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Right Ho, Jeeves


Page 45 of 46


I remember Jeeves saying on one occasion--I forgot how the subject had
arisen--he may simply have thrown the observation out, as he does
sometimes, for me to take or leave--that hell hath no fury like a woman
scorned. And until tonight I had always felt that there was a lot in it.
I had never scorned a woman myself, but Pongo Twistleton once scorned an
aunt of his, flatly refusing to meet her son Gerald at Paddington and
give him lunch and see him off to school at Waterloo, and he never heard
the end of it. Letters were written, he tells me, which had to be seen to
be believed. Also two very strong telegrams and a bitter picture post
card with a view of the Little Chilbury War Memorial on it.

Until tonight, therefore, as I say, I had never questioned the accuracy
of the statement. Scorned women first and the rest nowhere, was how it
had always seemed to me.

But tonight I revised my views. If you want to know what hell can really
do in the way of furies, look for the chap who has been hornswoggled into
taking a long and unnecessary bicycle ride in the dark without a lamp.

Mark that word "unnecessary". That was the part of it that really jabbed
the iron into the soul. I mean, if it was a case of riding to the
doctor's to save the child with croup, or going off to the local pub to
fetch supplies in the event of the cellar having run dry, no one would
leap to the handlebars more readily than I. Young Lochinvar, absolutely.
But this business of being put through it merely to gratify one's
personal attendant's diseased sense of the amusing was a bit too thick,
and I chafed from start to finish.

So, what I mean to say, although the providence which watches over good
men saw to it that I was enabled to complete the homeward journey
unscathed except in the billowy portions, removing from my path all
goats, elephants, and even owls that looked like my Aunt Agatha, it was
a frowning and jaundiced Bertram who finally came to anchor at the
Brinkley Court front door. And when I saw a dark figure emerging from
the porch to meet me, I prepared to let myself go and uncork all that was
fizzing in the mind.

"Jeeves!" I said.

"It is I, Bertie."

The voice which spoke sounded like warm treacle, and even if I had not
recognized it immediately as that of the Bassett, I should have known
that it did not proceed from the man I was yearning to confront. For this
figure before me was wearing a simple tweed dress and had employed my
first name in its remarks. And Jeeves, whatever his moral defects, would
never go about in skirts calling me Bertie.

The last person, of course, whom I would have wished to meet after a long
evening in the saddle, but I vouchsafed a courteous "What ho!"

There was a pause, during which I massaged the calves. Mine, of course, I

"You got in, then?" I said, in allusion to the change of costume.

"Oh, yes. About a quarter of an hour after you left Jeeves went searching
about and found the back-door key on the kitchen window-sill."




"I thought you said something."

"No, nothing."

And I continued to do so. For at this juncture, as had so of ten 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

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




"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."


"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

"Oh, I see."


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.



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!"


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


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?"


I didn't want any confusion on the point.

"You mean you want to call it all of f? 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----"


"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

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 prof ound 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

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."


"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."



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