The Strand Magazine, April 1923
I KNOW lots of people think I’m much too dependent on my man Jeeves. My Aunt Agatha has even gone so far as to call him my keeper. Well, it’s quite true that I leave most of the thinking to him; but what I say is: Why not? Jeeves, if he cared to take a whirl at it, could be Prime Minister or something to-morrow. The man’s a genius. From the collar upward he stands alone. I gave up trying to run my own affairs within a week of his coming to me. That was about half-a-dozen years ago, directly after the rather rummy business of Florence Craye, my Uncle Willoughby’s book, and Edwin, the Boy Scout.
The thing really began when I got back to Easeby, my uncle’s place in Shropshire. I was spending a week or so there, as I generally did in the summer; and I had had to break my visit to come back to London to get a new valet. I had found Meadowes, the fellow I had taken to Easeby with me, sneaking my silk socks, a thing no chappie of spirit could stick at any price. It transpiring, moreover, that he had looted a lot of other things here and there about the place, I was reluctantly compelled to hand the misguided blighter the mitten and go to London to ask the registry office to scare up another specimen for my approval. They sent me Jeeves.
I shall always remember the morning he came. It so happened that the night before I had been present at a rather cheery little supper, and I was feeling pretty rocky. On top of this I was trying to read a book Florence Craye had given me. She had been one of the house-party at Easeby, and two or three days before I left we had got engaged. I was due back at the end of the week, and I knew she would expect me to have finished the book by then. You see, she was particularly keen on boosting me up a bit nearer her own plane of intellect. She was a girl with a wonderful profile, but steeped to the gills in serious purpose. I can’t give you a better idea of the way things stood than by telling you that the book she’d given me to read was called “Types of Ethical Theory,” and that when I opened it at random I struck a page beginning:—
“The postulate or common understanding involved in speech is certainly co-extensive, in the obligation it carries, with the social organism of which language is the instrument, and the ends of which it is an effort to subserve.”
All perfectly true, no doubt; but not the sort of thing to spring on a lad with a morning head.
I was doing my best to skim through this bright little volume when the bell rang. I crawled off the sofa and opened the door. A kind of darkish sort of respectful Johnnie stood without.
“I was sent by the agency, sir,” he said. “I was given to understand that you required a valet.”
I’d have preferred an undertaker; but I told him to stagger in, and he floated noiselessly through the doorway like a healing zephyr. That impressed me from the start. Meadowes had had flat feet and used to clump. This fellow didn’t seem to have any feet at all. He just streamed in. He had a grave, sympathetic face, as if he, too, knew what it was to sup with the lads; and there was a look in his eyes, as we stood there giving each other the mutual north-to-south, that seemed to say: “Courage, Cuthbert! Chump though you be, have no fear, for I will look after you!”
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, gently.
Then he seemed to flicker, and wasn’t there any longer. I heard him moving about in the kitchen, and presently he came back with a glass on a tray.
“If you would drink this, sir,” he said, with a kind of bedside manner, rather like the royal doctor shooting the bracer into the sick prince. “It is a little preparation of my own invention. It is the dark meat-sauce that gives it its colour. The raw egg makes it nutritious. The red pepper gives it its bite. Gentlemen have told me they have found it extremely invigorating after a late evening.”
I would have clutched at anything that looked like a life-line that morning. I swallowed the stuff. For a moment I felt as if somebody had touched off a bomb inside the old bean, and was strolling down my throat with a lighted torch, and then everything seemed suddenly to get all right. The sun shone in through the window; birds twittered in the tree-tops; and, generally speaking, hope dawned once more.
“You’re engaged!” I said, as soon as I could say anything.
I perceived clearly that this lad was one of the world’s workers, the sort no home should be without.
“Thank you, sir. My name is Jeeves.”
“You can start in at once?”
“Because I’m due down at Easeby, in Shropshire, the day after to-morrow.”
“Very good, sir.” He looked past me at the mantelpiece. “That is an excellent likeness of Lady Florence Craye, sir. It is two years since I saw her ladyship. I was at one time in Lord Worplesdon’s employment. I tendered my resignation because I could not see eye to eye with his lordship in his desire to dine in dress trousers, a flannel shirt, and a shooting coat.”
He couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t know about the old boy’s eccentricity. This Lord Worplesdon was Florence’s father. He was the old buster who, a few years later, came down to breakfast one morning, lifted the first cover he saw, said “Eggs! Eggs! Eggs! Damn all eggs!” in an overwrought sort of voice, and instantly legged it for France, never to return to the bosom of the family. This, mind you, being a bit of luck for the bosom of the family, for old Worplesdon had the worst temper in the Midland counties.
