The Mating Season Page 4

  Catsmeat, who had closed his eyes, opened them for a moment.

  ‘Shall I tell you something?’ he said. ‘He won’t be there.’

  He reclosed the eyes, and I passed a third hand across the brow.

  ‘You see the ghastly position, Jeeves? What is Miss Bassett going to say? What will her attitude be when she learns the facts? She opens to-morrow’s paper. She sees that loved name in headlines in the police court section . . .’

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ said Catsmeat. ‘Because Gussie, showing unexpected intelligence, gave his name as Alfred Duff Cooper.’

  ‘Well, what’s going to happen when he doesn’t turn up at the Hall?’

  ‘Yes, there’s that,’ said Catsmeat, and fell into a refreshing sleep.

  ‘I’ll tell you what Miss Bassett is going to say. She is going to say . . . Jeeves!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You are letting your attention wander.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I was observing the dog. If you notice, sir, he has commenced to eat the sofa cushion.’

  ‘Never mind about the dog.’

  ‘I think it would be advisable to remove the little fellow to the kitchen, sir,’ he said with respectful firmness. Jeeves is a great stickler for having things just right. ‘I will return as soon as he is safely immured.’

  He withdrew, complete with dog, and Corky caught the speaker’s eye. For some moments she had been hovering on the outskirts with the air of one not completely abreast of the continuity.

  ‘But, Bertie,’ she said, ‘why all the excitement and agony? I could understand this Mr Fink-Nottle being a little upset, but why are you skipping like the high hills?’

  I was glad that Jeeves had temporarily absented himself from the conference-table, as it would have been impossible for me to unbosom myself freely about Madeline Bassett in his presence. Naturally he knows all the circumstances in re the Bassett, and I know he knows them, but we do not discuss her. To do so would be bandying a woman’s name. The Woosters do not bandy a woman’s name. Nor, for the matter ofthat, do the Jeeveses.

  ‘Hasn’t Catsmeat told you about me and Madeline Bassett?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you why I’m skipping like the high hills,’ I said, and proceeded to do so.

  The Bassett-Wooster imbroglio or mix-up will, of course, be old stuff to those of my public who were hanging on my lips when I told of it before, but there are always new members coming along, and for the benefit of these new members I will give a brief what’s-it-called of the facts.

  The thing started at Brinkley Court, my Aunt Dahlia’s place in Worcestershire, when Gussie and I and this blighted Bassett were putting in a spell there during the previous summer. It was one of those cases you so often read about where Bloke A loves a girl but fears to speak and a friend of his, Bloke B, out of the kindness of his heart, offers to pave the way for him with a few well-chosen words – completely overlooking, poor fathead, the fact that by doing so he will be sticking his neck out and simply asking for it. What I’m driving at is that Gussie, though very much under the influence, could not bring himself to start the necessary pourparlers, and like an ass I told him to leave this to me.

  And so, steering the girl out into the twilight one evening, I pulled some most injudicious stuff about there being hearts at Brinkley Court that ached for love of her. And the first thing I knew, she was saying that of course she had guessed how I felt, for a girl always knows, doesn’t she, but she was so, so sorry it could not be, for she was sold on Gussie. But, she went on, and it was this that had made peril lurk ever since, if there should come a time when she found that Gussie was not the rare, stainless soul she thought him, she would hand him his hat and make me happy.

  And, as I have related elsewhere, there had been moments when it had been touch and go, notably on the occasion when Gussie got lit up like a candelabra and in that condition presented the prizes to the young scholars of Market Snodsbury Grammar School. She had scratched his nomination then, though subsequently relenting, and it could not but be that she would scratch it again, should she discover that the man on whom she looked as a purer, loftier spirit than other men had received an exemplary sentence for wading in the Trafalgar Square fountain. Nothing puts an idealistic girl off a fellow more than the news that he is doing fourteen days in the jug.

  All this I explained to Corky, and she said Yes, she saw what I meant.

