PSMITH ACCEPTS EMPLOYMENT
T
HE of a perfect over Blandings Castle and its pleasure-grounds. From a sky of the sun its on all those roses, pinks, pansies, carnations, hollyhocks, columbines, larkspurs, London and Canterbury which the gardens so beautiful. Flannelled and in white in the shade; from the tennis-courts the shrubbery; and birds, bees, and about their with a new energy and zip. In short, the observer, that he was to phrases, would have said that supreme.
But happiness, on the mornings, is universal. The and were happy; the tennis-players were happy; the birds, bees, and were happy. Eve, walking in on the terrace, was happy. Freddie Threepwood was happy as he in the smoking-room and over the information, from Psmith in the small hours, that his thousand was safe. Mr. Keeble, to Phyllis to her that she might the purchase of the Lincolnshire farm, was happy. Even Head-gardener Angus McAllister was as happy as a Scotsman can be. But Lord Emsworth, out of the library window, only a more in with the of winter than with the only July that England had in the last ten years.
We have his in a and a like of mind on a previous occasion; but then his had been to the of his glasses. This these were on his nose and he saw all clearly. What was his now was the that some ten minutes his sister Constance had him in the library, full of on the of the of Rupert Baxter, the world’s most secretary. It was to avoid her that Lord Emsworth had to the window. And what he saw from that window him into the of gloom. The sun, the birds, the bees, the butterflies, and the flowers called to him to come out and have the time of his life, but he just the nerve to make a for it.
“I think you must be mad,” said Lady Constance bitterly, her and starting at the point where she had before.
“Baxter’s mad,” his lordship, also re-treading old ground.
“You are too absurd!”
“He flower-pots at me.”
“Do stop talking about those flower-pots. Mr. Baxter has the whole thing to me, and surely you can see that his was perfectly excusable.”
“I don’t like the fellow,” Lord Emsworth, once more to his last line of trenches—the one line from which all Lady Constance’s had been unable to him.
There was a silence, as there had been a while when the had this same point.
“You will be without him,” said Lady Constance.
“Nothing of the kind,” said his lordship.
“You know you will. Where will you another of looking after like Mr. Baxter? You know you are a perfect child, and unless you have someone you can trust to manage your I cannot see what will happen.”
Lord Emsworth no reply. He from the window.
“Chaos,” Lady Constance.
His mute, but now there was a of something in his eyes; for at this moment a car the of the house from the direction of the and at the door. There was a on the car and a suit-case. And almost the Efficient Baxter entered the library, and for travel.
“I have come to say good-bye, Lady Constance,” said Baxter and precisely, at his late through his a look of reproach. “The car which is taking me to the station is at the door.”
“Oh, Mr. Baxter.” Lady Constance, woman though she was, with distress. “Oh, Mr. Baxter.”
“Good-bye.” He her hand in and his for another upon the at the window. “Good-bye, Lord Emsworth.”
“Eh? What? Oh! Ah, yes. Good-bye, my dear fel——, I mean, good-bye. I—er—hope you will have a journey.”
“Thank you,” said Baxter.
“But, Mr. Baxter,” said Lady Constance.
“Lord Emsworth,” said the ex-secretary icily, “I am no longer in your . . .”
“But, Mr. Baxter,” Lady Constance, “surely . . . now . . . . . . talk it all over . . .”
Lord Emsworth started violently.
“Here!” he protested, in much the same manner as that in which the Mr. Cootes had been to say “Hey!”
“I it is too late,” said Baxter, to his relief, “to talk over. My are already and cannot be altered. Ever since I came here to work for Lord Emsworth, my employer—an American named Jevons—has been making me offers to return to him. Until now a of has me from these offers, but this I to Mr. Jevons to say that I was at and join him at once. It is too late now to this promise.”
“Quite, quite, oh certainly, quite, mustn’t of it, my dear fellow. No, no, no, no,” said Lord Emsworth with an which his as in the most taste.
