Pelham Wodehouse - Right Ho, Jeeves

“Ha!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you said something.”

“No, nothing.”

And I continued to do so. For at this juncture, as had so often happened when this girl and I were closeted, the conversation once more went blue on us. The night breeze whispered, but not the Bassett. A bird twittered, but not so much as a chirp escaped Bertram. It was perfectly amazing, the way her mere presence seemed to wipe speech from my lips—and mine, for that matter, from hers. It began to look as if our married life together would be rather like twenty years among the Trappist monks.

“Seen Jeeves anywhere?” I asked, eventually coming through.

“Yes, in the dining-room.”

“The dining-room?”

“Waiting on everybody. They are having eggs and bacon and champagne.... What did you say?”

I had said nothing—merely snorted. There was something about the thought of these people carelessly revelling at a time when, for all they knew, I was probably being dragged about the countryside by goats or chewed by elephants, that struck home at me like a poisoned dart. It was the sort of thing you read about as having happened just before the French Revolution—the haughty nobles in their castles callously digging in and quaffing while the unfortunate blighters outside were suffering frightful privations.

The voice of the Bassett cut in on these mordant reflections:

“Bertie.”

“Hullo!”

Silence.

“Hullo!” I said again.

No response. Whole thing rather like one of those telephone conversations where you sit at your end of the wire saying: “Hullo! Hullo!” unaware that the party of the second part has gone off to tea.

Eventually, however, she came to the surface again:

“Bertie, I have something to say to you.”

“What?”

“I have something to say to you.”

“I know. I said 'What?'“

“Oh, I thought you didn't hear what I said.”

“Yes, I heard what you said, all right, but not what you were going to say.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Right-ho.”

So that was straightened out. Nevertheless, instead of proceeding she took time off once more. She stood twisting the fingers and scratching the gravel with her foot. When finally she spoke, it was to deliver an impressive boost:

“Bertie, do you read Tennyson?”

“Not if I can help.”

“You remind me so much of those Knights of the Round Table in the 'Idylls of the King'.”

Of course I had heard of them—Lancelot, Galahad and all that lot, but I didn't see where the resemblance came in. It seemed to me that she must be thinking of a couple of other fellows.

“How do you mean?”

“You have such a great heart, such a fine soul. You are so generous, so unselfish, so chivalrous. I have always felt that about you—that you are one of the few really chivalrous men I have ever met.”

Well, dashed difficult, of course, to know what to say when someone is giving you the old oil on a scale like that. I muttered an “Oh, yes?” or something on those lines, and rubbed the billowy portions in some embarrassment. And there was another silence, broken only by a sharp howl as I rubbed a bit too hard.

“Bertie.”

“Hullo?”

I heard her give a sort of gulp.

“Bertie, will you be chivalrous now?”

“Rather. Only too pleased. How do you mean?”

“I am going to try you to the utmost. I am going to test you as few men have ever been tested. I am going—”

I didn't like the sound of this.

“Well,” I said doubtfully, “always glad to oblige, you know, but I've just had the dickens of a bicycle ride, and I'm a bit stiff and sore, especially in the—as I say, a bit stiff and sore. If it's anything to be fetched from upstairs—”

“No, no, you don't understand.”

“I don't, quite, no.”

“Oh, it's so difficult.... How can I say it?... Can't you guess?”

“No. I'm dashed if I can.”

“Bertie—let me go!”

“But I haven't got hold of you.”

“Release me!”

“Re—”

And then I suddenly got it. I suppose it was fatigue that had made me so slow to apprehend the nub.

“What?”

I staggered, and the left pedal came up and caught me on the shin. But such was the ecstasy in the soul that I didn't utter a cry.

“Release you?”

“Yes.”

I didn't want any confusion on the point.

“You mean you want to call it all off? You're going to hitch up with Gussie, after all?”

“Only if you are fine and big enough to consent.”

“Oh, I am.”

“I gave you my promise.”

“Dash promises.”

“Then you really—”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, Bertie!”

She seemed to sway like a sapling. It is saplings that sway, I believe.

“A very parfait knight!” I heard her murmur, and there not being much to say after that, I excused myself on the ground that I had got about two pecks of dust down my back and would like to go and get my maid to put me into something loose.

“You go back to Gussie,” I said, “and tell him that all is well.”

She gave a sort of hiccup and, darting forward, kissed me on the forehead. Unpleasant, of course, but, as Anatole would say, I can take a few smooths with a rough. The next moment she was legging it for the dining-room, while I, having bunged the bicycle into a bush, made for the stairs.

I need not dwell upon my buckedness. It can be readily imagined. Talk about chaps with the noose round their necks and the hangman about to let her go and somebody galloping up on a foaming horse, waving the reprieve—not in it. Absolutely not in it at all. I don't know that I can give you a better idea of the state of my feelings than by saying that as I started to cross the hall I was conscious of so profound a benevolence toward all created things that I found myself thinking kindly thoughts even of Jeeves.

I was about to mount the stairs when a sudden “What ho!” from my rear caused me to turn. Tuppy was standing in the hall. He had apparently been down to the cellar for reinforcements, for there were a couple of bottles under his arm.

“Hullo, Bertie,” he said. “You back?” He laughed amusedly. “You look like the Wreck of the Hesperus. Get run over by a steam-roller or something?”

At any other time I might have found his coarse badinage hard to bear. But such was my uplifted mood that I waved it aside and slipped him the good news.

“Tuppy, old man, the Bassett's going to marry Gussie Fink-Nottle.”

“Tough luck on both of them, what?”

“But don't you understand? Don't you see what this means? It means that Angela is once more out of pawn, and you have only to play your cards properly—”

He bellowed rollickingly. I saw now that he was in the pink. As a matter of fact, I had noticed something of the sort directly I met him, but had attributed it to alcoholic stimulant.

“Good Lord! You're right behind the times, Bertie. Only to be expected, of course, if you will go riding bicycles half the night. Angela and I made it up hours ago.”

“What?”

“Certainly. Nothing but a passing tiff. All you need in these matters is a little give and take, a bit of reasonableness on both sides. We got together and talked things over. She withdrew my double chin. I conceded her shark. Perfectly simple. All done in a couple of minutes.”

“But—”

“Sorry, Bertie. Can't stop chatting with you all night. There is a rather impressive beano in progress in the dining-room, and they are waiting for supplies.”

Endorsement was given to this statement by a sudden shout from the apartment named. I recognized—as who would not—Aunt Dahlia's voice:

“Glossop!”

“Hullo?”