Psmith himself regarded the coming ordeal11 with equanimity12. He was not one of those whom the[p. 228] prospect13 of speaking in public afflicts14 with nervous horror. He liked the sound of his own voice, and night, when it came, found him calmly cheerful. He listened contentedly15 to the murmur16 of the drawing-room filling up as he strolled on the star-lit terrace, smoking a last cigarette before duty called him elsewhere. And when, some few yards away, seated on the terrace wall gazing out into the velvet17 darkness, he perceived Eve Halliday, his sense of well-being18 became acute.
All day he had been conscious of a growing desire for another of those cosy19 chats with Eve which had done so much to make life agreeable for him during his stay at Blandings. Her prejudice—which he deplored—in favour of doing a certain amount of work to justify20 her salary, had kept him during the morning away from the little room off the library where she was wont21 to sit cataloguing books; and when he had gone there after lunch he had found it empty. As he approached her now, he was thinking pleasantly of all those delightful22 walks, those excellent driftings on the lake, and those cheery conversations which had gone to cement his conviction that of all possible girls she was the only possible one. It seemed to him that in addition to being beautiful she brought out all that was best in him of intellect and soul. That is to say, she let him talk oftener and longer than any girl he had ever known.
It struck him as a little curious that she made no move to greet him. She remained apparently24 unaware25 of his approach. And yet the summer night was not of such density26 as to hide him from view—and, even if she could not see him, she must undoubtedly27 have heard him; for only a moment before he had tripped with some violence over a large flower-pot, one of a row of sixteen which Angus McAllister, doubtless for some good purpose, had placed in the fairway that afternoon.
[p. 229]“A pleasant night,” he said, seating himself gracefully28 beside her on the wall.
She turned her head for a brief instant, and, having turned it, looked away again.
“Yes,” she said.
“The stars,” he proceeded, indicating them with a kindly31 yet not patronising wave of the hand. “Bright, twinkling, and—if I may say so—rather neatly32 arranged. When I was a mere33 lad, someone whose name I cannot recollect34 taught me which was Orion. Also Mars, Venus, and Jupiter. This thoroughly35 useless chunk36 of knowledge has, I am happy to say, long since passed from my mind. However, I am in a position to state that that wiggly thing up there a little to the right is King Charles’s Wain.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, indeed, I assure you.” It struck Psmith that Astronomy was not gripping his audience, so he tried Travel. “I hear,” he said, “you went to Market Blandings this afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“An attractive settlement.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Psmith removed his monocle and polished it thoughtfully. The summer night seemed to him to have taken on a touch of chill.
“What I like about the English rural districts,” he went on, “is that when the authorities have finished building a place they stop. Somewhere about the reign37 of Henry the Eighth, I imagine that the master-mason gave the final house a pat with his trowel and said, ‘Well, boys, that’s Market Blandings.’ To which his assistants no doubt assented38 with many a hearty39 ‘Grammercy!’ and ‘I’fackins!’ these being expletives to which they were much addicted40. And they went[p. 230] away and left it, and nobody has touched it since. And I, for one, thoroughly approve. I think it makes the place soothing41. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
As far as the darkness would permit, Psmith subjected Eve to an inquiring glance through his monocle. This was a strange new mood in which he had found her. Hitherto, though she had always endeared herself to him by permitting him the major portion of the dialogue, they had usually split conversations on at least a seventy-five—twenty-five basis. And though it gratified Psmith to be allowed to deliver a monologue42 when talking with most people, he found Eve more companionable when in a slightly chattier vein43.
“Are you coming in to hear me read?” he asked.
“No.”
It was a change from “Yes,” but that was the best that could be said of it. A good deal of discouragement was always required to damp Psmith, but he could not help feeling a slight diminution44 of buoyancy. However, he kept on trying.
“You show your usual sterling45 good sense,” he said approvingly. “A scalier method of passing the scented46 summer night could hardly be hit upon.” He abandoned the topic of the reading. It did not grip. That was manifest. It lacked appeal. “I went to Market Blandings this afternoon, too,” he said. “Comrade Baxter informed me that you had gone thither47, so I went after you. Not being able to find you, I turned in for half an hour at the local moving-picture palace. They were showing Episode Eleven of a serial48. It concluded with the heroine, kidnapped by Indians, stretched on the sacrificial altar with the high-priest making passes at her with a knife. The hero meanwhile had started to climb a rather nasty precipice49 on his way to the rescue.[p. 231] The final picture was a close-up of his fingers slipping slowly off a rock. Episode Twelve next week.”
Eve looked out into the night without speaking.
“I’m afraid it won’t end happily,” said Psmith with a sigh. “I think he’ll save her.”
Eve turned on him with a menacing abruptness50.
“Shall I tell you why I went to Market Blandings this afternoon?” she said.
