THE INIMITABLE JEEVES
PART 2
CHAPTER II
NO WEDDING BELLS FOR BINGO
Bingo reported
three days later that Rosie M. Banks was the goods and beyond a question the
stuff to give the troops. Old Little had jibbed somewhat at first at the
proposed change of literary diet, he not being much of a lad for fiction and
having stuck hitherto exclusively to the heavier monthly reviews; but Bingo had
got chapter one of "All for Love" past his guard before he knew what
was happening, and after that there was nothing to it. Since then they had
finished "A Red, Red Summer Rose," "Madcap Myrtle" and
"Only a Factory Girl," and were half-way through "The Courtship
of Lord Strathmorlick."
Bingo told me
all this in a husky voice over an egg beaten up in sherry. The only blot on the
thing from his point of view was that it wasn't doing a bit of good to the old
vocal cords, which were beginning to show signs of cracking under the strain.
He had been looking his symptoms up in a medical dictionary, and he thought he
had got "clergyman's throat." But against this you had to set the
fact that he was making an undoubted hit in the right quarter, and also that
after the evening's reading he always stayed on to dinner; and, from what he
told me, the dinners turned out by old Little's cook had to be tasted to be
believed. There were tears in the old blighter's eyes as he got on the subject
of the clear soup. I suppose to a fellow who for weeks had been tackling
macaroons and limado it must have been like Heaven.
Old Little
wasn't able to give any practical assistance at these banquets, but Bingo said
that he came to the table and had his whack of arrowroot, and sniffed the
dishes, and told stories of entrées he had had in the past, and sketched
out scenarios of what he was going to do to the bill of fare in the future,
when the doctor put him in shape; so I suppose he enjoyed himself, too, in a
way. Anyhow, things seemed to be buzzing along quite satisfactorily, and Bingo
said he had got an idea which, he thought, was going to clinch the thing. He
wouldn't tell me what it was, but he said it was a pippin.
"We make
progress, Jeeves," I said.
"That is
very satisfactory, sir."
"Mr.
Little tells me that when he came to the big scene in 'Only a Factory Girl,'
his uncle gulped like a stricken bull-pup."
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Where
Lord Claude takes the girl in his arms, you know, and says——"
"I am
familiar with the passage, sir. It is distinctly moving. It was a great
favourite of my aunt's."
"I think
we're on the right track."
"It would
seem so, sir."
"In fact,
this looks like being another of your successes. I've always said, and I always
shall say, that for sheer brain, Jeeves, you stand alone. All the other great
thinkers of the age are simply in the crowd, watching you go by."
"Thank you
very much, sir. I endeavour to give satisfaction."
About a week
after this, Bingo blew in with the news that his uncle's gout had ceased to
trouble him, and that on the morrow he would be back at the old stand working
away with knife and fork as before.
"And, by
the way," said Bingo, "he wants you to lunch with him
to-morrow."
"Me? Why
me? He doesn't know I exist."
"Oh, yes,
he does. I've told him about you."
"What have
you told him?"
"Oh,
various things. Anyhow, he wants to meet you. And take my tip, laddie—you go! I
should think lunch to-morrow would be something special."
I don't know
why it was, but even then it struck me that there was something dashed
odd—almost sinister, if you know what I mean—about young Bingo's manner. The
old egg had the air of one who has something up his sleeve.
"There is
more in this than meets the eye," I said. "Why should your uncle ask
a fellow to lunch whom he's never seen?"
"My dear
old fathead, haven't I just said that I've been telling him all about you—that
you're my best pal—at school together, and all that sort of thing?"
"But even
then—and another thing. Why are you so dashed keen on my going?"
Bingo hesitated
for a moment.
"Well, I
told you I'd got an idea. This is it. I want you to spring the news on him. I haven't
the nerve myself."
"What! I'm
hanged if I do!"
"And you
call yourself a pal of mine!"
"Yes, I
know; but there are limits."
"Bertie,"
said Bingo reproachfully, "I saved your life once."
"When?"
"Didn't I?
It must have been some other fellow, then. Well, anyway, we were boys together
and all that. You can't let me down."
"Oh, all
right," I said. "But, when you say you haven't nerve enough for any
dashed thing in the world, you misjudge yourself. A fellow who——"
"Cheerio!"
said young Bingo. "One-thirty to-morrow. Don't be late."
