CHAPTER XVI
Sue stood staring, wide eyed. This was the moment that she had tried to picture to herself a hundred times. And always her imagination had proved unequal to the task. Sometimes she had seen Ronnie in her mind's eye cold, aloof, hostile; sometimes gasping and tottering, dumb with amazement; sometimes pointing a finger at her like a character in a melodrama and denouncing her as an impostor. The one thing for which she had not been prepared was what happened now.
Eton and Cambridge train their sons well. Once they have grasped the fundamental fact of life that all exhibitions of emotion are bad form, bombshells cannot disturb their poise and earthquakes are lucky if they get so much as an "Eh, what?" from them. But Cambridge has its limitations, and so has Eton. And remorse had goaded Ronnie Fish to a point where their iron discipline had ceased to operate. He was stirred to his depths, and his scarlet face, his rumpled hair, his starting eyes, and his twitching fingers all proclaimed the fact.
"Ronnie!" cried Sue.
It was all she had time to say. The thought of what she had done for his sake; the thought that for love of him she had come to Blandings Castle under false colours—an impostor—faced at every turn by the risk of detection—liable at any moment to be ignominiously exposed and looked at through a lorgnette by his Aunt Constance; the thought of the shameful way he had treated her—all these thoughts were racking Ronald Fish with a searing anguish. They had brought the hot blood of the Fishes to the boil, and now, face to face with her, he did not hesitate.
He sprang forward, clasped her in his arms, hugged her to him. To Baxter's revolted ears, though he tried not to listen, there came in a husky cataract the sound of a Fish's self-reproaches. Ronnie was saying what he thought of himself, and his opinion appeared not to be high. He said he was a beast, a brute, a swine, a cad, a hound, and a worm. If he had been speaking of Percy Pilbeam he could scarcely have been less complimentary.
Even up to this point Baxter had not liked the dialogue. It now became perfectly nauseating. Sue said it had all been her fault. Ronnie said, No, his. No, hers, said Sue. No, his, said Ronnie. No, hers, said Sue, No, altogether his, said Ronnie. It must have been his, he pointed out, because, as he had observed before, he was a hound and a worm. He now went further. He revealed himself as a blister, a tick, and a perishing outsider.
"You're not!"
"I am!"
"You're not!"
"I am!"
"Of course you're not!"
"I certainly am!"
"Well, I love you, anyway."
"You can't."
"I do!"
"You can't."
"I do."
Baxter writhed in silent anguish.
"How long?" said Baxter to his immortal soul. "How long?" The question was answered with a startling promptitude. From the neighbourhood of the French windows there sounded a discreet cough. The debaters sprang apart, two minds with but a single thought.
"Your manuscript, miss," said Beach sedately.
Sue looked at him. Ronnie looked at him. Sue until this moment had forgotten his existence. Ronnie had supposed him downstairs, busy about his butlerine duties. Neither seemed very glad to see him.
Ronnie was the first to speak.
"Oh—hullo, Beach!"
There being no answer to this except "Hullo, sir!" which is a thing that butlers do not say, Beach contented himself with a benignant smile. It had the unfortunate effect of making Ronnie think that the man was laughing at him, and the Fishes were men at whom butlers may not lightly laugh. He was about to utter a heated speech, indicating this, when the injudiciousness of such a course presented itself to his mind. Beach must be placated. He forced his voice to a note of geniality.
"So there you are, Beach?"
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose all this must seem tolerably rummy to you?"
"No, sir."
"No?"
"I had already been informed, Mr. Ronald, of the nature of your feelings toward this lady."
"What!"
"Yes, sir."
"Who told you?"
"Mr. Pilbeam, sir."
Ronnie uttered a gasp. Then he became calmer. He had suddenly remembered that this man was his ally, his accomplice, linked to him not only by a friendship dating back to his boyhood but by the even stronger bond of a mutual crime. Between them there need be no reserves. Delicate though the situation was, he now felt equal to it.
"Beach," he said, "how much do you know?"
"All, sir."
"All?"
"Yes, sir."
"Such as——?"
Beach coughed.
"I am aware that this lady is a Miss Sue Brown. And, according to my informant, she is employed in the chorus of the Regal Theatre."
"Quite the Encyclopædia, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want to marry Miss Brown, Beach."
"I can readily appreciate such a desire on your part, Mr. Ronald," said the butler with a paternal smile.
Sue caught at the smile.
"Ronnie! He's all right. I believe he's a friend."
"Of course he's a friend! Old Beach. One of my earliest and stoutest pals."
"I mean, he isn't going to give us away."
"Me, miss?" said Beach, shocked. "Certainly not."
"Splendid fellow, Beach!"
"Thank you, sir."
"Beach," said Ronnie, "the time has come to act. No more delay. I've got to make myself solid with Uncle Clarence at once. Directly he gets back to-night I shall go to him and tell him that Empress of Blandings is in the gamekeeper's cottage in the west wood, and then, while he's still weak, I shall spring on him the announcement of my engagement."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Ronald, the animal is no longer in the cottage."
"You've moved it?"
"Not I, sir. Mr. Carmody. By a most regrettable chance Mr. Carmody found me feeding it this afternoon. He took it away and deposited it in some place of which I am not cognizant, sir."
"But, good heavens, he'll dish the whole scheme. Where is he?"
"You wish me to find him, sir?"
"Of course I wish you to find him. Go at once and ask him where that pig is. Tell him it's vital."
"Very good, sir."
Sue had listened with bewilderment to this talk of pigs.
"I don't understand, Ronnie."
Ronnie was pacing the room in agitation. Once he came so close to where Baxter lay in his snug harbour that the ex-secretary had a flashing glimpse of a sock with a lavender clock. It was the first object of beauty that he had seen for a long time, and he should have appreciated it more than he did.
"I can't explain now," said Ronnie. "It's too long. But I can tell you this. If we don't get that pig back we're in the soup."
"Ronnie!"
Ronnie had ceased to pace the room. He was standing in a listening attitude.
"What's that?"
He sprang quickly to the balcony, looked over the parapet and came softly back.
"Sue!"
"What!"
"It's that blighter Pilbeam," said Ronnie in a guarded undertone. "He's climbing up the waterspout!"