‘Now doesn’t this show – what I always used to say to you in the dear old days, Eve – that one must never despair, however black the outlook may seem? I remember you at school, dear, as poor as a church mouse, and with no prospects, none whatever. And yet here you are – rich . . .’
Eve laughed. She got up and kissed Miss Clarkson. She regretted that she was compelled to strike a jarring note, but it had to be done.
‘I’m awfully sorry, Clarkie dear,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve misled you. I’m just as broke as I ever was. In fact, when Phyllis told me you were running an Employment Agency, I made a note to come and see you and ask if you had some attractive billet to dispose of. Governess to a thoroughly angelic child would do. Or isn’t there some nice cosy author or something who wants his letters answered and his press-clippings pasted in an album?’
‘Oh, my dear!’ Miss Clarkson was deeply concerned. ‘I did hope . . . That hat . . . !’
‘The hat’s the whole trouble. Of course I had no business even to think of it, but I saw it in the shop-window and coveted it for days, and finally fell. And then, you see, I had to live up to it – buy shoes and a dress to match. I tell you it was a perfect orgy, and I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself now. Too late, as usual.’
‘Oh, dear! You always were such a wild, impetuous child, even at school. I remember how often I used to speak to you about it.’
‘Well, when it was all over and I was sane again, I found I had only a few pounds left, not nearly enough to see me through till the relief expedition arrived. So I thought it over and decided to invest my little all.’
‘I hope you chose something safe?’
‘It ought to have been. The Sporting Express called it “Today’s Safety Bet”. It was Bounding Willie for the two-thirty race at Sandown last Wednesday.’
‘Oh, dear!’
‘That’s what I said when poor old Willie came in sixth. But it’s no good worrying, is it? What it means is that I simply must find something to do that will carry me through till I get my next quarter’s allowance. And that won’t be till September. . . . But don’t let’s talk business here. I’ll come round to your office, Clarkie, to-morrow. . . . Where’s Cynthia? Didn’t you bring her?’
‘Yes, I thought you were going to pick Cynthia up on your way, Clarkie,’ said Phyllis.
If Eve’s information as to her financial affairs had caused Miss Clarkson to mourn, the mention of Cynthia plunged her into the very depths of woe. Her mouth quivered and a tear stole down her cheek. Eve and Phyllis exchanged bewildered glances.
‘I say,’ said Eve after a moment’s pause and a silence broken only by a smothered sob from their late instructress, ‘we aren’t being very cheerful, are we, considering that this is supposed to be a joyous reunion? Is anything wrong with Cynthia?’
So poignant was Miss Clarkson’s anguish that Phyllis, in a flutter of alarm, rose and left the room swiftly in search of the only remedy that suggested itself to her – her smelling-salts.
‘Poor dear Cynthia!’ moaned Miss Clarkson.
‘Why, what’s the matter with her?’ asked Eve. She was not callous to Miss Clarkson’s grief, but she could not help the tiniest of smiles. In a flash she had been transported to her school-days, when the other’s habit of extracting the utmost tragedy out of the slimmest material had been a source of ever-fresh amusement to her. Not for an instant did she expect to hear any worse news of her old friend than that she was in bed with a cold or had twisted her ankle.
‘She’s married, you know,’ said Miss Clarkson.
‘Well, I see no harm in that, Clarkie. If a few more Safety Bets go wrong, I shall probably have to rush out and marry someone myself. Some nice, rich, indulgent man who will spoil me.’
‘Oh, Eve, my dear,’ pleaded Miss Clarkson, bleating with alarm, ‘do please be careful whom you marry. I never hear of one of my girls marrying without feeling that the worst may happen and that, all unknowing, she may be stepping over a grim precipice!’
‘You don’t tell them that, do you? Because I should think it would rather cast a damper on the wedding festivities. Has Cynthia gone stepping over grim precipices? I was just saying to Phyllis that I envied her, marrying a celebrity like Ralston McTodd.’
Miss Clarkson gulped.
