain contempt the small troubles of the sheltered. Joan remembered Aline of old, and knew her for a perennial victim of small troubles. Even in their schooldays she had always needed to be looked after and comforted. Her sweet temper had seemed to invite the minor slings and arrows of fortune. Aline was a girl who inspired protectiveness in a certain type of her fellow human beings. It was this quality in her that kept George Emerson awake at nights; and it appealed to Joan now.

  Joan, for whom life was a constant struggle to keep the wolf within a reasonable distance from the door, and who counted that day happy on which she saw her way clear to paying her weekly rent and possibly having a trifle over for some coveted hat or pair of shoes, could not help feeling, as she looked at Aline, that her own troubles were as nothing, and that the immediate need of the moment was to pet and comfort her friend. Her knowledge of Aline told her the probable tragedy was that she had lost a brooch or had been spoken to crossly by somebody; but it also told her that such tragedies bulked very large on A
line’s horizon.

  Trouble, after all, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder; and Aline was far less able to endure with fortitude the loss of a brooch than she herself to bear the loss of a position the emoluments of which meant the difference between having just enough to eat and starving.

  “You’re worried about something,” she said. “Sit down and tell me all about it.”

  Aline sat down and looked about her at the shabby room. By that curious process of the human mind which makes the spectacle of another’s misfortune a palliative for one’s own, she was feeling oddly comforted already. Her thoughts were not definite and she could not analyze them; but what they amounted to was that, though it was an unpleasant thing to be bullied by a dyspeptic father, the world manifestly held worse tribulations, which her father’s other outstanding quality, besides dyspepsia—wealth, to wit—enabled her to avoid.

  It was at this point that the dim beginnings of philosophy began to invade her mind. The thing resolved itself almost into an equation. If father had not had indigestion he would not have bullied her. But, if father had not made a fortune he would not have had indigestion. Therefore, if father had not made a fortune he would not have bullied her. Practically, in fact, if father did not bully her he would not be rich. And if he were not rich—

  She took in the faded carpet, the stained wall paper and the soiled curtains with a comprehensive glance. It certainly cut both ways. She began to be a little ashamed of her misery.

  “It’s nothing at all; really,” she said. “I think I’ve been making rather a fuss about very little.”

  Joan was relieved. The struggling life breeds moods of depression, and such a mood had come to her just before Aline’s arrival. Life, at that moment, had seemed to stretch before her like a dusty, weary road, without hope. She was sick of fighting. She wanted money and ease, and a surcease from this perpetual race with the weekly bills. The mood had been the outcome partly of R. Jones’ gentlemanly-veiled insinuations, but still more, though she did not realize it, of her yesterday’s meeting with Aline.