RIGHT
HO JEEVES
PART
9
12-
I don't
know if it has happened to you at all, but a thing I've noticed with myself is
that, when I'm confronted by a problem which seems for the moment to stump and
baffle, a good sleep will often bring the solution in the morning.
It was so
on the present occasion.
The nibs
who study these matters claim, I believe, that this has got something to do
with the subconscious mind, and very possibly they may be right. I wouldn't
have said off-hand that I had a subconscious mind, but I suppose I must without
knowing it, and no doubt it was there, sweating away diligently at the old
stand, all the while the corporeal Wooster was getting his eight hours.
For
directly I opened my eyes on the morrow, I saw daylight. Well, I don't mean
that exactly, because naturally I did. What I mean is that I found I had the
thing all mapped out. The good old subconscious m. had delivered the goods, and
I perceived exactly what steps must be taken in order to put Augustus
Fink-Nottle among the practising Romeos.
I should
like you, if you can spare me a moment of your valuable time, to throw your
mind back to that conversation he and I had had in the garden on the previous
evening. Not the glimmering landscape bit, I don't mean that, but the concluding
passages of it. Having done so, you will recall that when he informed me that
he never touched alcoholic liquor, I shook the head a bit, feeling that this
must inevitably weaken him as a force where proposing to girls was concerned.
And events
had shown that my fears were well founded.
Put to the
test, with nothing but orange juice inside him, he had proved a complete bust.
In a situation calling for words of molten passion of a nature calculated to go
through Madeline Bassett like a red-hot gimlet through half a pound of butter,
he had said not a syllable that could bring a blush to the cheek of modesty,
merely delivering a well-phrased but, in the circumstances, quite misplaced
lecture on newts.
A romantic
girl is not to be won by such tactics. Obviously, before attempting to proceed
further, Augustus Fink-Nottle must be induced to throw off the shackling
inhibitions of the past and fuel up. It must be a primed, confident Fink-Nottle
who squared up to the Bassett for Round No. 2.
Only so
could the Morning Post make its ten bob, or whatever it is, for printing
the announcement of the forthcoming nuptials.
Having
arrived at this conclusion I found the rest easy, and by the time Jeeves
brought me my tea I had evolved a plan complete in every detail. This I was
about to place before him—indeed, I had got as far as the preliminary "I
say, Jeeves"—when we were interrupted by the arrival of Tuppy.
He came
listlessly into the room, and I was pained to observe that a night's rest had
effected no improvement in the unhappy wreck's appearance. Indeed, I should
have said, if anything, that he was looking rather more moth-eaten than when I
had seen him last. If you can visualize a bulldog which has just been kicked in
the ribs and had its dinner sneaked by the cat, you will have Hildebrand
Glossop as he now stood before me.
"Stap
my vitals, Tuppy, old corpse," I said, concerned, "you're looking
pretty blue round the rims."
Jeeves
slid from the presence in that tactful, eel-like way of his, and I motioned the
remains to take a seat.
"What's
the matter?" I said.
He came to
anchor on the bed, and for awhile sat picking at the coverlet in silence.
"I've
been through hell, Bertie."
"Through
where?"
"Hell."
"Oh,
hell? And what took you there?"
Once more
he became silent, staring before him with sombre eyes. Following his gaze, I
saw that he was looking at an enlarged photograph of my Uncle Tom in some sort
of Masonic uniform which stood on the mantelpiece. I've tried to reason with
Aunt Dahlia about this photograph for years, placing before her two alternative
suggestions: (a) To burn the beastly thing; or (b) if she must preserve it, to
shove me in another room when I come to stay. But she declines to accede. She
says it's good for me. A useful discipline, she maintains, teaching me that
there is a darker side to life and that we were not put into this world for
pleasure only.
"Turn
it to the wall, if it hurts you, Tuppy," I said gently.
"Eh?"
"That
photograph of Uncle Tom as the bandmaster."
"I
didn't come here to talk about photographs. I came for sympathy."
"And
you shall have it. What's the trouble? Worrying about Angela, I suppose? Well,
have no fear. I have another well-laid plan for encompassing that young shrimp.
I'll guarantee that she will be weeping on your neck before yonder sun has
set."
He barked
sharply.
"A
fat chance!"
"Tup,
Tushy!"
"Eh?"
"I
mean 'Tush, Tuppy.' I tell you I will do it. I was just going to describe this
plan of mine to Jeeves when you came in. Care to hear it?"
"I
don't want to hear any of your beastly plans. Plans are no good. She's gone and
fallen in love with this other bloke, and now hates my gizzard."
"Rot."
"It
isn't rot."
"I
tell you, Tuppy, as one who can read the female heart, that this Angela loves
you still."
