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

running off and marrying a far from rich and quite unsuitable person of whom all that seemed to be known was that his name was Jackson. Mr. Keeble, whose simple creed was that Phyllis could do no wrong, had been prepared to accept the situation philosophically; but his wife’s wrath had been deep and enduring. So much so that the mere mentioning of the girl’s name must be accounted to him for a brave deed, Lady Constance having specifically stated that she never wished to hear it again.

Keenly alive to this prejudice of hers, Mr. Keeble stopped after making his announcement, and had to rattle his keys in his pocket in order to acquire the necessary courage to continue. He was not looking at his wife, but he knew just how forbidding her expression must be. This task of his was no easy, congenial task for a pleasant summer morning.

“She says in her letter,” proceeded Mr. Keeble, his eyes on the carpet and his cheeks a deeper pink, “that young Jackson has got the chance of buying a big farm⁠ ⁠… in Lincolnshire, I think she said⁠ ⁠… if he can raise three thousand pounds.”

He paused, and stole a glance at his wife. It was as he had feared. She had congealed. Like some spell, the name Jackson had apparently turned her to marble. It was like the Pygmalion and Galatea business working the wrong way round. She was presumably breathing, but there was no sign of it.

“So I was just thinking,” said Mr. Keeble, producing another obbligato on the keys, “it just crossed my mind⁠ ⁠… it isn’t as if the thing were a speculation⁠ ⁠… the place is apparently coining money⁠ ⁠… present owner only selling because he wants to go abroad⁠ ⁠… it occurred to me⁠ ⁠… and they would pay good interest on the loan⁠ ⁠…”

“What loan?” inquired the statue icily, coming to life.

“Well, what I was thinking⁠ ⁠… just a suggestion, you know⁠ ⁠… what struck me was that if you were willing we might⁠ ⁠… good investment, you know, and nowadays it’s deuced hard to find good investments⁠ ⁠… I was thinking that we might lend them the money.”

He stopped. But he had got the thing out and felt happier. He rattled his keys again, and rubbed the back of his head against the mantelpiece. The friction seemed to give him confidence.

“We had better settle this thing once and for all, Joe,” said Lady Constance. “As you know, when we were married, I was ready to do everything for Phyllis. I was prepared to be a mother to her. I gave her every chance, took her everywhere. And what happened?”

“Yes, I know. But⁠ ⁠…”

“She became engaged to a man with plenty of money⁠ ⁠…”

“Shocking young ass,” interjected Mr. Keeble, perking up for a moment at the recollection of the late lamented, whom he had never liked. “And a rip, what’s more. I’ve heard stories.”

“Nonsense! If you are going to believe all the gossip you hear about people, nobody would be safe. He was a delightful young man and he would have made Phyllis perfectly happy. Instead of marrying him, she chose to go off with this⁠—Jackson.” Lady Constance’s voice quivered. Greater scorn could hardly have been packed into two syllables. “After what has happened, I certainly intend to have nothing more to do with her. I shall not lend them a penny, so please do not let us continue this discussion any longer. I hope I am not an unjust woman, but I must say that I consider, after the way Phyllis behaved⁠ ⁠…”

The sudden opening of the door caused her to break off. Lord Emsworth, mould-stained and wearing a deplorable old jacket, pottered into the room. He peered benevolently at his sister and his brother-in-law, but seemed unaware that he was interrupting a conversation.

“Gardening as a Fine Art,” he murmured. “Connie, have you seen a book called Gardening as a Fine Art? I was reading it in here last night. Gardening as a Fine Art. That is the title. Now, where can it have got to?” His dreamy eye flitted to and fro. “I want to show it to McAllister. There is a passage in it that directly refutes his anarchistic views on⁠ ⁠…”

“It is probably on one of the shelves,” said Lady Constance shortly.

“On one of the shelves?” said Lord Emsworth, obviously impressed by this bright suggestion. “Why, of course, to be sure.”

Mr. Keeble was rattling his keys moodily. A mutinous expression was on his pink face. These moments of rebellion did not come to him very often, for he loved his wife with a doglike affection and had grown accustomed to being ruled by her, but now resentment filled him. She was unreasonable, he considered. She ought to have realised how strongly he felt about poor little Phyllis. It was too infernally cold-blooded to abandon the poor child like an old shoe simply because⁠ ⁠…

“Are you going?” he asked, observing his wife moving to the door.

“Yes. I am going into the garden,” said Lady Constance. “Why? Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No,” said Mr. Keeble despondently. “Oh, no.”

Lady Constance left the room, and a deep masculine silence fell. Mr. Keeble rubbed the back of his head meditatively against the mantelpiece, and Lord Emsworth scratched among the bookshelves.

“Clarence!” said Mr. Keeble suddenly. An idea⁠—one might almost say an inspiration⁠—had come to him.

“Eh?” responded his lordship absently. He had found his book and was turning its pages, absorbed.

“Clarence, can you⁠ ⁠…”

“Angus McAllister,” observed Lord Emsworth bitterly, “is an obstinate, stiff-necked son of Belial. The writer of this book distinctly states in so many words⁠ ⁠…”

“Clarence, can you lend me three thousand pounds on good security and keep it dark from Connie?”

Lord Emsworth blinked.

“Keep something dark from Connie?” He raised his eyes from his book in order to peer at this visionary with a gentle pity. “My dear fellow, it can’t be done.”

“She would never know. I will tell you just why I want this money⁠ ⁠…”

“Money?” Lord Emsworth’s eye had become vacant again. He was reading once more. “Money? Money, my dear fellow? Money?