‘The man must be a fiend? she said brokenly. ‘I have just left poor dear Cynthia in floods of tears at the Cadogan Hotel – she has a very nice quiet room on the fourth floor, though the carpet does not harmonise with the wall-paper. . . . She was brokenhearted, poor child. I did what I could to console her, but it was useless. She always was so highly strung. I must be getting back to her very soon. I only came on here because I did not want to disappoint you two dear girls . . .’
‘Why?’ said Eve with quiet intensity. She knew from experience that Miss Clarkson, unless firmly checked, would pirouette round and round the point for minutes without ever touching it.
‘Why?’ echoed Miss Clarkson, blinking as if the word was something solid that had struck her unexpectedly.
‘Why was Cynthia in floods of tears?’
‘But I’m telling you, my dear. That man has left her!’
‘Left her!’
‘They had a quarrel, and he walked straight out of the hotel. That was the day before yesterday, and he has not been back since. This afternoon the curtest note came from him to say that he never intended to return. He had secretly and in a most underhand way arranged for his luggage to be removed from the hotel to a District Messenger office, and from there he has taken it no one knows where. He has completely disappeared.’
Eve stared. She had not been prepared for news of this momentous order.
‘But what did they quarrel about?’
‘Cynthia, poor child, was too overwrought to tell me!’
Eve clenched her teeth.
‘The beast! . . . Poor old Cynthia. . . . Shall I come round with you?’
‘No, my dear, better let me look after her alone. I will tell her to write and let you know when she can see you. I must be going, Phyllis dear,’ she said, as her hostess re-entered, bearing a small bottle.
‘But you’ve only just come!’ said Phyllis, surprised.
‘Poor old Cynthia’s husband has left her,’ explained Eve briefly. ‘And Clarkie’s going back to look after her. She’s in a pretty bad way, it seems.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Yes, indeed. And I really must be going at once,’ said Miss Clarkson.
Eve waited in the drawing-room till the front door banged and Phyllis came back to her. Phyllis was more wistful than ever. She had been looking forward to this tea-party, and it had not been the happy occasion she had anticipated. The two girls sat in silence for a moment.
‘What brutes some men are!’ said Eve at length.
‘Mike,’ said Phyllis dreamily, ‘is an angel.’
Eve welcomed the unspoken invitation to return to a more agreeable topic. She felt very deeply for the stricken Cynthia, but she hated aimless talk, and nothing could have been more aimless than for her and Phyllis to sit there exchanging lamentations concerning a tragedy of which neither knew more than the bare outlines. Phyllis had her tragedy, too, and it was one where Eve saw the possibility of doing something practical and helpful. She was a girl of action, and was glad to be able to attack a living issue.
‘Yes, let’s go on talking about you and Mike,’ she said. ‘At present I can’t understand the position at all. When Clarkie came in, you were just telling me about your stepfather and why he wouldn’t help you. And I thought you made out a very poor case for him. Tell me some more. I’ve forgotten his name, by the way.’
‘Keeble.’
‘Oh? Well, I think you ought to write and tell him how hard-up you are. He may be under the impression that you are still living in luxury and don’t need any help. After all, he can’t know unless you tell him. And I should ask him straight out to come to the rescue. It isn’t as if it was your Mike’s fault that you??
?re broke. He married you on the strength of a very good position which looked like a permanency, and lost it through no fault of his own. I should write to him, Phyl. Pitch it strong.’
‘I have. I wrote to-day. Mike’s just been offered a wonderful opportunity. A sort of farm place in Lincolnshire. You know. Cows and things. Just what he would like and just what he would do awfully well. And we only need three thousand pounds to get it. . . . But I’m afraid nothing will come of it.’
‘Because of Aunt Constance, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must make something come of it.’ Eve’s chin went up. She looked like a Goddess of Determination. ‘If I were you, I’d haunt their doorstep till they had to give you the money to get rid of you. The idea of anybody doing that absurd driving-into-the-snow business in these days! Why shouldn’t you marry the man you were in love with? If I were you, I’d go and chain myself to their railings and howl like a dog till they rushed out with cheque-books just to get some peace. Do they live in London?’
‘They are down in Shropshire at present at a place called Blandings Castle.’
Eve started.