"Well,
it didn't look much like it in the larder last night."
"Oh,
you went to the larder last night?"
"I
did."
"And
Angela was there?"
"She
was. And your aunt. Also your uncle."
I saw that
I should require foot-notes. All this was new stuff to me. I had stayed at
Brinkley Court quite a lot in my time, but I had no idea the larder was such a
social vortex. More like a snack bar on a race-course than anything else, it
seemed to have become.
"Tell
me the whole story in your own words," I said, "omitting no detail,
however apparently slight, for one never knows how important the most trivial
detail may be."
He
inspected the photograph for a moment with growing gloom.
"All
right," he said. "This is what happened. You know my views about that
steak-and-kidney pie."
"Quite."
"Well,
round about one a.m. I thought the time was ripe. I stole from my room and went
downstairs. The pie seemed to beckon me."
I nodded.
I knew how pies do.
"I
got to the larder. I fished it out. I set it on the table. I found knife and
fork. I collected salt, mustard, and pepper. There were some cold potatoes. I
added those. And I was about to pitch in when I heard a sound behind me, and
there was your aunt at the door. In a blue-and-yellow dressing gown."
"Embarrassing."
"Most."
"I
suppose you didn't know where to look."
"I
looked at Angela."
"She
came in with my aunt?"
"No.
With your uncle, a minute or two later. He was wearing mauve pyjamas and
carried a pistol. Have you ever seen your uncle in pyjamas and a pistol?"
"Never."
"You
haven't missed much."
"Tell
me, Tuppy," I asked, for I was anxious to ascertain this, "about
Angela. Was there any momentary softening in her gaze as she fixed it on
you?"
"She
didn't fix it on me. She fixed it on the pie."
"Did
she say anything?"
"Not
right away. Your uncle was the first to speak. He said to your aunt, 'God bless
my soul, Dahlia, what are you doing here?' To which she replied, 'Well, if it
comes to that, my merry somnambulist, what are you?' Your uncle then said that
he thought there must be burglars in the house, as he had heard noises."
I nodded
again. I could follow the trend. Ever since the scullery window was found open
the year Shining Light was disqualified in the Cesarewitch for boring, Uncle
Tom has had a marked complex about burglars. I can still recall my emotions
when, paying my first visit after he had bars put on all the windows and
attempting to thrust the head out in order to get a sniff of country air, I
nearly fractured my skull on a sort of iron grille, as worn by the tougher
kinds of mediaeval prison.
"'What
sort of noises?' said your aunt. 'Funny noises,' said your uncle. Whereupon
Angela—with a nasty, steely tinkle in her voice, the little buzzard—observed,
'I expect it was Mr. Glossop eating.' And then she did give me a look. It was
the sort of wondering, revolted look a very spiritual woman would give a fat
man gulping soup in a restaurant. The kind of look that makes a fellow feel
he's forty-six round the waist and has great rolls of superfluous flesh pouring
down over the back of his collar. And, still speaking in the same unpleasant
tone, she added, 'I ought to have told you, father, that Mr. Glossop always
likes to have a good meal three or four times during the night. It helps to
keep him going till breakfast. He has the most amazing appetite. See, he has
practically finished a large steak-and-kidney pie already'."
As he
spoke these words, a feverish animation swept over Tuppy. His eyes glittered
with a strange light, and he thumped the bed violently with his fist, nearly
catching me a juicy one on the leg.
"That
was what hurt, Bertie. That was what stung. I hadn't so much as started on that
pie. But that's a woman all over."
"The
eternal feminine."
"She
continued her remarks. 'You've no idea,' she said, 'how Mr. Glossop loves food.
He just lives for it. He always eats six or seven meals a day, and then starts
in again after bedtime. I think it's rather wonderful.' Your aunt seemed
interested, and said it reminded her of a boa constrictor. Angela said, didn't
she mean a python? And then they argued as to which of the two it was. Your
uncle, meanwhile, poking about with that damned pistol of his till human life
wasn't safe in the vicinity. And the pie lying there on the table, and me
unable to touch it. You begin to understand why I said I had been through
hell."
"Quite.
Can't have been at all pleasant."
"Presently
your aunt and Angela settled their discussion, deciding that Angela was right
and that it was a python that I reminded them of. And shortly after that we all
pushed back to bed, Angela warning me in a motherly voice not to take the
stairs too quickly. After seven or eight solid meals, she said, a man of my
build ought to be very careful, because of the danger of apoplectic fits. She said
it was the same with dogs. When they became very fat and overfed, you had to
see that they didn't hurry upstairs, as it made them puff and pant, and that
was bad for their hearts. She asked your aunt if she remembered the late
spaniel, Ambrose; and your aunt said, 'Poor old Ambrose, you couldn't keep him
away from the garbage pail'; and Angela said, 'Exactly, so do please be
careful, Mr. Glossop.' And you tell me she loves me still!"
