Summer Moonshine (10 page)

'Those teeth are new, aren't they?'

'This year's,' said Mr Bulpitt rather proudly. 'Say, this is a great place you've got here, Alice.'

'I like it.'

'And that's a great girl you've got.'

'Imogen?'

'Is that her name? Just been talking to her. She was telling me about your romance.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Some romance. Like a fairy story.'

'Yes. I'm glad you liked Imogen.'

'She's swell. So, if the old man's all right, too, seems to me you've got a full hand.'

A tender look came into Lady Abbott's beautiful eyes as it always did when she thought of her husband.

'Buck's great. You'll like Buck. Come along and I'll take you to him. He's in his study.'

'Sure. What do I call him? Your lordship?'

'I've never heard of anyone calling him anything except "Buck".'

'Regular fellow, eh?'

'One of the gang,' said Lady Abbott.

She led the way along passages and round corners, until they came to a door from behind which proceeded the sound of voices. She pushed it open and went in.

The voices which had proceeded from behind the study door were those of Sir Buckstone Abbott and Mr Chinnery But at the time of Mr Bulpitt's intrusion upon Jane in the dining-room only the former had been present. He was working on some papers connected with the estate.

It was a task which he never enjoyed and it might have been supposed that, finding it so irksome, he would have welcomed any interruption that took his mind off it. This, however, was not the case. When, after he had been occupied for some little while, the door suddenly burst open and Mr Chinnery came charging in, he was not pleased but annoyed; and more than annoyed, outraged. It was an understood thing that, when in his study, he was supposed to enjoy those privileges of sanctuary which outlaws of old were allowed to claim at the altar.

His first impression, however, that his guest had invaded his privacy in order to take up once more the matter of that five-
hundred-pound loan was not correct. Mr Chinnery's moonlike face was pallid and his eyes, peering through their glasses, had a hunted look. It was plain that he had more serious things on his mind than frozen assets.

'Abbott,' said Mr Chinnery, 'I've had a shock.'

It was on the tip of Sir Buckstone's tongue to tell him to go and work off its effects elsewhere, but he refrained – not so much because he shrank from being brusque as because he had no time to speak.

His visitor continued:

'That fellow's here!'

'What fellow?'

'I'd gone down to the village to buy some stamps, and I was passing the inn, and out he came.'

'Who?'

'This fellow.'

'What fellow?'

'This fellow I'm telling you about. He came out of the inn. Yes, sir, right plump spang in the middle of an Old World English village where who in God's name would ever have thought he'd have been within a thousand miles of? Goosh!'

Mr Chinnery sank into a chair and passed his tongue over his lips. His manner was that of a stag at bay. Imagine a stag in hornrimmed spectacles, and you have Elmer Chinnery at this moment. Landseer would have liked to paint him.

'Listen, Abbott,' he said. 'You know, I guess, that I've not been altogether too fortunate in my matrimonial ventures. I'm easily led, that's what's the trouble with me, and I'm too softhearted to say no, and the result is I don't seem to pick 'em right. So, what with one thing and another, I'm paying out alimony
three ways now, and a fourth pending. That's why I skipped out of New York, because I heard my fourth wife was trying to have me served with the papers. And now this fellow arrives. Here! In this Old World English village. Can you beat it?'

'What fellow?'

'I can't do it!' cried Mr Chinnery feverishly. 'I can't afford to pay out any more alimony. No fortune can stand the strain. And it isn't as if I'd got all the money in the world. People think I have, but I haven't. And I've had some extra expenses lately,' he added, collecting himself sufficiently to give his companion a meaning glance. 'Some heavy extra expenses. And now this fellow pops up right plumb spang in the middle of—'

Sir Buckstone's voice took on the timbre of that of one of those lions roaring outside the camp fire, of which he had written so feelingly in his recently published volume, 'My Sporting Memories' (Mortimer Busby Co.,
15s.).
He was a sensitive man, and the meaning look had stirred him up.

'What fellow?'

'This fellow I'm telling you about that I was down in the village buying stamps and saw him coming out of the inn. You know who he is? America's champion plasterer. Claims he always gets his man, and he does too. He's like a bloodhound.'

