THE INIMITABLE JEEVES
PART 7
CHAPTER VII
INTRODUCING CLAUDE AND EUSTACE
The blow fell
precisely at one forty-five (summer time). Spenser, Aunt Agatha's butler, was
offering me the fried potatoes at the moment, and such was my emotion that I
lofted six of them on to the sideboard with the spoon. Shaken to the core, if
you know what I mean.
Mark you, I was
in a pretty enfeebled condition already. I had been engaged to Honoria Glossop
nearly two weeks, and during all that time not a day had passed without her
putting in some heavy work in the direction of what Aunt Agatha had called
"moulding" me. I had read solid literature till my eyes bubbled; we
had legged it together through miles of picture-galleries; and I had been
compelled to undergo classical concerts to an extent you would hardly believe.
All in all, therefore, I was in no fit state to receive shocks, especially
shocks like this. Honoria had lugged me round to lunch at Aunt Agatha's, and I
had just been saying to myself, "Death, where is thy jolly old
sting?" when she hove the bomb.
"Bertie,"
she said, suddenly, as if she had just remembered it, "what is the name of
that man of yours—your valet?"
"Eh? Oh,
Jeeves."
"I think
he's a bad influence for you," said Honoria. "When we are married,
you must get rid of Jeeves."
It was at this
point that I jerked the spoon and sent six of the best and crispest sailing on
to the sideboard, with Spenser gambolling after them like a dignified old
retriever.
"Get rid
of Jeeves!" I gasped.
"Yes. I
don't like him."
"I
don't like him," said Aunt Agatha.
"But I
can't. I mean—why, I couldn't carry on for a day without Jeeves."
"You will
have to," said Honoria. "I don't like him at all."
"I
don't like him at all," said Aunt Agatha. "I never did."
Ghastly, what?
I'd always had an idea that marriage was a bit of a wash-out, but I'd never
dreamed that it demanded such frightful sacrifices from a fellow. I passed the
rest of the meal in a sort of stupor.
The scheme had
been, if I remember, that after lunch I should go off and caddy for Honoria on
a shopping tour down Regent Street; but when she got up and started collecting
me and the rest of her things, Aunt Agatha stopped her.
"You run
along, dear," she said. "I want to say a few words to Bertie."
So Honoria legged
it, and Aunt Agatha drew up her chair and started in.
"Bertie,"
she said, "dear Honoria does not know it, but a little difficulty has
arisen about your marriage."
"By Jove!
not really?" I said, hope starting to dawn.
"Oh, it's
nothing at all, of course. It is only a little exasperating. The fact is, Sir
Roderick is being rather troublesome."
"Thinks
I'm not a good bet? Wants to scratch the fixture? Well, perhaps he's
right."
"Pray do
not be so absurd, Bertie. It is nothing so serious as that. But the nature of
Sir Roderick's profession unfortunately makes him—over-cautious."
I didn't get
it.
"Over-cautious?"
"Yes. I
suppose it is inevitable. A nerve specialist with his extensive practice can
hardly help taking a rather warped view of humanity."
I got what she
was driving at now. Sir Roderick Glossop, Honoria's father, is always called a
nerve specialist, because it sounds better, but everybody knows that he's
really a sort of janitor to the looney-bin. I mean to say, when your uncle the
Duke begins to feel the strain a bit and you find him in the blue drawing-room
sticking straws in his hair, old Glossop is the first person you send for. He
toddles round, gives the patient the once-over, talks about over-excited
nervous systems, and recommends complete rest and seclusion and all that sort
of thing. Practically every posh family in the country has called him in at one
time or another, and I suppose that, being in that position—I mean constantly
having to sit on people's heads while their nearest and dearest phone to the
asylum to send round the wagon—does tend to make a chappie take what you might
call a warped view of humanity.
"You mean
he thinks I may be a looney, and he doesn't want a looney son-in-law?" I
said.
Aunt Agatha
seemed rather peeved than otherwise at my ready intelligence.
"Of
course, he does not think anything so ridiculous. I told you he was simply
exceedingly cautious. He wants to satisfy himself that you are perfectly
normal." Here she paused, for Spenser had come in with the coffee. When he
had gone, she went on: "He appears to have got hold of some
extraordinary story about your having pushed his son Oswald into the lake at
Ditteredge Hall. Incredible, of course. Even you would hardly do a thing like
that."
"Well, I
did sort of lean against him, you know, and he shot off the bridge."
"Oswald
definitely accuses you of having pushed him into the water. That has disturbed
Sir Roderick, and unfortunately it has caused him to make inquiries, and he has
heard about your poor Uncle Henry."
She eyed me
with a good deal of solemnity, and I took a grave sip of coffee. We were
peeping into the family cupboard and having a look at the good old skeleton. My
late Uncle Henry, you see, was by way of being the blot on the Wooster
escutcheon. An extremely decent chappie personally, and one who had always
endeared himself to me by tipping me with considerable lavishness when I was at
school; but there's no doubt he did at times do rather rummy things, notably
keeping eleven pet rabbits in his bedroom; and I suppose a purist might have
considered him more or less off his onion. In fact, to be perfectly frank, he
wound up his career, happy to the last and completely surrounded by rabbits, in
some sort of a home.
