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

with a couple of aspirins, Comrade Threepwood, and leave me to my thoughts. All will doubtless come right in the future.” IX Psmith Engages a Valet I

From out of the scented shade of the big cedar on the lawn in front of the castle Psmith looked at the flowerbeds, jaunty and gleaming in the afternoon sun; then he looked back at Eve, incredulity in every feature.

“I must have misunderstood you. Surely,” he said in a voice vibrant with reproach, “you do not seriously intend to work in weather like this?”

“I must. I’ve got a conscience. They aren’t paying me a handsome salary⁠—a fairly handsome salary⁠—to sit about in deck-chairs.”

“But you only came yesterday.”

“Well, I ought to have worked yesterday.”

“It seems to me,” said Psmith, “the nearest thing to slavery that I have ever struck. I had hoped, seeing that everybody had gone off and left us alone, that we were going to spend a happy and instructive afternoon together under the shade of this noble tree, talking of this and that. Is it not to be?”

“No, it is not. It’s lucky you’re not the one who’s supposed to be cataloguing this library. It would never get finished.”

“And why, as your employer would say, should it? He has expressed the opinion several times in my hearing that the library has jogged along quite comfortably for a great number of years without being catalogued. Why shouldn’t it go on like that indefinitely?”

“It’s no good trying to tempt me. There’s nothing I should like better than to loaf here for hours and hours, but what would Mr. Baxter say when he got back and found out?”

“It is becoming increasingly clear to me each day that I stay in this place,” said Psmith moodily, “that Comrade Baxter is little short of a blister on the community. Tell me, how do you get on with him?”

“I don’t like him much.”

“Nor do I. It is on these communities of taste that lifelong attachments are built. Sit down and let us exchange confidences on the subject of Baxter.”

Eve laughed.

“I won’t. You’re simply trying to lure me into staying out here and neglecting my duty. I really must be off now. You have no idea what a lot of work there is to be done.”

“You are entirely spoiling my afternoon.”

“No, I’m not. You’ve got a book. What is it?”

Psmith picked up the brightly-jacketed volume and glanced at it.

“The Man with the Missing Toe. Comrade Threepwood lent it to me. He has a vast store of this type of narrative. I expect he will be wanting you to catalogue his library next.”

“Well, it looks interesting.”

“Ah, but what does it teach? How long do you propose to shut yourself up in that evil-smelling library?”

“An hour or so.”

“Then I shall rely on your society at the end of that period. We might go for another saunter on the lake.”

“All right. I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished.”

Psmith watched her disappear into the house, then seated himself once more in the long chair under the cedar. A sense of loneliness oppressed him. He gave one look at The Man with the Missing Toe, and, having rejected the entertainment it offered, gave himself up to meditation.

Blandings Castle dozed in the midsummer heat like a Palace of Sleep. There had been an exodus of its inmates shortly after lunch, when Lord Emsworth, Lady Constance, Mr. Keeble, Miss Peavey, and the Efficient Baxter had left for the neighbouring town of Bridgeford in the big car, with the Hon. Freddie puffing in its wake in a natty two-seater. Psmith, who had been invited to accompany them, had declined on the plea that he wished to write a poem. He felt but a tepid interest in the afternoon’s programme, which was to consist of the unveiling by his lordship of the recently completed memorial to the late Hartley Reddish, Esq., J.P., for so many years Member of Parliament for the Bridgeford and Shifley Division of Shropshire. Not even the prospect of hearing Lord Emsworth⁠—clad, not without vain protest and weak grumbling, in a silk hat, morning coat, and sponge-bag trousers⁠—deliver a speech, had been sufficient to lure him from the castle grounds.

But at the moment when he had uttered his refusal, thereby incurring the ill-concealed envy both of Lord Emsworth and his son Freddie, the latter also an unwilling celebrant, he had supposed that his solitude would be shared by Eve. This deplorable conscientiousness of hers, this morbid craving for work, had left him at a loose end. The time and the place were both above criticism, but, as so often happens in this life of ours, he had been let down by the girl.

But, though he chafed for awhile, it was not long before the dreamy peace of the afternoon began to exercise a soothing effect upon him. With the exception of the bees that worked with their usual misguided energy among the flowers and an occasional butterfly which flitted past in the sunshine, all nature seemed to be taking a siesta. Somewhere out of sight a lawn-mower had begun to emphasise the stillness with its musical whir. A telegraph-boy on a red bicycle passed up the drive to the front door, and seemed to have some difficulty in establishing communication with the domestic staff⁠—from which Psmith deduced that Beach, the butler, like a good opportunist, was taking advantage of the absence of authority to enjoy a nap in some distant lair of his own. Eventually a parlourmaid appeared, accepted the telegram and (apparently) a rebuke from the boy, and the bicycle passed out of sight, leaving silence and peace once more.

The noblest minds are not proof against atmospheric conditions of this kind. Psmith’s eyes closed, opened, closed again. And presently his regular breathing, varied by an occasional snore, was added to the rest of the small sounds of the summer afternoon.

The shadow of the cedar was appreciably longer when he awoke with that sudden start which generally