  ‘I should think you do see what I mean. I shan’t have a hope. Let Madeline Bassett become hep to what has occurred, and there can be but one result. Gussie will get the bum’s rush, and the bowed figure you will see shambling down the aisle at her side, while the customers reach for their hats and the organ plays “The Voice That Breathed O’er Eden”, will be that of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster.’

  ‘I didn’t know your name was Wilberforce.’

  I explained that except in moments of great emotion one hushed it up.

  ‘But Bertie, I can’t understand why you don’t want to shamble down aisles at her side. I’ve seen a photograph of her at the Hall, and she’s a pippin.’

  This is a very common error into which people fall who have never met Madeline Bassett but have only seen her photograph. As far as the outer crust is concerned, there is little, I fully realize, to cavil at in this pre-eminent bit of bad news. The eyes are large and lustrous, the features delicately moulded, the hair, nose, teeth and ears well up to, if not above, the average standard. Judge her by the photograph alone, and you have something that would be widely accepted as a pin-up girl.

  But there is a catch, and a very serious catch.

  ‘You ask me why I do not wish to shamble down aisles at her side,’ I said. ‘I will tell you. It is because, though externally, as you say, a pippin, she is the sloppiest, mushiest, sentimentalest young Gawd-help-us who ever thought the stars were God’s daisy chain and that every time a fairy hiccoughs a wee baby is born. She is squashy and soupy. Her favourite reading is Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh. I can perhaps best sum it up by saying that she is the ideal mate for Gussie Fink-Nottle.’

  ‘I’ve never met Mr Fink-Nottle.’

  ‘Well, ask the man who has.’

  She stood pondering. It was plain that she appreciated the gravity of the situation.

  ‘Then you think that, if she finds out, you will be in for it?’

  ‘Definitely and indubitably. I shall have no option but to take the rap. If a girl thinks you love her, and comes and says she is returning her betrothed to store and is now prepared to sign up with you, what can you do except marry her? One must be civil.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Difficult. But how are you going to keep her from finding out? When she hears that Mr Fink-Nottle hasn’t arrived at the Hall, she’s bound to make inquiries.’

  ‘And those inquiries, once made, must infallibly lead her to the awful truth? Exactly. But there is always Jeeves.’

  ‘You think he will be able to fix things?’

  ‘He never fails. He wears a number fourteen hat, eats tons of fish, and moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform. See, here he comes, looking as intelligent as dammit. Well, Jeeves? Have you speared a solution?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But –’

  ‘You see,’ I said to Corky. I paused, knitting the brow a bit. ‘Did I hear you use the word “but”, Jeeves? Why “but”?’

  ‘It is merely that I entertained a certain misgiving as to whether the solution which I am about to put forward would meet with your approval, sir.’

  ‘If it’s a solution, that’s all I want.’

  ‘Well, sir, to obviate the inquiries which would inevitably be set on foot, should Mr Fink-Nottle not present himself at Deverill Hall this evening, it would appear to be essential that a substitute, purporting to be Mr Fink-Nottle, should take his place.’

  I reeled.

  ‘You aren’t suggesting that I should check in at this leper colony as Gussie?’

  ‘Unless you can pe
rsuade one of your friends to do so, sir.’

  I laughed. One of those hollow, mirthless ones.

  ‘You can’t go about London asking people to pretend to be Gussie Fink-Nottle. At least, you can, I suppose, but what a hell of a life. Besides, there isn’t time to . . .’ I paused. ‘Catsmeat!’ I cried.

  Catsmeat opened his eyes.

  ‘Hallo, there,’ he said, seeming much refreshed. ‘How’s it coming?’

  ‘It’s come. Jeeves has found the way’

  ‘I thought he would. What does he suggest?’

  ‘He thinks . . . What was it, Jeeves?’

  ‘To obviate the inquiries which would inevitably be set on foot should Mr Fink-Nottle not present himself at Deverill Hall this evening –’

  ‘Follow this closely, Catsmeat.’

  ‘– it would appear to be essential that a substitute, purporting to be Mr Fink-Nottle, should take his place.’

  Catsmeat nodded, and said he considered that very sound.

  ‘You mean Bertie, of course?’