I had known the family ever since I was a kid, and from boyhood up he had put the fear of death into me. Time, the great healer, could never remove from my memory the occasion when he found me—then a stripling of fifteen—smoking one of his big special cigars in the stables. He got after me with a hunting-crop just at the moment when I was beginning to realize that what I wanted most on earth was solitude and repose, and chased me more than a mile across difficult country. If there was a flaw, so to speak, in the pure joy of being engaged to Florence, it was the fact that she rather took after her father, and one was never certain when she might erupt. She had a wonderful profile, though.
“Lady Florence and I are engaged, Jeeves,” I said.
You know, there was a kind of rummy something about his manner. Perfectly all right and all that, but not what you’d call chirpy. It somehow gave me the impression that he wasn’t keen on Florence. Well, of course, it wasn’t my business. I supposed that while he had been valeting old Worplesdon she must have trodden on his toes in some way. Florence was a dear girl and, seen sideways, most awfully good-looking; but if she had a fault it was a tendency to be a bit imperious with the domestic staff.
AT this point in the proceedings there was another ring at the front door. Jeeves shimmered out and came back with a telegram. I opened it. It ran:—
“Return immediately. Extremely urgent. Catch first train.—Florence.”
“Rum!” I said.
It shows how little I knew Jeeves in those days that I didn’t go a bit deeper into the matter with him. Nowadays I would never dream of reading a rummy communication without asking him what he thought of it. And this one was devilish odd. What I mean is, Florence knew I was going back to Easeby the day after to-morrow, anyway; so why the hurry call? Something must have happened, of course; but I couldn’t see what on earth it could be.
“Jeeves,” I said, “we shall be going down to Easeby this afternoon. Can you manage it?”
“You can get your packing done and all that?”
“Without any difficulty, sir. Which suit will you wear for the journey?”
I had on a rather sprightly young check that morning, to which I was a good deal attached; I fancied it, in fact, more than a little. It was perhaps rather sudden, till you got used to it, but, nevertheless, an extremely sound effort, which many lads at the club and elsewhere had admired unrestrainedly.
“Very good, sir.”
Again there was that kind of rummy something in his manner. It was the way he said it, don’t you know. He didn’t like the suit. I pulled myself together to assert myself. Something seemed to tell me that, unless I was jolly careful and nipped this lad in the bud, he would be starting to boss me. He had the aspect of a distinctly resolute blighter.
Well, I wasn’t going to have any of that sort of thing, by Jove! I’d seen so many cases of chappies who had become perfect slaves to their valets. I remember poor old Aubrey Fothergill telling me—with absolute tears in his eyes, poor chap!—one night at the club, that he had been compelled to give up a favourite pair of brown shoes simply because Meekyn, his man, disapproved of them. You have to keep these fellows in their place, don’t you know. You have to work the good old iron-hand-in-the-velvet-glove wheeze. If you give them a what’s-its-name, they take a thingummy.
“Don’t you like this suit, Jeeves?” I said, coldly.
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“Well, what don’t you like about it?”
“It is a very nice suit, sir.”
“Well, what’s wrong with it? Out with it, dash it!”
“If I might make the suggestion, sir, a simple brown or blue, with a hint of some quiet twill——”
“What absolute rot!”
“Very good, sir.”
“Perfectly blithering, my dear man!”
“As you say, sir.”
I felt as if I had stepped on the place where the last stair ought to have been, but wasn’t. I felt defiant, if you know what I mean, and there didn’t seem anything to defy.
“All right, then,” I said.
And then he went away to collect his kit, while I started in again on “Types of Ethical Theory” and took a stab at a chapter headed “Idiopsychological Ethics.”
Most of the way down in the train that afternoon I was wondering what could be up at the other end. I simply couldn’t see what could have happened. Easeby wasn’t one of those country houses you read about in the society novels, where young girls are lured on to play baccarat and then skinned to the bone of their jewellery, and so on. The house-party I had left had consisted entirely of law-abiding chappies like myself.
Besides, my uncle wouldn’t have let anything of that kind go on in his house. He was a rather stiff, precise sort of old boy, who liked a quiet life. He was just finishing a history of the family or something, which he had been working on for the last year, and didn’t stir much from the library. He was rather a good instance of what they say about its being a good scheme for a chappie to sow his wild oats. I’d been told that in his youth Uncle Willoughby had been a bit of a rounder. You would never have thought it to look at him now.