I did my
best to encourage.
"Girlish
banter, what?"
"Girlish
banter be dashed. She's right off me. Once her ideal, I am now less than the
dust beneath her chariot wheels. She became infatuated with this chap, whoever
he was, at Cannes, and now she can't stand the sight of me."
I raised
my eyebrows.
"My
dear Tuppy, you are not showing your usual good sense in this
Angela-chap-at-Cannes matter. If you will forgive me saying so, you have got an
idée fixe."
"A
what?"
"An idée
fixe. You know. One of those things fellows get. Like Uncle Tom's delusion
that everybody who is known even slightly to the police is lurking in the
garden, waiting for a chance to break into the house. You keep talking about
this chap at Cannes, and there never was a chap at Cannes, and I'll tell you
why I'm so sure about this. During those two months on the Riviera, it so
happens that Angela and I were practically inseparable. If there had been
somebody nosing round her, I should have spotted it in a second."
He
started. I could see that this had impressed him.
"Oh,
she was with you all the time at Cannes, was she?"
"I
don't suppose she said two words to anybody else, except, of course, idle conv.
at the crowded dinner table or a chance remark in a throng at the Casino."
"I
see. You mean that anything in the shape of mixed bathing and moonlight strolls
she conducted solely in your company?"
"That's
right. It was quite a joke in the hotel."
"You
must have enjoyed that."
"Oh,
rather. I've always been devoted to Angela."
"Oh,
yes?"
"When
we were kids, she used to call herself my little sweetheart."
"She
did?"
"Absolutely."
"I
see."
He sat
plunged in thought, while I, glad to have set his mind at rest, proceeded with
my tea. And presently there came the banging of a gong from the hall below, and
he started like a war horse at the sound of the bugle.
"Breakfast!"
he said, and was off to a flying start, leaving me to brood and ponder. And the
more I brooded and pondered, the more did it seem to me that everything now
looked pretty smooth. Tuppy, I could see, despite that painful scene in the
larder, still loved Angela with all the old fervour.
This meant
that I could rely on that plan to which I had referred to bring home the bacon.
And as I had found the way to straighten out the Gussie-Bassett difficulty,
there seemed nothing more to worry about.
It was
with an uplifted heart that I addressed Jeeves as he came in to remove the tea
tray.
-13-
"Jeeves,"
I said.
"Sir?"
"I've
just been having a chat with young Tuppy, Jeeves. Did you happen to notice that
he wasn't looking very roguish this morning?"
"Yes,
sir. It seemed to me that Mr. Glossop's face was sicklied o'er with the pale
cast of thought."
"Quite.
He met my cousin Angela in the larder last night, and a rather painful
interview ensued."
"I am
sorry, sir."
"Not
half so sorry as he was. She found him closeted with a steak-and-kidney pie,
and appears to have been a bit caustic about fat men who lived for food
alone."
"Most
disturbing, sir."
"Very.
In fact, many people would say that things had gone so far between these two
nothing now could bridge the chasm. A girl who could make cracks about human
pythons who ate nine or ten meals a day and ought to be careful not to hurry
upstairs because of the danger of apoplectic fits is a girl, many people would
say, in whose heart love is dead. Wouldn't people say that, Jeeves?"
"Undeniably,
sir."
"They
would be wrong."
"You
think so, sir?"
"I am
convinced of it. I know these females. You can't go by what they say."
"You
feel that Miss Angela's strictures should not be taken too much au pied de
la lettre, sir?"
"Eh?"
"In
English, we should say 'literally'."
"Literally.
That's exactly what I mean. You know what girls are. A tiff occurs, and they
shoot their heads off. But underneath it all the old love still remains. Am I
correct?"
"Quite
correct, sir. The poet Scott——"
"Right
ho, Jeeves."
"Very
good, sir."
"And
in order to bring that old love whizzing to the surface once more, all that is
required is the proper treatment."
"By
'proper treatment,' sir, you mean——"
"Clever
handling, Jeeves. A spot of the good old snaky work. I see what must be done to
jerk my Cousin Angela back to normalcy. I'll tell you, shall I?"
"If
you would be so kind, sir."
I lit a
cigarette, and eyed him keenly through the smoke. He waited respectfully for me
to unleash the words of wisdom. I must say for Jeeves that—till, as he is so
apt to do, he starts shoving his oar in and cavilling and obstructing—he makes
a very good audience. I don't know if he is actually agog, but he looks agog,
and that's the great thing.