*
* *
* *
I'm bound to
say that the more I contemplated the binge, the less I liked it. It was all
very well for Bingo to say that I was slated for a magnificent lunch; but what
good is the best possible lunch to a fellow if he is slung out into the street
on his ear during the soup course? However, the word of a Wooster is his bond
and all that sort of rot, so at one-thirty next day I tottered up the steps of
No. , Pounceby Gardens, and punched the bell. And half a minute later I was up
in the drawing-room, shaking hands with the fattest man I have ever seen in my
life.
The motto of
the Little family was evidently "variety." Young Bingo is long and
thin and hasn't had a superfluous ounce on him since we first met; but the
uncle restored the average and a bit over. The hand which grasped mine wrapped
it round and enfolded it till I began to wonder if I'd ever get it out without
excavating machinery.
"Mr.
Wooster, I am gratified—I am proud—I am honoured."
It seemed to me
that young Bingo must have boosted me to some purpose.
"Oh,
ah!" I said.
He stepped back
a bit, still hanging on to the good right hand.
"You are
very young to have accomplished so much!"
I couldn't
follow the train of thought. The family, especially my Aunt Agatha, who has
savaged me incessantly from childhood up, have always rather made a point of
the fact that mine is a wasted life, and that, since I won the prize at my
first school for the best collection of wild flowers made during the summer
holidays, I haven't done a dam' thing to land me on the nation's scroll of
fame. I was wondering if he couldn't have got me mixed up with someone else,
when the telephone-bell rang outside in the hall, and the maid came in to say
that I was wanted. I buzzed down, and found it was young Bingo.
"Hallo!"
said young Bingo. "So you've got there? Good man! I knew I could rely on
you. I say, old crumpet, did my uncle seem pleased to see you?"
"Absolutely
all over me. I can't make it out."
"Oh,
that's all right. I just rang up to explain. The fact is, old man, I know you
won't mind, but I told him that you were the author of those books I've been
reading to him."
"What!"
"Yes, I
said that 'Rosie M. Banks' was your pen-name, and you didn't want it generally
known, because you were a modest, retiring sort of chap. He'll listen to you
now. Absolutely hang on your words. A brightish idea, what? I doubt if Jeeves
in person could have thought up a better one than that. Well, pitch it strong,
old lad, and keep steadily before you the fact that I must have my allowance
raised. I can't possibly marry on what I've got now. If this film is to end with
the slow fade-out on the embrace, at least double is indicated. Well, that's
that. Cheerio!"
And he rang
off. At that moment the gong sounded, and the genial host came tumbling
downstairs like the delivery of a ton of coals.
*
* *
* *
I always look
back to that lunch with a sort of aching regret. It was the lunch of a
lifetime, and I wasn't in a fit state to appreciate it. Subconsciously, if you
know what I mean, I could see it was pretty special, but I had got the wind up
to such a frightful extent over the ghastly situation in which young Bingo had
landed me that its deeper meaning never really penetrated. Most of the time I
might have been eating sawdust for all the good it did me.
Old Little
struck the literary note right from the start.
"My nephew
has probably told you that I have been making a close study of your books of
late?" he began.
"Yes. He
did mention it. How—er—how did you like the bally things?"
He gazed
reverently at me.
"Mr.
Wooster, I am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyes as I listened
to them. It amazes me that a man as young as you can have been able to plumb
human nature so surely to its depths; to play with so unerring a hand on the
quivering heart-strings of your reader; to write novels so true, so human, so
moving, so vital!"
"Oh, it's
just a knack," I said.
The good old
persp. was bedewing my forehead by this time in a pretty lavish manner. I don't
know when I've been so rattled.
"Do you
find the room a trifle warm?"
"Oh, no,
no, rather not. Just right."
"Then it's
the pepper. If my cook has a fault—which I am not prepared to admit—it is that
she is inclined to stress the pepper a trifle in her made dishes. By the way,
do you like her cooking?"
I was so
relieved that we had got off the subject of my literary output that I shouted
approval in a ringing baritone.
"I am
delighted to hear it, Mr. Wooster. I may be prejudiced, but to my mind that
woman is a genius."
"Absolutely!"
I said.
"She has
been with me seven years, and in all that time I have not known her guilty of a
single lapse from the highest standard. Except once, in the winter of , when a
purist might have condemned a certain mayonnaise of hers as lacking in
creaminess. But one must make allowances. There had been several air-raids
about that time, and no doubt the poor woman was shaken. But nothing is perfect
in this world, Mr. Wooster, and I have had my cross to bear. For seven years I
have lived in constant apprehension lest some evilly-disposed person might lure
her from my employment. To my certain knowledge she has received offers,
lucrative offers, to accept service elsewhere. You may judge of my dismay, Mr.