When I got to the house, Oakshott, the butler, told me that Florence was in her room, watching her maid pack. Apparently there was a dance on at a house about twenty miles away that night, and she was motoring over with some of the Easeby lot and would be away some nights. Oakshott said she had told him to tell her the moment I arrived; so I trickled into the smoking-room and waited, and presently in she came. A glance showed me that she was perturbed, and even peeved. Her eyes had a goggly look, and altogether she appeared considerably pipped.
“Darling!” I said, and attempted the good old embrace; but she side-stepped like a bantam weight.
“What’s the matter?”
“Everything’s the matter! Bertie, you remember asking me, when you left, to make myself pleasant to your uncle?”
The idea being, of course, that as I was more or less dependent on Uncle Willoughby I couldn’t very well marry without his approval. And though I knew he wouldn’t have any objection to Florence, having known her father since they were at Oxford together, I hadn’t wanted to take any chances; so I had told her to make an effort to fascinate the old boy.
“You told me it would please him particularly if I asked him to read me some of his history of the family.”
“Wasn’t he pleased?”
“He was delighted. He finished writing the thing yesterday afternoon, and read me nearly all of it last night. I have never had such a shock in my life! The book is an outrage. It is impossible. It is horrible!”
“But—dash it!—the family weren’t so bad as all that.”
“It is not a history of the family at all. Your uncle has written his reminiscences! He calls them ‘Recollections of a Long Life’!”
I BEGAN to understand. As I say, Uncle Willoughby had been somewhat on the tabasco side as a young man, and it began to look as if he might have turned out something pretty fruity if he had started recollecting his long life.
“If half of what he has written is true,” said Florence, “your uncle’s youth must have been perfectly appalling! The moment we began to read he plunged straight into a most scandalous story of how he and my father were thrown out of a music-hall in 1887!”
“I decline to tell you why!”
It must have been something pretty bad. It took a lot to make them chuck people out of music-halls in 1887.
“Your uncle specifically states that father had drunk a quart and a half of champagne before beginning the evening,” she went on. “The book is full of stories like that. There is a dreadful one about Lord Emsworth.”
“Lord Emsworth! Not the one we know? Not the one at Blandings?” A most respectable old Johnnie, don’t you know. Doesn’t do a thing nowadays but dig in the garden with a spud.
“The very same! That is what makes the book so unspeakable. It is full of stories about people one knows who are the essence of propriety to-day, but who seem to have behaved, when they were in London in the ’eighties, in a manner that would not have been tolerated in the fo’c’sle of a whaler! Your uncle seems to remember everything disgraceful that happened to anybody when he was in his early twenties. There is a story about Sir Stanley Gervase-Gervase at Rosherville Gardens which is ghastly in its perfection of detail. It seems that Sir Stanley—but I can’t tell you!”
“Have a dash!”
“Oh, well, I shouldn’t worry. No publisher will print the book if it’s as bad as all that.”
“On the contrary, your uncle told me that all negotiations are settled with Riggs and Ballinger, and he’s sending off the manuscript to-morrow for immediate publication. They make a special thing of that sort of book. They published Lady Carnaby’s ‘Memories of Eighty Interesting Years.’ ”
“I read ’em!”
“Well, then, when I tell you that Lady Carnaby’s Memories are simply not to be compared with your uncle’s Recollections, you will understand my state of mind. And father appears in nearly every story in the book! I am horrified at the things he did when he was a young man!”
“What’s to be done?”
“The manuscript must be intercepted before it reaches Riggs and Ballinger, and destroyed!”
I sat up.
This sounded rather sporting.
“How are you going to do it?” I inquired.
“How can I do it? Didn’t I tell you the parcel goes off to-morrow? I am going to the Murgatroyds’ dance to-night and shall not be back till Monday. You must do it! That is why I telegraphed to you.”
She gave me a look.
“Do you mean to say you refuse to help me, Bertie?”
“No; but—I say!”
“It’s quite simple.”
“But even if I—— What I mean is—— Of course, anything I can do—but—if you know what I mean——”
“You say you want to marry me, Bertie?”
“Yes, of course; but still——”
For a moment she looked exactly like her old father.
“I will never marry you if those Recollections are published.”
“But, Florence, old thing!”
“I mean it! You may look on it as a test, Bertie. If you have the resource and courage to carry this thing through, I will take it as evidence that you are not the vapid and shiftless person most people think you. If you fail I shall know that your Aunt Agatha was right when she called you a spineless invertebrate and advised me strongly not to marry you. It will be perfectly simple for you to intercept the manuscript, Bertie. It only requires a little resolution.”