Baxter haughtily, but Lady Constance was so by the and the in which they were that she her brother’s no longer. Shaking Baxter’s hand once more and for a moment at the by the window, she left the room.
For some after she had gone, there was silence—a which Lord Emsworth embarrassing. He to the window again and took in with one the roses, the pinks, the pansies, the carnations, the hollyhocks, the columbines, the larkspurs, the London and the Canterbury bells. And then there came to him the that with Lady Constance gone there no longer any why he should up in this library on the that had been sent to the of man. He from the top of his to the of his shoes, and, from the window, started to across the room.
“Lord Emsworth!”
His halted. His was a one-track mind, of only one at a time—if that, and he had almost that Baxter was still there. He his late peevishly.
“Yes, yes? Is there anything . . . ?”
“I should like to speak to you for a moment.”
“I have a most with McAllister . . .”
“I will not you long. Lord Emsworth, I am no longer in your employment, but I think it my to say I go . . .”
“No, no, my dear fellow, I understand. Quite, quite, quite. Constance has been going over all that. I know what you are trying to say. That of the flower-pots. Please do not apologise. It is all right. I was at the time, I own, but no you had excellent motives. Let us the whole affair.”
Baxter ground an into the carpet.
“I had no of to the to which you allude,” he said. “I . . .”
“Yes, yes, of course.” A in at the window, with scents, and Lord Emsworth, sniffing, restlessly. “Of course, of course, of course. Some other time, eh? Yes, yes, that will be capital. Capital, capital, cap——”
The Efficient Baxter a that was a cry, a snort. Its quality was so that Lord Emsworth paused, his on the door-handle, and at him, startled.
“Very well,” said Baxter shortly. “Pray do not let me keep you. If you are not in the that Blandings Castle is a . . .”
It was not easy to Lord Emsworth when in of Angus McAllister, but this succeeded in doing so. He let go of the door-handle and came a step or two into the room.
“Sheltering a criminal?”
“Yes.” Baxter at his watch. “I must go now or I shall miss my train,” he said curtly. “I was going to tell you that this who calls himself Ralston McTodd is not Ralston McTodd at all.”
“Not Ralston McTodd?” his blankly. “But——” He a in the argument. “But he said he was,” he pointed out cleverly. “Yes, I distinctly. He said he was McTodd.”
“He is an impostor. And I that if you you will that it is he and his who Lady Constance’s necklace.”
“But, my dear . . .”
Baxter walked to the door.
“You need not take my word for it,” he said. “What I say can easily be proved. Get this so-called McTodd to his name on a piece of paper and then it with the to the which the McTodd when Lady Constance’s to the castle. You will it away in the of that there.”
Lord Emsworth his and at the as if he it to do a conjuring-trick.
“I will you to take what steps you please,” said Baxter. “Now that I am no longer in your employment, the thing not me one way or another. But I you might be to the facts.”
“Oh, I am!” his lordship, still vaguely. “Oh, I am! Oh, yes, yes, yes. Oh, yes, yes . . .”
“Good-bye.”
“But, Baxter . . .”
Lord Emsworth out on to the landing, but Baxter had got off to a good start and was almost out of the of the stairs.
“But, my dear . . .” his over the banisters.
From below, out on the drive, came the of an into and moving off, than which no is more final. The great door of the closed with a soft but bang—as doors close when by an butler. Lord Emsworth returned to the library to with his problem unaided.
He was disturbed. Apart from the that he and as a class, it was a to him to learn that the particular and then in at Blandings was the man for whom, as had been the of their acquaintance, he had a warm affection. He was of Psmith. Psmith him. If he had had to choose any of his circle for the rôle of and impostor, he would have Psmith last.
He to the window again and looked out. There was the sunshine, there were the birds, there were the hollyhocks, carnations, and Canterbury bells, all present and correct; but now they failed to him. He was what on earth he was going to do. What did one do with and impostors? Had ’em arrested, he supposed. But he from the of Psmith. It so unfriendly.
