Right Ho, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

good saying ‘Sir?’ Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust.”

“Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir.”

“We?”

“As I had anticipated, sir.”

“That’s more like it. Didn’t I tell you it would be a flop?”

“I remember that you did seem dubious, sir.”

“Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn’t a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I’m not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this⁠—forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves⁠—I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don’t you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I mean, the surgeon’s knife, what?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“I consider⁠—”

“If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention.”

And at this moment a ringing “Hoy!” which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct.

“Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don’t mind,” boomed that well-known⁠—and under certain conditions, well-loved⁠—voice, and I moved over.

I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation.

She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered.

“Well, Bertie, dear,” she said, “here we all are.”

“Quite,” I replied guardedly.

“Nobody missing, is there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?”

“I did ring the bell, yes.”

“Any particular reason, or just a whim?”

“I thought there was a fire.”

“What gave you that impression, dear?”

“I thought I saw flames.”

“Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia.”

“In one of the windows.”

“I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things.”

Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about “some apes” and, if I am not mistaken, a “rogommier”⁠—whatever that is.

“I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, ducky. Can’t you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?”

“Just taking a stroll.”

“I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?”

“No, I think I’ll go in now.”

“That’s fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don’t believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room windowsill and start throwing bricks at it.⁠ ⁠… Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.⁠ ⁠… But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.⁠ ⁠… Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?”

Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something.

“I say!”

“Say on, Augustus.”

“I say, what are we going to do?”

“Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed.”

“But the door’s shut.”

“What door?”

“The front door. Somebody must have shut it.”

“Then I shall open it.”

“But it won’t open.”

“Then I shall try another door.”

“But all the other doors are shut.”

“What? Who shut them?”

“I don’t know.”

I advanced a theory!

“The wind?”

Aunt Dahlia’s eyes met mine.

“Don’t try me too high,” she begged. “Not now, precious.” And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still.

Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit.

“How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on.”

“Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then.”

“The fire bell?”

“The door bell.”

“To what end, Thomas? There’s nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham.”

“But, confound it all, we can’t stop out here all night.”

“Can’t we? You just watch us. There is nothing⁠—literally nothing⁠—which a country house party can’t do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the backdoor key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back.”

Tuppy made a suggestion:

“Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?”

It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia’s drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Provençal that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela’s map a slight softening.

“A very excellent idea,” said Aunt Dahlia. “One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once.”

After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn’t last long, for it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before he was with us again.

Tuppy seemed perturbed.

“I say, it’s all off.”

“Why?”

“The garage is locked.”

“Unlock it.”

“I haven’t the key.”

“Shout, then, and wake Waterbury.”

“Who’s Waterbury?”

“The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage.”

“But he’s gone to the dance at Kingham.”

It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days⁠—the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at