'Plasterer?' said Sir Buckstone, puzzled. He had had plasterers in the house only two weeks ago, but he had discerned nothing in their bearing to inspire alarm. They had made the deuce of a mess, slopping stuff all over the place, but they had appeared to him stolid and, except for their tendency to whistle 'Body and Soul' off the key, quiet men. He could not see a plasterer in the role of bloodhound.

'Process server,' interpreted Mr Chinnery, realizing that he was talking to an unenlightened foreigner.

'Oh?' said Sir Buckstone. 'Ah? You mean the man who serves the papers on you?'

Mr Chinnery quivered.

'Serves the papers,' he said emotionally, 'is right. He never misses. He's like a stoat and a rabbit. Listen while I tell you how he got me, the time my first wife – no, it was my second – was chasing me with that inhuman mental cruelty suit of hers. I was lying up at an hotel in Stamford, Connecticut, reckoning he'd never be able to trail me down there, and I'm sitting at the open window after breakfast, smoking a cigar and thinking I'd got him fooled at last, when all of a sudden there he is, on top of a ladder with the papers in his hand, and he threw them in my lap, saying: "Ahoy there, Mr Chinnery!" Threw them at me, y'understand! I claimed it was not fair and didn't count, but the courts said it did, and there it was. And I'm walking through this Old World English village just now, buying stamps, and out of the inn he comes. How did he find me? That's what gets clear past me, Abbott. How in all get-out did he ever come to know that I was living in these parts? I tell you, the fellow's like one of those Indian temple priests in the stories, where the guy steals the jewel that's the idol's eye and lights out and thinks he'd hid himself away perfectly safe, and suddenly he looks over his shoulder and here come all these sinister Indian priests around the corner.'

Mr Chinnery paused for breath. Sir Buckstone was smiling dreamily. All this reminded him of the old happy days of his youth.

'The great man in London in my time,' he said, 'was a fellow named Bunyan. Ferret Bunyan, we used to call him. He once
served me for two pounds seven and six, I remember, for a knee-length-hosiery bill. I thought it rather a compliment, and so did all my friends. I mean to say, he being such a big pot and me just a young chap about town. It was long before I came into the title.'

Mr Chinnery was in no mood for Edwardian reminiscences.

'Never mind about that. It isn't any Bunyans I'm talking about; it's this man Bulpitt.'

Sir Buckstone started.

'Bulpitt? Is his name Bulpitt?'

He gave a little moan. It signified that hope was dead. Questioning his Toots on the previous day, he had learned that this brother of hers had started his career as a singing waiter and continued it as a traveller in patent floor sweepers, but even then he had not quite despaired. These walks in life might not seem an auspicious beginning to the climb up the ladder of wealth, but with Americans, he had told himself, you never knew. Half the American millionaires you met had started out in a small way. Mr Chinnery himself had once sold hot dogs. In spite of everything, he had clung hopefully to his dream of an affectionate brother-in-law with a large balance at the bank.

But not any longer. If, in these last twenty-five years, Toots's brother Sam had raised himself from the modest position of a singing waiter to that of America's foremost process server, the fact did him credit, of course, and showed what could be accomplished by a man of grit and enterprise, but it was no longer possible to entertain any illusion that he might have the stuff in any appreciable quantity. Even the most gifted of plasterers does not pay super-tax.

He sat among the ruins of his shattered hopes, chewing his pen and thinking how different it all would have been had his wife been the sister of Henry Ford. And as he sat, the door opened and Lady Abbott came in, escorting Mr Bulpitt.

Their arrival was greeted by a loud crash, as of some heavy body falling on something hard. It was caused by Mr Chinnery Springing from his chair like the hunted stag he so much resembled, he had had the misfortune to slip on a loose rug. When the moment for introduction came, he was sitting on the floor.

His behaviour, the eccentricity of which might have caused hostesses to show surprise, had no effect whatever on Lady Abbott's impregnable calm. She did not even raise her eyebrows. She might have been watching big fish-glue men take tosses out of chairs all her life.

'Here's Sam, Buck,' she said.

Sir Buckstone, still brooding on what might have been, stared dully at the little man. Mr Bulpitt bustled forward, hand outstretched.

'Pleased to meet you, Lord Abbott.'

'Haryer?' said Sir Buckstone, still moody.

'I'm fine,' said Mr Bulpitt.