He was still when a voice spoke him.
“Good morning. I am looking for Miss Halliday. You have not her by any chance? Ah, there she is there on the terrace.”
Lord Emsworth was aware of Psmith him at the window, to Eve, who back.
“I possibly,” Psmith, “that Miss Halliday would be in her little room yonder”—he the book-shelves through which he had entered. “But I am to see that the is so that she has the miss-in-baulk. It is the right spirit,” said Psmith. “I like to see it.”
Lord Emsworth at him through his glasses. His and his for the that him as he his in for those of which all well-regulated and ought to to the of discernment.
“I am to you indoors,” said Psmith, “on so a morning. I should have that you would have been there among the shrubs, taking a good at a or something.”
Lord Emsworth himself for the ordeal.
“Er, my dear . . . that is to say . . .” He paused. Psmith was him almost through his monocle, and it was difficult to warm up to the work of him.
“You were . . . ?” said Psmith.
Lord Emsworth noises.
“I have just from Baxter,” he said at length, to approach the in more fashion.
“Indeed?” said Psmith courteously.
“Yes. Baxter has gone.”
“For ever?”
“Er—yes.”
“Splendid!” said Psmith. “Splendid, splendid.”
Lord Emsworth his glasses, them on their cord, and replaced them on his nose.
“He . . . He—er—the is, he . . . Before he Baxter a most . . . a . . . Well, in short, he a very about you.”
Psmith gravely.
“I had been something of the kind,” he said. “He said, no doubt, that I was not Ralston McTodd?”
His lordship’s mouth opened feebly.
“Er—yes,” he said.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you about that,” said Psmith amiably. “It is true. I am not Ralston McTodd.”
“You—you admit it!”
“I am proud of it.”
Lord Emsworth himself up. He to assume the of which came so naturally to him in with his son Frederick. But he met Psmith’s and again. Beneath the of Psmith’s was impossible.
“Then what the are you doing here under his name?” he asked, his in fashion on the very of the problem. “I to say,” he on, making his meaning clearer, “if you aren’t McTodd, why did you come here saying you were McTodd?”
Psmith slowly.
“The point is well taken,” he said. “I was you to ask that question. Primarily—I want no thanks, but I did it to save you embarrassment.”
“Save me embarrassment?”
“Precisely. When I came into the smoking-room of our that when you had been Comrade McTodd at lunch, I him on the point of out of your life for ever. It that he had taken to some you had off to with the across the way of with him. And, after we had a word or two, he it, you one modern poet. On your return I into the to save you from the of having to return here without a McTodd of any description. No one, of course, have been more alive than myself to the that I was a substitute, a of McTodd, but still I that I was than nothing, so I came along.”
His this in silence. Then he on a point.
“Are you a of the Senior Conservative Club?”
“Most certainly.”
“Why, then, it,” his lordship, paying to that of as a as it had received, “if you’re a of the Senior Conservative, you can’t be a criminal. Baxter’s an ass!”
“Exactly.”
“Baxter would have it that you had my sister’s necklace.”
“I can you that I have not got Lady Constance’s necklace.”
“Of not, of not, my dear fellow. I’m only telling you what that Baxter said. Thank I’ve got of the fellow.” A cloud passed over his now sunny face. “Though, it, Connie was right about one thing.” He into a silence.
“Yes?” said Psmith.
“Eh?” said his lordship.
“You were saying that Lady Constance had been right about one thing.”
“Oh, yes. She was saying that I should have a hard time another as as Baxter.”
Psmith permitted himself to an on his host’s shoulder.
“You have touched on a matter,” he said, “which I had to to you at some moment when you were at leisure. If you would to accept my services, they are at your disposal.”
“Eh?”
“The is,” said Psmith, “I am about to be married, and it is more or less that I with some job which will a competence. Why should I not your secretary?”
“You want to be my secretary?”
“You have my meaning exactly.”
“But I’ve had a married secretary.”
