Leave It to Psmith, P. G. Wodehouse [novels to read .txt] 📗

I can’t possibly leave Blandings. The weather may break at any moment. I don’t want to miss a day of it.”

“The arrangements are all made.”

“Send the fellow a wire⁠ ⁠… ‘unavoidably detained.’ ”

“I could not take the responsibility for such a course myself,” said Baxter coldly. “But possibly if you were to make the suggestion to Lady Constance⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, dash it!” said Lord Emsworth unhappily, at once realising the impossibility of the scheme. “Oh, well, if I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” he said after a gloomy pause. “But to leave my garden and stew in London at this time of the year⁠ ⁠…”

There seemed nothing further to say on the subject. He took off his glasses, polished them, put them on again, and shuffled to the door. After all, he reflected, even though the car was coming for him at two, at least he had the morning, and he proposed to make the most of it. But his first careless rapture at the prospect of pottering among his flowers was dimmed, and would not be recaptured. He did not entertain any project so mad as the idea of defying his sister Constance, but he felt extremely bitter about the whole affair. Confound Constance!⁠ ⁠… Dash Baxter!⁠ ⁠… Miss Peavey⁠ ⁠…

The door closed behind Lord Emsworth.

II

Lady Constance meanwhile, proceeding downstairs, had reached the big hall, when the door of the smoking-room opened and a head popped out. A round, grizzled head with a healthy pink face attached to it.

“Connie!” said the head.

Lady Constance halted.

“Yes, Joe?”

“Come in here a minute,” said the head. “Want to speak to you.”

Lady Constance went into the smoking-room. It was large and cosily book-lined, and its window looked out on to an Italian garden. A wide fireplace occupied nearly the whole of one side of it, and in front of this, his legs spread to an invisible blaze, Mr. Joseph Keeble had already taken his stand. His manner was bluff, but an acute observer might have detected embarrassment in it.

“What is it, Joe?” asked Lady Constance, and smiled pleasantly at her husband. When, two years previously, she had married this elderly widower, of whom the world knew nothing beyond the fact that he had amassed a large fortune in South African diamond mines, there had not been wanting cynics to set the match down as one of convenience, a purely business arrangement by which Mr. Keeble exchanged his money for Lady Constance’s social position. Such was not the case. It had been a genuine marriage of affection on both sides. Mr. Keeble worshipped his wife, and she was devoted to him, though never foolishly indulgent. They were a happy and united couple.

Mr. Keeble cleared his throat. He seemed to find some difficulty in speaking. And when he spoke it was not on the subject which he had intended to open, but on one which had already been worn out in previous conversations.

“Connie, I’ve been thinking about that necklace again.”

Lady Constance laughed.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Joe. You haven’t called me into this stuffy room on a lovely morning like this to talk about that for the hundredth time.”

“Well, you know, there’s no sense in taking risks.”

“Don’t be absurd. What risks can there be?”

“There was a burglary over at Winstone Court, not ten miles from here, only a day or two ago.”

“Don’t be so fussy, Joe.”

“That necklace cost nearly twenty thousand pounds,” said Mr. Keeble, in the reverent voice in which men of business traditions speak of large sums.

“I know.”

“It ought to be in the bank.”

“Once and for all, Joe,” said Lady Constance, losing her amiability and becoming suddenly imperious and Cleopatrine, “I will not keep that necklace in a bank. What on earth is the use of having a beautiful necklace if it is lying in the strongroom of a bank all the time? There is the County Ball coming on, and the Bachelors’ Ball after that, and⁠ ⁠… well, I need it. I will send the thing to the bank when we pass through London on our way to Scotland, but not till then. And I do wish you would stop worrying me about it.”

There was a silence. Mr. Keeble was regretting now that his unfortunate poltroonery had stopped him from tackling in a straightforward and manly fashion the really important matter which was weighing on his mind: for he perceived that his remarks about the necklace, eminently sensible though they were, had marred the genial mood in which his wife had begun this interview. It was going to be more difficult now than ever to approach the main issue. Still, ruffled though she might be, the thing had to be done: for it involved a matter of finance, and in matters of finance Mr. Keeble was no longer a free agent. He and Lady Constance had a mutual banking account, and it was she who supervised the spending of it. This was an arrangement, subsequently regretted by Mr. Keeble, which had been come to in the early days of the honeymoon, when men are apt to do foolish things.

Mr. Keeble coughed. Not the sharp, efficient cough which we have heard Rupert Baxter uttering in the library, but a feeble, strangled thing like the bleat of a diffident sheep.

“Connie,” he said. “Er⁠—Connie.”

And at the words a sort of cold film seemed to come over Lady Constance’s eyes: for some sixth sense told her what subject it was that was now about to be introduced.

“Connie, I⁠—er⁠—had a letter from Phyllis this morning.”

Lady Constance said nothing. Her eyes gleamed for an instant, then became frozen again. Her intuition had not deceived her.

Into the married life of this happy couple only one shadow had intruded itself up to the present. But unfortunately it was a shadow of considerable proportions, a kind of super-shadow; and its effect had been chilling. It was Phyllis, Mr. Keeble’s stepdaughter, who had caused it⁠—by the simple process of jilting the rich and suitable young man whom Lady Constance had attached to her (rather in the manner of a conjurer forcing a card upon his victim) and