Right Ho, Jeeves
would be very, very happy with Gussie, and Angela said she was sure she
would, because Augustus was such a dear, and the Bassett kissed her
again, and Angela kissed her again and, in a word, the whole thing got
so bally feminine that I was glad to edge away.
I would have been glad to do so, of course, in any case, for if ever
there was a moment when it was up to Bertram to think, and think hard,
this moment was that moment.
It was, it seemed to me, the end. Not even on the occasion, some years
earlier, when I had inadvertently become betrothed to Tuppy’s frightful
Cousin Honoria, had I experienced a deeper sense of being waist high
in the gumbo and about to sink without trace. I wandered out into the
garden, smoking a tortured gasper, with the iron well embedded in the
soul. And I had fallen into a sort of trance, trying to picture what
it would be like having the Bassett on the premises for the rest of my
life and at the same time, if you follow me, trying not to picture what
it would be like, when I charged into something which might have been a
tree, but was not--being, in point of fact, Jeeves.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I should have moved to one side.”
I did not reply. I stood looking at him in silence. For the sight of
him had opened up a new line of thought.
This Jeeves, now, I reflected. I had formed the opinion that he had
lost his grip and was no longer the force he had been, but was it not
possible, I asked myself, that I might be mistaken? Start him off
exploring avenues and might he not discover one through which I would
be enabled to sneak off to safety, leaving no hard feelings behind? I
found myself answering that it was quite on the cards that he might.
After all, his head still bulged out at the back as of old. One noted
in the eyes the same intelligent glitter.
Mind you, after what had passed between us in the matter of that white
mess-jacket with the brass buttons, I was not prepared absolutely
to hand over to the man. I would, of course, merely take him into
consultation. But, recalling some of his earlier triumphs--the
Sipperley Case, the Episode of My Aunt Agatha and the Dog McIntosh,
and the smoothly handled Affair of Uncle George and The Barmaid’s
Niece were a few that sprang to my mind--I felt justified at least in
offering him the opportunity of coming to the aid of the young master
in his hour of peril.
But before proceeding further, there was one thing that had got to be
understood between us, and understood clearly.
“Jeeves,” I said, “a word with you.”
“Sir?”
“I am up against it a bit, Jeeves.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir. Can I be of any assistance?”
“Quite possibly you can, if you have not lost your grip. Tell me
frankly, Jeeves, are you in pretty good shape mentally?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still eating plenty of fish?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then it may be all right. But there is just one point before I begin.
In the past, when you have contrived to extricate self or some pal from
some little difficulty, you have frequently shown a disposition to take
advantage of my gratitude to gain some private end. Those purple socks,
for instance. Also the plus fours and the Old Etonian spats. Choosing
your moment with subtle cunning, you came to me when I was weakened by
relief and got me to get rid of them. And what I am saying now is that
if you are successful on the present occasion there must be no rot of
that description about that mess-jacket of mine.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You will not come to me when all is over and ask me to jettison the
jacket?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“On that understanding then, I will carry on. Jeeves, I’m engaged.”
“I hope you will be very happy, sir.”
“Don’t be an ass. I’m engaged to Miss Bassett.”
“Indeed, sir? I was not aware----”
“Nor was I. It came as a complete surprise. However, there it is. The
official intimation was in that note you brought me.”
“Odd, sir.”
“What is?”
“Odd, sir, that the contents of that note should have been as you
describe. It seemed to me that Miss Bassett, when she handed me the
communication, was far from being in a happy frame of mind.”
“She is far from being in a happy frame of mind. You don’t suppose
she really wants to marry me, do you? Pshaw, Jeeves! Can’t you see
that this is simply another of those bally gestures which are rapidly
rendering Brinkley Court a hell for man and beast? Dash all gestures,
is my view.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what’s to be done?”
“You feel that Miss Bassett, despite what has occurred, still retains a
fondness for Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir?”
“She’s pining for him.”
“In that case, sir, surely the best plan would be to bring about a
reconciliation between them.”
“How? You see. You stand silent and twiddle the fingers. You are
stumped.”
“No, sir. If I twiddled my fingers, it was merely to assist thought.”
“Then continue twiddling.”
“It will not be necessary, sir.”
“You don’t mean you’ve got a bite already?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You astound me, Jeeves. Let’s have it.”
“The device which I have in mind is one that I have already mentioned
to you, sir.”
“When did you ever mention any device to me?”
“If you will throw your mind back to the evening of our arrival, sir.
You were good enough to inquire of me if I had any plan to put forward
with a view to bringing Miss Angela and Mr. Glossop together, and I
ventured to suggest----”
“Good Lord! Not the old fire-alarm thing?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“You’re still sticking to that?”
“Yes, sir.”
It shows how much the ghastly blow I had received had shaken me when
I say that, instead of dismissing the proposal with a curt “Tchah!”
or anything like that, I found myself speculating as to whether there
might not be something in it, after all.
When he had first mooted this fire-alarm scheme of his, I had sat
upon it, if you remember, with the maximum of promptitude and vigour.
“Rotten” was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may
recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof
of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began
to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was
that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything
once, however goofy.
“Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves,” I said thoughtfully. “I
remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the
finer shades.”
“Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate,
but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants
of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a
conflagration has broken out.”
I nodded. One could follow the train of thought.
“Yes, that seems reasonable.”
“Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr.
Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett.”
“Is that based on psychology?”
“Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that
the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object
dearest to them.”
“It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out
carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think
that this would clean everything up?”
“The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant
after such an occurrence, sir.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the
night watches, shan’t we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There
is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the
high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner.”
“A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting
promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the
exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor
tonight.”
“Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me
to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let’s just try to envisage.
Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why
shouldn’t she simply walk downstairs?”
“You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine
temperament, sir.”
“That’s true.”
“Miss Bassett’s impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from
her window.”
“Well, that’s worse. We don’t want her spread out in a sort of _purée_
on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours,
Jeeves, is that it’s going to litter the garden with mangled corpses.”
“No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers’s fear of burglars has
caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows.”
“Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right,” I said, though still a
bit doubtfully. “Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling
that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil
at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves,
though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest
bonging the bell?”
“Not before midnight, sir.”
“That is to say, some time after midnight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong.”
“Very good, sir.”
-22-
I don’t know why it is, but there’s something about the rural districts
after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay
out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor,
but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of
the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort
of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the
tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am,
the morale has gone phut and I’m expecting the family ghost to come
sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the
whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are
shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an
all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err.
I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it
makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who
has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when
he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something
that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn’t possibly
mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy.
When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have
fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I’ve had it jerk
me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump.
I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it
buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m.
prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope
against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar
which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to
deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded.
Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than
ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves’s.
Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with
a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and
Angela.
I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence.
I mean to say, I know how moments when they’re faced with a hideous
fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most
chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of
fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from
rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds
of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the