“I think that you would a married man an on these wild, flower-pot-throwing bachelors. If it would help to your decision, I may say that my bride-to-be is Miss Halliday, the library-cataloguist in the United Kingdom.”
“Eh? Miss Halliday? That girl there?”
“No other,” said Psmith, at Eve as she passed the window. “In fact, the same.”
“But I like her,” said Lord Emsworth, as if an objection.
“Excellent.”
“She’s a girl.”
“I agree with you.”
“Do you think you look after here like Baxter?”
“I am of it.”
“Then, my dear fellow—well, I must say . . . I must say . . . well, I mean, why shouldn’t you?”
“Precisely,” said Psmith. “You have put in a the very thing I have been trying to express.”
“But have you had any as a secretary?”
“I must admit that I have not. You see, until I was more or less one of the rich. I not, neither did I—except once, after a bump-supper at Cambridge—spin. My name, I ought to to you, is Psmith—the p is silent—and until very I in not from the village of Much Middlefold in this county. My name is to you, but you may have of the house which was for many years the Psmith head-quarters—Corfby Hall.”
Lord Emsworth his off his nose.
“Corfby Hall! Are you the son of the Smith who used to own Corfby Hall? Why, my soul, I your father well.”
“Really?”
“Yes. That is to say, I met him.”
“No?”
“But I the prize for roses at the Shrewsbury Flower Show the year he the prize for tulips.”
“It to us very close together,” said Psmith.
“Why, my dear boy,” Lord Emsworth jubilantly, “if you are looking for a position of some and would to be my secretary, nothing me better. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Why, my . . .”
“I am obliged,” said Psmith. “And I shall to give satisfaction. And surely, if a Baxter the job, it should be well the scope of a Shropshire Psmith. I think so, I think so. . . . And now, if you will me, I think I will go and tell the news to the little woman, if I may so her.”
* * * * *
Psmith his way the at an than that by the Baxter, for he each moment of this excellent day that was not in the company of Eve. He to himself as he passed through the hall, only when, as he passed the door of the smoking-room, the Hon. Freddie Threepwood emerged.
“Oh, I say!” said Freddie. “Just the I wanted to see. I was going off to look for you.”
Freddie’s was itself. As as Freddie was concerned, all that had passed them in the in the west last night was and forgotten.
“Say on, Comrade Threepwood,” Psmith; “and, if I may offer the suggestion, make it snappy, for I would be elsewhere. I have man’s work me.”
“Come over here.” Freddie him into a of the and his voice to a whisper. “I say, it’s all right, you know.”
“Excellent!” said Psmith. “Splendid! This is great news. What is all right?”
“I’ve just Uncle Joe. He’s going to up the money he promised me.”
“I you.”
“So now I shall be able to into that bookie’s and make a pile. And, I say, you my telling you about Miss Halliday?”
“What was that?”
“Why, that I loved her, I mean, and all that.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Well, look here, ourselves,” said Freddie earnestly, “the whole trouble all along has been that she I hadn’t any money to married on. She didn’t actually say so in so many words, but you know how it is with women—you can read the lines, if you know what I mean. So now everything’s going to be all right. I shall go to her and say, ‘Well, what about it?’ and—well, and so on, don’t you know?”
Psmith the point gravely.
“I see your reasoning, Comrade Threepwood,” he said. “I can but one in it.”
“Flaw? What flaw?”
“The that Miss Halliday is going to me.”
The Hon. Freddie’s dropped. His more prawn-like.
“What!”
Psmith his commiseratingly.
“Be a man, Comrade Threepwood, and bite the bullet. These will to the best of us. Some day you will be that this has occurred. Purged in the of a love, you will out into the sunset, a finer, man. . . . And now I must tear myself away. I have an appointment.” He his once more. “If you would to be a page at the wedding, Comrade Threepwood, I can say that there is no one I would have in that capacity.”
And with a of farewell, Psmith passed out on to the to join Eve.