At this point, he appeared to observe that there were foreign substances on the carpet. He peered down at Mr Chinnery, and gave a glad cry of recognition.

'Well, well, well, well, well!' he said, beaming. 'If here isn't an old friend!'

Disaster often brings out the best in a man. In this extremity Elmer Chinnery bore himself well. He had been looking like
some trapped creature of the wild. His manner now took on an almost Roman dignity.

'All right,' he said. 'Gimme.'

'Eh?'

'Let's have 'em,' said Mr Chinnery.

His words and the mute appeal of his extended hand clarified the situation for Mr Bulpitt. He saw that a misunderstanding had arisen, and laughed heartily.

'Did you think I was after you again? Nothing for you today, brother.'

Mr Chinnery rose. He stood rubbing the seat of his trousers, for the fall had caused him some pain, an incredulous hope dawning in his eyes.

'What?'

'Not a thing.'

'Aren't you acting for my wife?'

Lady Abbott intervened.

'This is my brother Sam, Mr Chinnery.'

Elmer Chinnery gaped.

'Your brother?'

'Sure,' said Mr Bulpitt.

'He's visiting us.'

Comprehension was coming slowly to Mr Chinnery.

'Are you over here just on a vacation?'

'Yes,' said Lady Abbott.

'No,' said Mr Bulpitt.

'No?' said Lady Abbott. 'I thought you told me you had retired from business.'

'Well, I have and I haven't. It's this way,' said Mr Bulpitt: 'I'd been planning to quit and settle down, but when I hit London I happened to get together with some of the boys, and the long
and the short of it is I let myself be talked into taking on one more job. The reason I'm in these parts is I'm sort of killing two birds with one stone. I was coming, anyway, to visit you and his lordship, but I'm here in my professional capacity, too, is what I mean. It's where this Miss Prudence Whittaker is suing this T. P. Vanringham for breach of promise and heart balm, and I've come to slip the plaster on him.'

J
OE Vanringham
, having seen Adrian Peake off on his journey to London, had wandered into the front garden of the Goose and Gander and was sitting there, waiting for the vehicle which J. B. Attwater had promised should soon be on hand to take him and his belongings up to the Hall.

The morning had now reached the very height of its perfection, and the quiet, sun-bathed garden was hushed and warm and heavy with the fragrant scent of J. B. Attwater's roses and wallflowers. Winged things hummed and flitted. From somewhere out of sight came the liquid murmuring of fowls. A dog of nondescript breed snored gently in the shade of the hollyhocks. It was an environment that made for dreamy contentment, and nobody could have been more dreamily contented than Joe. He was in the frame of mind when a weaker man would have started writing poetry.

He found the sudden irruption of the outer world upon his peace, accordingly, when it occurred, particularly jarring. There was a sound of hurrying footsteps. Somebody banged the gate. A snort smote his ears. He peered resentfully round the bush behind which he was sitting, and saw that the intruder was Sir Buckstone Abbott. The Baronet was striding up the path to the inn's front door, looking neither to right nor left.

Joe's resentment vanished. He had taken an immediate liking to Sir Buckstone, and anything the other cared to do was all right with him. If Sir Buckstone wished to snort and race about on this beautiful morning, let him, felt Joe.

'Hello, there, Buck,' he cried. 'Getting into training for the village sports?'

The sound of his voice had a remarkable effect on the athlete. Sir Buckstone stopped in mid-stride as if he had been hit by a bullet, then bounced toward him with consternation written on his every feature.

'Joe! What are you doing here?'

'I've been paying my bill, and am now waiting for a cab to take me up the mountainside. One of these days, Buck, you ought to have a funicular railway built.'

'Your brother's not here?'

'I think he's up at the house.'

'Thank God!' Sir Buckstone wiped his forehead with a spacious handkerchief. 'I was afraid he might have come down with you. Yes, of course, he's up at the house.'

Joe had begun to be concerned. It was clear to him now that trouble of some kind must have broken out in this Eden. Your level-headed British Baronet does not behave like a cat on hot bricks without good reason.

'Is something the matter?' he asked.

Sir Buckstone's momentary relief gave way to the old horror and alarm. His manner became portentous. He looked like Hamlet's father's ghost about to impart a fearful tale.

'My dear fellow, the most terrible thing has happened. Haven't you heard?'