"Suppose
you were strolling through the illimitable jungle, Jeeves, and happened to meet
a tiger cub."
"The
contingency is a remote one, sir."
"Never
mind. Let us suppose it."
"Very
good, sir."
"Let
us now suppose that you sloshed that tiger cub, and let us suppose further that
word reached its mother that it was being put upon. What would you expect the
attitude of that mother to be? In what frame of mind do you consider that that
tigress would approach you?"
"I
should anticipate a certain show of annoyance, sir."
"And
rightly. Due to what is known as the maternal instinct, what?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Very
good, Jeeves. We will now suppose that there has recently been some little
coolness between this tiger cub and this tigress. For some days, let us say,
they have not been on speaking terms. Do you think that that would make any
difference to the vim with which the latter would leap to the former's
aid?"
"No,
sir."
"Exactly.
Here, then, in brief, is my plan, Jeeves. I am going to draw my Cousin Angela
aside to a secluded spot and roast Tuppy properly."
"Roast,
sir?"
"Knock.
Slam. Tick-off. Abuse. Denounce. I shall be very terse about Tuppy, giving it
as my opinion that in all essentials he is more like a wart hog than an
ex-member of a fine old English public school. What will ensue? Hearing him
attacked, my Cousin Angela's womanly heart will be as sick as mud. The maternal
tigress in her will awake. No matter what differences they may have had, she
will remember only that he is the man she loves, and will leap to his defence.
And from that to falling into his arms and burying the dead past will be but a
step. How do you react to that?"
"The
idea is an ingenious one, sir."
"We
Woosters are ingenious, Jeeves, exceedingly ingenious."
"Yes,
sir."
"As a
matter of fact, I am not speaking without a knowledge of the form book. I have
tested this theory."
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Yes,
in person. And it works. I was standing on the Eden rock at Antibes last month,
idly watching the bathers disport themselves in the water, and a girl I knew
slightly pointed at a male diver and asked me if I didn't think his legs were
about the silliest-looking pair of props ever issued to human being. I replied
that I did, indeed, and for the space of perhaps two minutes was
extraordinarily witty and satirical about this bird's underpinning. At the end
of that period, I suddenly felt as if I had been caught up in the tail of a
cyclone.
"Beginning
with a critique of my own limbs, which she said, justly enough, were nothing
to write home about, this girl went on to dissect my manners, morals,
intellect, general physique, and method of eating asparagus with such acerbity
that by the time she had finished the best you could say of Bertram was that,
so far as was known, he had never actually committed murder or set fire to an
orphan asylum. Subsequent investigation proved that she was engaged to the
fellow with the legs and had had a slight disagreement with him the evening
before on the subject of whether she should or should not have made an original
call of two spades, having seven, but without the ace. That night I saw them
dining together with every indication of relish, their differences made up and
the lovelight once more in their eyes. That shows you, Jeeves."
"Yes,
sir."
"I
expect precisely similar results from my Cousin Angela when I start roasting
Tuppy. By lunchtime, I should imagine, the engagement will be on again and the
diamond-and-platinum ring glittering as of yore on her third finger. Or is it
the fourth?"
"Scarcely
by luncheon time, sir. Miss Angela's maid informs me that Miss Angela drove off
in her car early this morning with the intention of spending the day with
friends in the vicinity."
"Well,
within half an hour of whatever time she comes back, then. These are mere
straws, Jeeves. Do not let us chop them."
"No,
sir."
"The
point is that, as far as Tuppy and Angela are concerned, we may say with
confidence that everything will shortly be hotsy-totsy once more. And what an
agreeable thought that is, Jeeves."
"Very
true, sir."
"If
there is one thing that gives me the pip, it is two loving hearts being
estranged."
"I
can readily appreciate the fact, sir."
I placed
the stub of my gasper in the ash tray and lit another, to indicate that that
completed Chap. I.
"Right
ho, then. So much for the western front. We now turn to the eastern."
"Sir?"
"I
speak in parables, Jeeves. What I mean is, we now approach the matter of Gussie
and Miss Bassett."
"Yes,
sir."
"Here,
Jeeves, more direct methods are required. In handling the case of Augustus
Fink-Nottle, we must keep always in mind the fact that we are dealing with a
poop."
"A
sensitive plant would, perhaps, be a kinder expression, sir."
"No,
Jeeves, a poop. And with poops one has to employ the strong, forceful,
straightforward policy. Psychology doesn't get you anywhere. You, if I may
remind you without wounding your feelings, fell into the error of mucking about
with psychology in connection with this Fink-Nottle, and the result was a
wash-out. You attempted to push him over the line by rigging him out in a
Mephistopheles costume and sending him off to a fancy-dress ball, your view
being that scarlet tights would embolden him. Futile."