“But suppose Uncle Willoughby catches me at it? He’d cut me off with a bob!”
“If you care more for your uncle’s money than for me——”
“No, no! Rather not!”
“Very well, then. The parcel containing the manuscript will, of course, be placed on the hall table to-morrow for Oakshott to take to the village with the letters. All you have to do is to take it away and destroy it. Then your uncle will think it has been lost in the post.”
It sounded thin to me.
“Hasn’t he got a copy of it?”
“No; it has not been typed. He is sending the manuscript just as he wrote it.”
“But he could write it over again.”
“As if he would have the energy!”
“If you are going to do nothing but make absurd objections, Bertie——”
“I was only pointing things out, don’t you know.”
“Well, don’t! Once and for all, will you do me this quite simple act of kindness?”
The way she put it gave me an idea.
“Why not get Edwin to do it? Keep it in the family, kind of, don’t you know! Besides, it would be a boon to the kid.”
A jolly bright idea it seemed to me. Edwin was her young brother, who was spending his holidays at Easeby. He was a ferret-faced kid, whom I had disliked since birth. As a matter of fact, talking of Recollections and Memories, it was young blighted Edwin who, nine years before, had led his father to where I was smoking his cigar and caused all the unpleasantness. He was fourteen now and had just joined the Boy Scouts. He was one of those thorough kids, and took his responsibilities pretty seriously. He was always in a sort of fever because he was dropping behind schedule with his daily acts of kindness. However hard he tried, he’d fall behind; and then you would find him prowling about the house, setting such a clip to try to catch up with himself that Easeby was rapidly becoming a perfect hell for man and beast.
The idea didn’t seem to strike Florence.
“I shall do nothing of the kind, Bertie! I wonder you can’t appreciate the compliment I am paying you—trusting you like this!”
“Oh, I see that all right; but what I mean is, Edwin would do it so much better than I would. These Boy Scouts are up to all sorts of dodges. They spoor, don’t you know, and take cover and creep about, and what not.”
“Bertie, will you or will you not do this perfectly trivial thing for me? If not, say so now, and let us end this farce of pretending that you care a snap of the fingers for me.”
“Dear old soul, I love you devotedly!”
“Then will you or will you not——”
“Oh, all right!” I said. “All right! All right! All right!”
And then I tottered forth to think it over. I met Jeeves in the passage just outside.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I was endeavouring to find you.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I felt that I should tell you, sir, that somebody has been putting black polish on our brown walking shoes.”
“What! Who? Why?”
“I could not say, sir.”
“Can anything be done with them?”
“Very good, sir.”
I’VE often wondered since then how these murderer fellows manage to keep in shape while they’re contemplating their next effort. I had a much simpler sort of job on hand, and the thought of it rattled me to such an extent in the night watches that I was a perfect wreck next day. Dark circles under the eyes—I give you my word! I had to call on Jeeves to rally round with one of those life-savers of his.
From breakfast on I felt like a bag-snatcher at a railway station. I had to hang about waiting for the parcel to be put on the hall table, and it wasn’t put. Uncle Willoughby was a fixture in the library, adding the finishing touches to the great work, I supposed, and the more I thought the thing over, the less I liked it. The chances against my pulling it off seemed about three to two, and the thought of what would happen if I didn’t gave me cold shivers down the spine. Uncle Willoughby was a pretty mild sort of old boy, as a rule, but I’ve known him to cut up rough, and, by Jove! he was scheduled to extend himself if he caught me trying to get away with his life work.
It wasn’t till nearly four that he toddled out of the library with the parcel under his arm, put it on the table, and toddled off again. I was hiding a bit to the southeast at the moment, behind a suit of armour. I bounded out and legged it for the table. Then I nipped upstairs to hide the swag. I charged in like a mustang and nearly stubbed my toe on young blighted Edwin, the Boy Scout. He was standing at the chest of drawers, confound him, messing about with my ties.
“Hello!” he said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m tidying your room. It’s my last Saturday’s act of kindness.”
“I’m five days behind; I was six till last night, but I polished your shoes!”
“Was it you——”
“Yes. Did you see them? I just happened to think of it. I was in here, looking round. Mr. Berkeley had this room while you were away. He left this morning. I thought perhaps he might have left something in it that I could have sent on. I’ve often done acts of kindness that way.”
“You must be a comfort to one and all!”
It became more and more apparent to me that this infernal kid must somehow be turned out eftsoons or right speedily. I had hidden the parcel behind my back, and I didn’t think he had seen it; but I wanted to get at that chest of drawers quick, before anyone else came along.