'No.'

'No, of course you haven't. How could you?'

'Heard what?'

'About this man being after your brother with the papers.'

'Papers?'

'Yes, papers, papers. Good heavens, you know what papers are. To serve on him. In this breach-of-promise and heart-balm case of his.'

'I don't understand.'

'Of course you don't, of course you don't. I keep forgetting you haven't heard. My secretary, Miss Whittaker, is suing your brother for breach of promise, and a man has come down to serve the papers on him. It gave me the most ghastly shock when I saw you here. I thought your brother must be with you, right out in the open where this fellow might descend upon him at any moment.'

He became active again with the handkerchief, and now Joe was able to understand his emotion.

'Gosh!' he said.

'Exactly. It is a frightful position of affairs. What is the Princess going to say if this fellow succeeds in serving those papers and your brother is taken into court? You've never met the Princess Dwornitzchek, of course. . . . Yes, you have, though. What am I thinking of? If that boy's your brother, she's your stepmother.'

'No getting away from that.'

'Then you know what a perfectly ghastly woman— I beg your pardon. Shouldn't have said that.'

'On the contrary,' Joe assured him warmly, 'your words are music to my ears.'

'You don't like the Princess?'

'I regard her as the sand in Civilization's spinach.'

A very happy way of putting it. I thoroughly agree with you. But the devil of it is that she was on the verge of buying my house, and if she finds out that her stepson is being sued by my secretary for breach of promise and heart balm, there's not a chance of her going through with it. She will break off the negotiations immediately. You see, I'm practically
in loco parentis
to the boy. When this Dwornitzchek woman—'

'This Dwornitzchek disease.'

'Exactly. Thank you. When this Dwornitzchek disease dumped your brother on me, she told me in so many words that she would hold me responsible for him. I was to keep a sharp eye on him, she said, because he was a damned fool with women—'

'Tubby has always been a little susceptible. Where other young men's fancies lightly turn to thoughts of love only in the springtime, he is an all-the-year-rounder. You don't catch Tubby waiting until a livelier iris has begun to gleam upon the burnished dove.'

'That's what I mean. She said she relied on me to see that he didn't get into any entanglements. I laughed at the idea. Scoffed at it. He can't get into any trouble of that kind here, I said. And now this happens.'

'Bad.'

'Couldn't be worse. My wife keeps saying that she guesses everything is going to be all right, but what she bases that assumption on is more than I can imagine. As far as I can see, the girl has a cast-iron case.'

'Would you say that?'

'Certainly. Your brother was unquestionably engaged to marry her.'

'Yes, but—'

'And broke it off.'

'Yes, but—'

'And, what's more, she has letters to prove it. Any jury would give her damages without leaving the box.'

'But, listen—'

'I haven't time to listen. I've got to see Attwater.'

'What I'm trying to say is that I don't think she can get away with it. I've heard the whole story from Tubby. It's quite true that he broke off the engagement, but his motives—'

'Blast his motives! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow,' said Sir Buckstone penitently. 'You must forgive me, please. I'm upset. I don't know what I'm saying. This thing has come as a thunderbolt.'

'I'll bet it has.'

'My head's in a whirl. If you knew how I had been looking forward to selling that infernal house—By the way, not a word of this to a soul.'

'Of course not.'

'You will be meeting my daughter Jane shortly. There are reasons why I wish it to be kept from her, above all. Don't say a word.'

'Not a syllable.'

'Thank you, Joe. And now excuse me. I mustn't waste any more time. I ought not to have stayed talking like this, with every moment precious. I've got to see Attwater immediately.'

'J. B. Attwater?'

'Yes.'

'Licensed to sell ales and spirits?'

'Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,' said Sir Buckstone, and made the portal of the Goose and Gander in two jumps.

Joe remained where he was, musing. All this stark tragedy, coming out of a blue sky, had left him saddened. He looked about him and sighed. The garden was still quiet and sunbathed. It still smelt of roses and wallflowers. The winged things were still humming and flitting, the fowls were still murmuring, and the nondescript dog had not moved a muscle. That warring passions should be aflame in this Paradise seemed to him a very melancholy thing, and he would doubtless have indulged in quite a good deal of wistful philosophizing, had he not been interrupted just as he had begun by saying to himself that that was how things went in this life. The gate clicked again, and he saw that here was more company.