"The
matter was never actually put to the test, sir."
"No.
Because he didn't get to the ball. And that strengthens my argument. A man who
can set out in a cab for a fancy-dress ball and not get there is manifestly a
poop of no common order. I don't think I have ever known anybody else who was
such a dashed silly ass that he couldn't even get to a fancy-dress ball. Have
you, Jeeves?"
"No,
sir."
"But
don't forget this, because it is the point I wish, above all, to make: Even if
Gussie had got to that ball; even if those scarlet tights, taken in conjunction
with his horn-rimmed spectacles, hadn't given the girl a fit of some kind; even
if she had rallied from the shock and he had been able to dance and generally
hobnob with her; even then your efforts would have been fruitless, because,
Mephistopheles costume or no Mephistopheles costume, Augustus Fink-Nottle would
never have been able to summon up the courage to ask her to be his. All that
would have resulted would have been that she would have got that lecture on
newts a few days earlier. And why, Jeeves? Shall I tell you why?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Because
he would have been attempting the hopeless task of trying to do the thing on
orange juice."
"Sir?"
"Gussie
is an orange-juice addict. He drinks nothing else."
"I
was not aware of that, sir."
"I
have it from his own lips. Whether from some hereditary taint, or because he
promised his mother he wouldn't, or simply because he doesn't like the taste of
the stuff, Gussie Fink-Nottle has never in the whole course of his career
pushed so much as the simplest gin and tonic over the larynx. And he
expects—this poop expects, Jeeves—this wabbling, shrinking, diffident rabbit in
human shape expects under these conditions to propose to the girl he loves. One
hardly knows whether to smile or weep, what?"
"You
consider total abstinence a handicap to a gentleman who wishes to make a
proposal of marriage, sir?"
The
question amazed me.
"Why,
dash it," I said, astounded, "you must know it is. Use your
intelligence, Jeeves. Reflect what proposing means. It means that a decent,
self-respecting chap has got to listen to himself saying things which, if
spoken on the silver screen, would cause him to dash to the box-office and
demand his money back. Let him attempt to do it on orange juice, and what
ensues? Shame seals his lips, or, if it doesn't do that, makes him lose his
morale and start to babble. Gussie, for example, as we have seen, babbles of
syncopated newts."
"Palmated
newts, sir."
"Palmated
or syncopated, it doesn't matter which. The point is that he babbles and is
going to babble again, if he has another try at it. Unless—and this is where I
want you to follow me very closely, Jeeves—unless steps are taken at once
through the proper channels. Only active measures, promptly applied, can
provide this poor, pusillanimous poop with the proper pep. And that is why,
Jeeves, I intend tomorrow to secure a bottle of gin and lace his luncheon
orange juice with it liberally."
"Sir?"
I clicked
the tongue.
"I
have already had occasion, Jeeves," I said rebukingly, "to comment on
the way you say 'Well, sir' and 'Indeed, sir?' I take this opportunity of
informing you that I object equally strongly to your 'Sir?' pure and simple.
The word seems to suggest that in your opinion I have made a statement or
mooted a scheme so bizarre that your brain reels at it. In the present
instance, there is absolutely nothing to say 'Sir?' about. The plan I have put
forward is entirely reasonable and icily logical, and should excite no sirring
whatsoever. Or don't you think so?"
"Well,
sir——"
"Jeeves!"
"I
beg your pardon, sir. The expression escaped me inadvertently. What I intended
to say, since you press me, was that the action which you propose does seem to
me somewhat injudicious."
"Injudicious?
I don't follow you, Jeeves."
"A
certain amount of risk would enter into it, in my opinion, sir. It is not
always a simple matter to gauge the effect of alcohol on a subject unaccustomed
to such stimulant. I have known it to have distressing results in the case of
parrots."
"Parrots?"
"I
was thinking of an incident of my earlier life, sir, before I entered your
employment. I was in the service of the late Lord Brancaster at the time, a
gentleman who owned a parrot to which he was greatly devoted, and one day the
bird chanced to be lethargic, and his lordship, with the kindly intention of
restoring it to its customary animation, offered it a portion of seed cake
steeped in the '84 port. The bird accepted the morsel gratefully and consumed
it with every indication of satisfaction. Almost immediately afterwards,
however, its manner became markedly feverish. Having bitten his lordship in the
thumb and sung part of a sea-chanty, it fell to the bottom of the cage and
remained there for a considerable period of time with its legs in the air,
unable to move. I merely mention this, sir, in order to——"
I put my
finger on the flaw. I had spotted it all along.