“I shouldn’t bother about tidying the room,” I said.
“I like tidying it. It’s not a bit of trouble—really!”
“But it’s quite tidy now.”
“Not so tidy as I shall make it.”
This was getting perfectly rotten! I didn’t want to murder the kid, and yet there didn’t seem any other way of shifting him. I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.
“There’s something much kinder than that which you could do,” I said. “You see that box of cigars? Take it down to the smoking-room and snip off the ends for me. That would save me no end of trouble. Stagger along, laddie!”
He seemed a bit doubtful; but he staggered. I shoved the parcel into a drawer, locked it, trousered the key, and felt better. I might be a chump, but—dash it!—I could out-general a mere kid with a face like a ferret! I went downstairs again. Just as I was passing the smoking-room door out curveted Edwin. It seemed to me that if he wanted to do a real act of kindness he would commit suicide.
“I’m snipping them,” he said.
“Snip on! Snip on!”
“Do you like them snipped much, or only a bit?”
“All right. I’ll be getting on, then.”
And we parted.
FELLOWS who know all about that sort of thing—detectives, and so on—will tell you that the most difficult thing in the world is to get rid of the body. I remember, as a kid, having to learn by heart a poem about a bird by the name of Eugene Aram, who had the deuce of a job in this respect. All I can recall of the actual poetry is the bit that goes:—
“Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tumty-tum!
I slew him, tum-tum-tum!”
But I recollect that the poor blighter spent much of his valuable time dumping the corpse into ponds and burying it, and what not, only to have it pop out at him again. It was about an hour after I had shoved the parcel into the drawer when I realized that I had let myself in for just the same sort of thing.
Florence had talked in an airy sort of way about destroying the manuscript; but when one came down to it, how the deuce can a chap destroy a great chunky mass of paper in somebody else’s house in the middle of summer? I couldn’t ask to have a fire in my bedroom, with the thermometer in the eighties. And if I didn’t burn the thing how else could I get rid of it? Fellows on the battlefield eat despatches to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy, but it would have taken me a year to eat Uncle Willoughby’s Recollections.
I’m bound to say the problem absolutely baffled me. The only thing seemed to be to leave the parcel in the drawer and hope for the best.
I don’t know whether you have ever experienced it, but it’s a dashed unpleasant thing having a crime on one’s conscience. Toward the end of the day the mere sight of the drawer began to depress me. I found myself getting all on edge; and once, when Uncle Willoughby trickled silently into the smoking-room when I was alone there and spoke to me before I knew he was there, I broke the record for the sitting high jump.
I was wondering all the time when Uncle Willoughby would sit up and take notice. I didn’t think he would have time to suspect that anything had gone wrong till Saturday morning, when he would be expecting, of course, to get the acknowledgment of the manuscript from the publishers. But early on Friday evening he came out of the library as I was passing and asked me to step in. He was looking considerably peeved.
“Bertie,” he said—he always spoke in a precise sort of pompous kind of way—“an exceedingly disturbing thing has happened. As you know, I dispatched the manuscript of my book to Messrs. Riggs and Ballinger, the publishers, yesterday afternoon. It should have reached them by the first post this morning. Why I should have been uneasy I cannot say, but my mind was not altogether at rest respecting the safety of the parcel. I therefore telephoned to Messrs. Riggs and Ballinger a few moments back to make inquiries. To my consternation they informed me that they were not yet in receipt of my manuscript.”
“I recollect distinctly placing it myself on the hall table in good time to be taken to the village. But here is a sinister thing. I have spoken to Oakshott, who took the rest of the letters to the post-office, and he cannot recall seeing it there. He is, indeed, unswerving in his assertions that when he went to the hall to collect the letters there was no parcel among them.”
“Bertie, shall I tell you what I suspect?”
“The suspicion will no doubt sound to you incredible, but it alone seems to fit the facts as we know them. I incline to the belief that the parcel has been stolen.”
“Oh, I say! Surely not!”
“Wait! Hear me out. Though I have said nothing to you before, or to anyone else, concerning the matter, the fact remains that during the past few weeks a number of objects—some valuable, others not—have disappeared in this house. The conclusion to which one is irresistibly impelled is that we have a kleptomaniac in our midst. It is a peculiarity of kleptomania, as you are no doubt aware, that the subject is unable to differentiate between the intrinsic values of objects. He will purloin an old coat as readily as a diamond ring, or a tobacco pipe costing but a few shillings with the same eagerness as a purse of gold. The fact that this manuscript of mine could be of no possible value to any outside person convinces me that——”
“But, uncle, one moment; I know all about those things that were stolen. It was Meadowes, my man, who pinched them. I caught him snaffling my silk socks. Right in the act, by Jove!”