Wooster, when only this morning the bolt fell. She gave notice!"
"Good
Lord!"
"Your
consternation does credit, if I may say so, to the heart of the author of 'A
Red, Red Summer Rose.' But I am thankful to say the worst has not happened. The
matter has been adjusted. Jane is not leaving me."
"Good
egg!"
"Good egg,
indeed—though the expression is not familiar to me. I do not remember having
come across it in your books. And, speaking of your books, may I say that what
has impressed me about them even more than the moving poignancy of the actual
narrative, is your philosophy of life. If there were more men like you, Mr.
Wooster, London would be a better place."
This was dead
opposite to my Aunt Agatha's philosophy of life, she having always rather given
me to understand that it is the presence in it of chappies like me that makes
London more or less of a plague spot; but I let it go.
"Let me
tell you, Mr. Wooster, that I appreciate your splendid defiance of the outworn
fetishes of a purblind social system. I appreciate it! You are big
enough to see that rank is but the guinea stamp and that, in the magnificent
words of Lord Bletchmore in 'Only a Factory Girl,' 'Be her origin ne'er so
humble, a good woman is the equal of the finest lady on earth!'"
I sat up.
"I say! Do
you think that?"
"I do, Mr.
Wooster. I am ashamed to say that there was a time when I was like other men, a
slave to the idiotic convention which we call Class Distinction. But, since I
read your books——"
I might have
known it. Jeeves had done it again.
"You think
it's all right for a chappie in what you might call a certain social position
to marry a girl of what you might describe as the lower classes?"
"Most
assuredly I do, Mr. Wooster."
I took a deep
breath, and slipped him the good news.
"Young Bingo—your
nephew, you know—wants to marry a waitress," I said.
"I honour
him for it," said old Little.
"You don't
object?"
"On the
contrary."
I took another
deep breath and shifted to the sordid side of the business.
"I hope
you won't think I'm butting in, don't you know," I said,
"but—er—well, how about it?"
"I fear I
do not quite follow you."
"Well, I
mean to say, his allowance and all that. The money you're good enough to give
him. He was rather hoping that you might see your way to jerking up the total a
bit."
Old Little
shook his head regretfully.
"I fear
that can hardly be managed. You see, a man in my position is compelled to save
every penny. I will gladly continue my nephew's existing allowance, but beyond
that I cannot go. It would not be fair to my wife."
"What! But
you're not married?"
"Not yet.
But I propose to enter upon that holy state almost immediately. The lady who
for years has cooked so well for me honoured me by accepting my hand this very
morning." A cold gleam of triumph came into his eye. "Now let 'em try
to get her away from me!" he muttered, defiantly.
*
* *
* *
"Young Mr.
Little has been trying frequently during the afternoon to reach you on the
telephone, sir," said Jeeves that night, when I got home.
"I'll bet
he has," I said. I had sent poor old Bingo an outline of the situation by
messenger-boy shortly after lunch.
"He seemed
a trifle agitated."
"I don't
wonder. Jeeves," I said, "so brace up and bite the bullet. I'm afraid
I've bad news for you."
"That
scheme of yours—reading those books to old Mr. Little and all that—has blown
out a fuse."
"They did
not soften him?"
"They did.
That's the whole bally trouble. Jeeves, I'm sorry to say that fiancée of
yours—Miss Watson, you know—the cook, you know—well, the long and the short of
it is that she's chosen riches instead of honest worth, if you know what I
mean."
"Sir?"
"She's
handed you the mitten and gone and got engaged to old Mr. Little!"
"Indeed,
sir?"
"You don't
seem much upset."
"The fact
is, sir, I had anticipated some such outcome."
I stared at
him. "Then what on earth did you suggest the scheme for?"
"To tell
you the truth, sir, I was not wholly averse from a severance of my relations
with Miss Watson. In fact, I greatly desired it. I respect Miss Watson
exceedingly, but I have seen for a long time that we were not suited. Now, the other
young person with whom I have an understanding—"
"Great
Scott, Jeeves! There isn't another?"
"Yes,
sir."
"How long
has this been going on?"
"For some
weeks, sir. I was greatly attracted by her when I first met her at a
subscription dance at Camberwell."
"My
sainted aunt! Not——"
Jeeves inclined
his head gravely.
"Yes, sir.
By an odd coincidence it is the same young person that young Mr. Little—— I
have placed the cigarettes on the small table. Good night, sir."