"But
Gussie isn't a parrot."
"No,
sir, but——"
"It
is high time, in my opinion, that this question of what young Gussie really is
was threshed out and cleared up. He seems to think he is a male newt, and you
now appear to suggest that he is a parrot. The truth of the matter being that
he is just a plain, ordinary poop and needs a snootful as badly as ever man
did. So no more discussion, Jeeves. My mind is made up. There is only one way
of handling this difficult case, and that is the way I have outlined."
"Very
good, sir."
"Right
ho, Jeeves. So much for that, then. Now here's something else: You noticed that
I said I was going to put this project through tomorrow, and no doubt you
wondered why I said tomorrow. Why did I, Jeeves?"
"Because
you feel that if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done
quickly, sir?"
"Partly,
Jeeves, but not altogether. My chief reason for fixing the date as specified is
that tomorrow, though you have doubtless forgotten, is the day of the
distribution of prizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School, at which, as you
know, Gussie is to be the male star and master of the revels. So you see we
shall, by lacing that juice, not only embolden him to propose to Miss Bassett,
but also put him so into shape that he will hold that Market Snodsbury audience
spellbound."
"In
fact, you will be killing two birds with one stone, sir."
"Exactly.
A very neat way of putting it. And now here is a minor point. On second
thoughts, I think the best plan will be for you, not me, to lace the
juice."
"Sir?"
"Jeeves!"
"I
beg your pardon, sir."
"And
I'll tell you why that will be the best plan. Because you are in a position to
obtain ready access to the stuff. It is served to Gussie daily, I have noticed,
in an individual jug. This jug will presumably be lying about the kitchen or
somewhere before lunch tomorrow. It will be the simplest of tasks for you to
slip a few fingers of gin in it."
"No
doubt, sir, but——"
"Don't
say 'but,' Jeeves."
"I
fear, sir——"
"'I
fear, sir' is just as bad."
"What
I am endeavouring to say, sir, is that I am sorry, but I am afraid I must enter
an unequivocal nolle prosequi."
"Do
what?"
"The
expression is a legal one, sir, signifying the resolve not to proceed with a
matter. In other words, eager though I am to carry out your instructions, sir,
as a general rule, on this occasion I must respectfully decline to
co-operate."
"You
won't do it, you mean?"
"Precisely,
sir."
I was
stunned. I began to understand how a general must feel when he has ordered a
regiment to charge and has been told that it isn't in the mood.
"Jeeves,"
I said, "I had not expected this of you."
"No,
sir?"
"No,
indeed. Naturally, I realize that lacing Gussie's orange juice is not one of
those regular duties for which you receive the monthly stipend, and if you care
to stand on the strict letter of the contract, I suppose there is nothing to be
done about it. But you will permit me to observe that this is scarcely the
feudal spirit."
"I am
sorry, sir."
"It
is quite all right, Jeeves, quite all right. I am not angry, only a little
hurt."
"Very
good, sir."
"Right
ho, Jeeves."
-14-
Investigation
proved that the friends Angela had gone to spend the day with were some
stately-home owners of the name of Stretchley-Budd, hanging out in a joint
called Kingham Manor, about eight miles distant in the direction of Pershore. I
didn't know these birds, but their fascination must have been considerable, for
she tore herself away from them only just in time to get back and dress for
dinner. It was, accordingly, not until coffee had been consumed that I was able
to get matters moving. I found her in the drawing-room and at once proceeded to
put things in train.
It was
with very different feelings from those which had animated the bosom when
approaching the Bassett twenty-four hours before in the same manner in this
same drawing-room that I headed for where she sat. As I had told Tuppy, I have
always been devoted to Angela, and there is nothing I like better than a ramble
in her company.
And I
could see by the look of her now how sorely in need she was of my aid and
comfort.
Frankly, I
was shocked by the unfortunate young prune's appearance. At Cannes she had been
a happy, smiling English girl of the best type, full of beans and buck. Her
face now was pale and drawn, like that of a hockey centre-forward at a girls'
school who, in addition to getting a fruity one on the shin, has just been
penalized for "sticks". In any normal gathering, her demeanour would
have excited instant remark, but the standard of gloom at Brinkley Court had
become so high that it passed unnoticed. Indeed, I shouldn't wonder if Uncle
Tom, crouched in his corner waiting for the end, didn't think she was looking
indecently cheerful.
I got down
to the agenda in my debonair way.
"What
ho, Angela, old girl."
"Hullo,
Bertie, darling."
"Glad
you're back at last. I missed you."
"Did
you, darling?"
"I
did, indeed. Care to come for a saunter?"
"I'd
love it."
"Fine.
I have much to say to you that is not for the public ear."