He was tremendously impressed.
“You amaze me, Bertie! Send for the man at once and question him.”
“But he isn’t here. You see, directly I found that he was a sock-sneaker I gave him the boot. That’s why I went to London—to get a new man.”
“Then, if the man Meadowes is no longer in the house, it could not be he who purloined my manuscript. The whole thing is inexplicable.”
After which we brooded for a bit. Uncle Willoughby pottered about the room, registering baffledness, while I sat sucking at a cigarette, feeling rather like a chappie I’d once read about in a book, who murdered another cove and hid the body under the dining-room table, and then had to be the life and soul of a dinner party, with it there all the time! My guilty secret oppressed me to such an extent that after a while I couldn’t stick it any longer. I lit another cigarette and started for a stroll in the grounds, by way of cooling off.
IT was one of those still evenings you get in the summer, when you can hear a snail clear its throat a mile away. The sun was sinking over the hills and the gnats were fooling about all over the place, and everything smelled rather topping—what with the falling dew and so on—and I was just beginning to feel a little soothed by the peace of it all when suddenly I heard my name spoken.
“It’s about Bertie!”
It was the loathsome voice of young blighted Edwin! For a moment I couldn’t locate it. Then I realized that it came from the library. My stroll had taken me within a few yards of the open window.
I had often wondered how those Johnnies in books did it—I mean the fellows with whom it was the work of a moment to do about a dozen things that ought to have taken them about ten minutes. But, as a matter of fact, it was the work of a moment with me to chuck away my cigarette, swear a bit, leap about ten yards, dive into a bush that stood near the library window, and stand there with my ears flapping. I was as certain as I’ve ever been of anything that all sorts of rotten things were in the offing.
“About Bertie?” I heard Uncle Willoughby say.
“About Bertie and your parcel. I heard you talking to him just now. I believe he’s got it.”
When I tell you that just as I heard these frightful words a fairly substantial beetle of sorts dropped from the bush down the back of my neck, and I couldn’t even stir to squash the same, you will understand that I felt pretty rotten. Everything seemed against me.
“What do you mean, boy? I was discussing the disappearance of my manuscript with Bertie only a moment back, and he professed himself as perplexed by the mystery as myself.”
“Well, I was in his room yesterday afternoon, doing him an act of kindness, and he came in with a parcel. I could see it, though he tried to keep it behind his back. And then he asked me to go to the smoking-room and snip some cigars for him; and about two minutes afterward he came down—and he wasn’t carrying anything. So it must be in his room.”
I understand they deliberately teach these dashed Boy Scouts to cultivate their powers of observation and deduction and what not. Devilish thoughtless and inconsiderate of them, I call it. Look at the trouble it causes!
“It sounds incredible!” said Uncle Willoughby, thereby bucking me up a trifle.
“Shall I go and look in his room?” asked young blighted Edwin. “I’m sure the parcel’s there.”
“But what could be his motive for perpetrating this extraordinary theft?”
“Perhaps he’s a—what you said just now.”
“A kleptomaniac? Impossible!”
“It might have been Bertie who took all those things from the very start,” suggested the little brute, hopefully. “He may be like Raffles.”
“He’s a chap in a book who went about pinching things.”
“I cannot believe that Bertie would—ah—go about pinching things.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s got the parcel. I’ll tell you what you might do. You might say that Mr. Berkeley wired that he had left something here. He had Bertie’s room, you know. You might say you wanted to look for it.”
“That would be possible. I——”
I didn’t wait to hear any more. Things were getting too hot. I sneaked softly out of my bush and raced for the front door. I sprinted up to my room and made for the drawer where I had put the parcel. And then I found I hadn’t the key. It wasn’t for the deuce of a time that I recollected I had shifted it to my evening trousers the night before and must have forgotten to take it out again.
Where the dickens were my evening things? I had looked all over the place before I remembered that Jeeves must have taken them away to brush. To leap at the bell and ring it was, with me, the work of a moment. I had just rung it when there was a footstep outside, and in came Uncle Willoughby.
“Oh, Bertie!” he said, without a blush, “I have—ah—received a telegram from Berkeley, who occupied this room in your absence, asking me to forward him his—er—his cigarette-case, which, it would appear, he inadvertently omitted to take with him when he left the house. I cannot find it downstairs; and it has, therefore, occurred to me that he may have left it in this room. I will—er—just take a look round.”