‘Blandings Castle? Good gracious!’
‘Aunt Constance is Lord Emsworth’s sister.’
‘But this is the most extraordinary thing. I’m going to Blandings myself in a few days.’
‘No!’
‘They’ve engaged me to catalogue the castle library.’
‘But, Eve, were you only joking when you asked Clarkie to find you something to do? She took you quite seriously.’
‘No, I wasn’t joking. There’s a drawback to my going to Blandings. I suppose you know the place pretty well?’
‘I’ve often stayed there. It’s beautiful.’
‘Then you know Lord Emsworth’s second son, Freddie Threepwood?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, he’s the drawback. He wants to marry me, and I certainly don’t want to marry him. And what I’ve been wondering is whether a nice easy job like that, which would tide me over beautifully till September, is attractive enough to make up for the nuisance of having to be always squelching poor Freddie. I ought to have thought of it right at the beginning, of course, when he wrote and told me to apply for the position, but I was so delighted at the idea of regular work that it didn’t occur to me. Then I began to wonder. He’s such a persevering young man. He proposes early and often.’
‘Where did you meet Freddie?’
‘At a theatre party. About two months ago. He was living in London then, but he suddenly disappeared and I had a heartbroken letter from him, saying that he had been running up debts and things and his father had snatched him away to live at Blandings, which apparently is Freddie’s idea of the Inferno. The world seems full of hard-hearted relatives.’
‘Oh, Lord Emsworth isn’t really hard-hearted. You will love him. He’s so dreamy and absent-minded. He potters about the garden all the time. I don’t think you’ll like Aunt Constance much. But I suppose you won’t see a great deal of her.’
‘Whom shall I see much of – except Freddie, of course?’
‘Mr Baxter, Lord Emsworth’s secretary, I expect. I don’t like him at all. He’s a sort of spectacled caveman.’
‘He doesn’t sound attractive. But you say the place is nice?’
‘It’s gorgeous. I should go, if I were you, Eve.’
‘Well, I had intended not to. But now you’ve told me about Mr Keeble and Aunt Constance, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have to look in at Clarkie’s office to-morrow and tell her I’m fixed up and shan’t need her help. I’m going to take your sad case in hand, darling. I shall go to Blandings, and I will dog your stepfather’s footsteps. . . . Well, I must be going. Come and see me to the front door, or I’ll be losing my way in the miles of stately corridors. . . . I suppose I mayn’t smash that china dog before I go? Oh, well, I just thought I’d ask.’
Out in the hall the little maid-of-all-work bobbed up and intercepted them.
‘I forgot to tell you, mum, a gentleman called. I told him you was out.’
‘Quite right, Jane.’
‘Said his name was Smith, ’m.’
Phyllis gave a cry of dismay.
‘Oh, no! What a shame! I particularly wanted you to meet him, Eve. I wish I’d known.’
‘Smith?’ said Eve. ‘The name seems familiar. Why were you so anxious for me to meet him?’
‘He’s Mike’s best friend. Mike worships him. He’s the son of the Mr Smith I was telling you about – the one Mike was at school and Cambridge with. He’s a perfect darling, Eve, and you would love him. He’s just your sort. I do wish we had known. And now you’re going to Blandings for goodness knows how long, and you won’t be able to see him.’
‘What a pity,’ said Eve, politely uninterested.
‘I’m so sorry for him.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s in the fish business.’
‘Ugh!’
‘Well, he hates it, poor dear. But he was left stranded like all the rest of us after the crash, and he was put into the business by an uncle who is a sort offish magnate.’
‘Well, why does he stay there, if he dislikes it so much?’ said Eve with indignation. The helpless type of man was her pet aversion. ‘I hate a man who’s got no enterprise.’
‘I don’t think you could call him unenterprising. He never struck me like that. . . . You simply must meet him when you come back to London.’
‘All right,’ said Eve indifferently. ‘Just as you like. I might put business in his way. I’m very fond offish.’