I think at
this moment poor old Tuppy must have got a sudden touch of cramp. He had been
sitting hard by, staring at the ceiling, and he now gave a sharp leap like a
gaffed salmon and upset a small table containing a vase, a bowl of potpourri,
two china dogs, and a copy of Omar Khayyám bound in limp leather.
Aunt
Dahlia uttered a startled hunting cry. Uncle Tom, who probably imagined from
the noise that this was civilization crashing at last, helped things along by
breaking a coffee-cup.
Tuppy said
he was sorry. Aunt Dahlia, with a deathbed groan, said it didn't matter. And
Angela, having stared haughtily for a moment like a princess of the old régime
confronted by some notable example of gaucherie on the part of some
particularly foul member of the underworld, accompanied me across the
threshold. And presently I had deposited her and self on one of the rustic
benches in the garden, and was ready to snap into the business of the evening.
I
considered it best, however, before doing so, to ease things along with a
little informal chitchat. You don't want to rush a delicate job like the one I
had in hand. And so for a while we spoke of neutral topics. She said that what
had kept her so long at the Stretchley-Budds was that Hilda Stretchley-Budd had
made her stop on and help with the arrangements for their servants' ball
tomorrow night, a task which she couldn't very well decline, as all the Brinkley
Court domestic staff were to be present. I said that a jolly night's revelry
might be just what was needed to cheer Anatole up and take his mind off things.
To which she replied that Anatole wasn't going. On being urged to do so by Aunt
Dahlia, she said, he had merely shaken his head sadly and gone on talking of
returning to Provence, where he was appreciated.
It was
after the sombre silence induced by this statement that Angela said the grass
was wet and she thought she would go in.
This, of
course, was entirely foreign to my policy.
"No,
don't do that. I haven't had a chance to talk to you since you arrived."
"I
shall ruin my shoes."
"Put
your feet up on my lap."
"All
right. And you can tickle my ankles."
"Quite."
Matters
were accordingly arranged on these lines, and for some minutes we continued
chatting in desultory fashion. Then the conversation petered out. I made a few
observations in re the scenic effects, featuring the twilight hush, the
peeping stars, and the soft glimmer of the waters of the lake, and she said
yes. Something rustled in the bushes in front of us, and I advanced the theory
that it was possibly a weasel, and she said it might be. But it was plain that
the girl was distraite, and I considered it best to waste no more time.
"Well,
old thing," I said, "I've heard all about your little dust-up So
those wedding bells are not going to ring out, what?"
"No."
"Definitely
over, is it?"
"Yes."
"Well,
if you want my opinion, I think that's a bit of goose for you, Angela, old
girl. I think you're extremely well out of it. It's a mystery to me how you
stood this Glossop so long. Take him for all in all, he ranks very low down
among the wines and spirits. A washout, I should describe him as. A frightful oik,
and a mass of side to boot. I'd pity the girl who was linked for life to a
bargee like Tuppy Glossop."
And I
emitted a hard laugh—one of the sneering kind.
"I
always thought you were such friends," said Angela.
I let go
another hard one, with a bit more top spin on it than the first time:
"Friends?
Absolutely not. One was civil, of course, when one met the fellow, but it would
be absurd to say one was a friend of his. A club acquaintance, and a mere one
at that. And then one was at school with the man."
"At
Eton?"
"Good
heavens, no. We wouldn't have a fellow like that at Eton. At a kid's school
before I went there. A grubby little brute he was, I recollect. Covered with
ink and mire generally, washing only on alternate Thursdays. In short, a notable
outsider, shunned by all."
I paused.
I was more than a bit perturbed. Apart from the agony of having to talk in this
fashion of one who, except when he was looping back rings and causing me to
plunge into swimming baths in correct evening costume, had always been a very
dear and esteemed crony, I didn't seem to be getting anywhere. Business was not
resulting. Staring into the bushes without a yip, she appeared to be bearing
these slurs and innuendos of mine with an easy calm.
I had
another pop at it:
"'Uncouth'
about sums it up. I doubt if I've ever seen an uncouther kid than this Glossop.
Ask anyone who knew him in those days to describe him in a word, and the word
they will use is 'uncouth'. And he's just the same today. It's the old story.
The boy is the father of the man."
She
appeared not to have heard.
"The
boy," I repeated, not wishing her to miss that one, "is the father of
the man."
"What
are you talking about?"
"I'm
talking about this Glossop."
"I
thought you said something about somebody's father."
"I
said the boy was the father of the man."
"What
boy?"
"The
boy Glossop."
"He
hasn't got a father."
"I
never said he had. I said he was the father of the boy—or, rather, of the
man."
"What
man?"
