Right Ho, Jeeves
I sat on this promptly:
“No business of mine when I see two lives I used to go to school with
wrecked? Ha! Besides, you know you’re potty about Tuppy.”
“I’m not!”
“Is that so? If I had a quid for every time I’ve seen you gaze at him
with the lovelight in your eyes----”
She gazed at me, but without the lovelight.
“Oh, for goodness sake, go away and boil your head, Bertie!”
I drew myself up.
“That,” I replied, with dignity, “is just what I am going to go away
and boil. At least, I mean, I shall now leave you. I have said my say.”
“Good.”
“But permit me to add----”
“I won’t.”
“Very good,” I said coldly. “In that case, tinkerty tonk.”
And I meant it to sting.
“Moody” and “discouraged” were about the two adjectives you would have
selected to describe me as I left the summer-house. It would be idle to
deny that I had expected better results from this little chat.
I was surprised at Angela. Odd how you never realize that every girl
is at heart a vicious specimen until something goes wrong with her
love affair. This cousin and I had been meeting freely since the
days when I wore sailor suits and she hadn’t any front teeth, yet
only now was I beginning to get on to her hidden depths. A simple,
jolly, kindly young pimple she had always struck me as--the sort you
could more or less rely on not to hurt a fly. But here she was now
laughing heartlessly--at least, I seemed to remember hearing her laugh
heartlessly--like something cold and callous out of a sophisticated
talkie, and fairly spitting on her hands in her determination to bring
Tuppy’s grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again--girls are rummy. Old Pop
Kipling never said a truer word than when he made that crack about the
f. of the s. being more d. than the m.
It seemed to me in the circs. that there was but one thing to do--that
is head for the dining-room and take a slash at the cold collation of
which Jeeves had spoken. I felt in urgent need of sustenance, for the
recent interview had pulled me down a bit. There is no gainsaying the
fact that this naked-emotion stuff reduces a chap’s vitality and puts
him in the vein for a good whack at the beef and ham.
To the dining-room, accordingly, I repaired, and had barely crossed the
threshold when I perceived Aunt Dahlia at the sideboard, tucking into
salmon mayonnaise.
The spectacle drew from me a quick “Oh, ah,” for I was somewhat
embarrassed. The last time this relative and I had enjoyed a
_tête-à-tête_, it will be remembered, she had sketched out plans for
drowning me in the kitchen-garden pond, and I was not quite sure what
my present standing with her was.
I was relieved to find her in genial mood. Nothing could have exceeded
the cordiality with which she waved her fork.
“Hallo, Bertie, you old ass,” was her very matey greeting. “I thought
I shouldn’t find you far away from the food. Try some of this salmon.
Excellent.”
“Anatole’s?” I queried.
“No. He’s still in bed. But the kitchen maid has struck an inspired
streak. It suddenly seems to have come home to her that she isn’t
catering for a covey of buzzards in the Sahara Desert, and she has put
out something quite fit for human consumption. There is good in the
girl, after all, and I hope she enjoys herself at the dance.”
I ladled out a portion of salmon, and we fell into pleasant
conversation, chatting of this servants’ ball at the Stretchley-Budds
and speculating idly, I recall, as to what Seppings, the butler, would
look like, doing the rumba.
It was not till I had cleaned up the first platter and was embarking
on a second that the subject of Gussie came up. Considering what had
passed at Market Snodsbury that afternoon, it was one which I had been
expecting her to touch on earlier. When she did touch on it, I could
see that she had not yet been informed of Angela’s engagement.
“I say, Bertie,” she said, meditatively chewing fruit salad. “This
Spink-Bottle.”
“Nottle.”
“Bottle,” insisted the aunt firmly. “After that exhibition of his this
afternoon, Bottle, and nothing but Bottle, is how I shall always think
of him. However, what I was going to say was that, if you see him, I
wish you would tell him that he has made an old woman very, very happy.
Except for the time when the curate tripped over a loose shoelace
and fell down the pulpit steps, I don’t think I have ever had a more
wonderful moment than when good old Bottle suddenly started ticking Tom
off from the platform. In fact, I thought his whole performance in the
most perfect taste.”
I could not but demur.
“Those references to myself----”
“Those were what I liked next best. I thought they were fine. Is it
true that you cheated when you won that Scripture-knowledge prize?”
“Certainly not. My victory was the outcome of the most strenuous and
unremitting efforts.”
“And how about this pessimism we hear of? Are you a pessimist, Bertie?”
I could have told her that what was occurring in this house was rapidly
making me one, but I said no, I wasn’t.
“That’s right. Never be a pessimist. Everything is for the best in this
best of all possible worlds. It’s a long lane that has no turning. It’s
always darkest before the dawn. Have patience and all will come right.
The sun will shine, although the day’s a grey one.... Try some of this
salad.”
I followed her advice, but even as I plied the spoon my thoughts were
elsewhere. I was perplexed. It may have been the fact that I had
recently been hobnobbing with so many bowed-down hearts that made this
cheeriness of hers seem so bizarre, but bizarre was certainly what I
found it.
“I thought you might have been a trifle peeved,” I said.
“Peeved?”
“By Gussie’s manoeuvres on the platform this afternoon. I confess that
I had rather expected the tapping foot and the drawn brow.”