It was one of the most disgusting spectacles I’ve ever seen—this white-haired old man, who should have been thinking of the hereafter, standing there lying like an actor.
“I haven’t seen it anywhere,” I said.
“Nevertheless, I will search. I must—ah—spare no effort.”
“I should have seen it if it had been here—what?”
“It may have escaped your notice. It is—er—possibly in one of the drawers.”
He began to nose about. He pulled out drawer after drawer, pottering round like an old bloodhound, and babbling from time to time about Berkeley and his cigarette-case in a way that struck me as perfectly ghastly. I just stood there, losing weight every moment.
Then he came to the drawer where the parcel was.
“This appears to be locked,” he said, rattling the handle.
“Yes; I shouldn’t bother about that one. It—it’s—er—locked, and all that sort of thing.”
“You have not the key?”
A soft, respectful voice spoke behind me.
“I fancy, sir, that this must be the key you require. It was in the pocket of your evening trousers.”
It was Jeeves. He had shimmered in, carrying my evening things, and was standing there holding out the key. I could have massacred the man.
“Thank you,” said my uncle.
“Not at all, sir.”
The next moment Uncle Willoughby had opened the drawer. I shut my eyes.
“No,” said Uncle Willoughby, “there is nothing here. The drawer is empty. Thank you, Bertie. I hope I have not disturbed you. I fancy—er—Berkeley must have taken his case with him after all.”
When he had gone I shut the door carefully. Then I turned to Jeeves. The man was putting my evening things out on a chair.
It was deuced difficult to know how to begin.
“Did you—— Was there—— Have you by chance——”
“I removed the parcel this morning, sir.”
“I considered it more prudent, sir.”
I mused for a while.
“Of course, I suppose all this seems tolerably rummy to you, Jeeves?”
“Not at all, sir. I chanced to overhear you and Lady Florence speaking of the matter the other evening, sir.”
“Did you, by Jove?”
“Well—er—Jeeves, I think that, on the whole, if you were to—as it were—freeze on to that parcel until we get back to London——”
“And then we might—er—so to speak—chuck it away somewhere—what?”
“I’ll leave it in your hands.”
“You know, Jeeves, you’re by way of being rather a topper.”
“I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.”
“One in a million, by Jove!”
“It is very kind of you to say so, sir.”
“Well, that’s about all, then, I think.”
“Very good, sir.”
FLORENCE came back on Monday. I didn’t see her till we were all having tea in the hall. It wasn’t till the crowd had cleared away a bit that we got a chance of having a word together.
“Well, Bertie?” she said.
“It’s all right.”
“You have destroyed the manuscript?”
“Not exactly; but——”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I haven’t absolutely——”
“Bertie, your manner is furtive!”
“It’s all right. It’s this way——”
And I was just going to explain how things stood when out of the library came leaping Uncle Willoughby, looking as braced as a two-year-old. The old boy was a changed man.
“A most remarkable thing, Bertie! I have just been speaking with Mr. Riggs on the telephone, and he tells me he received my manuscript by the first post this morning. I cannot imagine what can have caused the delay. Our postal facilities are extremely inadequate in the rural districts. I shall write to headquarters about it. It is insufferable if valuable parcels are to be delayed in this fashion.”
I happened to be looking at Florence’s profile at the moment, and at this juncture she swung round and gave me a look that went right through me like a knife. Uncle Willoughby meandered back to the library and there was a silence that you could have dug bits out of with a spoon.
“I can’t understand it,” I said at last. “I can’t understand it, by Jove!”
“I can. I can understand it perfectly, Bertie! Your heart failed you. Rather than risk offending your uncle, you——”
“No, no! Absolutely!”
“You preferred to lose me rather than risk losing the money. Perhaps you did not think I meant what I said. I meant every word. Our engagement is ended.”
“Not another word!”
“But, Florence, old thing!”
“I do not wish to hear any more. I see now that your Aunt Agatha was perfectly right. I consider that I have had a very lucky escape. There was a time when I thought that, with patience, you might be moulded into something worth while. I see now that you are impossible!”
And she popped off, leaving me to pick up the pieces. When I had collected the débris to some extent I went to my room and rang for Jeeves. He came in looking as if nothing had happened or was ever going to happen. He was the calmest thing in captivity.
“Jeeves!” I yelled. “Jeeves, that parcel has arrived in London!”
“Did you send it?”