I saw that
the conversation had reached a point where, unless care was taken, we should be
muddled.
"The
point I am trying to make," I said, "is that the boy Glossop is the
father of the man Glossop. In other words, each loathsome fault and blemish
that led the boy Glossop to be frowned upon by his fellows is present in the
man Glossop, and causes him—I am speaking now of the man Glossop—to be a
hissing and a byword at places like the Drones, where a certain standard of
decency is demanded from the inmates. Ask anyone at the Drones, and they will
tell you that it was a black day for the dear old club when this chap Glossop
somehow wriggled into the list of members. Here you will find a man who
dislikes his face; there one who could stand his face if it wasn't for his
habits. But the universal consensus of opinion is that the fellow is a bounder
and a tick, and that the moment he showed signs of wanting to get into the
place he should have been met with a firm nolle prosequi and heartily
blackballed."
I had to
pause again here, partly in order to take in a spot of breath, and partly to
wrestle with the almost physical torture of saying these frightful things about
poor old Tuppy.
"There
are some chaps," I resumed, forcing myself once more to the nauseous task,
"who, in spite of looking as if they had slept in their clothes, can get
by quite nicely because they are amiable and suave. There are others who, for
all that they excite adverse comment by being fat and uncouth, find themselves
on the credit side of the ledger owing to their wit and sparkling humour. But
this Glossop, I regret to say, falls into neither class. In addition to looking
like one of those things that come out of hollow trees, he is universally
admitted to be a dumb brick of the first water. No soul. No conversation. In short,
any girl who, having been rash enough to get engaged to him, has managed at the
eleventh hour to slide out is justly entitled to consider herself dashed
lucky."
I paused
once more, and cocked an eye at Angela to see how the treatment was taking. All
the while I had been speaking, she had sat gazing silently into the bushes, but
it seemed to me incredible that she should not now turn on me like a tigress,
according to specifications. It beat me why she hadn't done it already. It
seemed to me that a mere tithe of what I had said, if said to a tigress about a
tiger of which she was fond, would have made her—the tigress, I mean—hit the
ceiling.
And the
next moment you could have knocked me down with a toothpick.
"Yes,"
she said, nodding thoughtfully, "you're quite right."
"Eh?"
"That's
exactly what I've been thinking myself."
"What!"
"'Dumb
brick.' It just describes him. One of the six silliest asses in England, I
should think he must be."
I did not
speak. I was endeavouring to adjust the faculties, which were in urgent need of
a bit of first-aid treatment.
I mean to
say, all this had come as a complete surprise. In formulating the well-laid
plan which I had just been putting into effect, the one contingency I had not
budgeted for was that she might adhere to the sentiments which I expressed. I
had braced myself for a gush of stormy emotion. I was expecting the tearful
ticking off, the girlish recriminations and all the rest of the bag of tricks
along those lines.
But this
cordial agreement with my remarks I had not foreseen, and it gave me what you
might call pause for thought.
She
proceeded to develop her theme, speaking in ringing, enthusiastic tones, as if
she loved the topic. Jeeves could tell you the word I want. I think it's
"ecstatic", unless that's the sort of rash you get on your face and
have to use ointment for. But if that is the right word, then that's what her
manner was as she ventilated the subject of poor old Tuppy. If you had been
able to go simply by the sound of her voice, she might have been a court poet
cutting loose about an Oriental monarch, or Gussie Fink-Nottle describing his
last consignment of newts.
"It's
so nice, Bertie, talking to somebody who really takes a sensible view about
this man Glossop. Mother says he's a good chap, which is simply absurd. Anybody
can see that he's absolutely impossible. He's conceited and opinionative and
argues all the time, even when he knows perfectly well that he's talking
through his hat, and he smokes too much and eats too much and drinks too much,
and I don't like the colour of his hair. Not that he'll have any hair in a year
or two, because he's pretty thin on the top already, and before he knows where
he is he'll be as bald as an egg, and he's the last man who can afford to go
bald. And I think it's simply disgusting, the way he gorges all the time. Do
you know, I found him in the larder at one o'clock this morning, absolutely
wallowing in a steak-and-kidney pie? There was hardly any of it left. And you
remember what an enormous dinner he had. Quite disgusting, I call it. But I
can't stop out here all night, talking about men who aren't worth wasting a
word on and haven't even enough sense to tell sharks from flatfish. I'm going
in."
And
gathering about her slim shoulders the shawl which she had put on as a
protection against the evening dew, she buzzed off, leaving me alone in the
silent night.
Well, as a
matter of fact, not absolutely alone, because a few moments later there was a
sort of upheaval in the bushes in front of me, and Tuppy emerged.
To be continued