"It is
very absurd, of course," continued Aunt Agatha. "If any of the family
had inherited poor Henry's eccentricity—and it was nothing more—it would have
been Claude and Eustace, and there could not be two brighter boys."
Claude and
Eustace were twins, and had been kids at school with me in my last summer term.
Casting my mind back, it seemed to me that "bright" just about
described them. The whole of that term, as I remembered it, had been spent in
getting them out of a series of frightful rows.
"Look how
well they are doing at Oxford. Your Aunt Emily had a letter from Claude only
the other day saying that they hoped to be elected shortly to a very important
college club, called The Seekers."
"Seekers?"
I couldn't recall any club of the name in my time at Oxford. "What do they
seek?"
"Claude
did not say. Truth or knowledge, I should imagine. It is evidently a very
desirable club to belong to, for Claude added that Lord Rainsby, the Earl of
Datchet's son, was one of his fellow-candidates. However, we are wandering from
the point, which is that Sir Roderick wants to have a quiet talk with you quite
alone. Now I rely on you, Bertie, to be—I won't say intelligent, but at least
sensible. Don't giggle nervously: try to keep that horrible glassy expression
out of your eyes: don't yawn or fidget; and remember that Sir Roderick is the
president of the West London branch of the anti-gambling league, so please do
not talk about horse-racing. He will lunch with you at your flat to-morrow at
one-thirty. Please remember that he drinks no wine, strongly disapproves of
smoking, and can only eat the simplest food, owing to an impaired digestion. Do
not offer him coffee, for he considers it the root of half the nerve-trouble in
the world."
"I should
think a dog-biscuit and a glass of water would about meet the case, what?"
"Bertie!"
"Oh, all
right. Merely persiflage."
"Now it is
precisely that sort of idiotic remark that would be calculated to arouse Sir
Roderick's worst suspicions. Do please try to refrain from any misguided
flippancy when you are with him. He is a very serious-minded man.... Are you
going? Well, please remember all I have said. I rely
on you, and, if anything goes wrong, I shall never forgive you."
"Right-o!"
I said.
And so home,
with a jolly day to look forward to.
*
* *
* *
I breakfasted
pretty late next morning and went for a stroll afterwards. It seemed to me that
anything I could do to clear the old lemon ought to be done, and a bit of fresh
air generally relieves that rather foggy feeling that comes over a fellow early
in the day. I had taken a stroll in the park, and got back as far as Hyde Park
Corner, when some blighter sloshed me between the shoulder-blades. It was young
Eustace, my cousin. He was arm-in-arm with two other fellows, the one on the
outside being my cousin Claude and the one in the middle a pink-faced chappie
with light hair and an apologetic sort of look.
"Bertie,
old egg!" said young Eustace affably.
"Hallo!"
I said, not frightfully chirpily.
"Fancy
running into you, the one man in London who can support us in the style we are
accustomed to! By the way, you've never met old Dog-Face, have you? Dog-Face,
this is my cousin Bertie. Lord Rainsby—Mr. Wooster. We've just been round to
your flat, Bertie. Bitterly disappointed that you were out, but were hospitably
entertained by old Jeeves. That man's a corker, Bertie. Stick to him."
"What are
you doing in London?" I asked.
"Oh,
buzzing round. We're just up for the day. Flying visit, strictly unofficial. We
oil back on the three-ten. And now, touching that lunch you very decently
volunteered to stand us, which shall it be? Ritz? Savoy? Carlton? Or, if you're a member of Ciro's or the Embassy, that would
do just as well."
"I can't
give you lunch. I've got an engagement myself. And, by Jove," I said,
taking a look at my watch, "I'm late." I hailed a taxi.
"Sorry."
"As man to
man, then," said Eustace, "lend us a fiver."
I hadn't time
to stop and argue. I unbelted the fiver and hopped into the cab. It was twenty
to two when I got to the flat. I bounded into the sitting-room, but it was
empty.
Jeeves shimmied
in.
"Sir
Roderick has not yet arrived, sir."
"Good
egg!" I said. "I thought I should find him smashing up the
furniture." My experience is that the less you want a fellow, the more
punctual he's bound to be, and I had had a vision of the old lad pacing the rug
in my sitting-room, saying "He cometh not!" and generally hotting up.
"Is everything in order?"
"I fancy
you will find the arrangements quite satisfactory, sir."
"What are
you giving us?"
"Cold
consommé, a cutlet, and a savoury, sir. With lemon-squash, iced."
"Well, I
don't see how that can hurt him. Don't go getting carried away by the
excitement of the thing and start bringing in coffee."
"No,
sir."
"And don't
let your eyes get glassy, because, if you do, you're apt to find yourself in a
padded cell before you know where you are."
"Very
good, sir."
There was a
ring at the bell.
"Stand by,
Jeeves," I said. "We're off!"