“Do,” said Psmith cordially. “It is not for me to criticise51, but as a matter of fact I was rather wondering when you were going to begin telling me all about your adventures. I have been monopolising the conversation.”
“I went to meet Cynthia.”
Psmith’s monocle fell out of his eye and swung jerkily on its cord. He was not easily disconcerted, but this unexpected piece of information, coming on top of her peculiar52 manner, undoubtedly jarred him. He foresaw difficulties, and once again found himself thinking hard thoughts of this confounded female who kept bobbing up when least expected. How simple life would have been, he mused53 wistfully, had Ralston McTodd only had the good sense to remain a bachelor.
“Oh, Cynthia?” he said.
“Yes, Cynthia,” said Eve. The inconvenient55 Mrs. McTodd possessed56 a Christian57 name admirably adapted for being hissed58 between clenched59 teeth, and Eve hissed it in this fashion now. It became evident to Psmith that the dear girl was in a condition of hardly suppressed fury and that trouble was coming his way. He braced60 himself to meet it.
“Directly after we had that talk on the lake, the day I arrived,” continued Eve tersely61, “I wrote to Cynthia, telling her to come here at once and meet me at the ‘Emsworth Arms’ . . .”
[p. 232]“In the High Street,” said Psmith. “I know it. Good beer.”
“What!”
“I said they sell good beer . . .”
“Never mind about the beer,” cried Eve.
“No, no. I merely mentioned it in passing.”
“At lunch to-day I got a letter from her saying that she would be there this afternoon. So I hurried off. I wanted——” Eve laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh of a calibre which even the Hon. Freddie Threepwood would have found beyond his powers, and he was a specialist—“I wanted to try to bring you two together. I thought that if I could see her and have a talk with her that you might become reconciled.”
Psmith, though obsessed62 with a disquieting63 feeling that he was fighting in the last ditch, pulled himself together sufficiently64 to pat her hand as it lay beside him on the wall like some white and fragile flower.
“That was like you,” he murmured. “That was an act worthy65 of your great heart. But I fear that the rift23 between Cynthia and myself has reached such dimensions . . .”
Eve drew her hand away. She swung round, and the battery of her indignant gaze raked him furiously.
“I saw Cynthia,” she said, “and she told me that her husband was in Paris.”
“Now, how in the world,” said Psmith, struggling bravely but with a growing sense that they were coming over the plate a bit too fast for him, “how in the world did she get an idea like that?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Then I’ll tell you. She got the idea because she had had a letter from him, begging her to join him there. She had just finished telling me this, when I caught sight of you from the inn window, walking[p. 233] along the High Street. I pointed66 you out to Cynthia, and she said she had never seen you before in her life.”
“Women soon forget,” sighed Psmith.
“The only excuse I can find for you,” stormed Eve in a vibrant67 undertone necessitated68 by the fact that somebody had just emerged from the castle door and they no longer had the terrace to themselves, “is that you’re mad. When I think of all you said to me about poor Cynthia on the lake that afternoon, when I think of all the sympathy I wasted on you . . .”
“Not wasted,” corrected Psmith firmly. “It was by no means wasted. It made me love you—if possible—even more.”
Eve had supposed that she had embarked69 on a tirade70 which would last until she had worked off her indignation and felt composed again, but this extraordinary remark scattered71 the thread of her harangue72 so hopelessly that all she could do was to stare at him in amazed silence.
“Womanly intuition,” proceeded Psmith gravely, “will have told you long ere this that I love you with a fervour which with my poor vocabulary I cannot hope to express. True, as you are about to say, we have known each other but a short time, as time is measured. But what of that?”
“After what has happened,” she said, “I suppose I ought not to be surprised at finding you capable of anything, but—are you really choosing this moment to—to propose to me?”
“To employ a favourite word of your own—yes.”
“And you expect me to take you seriously?”
“Assuredly not. I look upon the present disclosure purely74 as a sighting shot. You may regard it, if you will, as a kind of formal proclamation. I wish simply to go on record as an aspirant75 to your hand. I want you, if you will be so good, to make a note of my words[p. 234] and give them a thought from time to time. As Comrade Cootes—a young friend of mine whom you have not yet met—would say, ‘Chew on them.’”
“I . . .”
“It is possible,” continued Psmith, “that black moments will come to you—for they come to all of us, even the sunniest—when you will find yourself saying, ‘Nobody loves me!’ On such occasions I should like you to add, ‘No, I am wrong. There is somebody who loves me.’ At first, it may be, that reflection will bring but scant76 balm. Gradually, however, as the days go by and we are constantly together and my nature unfolds itself before you like the petals77 of some timid flower beneath the rays of the sun . . .”
Eve’s eyes opened wider. She had supposed herself incapable78 of further astonishment79, but she saw that she had been mistaken.
“Most decidedly. Why not?”
“But—but what is to prevent me telling everybody that you are not Mr. McTodd?”