“Yes, sir. I acted for the best, sir. I think that both you and Lady Florence overestimated the danger of people being offended at being mentioned in Sir Willoughby’s Recollections. It has been my experience, sir, that the normal person enjoys seeing his or her name in print, irrespective of what is said about them. I have an aunt, sir, who a few years ago was a martyr to swollen limbs. She tried Walkinshaw’s Supreme Ointment and obtained considerable relief—so much so that she sent them an unsolicited testimonial. Her pride at seeing her photograph in the daily papers in connection with descriptions of her lower limbs before taking, which were nothing less than revolting, was so intense that it led me to believe that publicity, of whatever sort, is what nearly everybody desires. Moreover, if you have ever studied psychology, sir, you will know that respectable old gentlemen are by no means averse to having it advertised that they were extremely wild in their youth. I have an uncle——”
I cursed his aunts and his uncles and him and all the rest of the family.
“Do you know that Lady Florence has broken off her engagement with me?”
Not a bit of sympathy! I might have been telling him it was a fine day.
“Very good, sir.”
He coughed gently.
“As I am no longer in your employment, sir, I can speak freely without appearing to take a liberty. In my opinion you and Lady Florence were quite unsuitably matched. Her ladyship is of a highly determined and arbitrary temperament, quite opposed to your own. I was in Lord Worplesdon’s service for nearly a year, during which time I had ample opportunities of studying her ladyship. The opinion of the servants’ hall was far from favourable to her. Her temper caused a good deal of adverse comment among us. It was at times quite impossible. You would not have been happy, sir!”
“I think you would also have found her educational methods a little trying, sir. I have glanced at the book her ladyship gave you—it has been lying on your table since our arrival—and it is, in my opinion, quite unsuitable. You would not have enjoyed it. And I have it from her ladyship’s own maid, who happened to overhear a conversation between her ladyship and one of the gentlemen staying here—Mr. Maxwell, who is employed in an editorial capacity by one of the reviews—that it was her intention to start you almost immediately upon Nietzsche. You would not enjoy Nietzsche, sir. He is fundamentally unsound.”
“Very good, sir.”
IT’S rummy how sleeping on a thing often makes you feel quite different about it. It’s happened to me over and over again. Somehow or other, when I woke next morning the old heart didn’t feel half so broken as it had done. It was a perfectly topping day, and there was something about the way the sun came in at the window and the row the birds were kicking up in the ivy that made me half wonder whether Jeeves wasn’t right. After all, though she had a wonderful profile, was it such a catch being engaged to Florence Craye as the casual observer might imagine? Wasn’t there something in what Jeeves had said about her character? I began to realize that my ideal wife was something quite different, something a lot more clinging and drooping and prattling, and what not.
I had got as far as this in thinking the thing out when that “Types of Ethical Theory” caught my eye. I opened it, and I give you my honest word this was what hit me:—
“Of the two antithetic terms in the Greek philosophy one only was real and self-subsisting; and that one was Ideal Thought as opposed to that which it has to penetrate and mould. The other, corresponding to our Nature, was in itself phenomenal, unreal, without any permanent footing, having no predicates that held true for two moments together; in short, redeemed from negation only by indwelling realities appearing through.”
Well—I mean to say—what? And Nietzsche, from all accounts, a lot worse than that!
“Jeeves,” I said, when he came in with my morning tea, “I’ve been thinking it over. You’re engaged again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I sucked down a cheerful mouthful. A great respect for this Johnnie’s judgment began to soak through me.
“Oh, Jeeves,” I said; “about that check suit.”
“Is it really a frost?”
“A trifle too bizarre, sir, in my opinion.”
“But lots of fellows have asked me who my tailor is.”
“Doubtless in order to avoid him, sir.”
“He’s supposed to be one of the best men in London.”
“I am saying nothing against his moral character, sir.”
I hesitated a bit. I had a feeling that I was passing into this chappie’s clutches, and that if I gave in now I should become just like poor old Aubrey Fothergill, unable to call my soul my own. On the other hand, this was obviously a cove of rare intelligence, and it would be a comfort in a lot of ways to have him doing the thinking for me. I made up my mind.
“All right, Jeeves,” I said. “You know! Give the bally thing away to somebody!”
He looked down at me like a father gazing tenderly at the wayward child.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I gave it to the under-gardener last night. A little more tea, sir?”
Next month we shall publish the first of
A NEW SERIES OF STORIES
BYP. G. WODEHOUSE,
in which the chief character, Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, is destined to
THE TITLE OF THE
This story originally appeared in the November 11, 1918, issue of the Saturday Evening Post in the US. I have no idea why its UK publication was so long delayed.
For notes to the book version of the story see the notes to Carry On, Jeeves!