  I massaged his coat sleeve tenderly.

  ‘We thought of you,’ I said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want me to say I’m Gussie Fink-Nottle?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No,’ said Catsmeat. ‘A thousand times no. What a revolting idea!’

  The shuddering horror with which he spoke made me realize how deeply his experiences of the previous night must have affected him. And, mind you, I could understand his attitude. Gussie is a fellow you can take or leave alone, and anyone having him as a constant companion from eight at night till five on the following morning might well become a bit allergic to him. I began to see that a good deal of silver-tongued eloquence would be needed in order to obtain service and co-operation from C. C. Pirbright.

  ‘It would enable you to be beneath the same roof as Gertrude Winkworth,’ I urged.

  ‘Yes,’ said Corky, ‘you would be at your Gertrude’s side.’

  ‘Even to be at my Gertrude’s side,’ said Catsmeat firmly, ‘I won’t have people going about thinking I’m Gussie Fink-Nottle. Besides, I couldn’t get away with it. I shouldn’t be even adequate in the role. I’m much too obviously a man of intelligence and brains and gifts and all that sort of thing, and Gussie must have been widely publicized as the fat-headedest ass in creation. After five minutes’ conversation with me the old folks would penetrate the deception like a dose of salts. No, what you want if you are putting on an understudy for Gussie Fink-Nottle is someone like Gussie Fink-Nottle, so that the eye is deceived. You get the part, Bertie.’

  A cry escaped me.

  ‘You don’t think I’m like Gussie?’

  ‘You might be twins.’

  ‘I still think you’re a chump, Catsmeat,’ said Corky. ‘If you were at Deverill Hall you could protect Gertrude from Esmond Haddock’s advances.’

  ‘Bertie’s attending to that. I agree that I would much enjoy a brief visit to Deverill Hall, and if only there were some other way . . . But I won’t say I’m Gussie Fink-Nottle.’

  I bowed to the inev.

  ‘Right ho,’ I said, with one of those sighs. ‘In all human affairs there has got to be a goat or Patsy doing the dirty work, and in the present crisis I see it has got to be me. It generally happens that way. Whenever there is a job to be taken on of a kind calculated to make Humanity shudder, the cry goes up “Let Wooster do it”. I’m not complaining, I’m just mentioning it. Very well. No need to argue. I’ll be Gussie.’

  ‘Smiling, the boy fell dead. That’s the way I like to hear you talk,’ said Catsmeat. ‘On the way down be thinking out your business.’

  ‘What do you mean – my business?’

  ‘Well, for instance, would it or would it not be a good move to kiss Gussie’s girl’s godmother when you meet? Those are the little points you will have to give thought to. And now, Bertie, if you don’t mind, I’ll be pushing along to your bedroom and taking a short nap. Too many interruptions in here, and sleep is what I must have, if I am to face the world again. What was it I heard you call sleep the other day, Jeeves?’

  ‘Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, sir.’

  ‘That was it. And you said a mouthful.’

  He crawled off, and Corky said she would have to be going too. A hundred things to attend to.

  ‘Well, it all looks pretty smooth now, thanks to your quick thinking, Jeeves,’ she said. ‘The only nuisance is that there will be disappointment in the village when they hear they’re going to get a Road Company Number Four Fink-Nottle as Pat, and not the celebrated Bertram Wooster. I rather played you up, Bertie, in the advance billing and publicity. Still, it can’t be helped. Good-bye. We shall meet at Philippi. Good-bye, Jeeves.’

  ‘Good-bye, miss.’

  ‘Here, half a second,’ I said. ‘You’re forgetting your dog.’

  She paused at the door.

  ‘Oh, I had been meaning to tell you about that, Bertie. I want you to take him to the Hall with you for a day or two, so as to give me time to prepare Uncle Sidney’s mind. He’s not too keen on dogs, and Sam will have to be broken to him gently’

  I put in an instant nolle prosequi.

  ‘I’m not going to appear at the Hall with a dog like that. It would ruin my prestige.’