“Your sweet, generous nature,” said Psmith. “Your big heart. Your angelic forbearance.”
“Oh!”
“Considering that I only came here as McTodd—and if you had seen him you would realise that he is not a person for whom the man of sensibility and refinement82 would lightly allow himself to be mistaken—I say considering that I only took on the job of understudy so as to get to the castle and be near you, I hardly think that you will be able to bring yourself to get me slung83 out. You must try to understand what happened. When Lord Emsworth started chatting with me under the impression that I was Comrade McTodd, I[p. 235] encouraged the mistake purely with the kindly intention of putting him at his ease. Even when he informed me that he was expecting me to come down to Blandings with him on the five o’clock train, it never occurred to me to do so. It was only when I saw you talking to him in the street and he revealed the fact that you were about to enjoy his hospitality that I decided81 that there was no other course open to the man of spirit. Consider! Twice that day you had passed out of my life—may I say taking the sunshine with you?—and I began to fear you might pass out of it for ever. So, loath84 though I was to commit the solecism of planting myself in this happy home under false pretences85, I could see no other way. And here I am!”
“You must be mad!”
“Well, as I was saying, the days will go by, you will have ample opportunity of studying my personality, and it is quite possible that in due season the love of an honest heart may impress you as worth having. I may add that I have loved you since the moment when I saw you sheltering from the rain under that awning86 in Dover Street, and I recall saying as much to Comrade Walderwick when he was chatting with me some short time later on the subject of his umbrella. I do not press you for an answer now . . .”
“I should hope not!”
“I merely say ‘Think it over.’ It is nothing to cause you mental distress87. Other men love you. Freddie Threepwood loves you. Just add me to the list. That is all I ask. Muse54 on me from time to time. Reflect that I may be an acquired taste. You probably did not like olives the first time you tasted them. Now you probably do. Give me the same chance you would an olive. Consider, also, how little you actually have against me. What, indeed, does it amount to, when[p. 236] you come to examine it narrowly? All you have against me is the fact that I am not Ralston McTodd. Think how comparatively few people are Ralston McTodd. Let your meditations88 proceed along these lines and . . .”
He broke off, for at this moment the individual who had come out of the front door a short while back loomed89 beside them, and the glint of starlight on glass revealed him as the Efficient Baxter.
“Everybody is waiting, Mr. McTodd,” said the Efficient Baxter. He spoke90 the name, as always, with a certain sardonic91 emphasis.
“Of course,” said Psmith affably, “of course. I was forgetting. I will get to work at once. You are quite sure you do not wish to hear a scuttleful of modern poetry, Miss Halliday?”
“Quite sure.”
“And yet even now, so our genial92 friend here informs us, a bevy93 of youth and beauty is crowding the drawing-room, agog94 for the treat. Well, well! It is these strange clashings of personal taste which constitute what we call Life. I think I will write a poem about it some day. Come, Comrade Baxter, let us be up and doing. I must not disappoint my public.”
For some moments after the two had left her—Baxter silent and chilly95, Psmith, all debonair96 chumminess, kneading the other’s arm and pointing out as they went objects of interest by the wayside—Eve remained on the terrace wall, thinking. She was laughing now, but behind her amusement there was another feeling, and one that perplexed97 her. A good many men had proposed to her in the course of her career, but none of them had ever left her with this odd feeling of exhilaration. Psmith was different from any other man who had come her way, and difference was a quality which Eve esteemed98. . . .
[p. 237]She had just reached the conclusion that life for whatever girl might eventually decide to risk it in Psmith’s company would never be dull, when strange doings in her immediate99 neighbourhood roused her from her meditations.
The thing happened as she rose from her seat on the wall and started to cross the terrace on her way to the front door. She had stopped for an instant beneath the huge open window of the drawing-room to listen to what was going on inside. Faintly, with something of the quality of a far-off phonograph, the sound of Psmith reading came to her; and even at this distance there was a composed blandness100 about his voice which brought a smile to her lips.
And then, with a startling abruptness, the lighted window was dark. And she was aware that all the lighted windows on that side of the castle had suddenly become dark. The lamp that shone over the great door ceased to shine. And above the hubbub101 of voices in the drawing-room she heard Psmith’s patient drawl.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think the lights have gone out.”
The night air was rent by a single piercing scream. Something flashed like a shooting star and fell at her feet; and, stooping, Eve found in her hands Lady Constance Keeble’s diamond necklace.
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1
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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consensus
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| n.(意见等的)一致，一致同意，共识 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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vegetarianism
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| n.素食，素食主义 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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contentedly
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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wont
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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unaware
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density
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undoubtedly
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kindly
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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mere
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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thoroughly
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chunk
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reign
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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precipice
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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71
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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73
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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74
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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77
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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78
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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85
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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blandness
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| n.温柔，爽快 | |
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101
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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