“Nonsense. What was there to be peeved about? I took the whole thing as
a great compliment, proud to feel that any drink from my cellars could
have produced such a majestic jag. It restores one’s faith in post-war
whisky. Besides, I couldn’t be peeved at anything tonight. I am like
a little child clapping its hands and dancing in the sunshine. For
though it has been some time getting a move on, Bertie, the sun has at
last broken through the clouds. Ring out those joy bells. Anatole has
withdrawn his notice.”
“What? Oh, very hearty congratulations.”
“Thanks. Yes, I worked on him like a beaver after I got back this
afternoon, and finally, vowing he would ne’er consent, he consented. He
stays on, praises be, and the way I look at it now is that God’s in His
heaven and all’s right with----”
She broke off. The door had opened, and we were plus a butler.
“Hullo, Seppings,” said Aunt Dahlia. “I thought you had gone.”
“Not yet, madam.”
“Well, I hope you will all have a good time.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“Was there something you wanted to see me about?”
“Yes, madam. It is with reference to Monsieur Anatole. Is it by your
wish, madam, that Mr. Fink-Nottle is making faces at Monsieur Anatole
through the skylight of his bedroom?”
-20-
There was one of those long silences. Pregnant, I believe, is what
they’re generally called. Aunt looked at butler. Butler looked at aunt.
I looked at both of them. An eerie stillness seemed to envelop the room
like a linseed poultice. I happened to be biting on a slice of apple in
my fruit salad at the moment, and it sounded as if Carnera had jumped
off the top of the Eiffel Tower on to a cucumber frame.
Aunt Dahlia steadied herself against the sideboard, and spoke in a low,
husky voice:
“Faces?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Through the skylight?”
“Yes, madam.”
“You mean he’s sitting on the roof?”
“Yes, madam. It has upset Monsieur Anatole very much.”
I suppose it was that word “upset” that touched Aunt Dahlia off.
Experience had taught her what happened when Anatole got upset. I had
always known her as a woman who was quite active on her pins, but I
had never suspected her of being capable of the magnificent burst of
speed which she now showed. Pausing merely to get a rich hunting-field
expletive off her chest, she was out of the room and making for the
stairs before I could swallow a sliver of--I think--banana. And
feeling, as I had felt when I got that telegram of hers about Angela
and Tuppy, that my place was by her side, I put down my plate and
hastened after her, Seppings following at a loping gallop.
I say that my place was by her side, but it was not so dashed easy to
get there, for she was setting a cracking pace. At the top of the first
flight she must have led by a matter of half a dozen lengths, and was
still shaking off my challenge when she rounded into the second. At the
next landing, however, the gruelling going appeared to tell on her, for
she slackened off a trifle and showed symptoms of roaring, and by the
time we were in the straight we were running practically neck and neck.
Our entry into Anatole’s room was as close a finish as you could have
wished to see.
Result:
1. _Aunt Dahlia._
2. _Bertram._
3. _Seppings._
_Won by a short head. Half a staircase separated second and third._
The first thing that met the eye on entering was Anatole. This wizard
of the cooking-stove is a tubby little man with a moustache of the
outsize or soup-strainer type, and you can generally take a line
through it as to the state of his emotions. When all is well, it turns
up at the ends like a sergeant-major’s. When the soul is bruised, it
droops.
It was drooping now, striking a sinister note. And if any shadow of
doubt had remained as to how he was feeling, the way he was carrying on
would have dispelled it. He was standing by the bed in pink pyjamas,
waving his fists at the skylight. Through the glass, Gussie was staring
down. His eyes were bulging and his mouth was open, giving him so
striking a resemblance to some rare fish in an aquarium that one’s
primary impulse was to offer him an ant’s egg.
Watching this fist-waving cook and this goggling guest, I must say
that my sympathies were completely with the former. I considered him
thoroughly justified in waving all the fists he wanted to.
Review the facts, I mean to say. There he had been, lying in bed,
thinking idly of whatever French cooks do think about when in bed, and
he had suddenly become aware of that frightful face at the window. A
thing to jar the most phlegmatic. I know I should hate to be lying in
bed and have Gussie popping up like that. A chap’s bedroom--you can’t
get away from it--is his castle, and he has every right to look askance
if gargoyles come glaring in at him.
While I stood musing thus, Aunt Dahlia, in her practical way, was
coming straight to the point:
“What’s all this?”
Anatole did a sort of Swedish exercise, starting at the base of the
spine, carrying on through the shoulder-blades and finishing up among
the back hair.
Then he told her.
In the chats I have had with this wonder man, I have always found his
English fluent, but a bit on the mixed side. If you remember, he was
with Mrs. Bingo Little for a time before coming to Brinkley, and no
doubt he picked up a good deal from Bingo. Before that, he had been a
couple of years with an American family at Nice and had studied under
their chauffeur, one of the Maloneys of Brooklyn. So, what with Bingo
and what with Maloney, he is, as I say, fluent but a bit mixed.
He spoke, in part, as follows:
“Hot dog! You ask me what is it? Listen. Make some attention a little.
Me, I have hit the hay, but I do not sleep so good, and presently I
wake and up I look, and there is one who make faces against me through
the dashed window. Is that a pretty affair? Is that convenient? If
you think I like it, you jolly well mistake yourself. I am so mad as