3 EVE BORROWS AN UMBRELLA
WHAT strikes the visitor to London most forcibly, as he enters the heart of that city’s fashionable shopping district, is the almost entire absence of ostentation in the shop-windows, the studied avoidance of garish display. About the front of the premises of Messrs Thorpe & Briscoe, for instance, who sell coal in Dover Street, there is as a rule nothing whatever to attract fascinated attention. You might give the place a glance as you passed, but you would certainly not pause and stand staring at it as at the Sistine Chapel or the Taj Mahal. Yet at ten-thirty on the morning after Eve Halliday had taken tea with her friend Phyllis Jackson in West Kensington, Psmith, lounging gracefully in the smoking-room window of the Drones Club, which is immediately opposite the Thorpe & Briscoe establishment, had been gazing at it fixedly for a full five minutes. One would have said that the spectacle enthralled him. He seemed unable to take his eyes off it.
There is always a reason for the most apparently inexplicable happenings. It is the practice of Thorpe (or Briscoe) during the months of summer to run out an awning over the shop. A quiet, genteel awning, of course, nothing to offend the eye – but an awning which offers a quite adequate protection against those sudden showers which are such a delightfully piquant feature of the English summer: one of which had just begun to sprinkle the West End of London with a good deal of heartiness and vigour. And under this awning, peering plaintively out at the rain, Eve Halliday, on her way to the Ada Clarkson Employment Bureau, had taken refuge. It was she who had so enchained Psmith’s interest. It was his considered opinion that she improved the Thorpe & Briscoe frontage by about ninety-five per cent.
Pleased and gratified as Psmith was to have something nice to look at out of the smoking-room window, he was also somewhat puzzled. This girl seemed to him to radiate an atmosphere of wealth. Starting at farthest south and proceeding northward, she began in a gleam of patent-leather shoes. Fawn stockings, obviously expensive, led up to a black crêpe frock. And then, just as the eye was beginning to feel that there could be nothing more, it was stunned by a supreme hat of soft, dull satin with a black bird of Paradise feather falling down over the left shoulder. Even to the masculine eye, which is notoriously to seek in these matters, a whale of a hat. And yet this sumptuously upholstered young woman had been marooned by a shower of rain beneath the awning of Messrs Thorpe & Briscoe. Why, Psmith asked himself, was this? Even
, he argued, if Charles the chauffeur had been given the day offor was driving her father the millionaire to the City to attend to his vast interests, she could surely afford a cab-fare? We, who are familiar with the state of Eve’s finances, can understand her inability to take cabs, but Psmith was frankly perplexed.
Being, however, both ready-witted and chivalrous, he perceived that this was no time for idle speculation. His not to reason why; his obvious duty was to take steps to assist Beauty in distress. He left the window of the smoking-room, and, having made his way with a smooth dignity to the club’s cloak-room, proceeded to submit a row of umbrellas to a close inspection. He was not easy to satisfy. Two which he went so far as to pull out of the rack he returned with a shake of the head. Quite good umbrellas, but not fit for this special service. At length, however, he found a beauty, and a gentle smile flickered across his solemn face. He put up his monocle and gazed searchingly at this umbrella. It seemed to answer every test. He was well pleased with it.
‘Whose,’ he inquired of the attendant, ‘is this?’
‘Belongs to the Honourable Mr Walderwick, sir.’
‘Ah!’ said Psmith tolerantly.
He tucked the umbrella under his arm and went out.
∗∗∗∗∗
Meanwhile Eve Halliday, lightening up the sombre austerity of Messrs Thorpe & Briscoe’s shop-front, continued to think hard thoughts of the English climate and to inspect the sky in the hope of detecting a spot of blue. She was engaged in this cheerless occupation when at her side a voice spoke.
‘Excuse me!’
A hatless young man was standing beside her, holding an umbrella. He was a striking-looking young man, very tall, very thin, and very well dressed. In his right eye there was a monocle, and through this he looked down at her with a grave friendliness. He said nothing further, but, taking her fingers, clasped them round the handle of the umbrella, which he had obligingly opened, and then with a courteous bow proceeded to dash with long strides across the road, disappearing through the doorway of a gloomy building which, from the number of men who had gone in and out during her vigil, she had set down as a club of some sort.