  ‘Mr Fink-Nottle’s prestige, you mean. And I don’t suppose he has any. As Catsmeat said, they have been told all about him, and will probably be relieved that you aren’t rolling in with half a dozen bowls of newts. Well, good-bye again.’

  ‘Hey!’ I yipped, but she had gone.

  I turned to Jeeves.

  ‘So, Jeeves!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Yes, sir”?’

  ‘I was endeavouring to convey my appreciation of the fact that your position is in many respects somewhat difficult, sir. But I wonder if I might call your attention to an observation of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. He said: “Does aught befall you? It is good. It is part of the destiny of the Universe ordained for you from the beginning. All that befalls you is part of the great web.”’

  I breathed a bit stertorously.

  ‘He said that, did he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, you can tell him from me he’s an ass. Are my things packed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The two-seater is at the door?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then lead me to it, Jeeves. If I’m to get to this lazar-house before midnight, I’d better be starting.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Well, I did get there before midnight, of course, but I was dashed late, all the same. As might have been expected on a day like this, the two-seater, usually as reliable as an Arab steed, developed some sort of pox or sickness half-way through the journey, with the result that the time schedule was shot to pieces and it was getting on for eight when I turned in at the main gates. A quick burst up the drive enabled me to punch the frontdoor bell at about twenty to. I remember once when he and I arrived at a country house where the going threatened to be sticky, Jeeves, as we alighted, murmured in my ear the words ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came, sir’, and at the time I could make nothing of the crack. Subsequent inquiry, however, revealed that this Roland was one of those knights of the Middle Ages who spent their time wandering to and fro, and that on fetching up one evening at a dump known as the Dark Tower he had scratched the chin a bit dubiously, not liking the look of things.

  It was the same with me now. I admired Deverill Hall, I could appreciate that it was a fine old pile, with battlements and all the fixings, and if the Deverill who built it had been with me at the moment, I would have slapped him on the back and said ‘Nice work, Deverill’. But I quailed at the thought of what lay within. Behind that massive front door lurked five aunts of early Victorian vintage and an Esmond Haddock who, when he got on to the fact that I was proposing to pull a Mary’s lamb on him, was quite likely to forget the obligations o
f a host and break my neck. Considerations like these prevent one feasting the eye on Tudor architecture with genuine enjoyment and take from fifty to sixty per cent off the entertainment value of spreading lawns and gay flower-beds.

  The door opened, revealing some sixteen stone of butler.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said this substantial specimen. ‘Mr Wooster?’

  ‘Fink-Nottle,’ I said hastily, to correct this impression.

  As a matter of fact, it was all I could do to speak at all, for the sudden impact of Charlie Silversmith had removed the breath almost totally. He took me right back to the days when I was starting out as a flâneur and man about town and used to tremble beneath butlers’ eyes and generally feel very young and bulbous.

  Older now and tougher, I am able to take most of these fauna in my stride. When they open front doors to me, I shoot my cuffs nonchalantly. ‘Aha, there, butler,’ I say. ‘How’s tricks?’ But Jeeves’s Uncle Charlie was something special. He looked like one of those steel engravings of nineteenth-century statesmen. He had a large, bald head and pale, protruding gooseberry eyes, and those eyes, resting on mine, heightened the Dark Tower feeling considerably. The thought crossed my mind that if something like this had popped out at Childe Roland, he would have clapped spurs to his charger and been off like a jack-rabbit.

  Sam Goldwyn, attached by a stout cord to the windscreen, seemed to be thinking along much the same lines, for, after one startled glance at Uncle Charlie, he had thrown his head back and was now uttering a series of agitated howls. I sympathized with his distress. A South London dog belonging to the lower middle classes or, rather, definitely of the people, I don’t suppose he had ever seen a butler before, and it was a dashed shame that he should have drawn something like Uncle Charlie first crack out of the box. With an apologetic jerk of the thumb I directed the latter’s attention to him.

  ‘A dog,’ I said, this seeming about as good a way as any other of effecting the introductions, and Uncle Charlie gave him an austere look, as if he had found him using a fish fork for the entrée.