The little man in the sack suit with whom he had had that brief exchange of civilities through the parlour window was making his way toward him. He had evidently been walking briskly, for there was perspiration on his rosy face. He was still chewing gum.

Joe eyed him askance. He had nothing against this round little man, as round little men went, but he was occupied with his thoughts and resented intrusion upon them by any man, little or big, rosy or pallid, round or oblong. He blew a reserved smoke ring to indicate this.

It had no deterrent effect on the little man. He had come to talk, and he began talking immediately.

'Nice day.'

'You told me that,' Joe reminded him.

'Kind of warm, though. I been hurrying.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Yes, sir. And I'm all in a lather. Sweating like a nigger at election,' said the little man, with poetic imagery.

Joe privately considered that he was stressing the purely physical more than was in the least necessary, but he did not say so. He did not say anything, hoping that silence would discourage.

'I was looking for you,' said the little man. 'Wanted to see you. About that boat. That houseboat. The one you took off that young fellow that was going away. I happened to hear you when I was in the parlour. You wouldn't consider parting with that boat, would you?'

For the first time, this conversation began to grip Joe. It had already occurred to him that it would be nice if he could pass on the
Mignonette to
somebody, thus relieving himself of a liability.

'Do you want it?'

'Yes, sir, I'd be glad to have it. I've a notion it would be kind of fun, living on a houseboat. Just scribble me a line – Bulpitt's the name – here's a fountain pen and a piece of paper – and I'll slip you the money. What shall we say?'

'I told the owner I would pay him twenty pounds.'

'Then we'll call it twenty-five?'

'No, no, only twenty. I don't want to make a profit.'

'You're not a business-man,' said his companion rebukingly.

'I'm a dreamy artist,' said Joe.

'Well, if that suits you, it suits me. Give me the memo. Here's the twenty. Thanks. I'll go pack my grip,' said the little man, showing himself plainly to be one of those who think on their feet and do it now.

He toddled briskly into the inn, and a few minutes later Sir Buckstone came out.

There was a marked change for the better in the Baronet's aspect since Joe had last seen him. He was not precisely radiant, but a great deal of his agitation had gone, and in its place had
come something that bordered on the contented and the complacent.

'Dished him!' he said.

'I beg your pardon?'

'That plasterer. I've outmanoeuvred him. You know what suddenly occurred to me, Joe, thinking the thing over up at the house? It came to me all in a flash. What does an army need?'

The question puzzled Joe a little. It seemed to him that they had got off the subject. However, he gave it his attention.

'A stomach,' he said. 'To march on.'

'A base,' said Sir Buckstone. A base from which to operate. And what base of operations has a plasterer in Walsingford Parva except the Goose and Gander? This isn't a popular resort, with people letting rooms on every side. Nobody's got any rooms, except what they need themselves. No. Bar the Goose and Gander to this chap Bulpitt – his name's Bulpitt – and he becomes helpless. He's nonplussed. So I've just been seeing Attwater about it. Used to be my butler before he retired and took over the inn, and is devoted to the interests of the family. So, to cut a long story short, my dear Joe, I told Attwater he'd got to kick this fellow out – tell him his room's wanted, or something. And he's going to do it. So there the little blighter will be, bereft of his base. He'll be helpless. Won't know what the dickens to do. I'd like to see his face,' said Sir Buckstone chuckling quite heartily.

Joe did not join in his merriment. A certain uneasiness had stolen upon him. His companion's wish would, he felt, only too shortly be gratified. And the face which he would see would be one not twisted in baffled fury but wreathed in happy smiles.

His surmise was correct. At this very moment, Sam Bulpitt came out of the inn, carrying a bag very nearly as big as himself.
Its weight was making him puff, but his contentment was manifest.

Sir Buckstone, however, did not perceive it. He called to the little man. It was plain that it was his intention to exult, to gloat, to sneer and jeer in ungenerous triumph.

'Hey, you! Bulpitt!'

'Your lordship?'

'Don't call me "your lordship," blast you. So you're leaving, eh? Ha?'

'Yessir. Going off to my houseboat. Have a nice time. I always did kind of like camping out,' said Mr Bulpitt. 'It's the gypsy in me.'