Tuppy, however, was obviously all for her. His whole demeanour, both before and during lunch, was that of one striving to be worthy of a noble soul. When Jeeves offered him a cocktail, he practically recoiled as from a serpent. It was terrible to see the change which love had effected in the man. The spectacle put me off my food.
At half-past two, the Bellinger left to go to a singing lesson. Tuppy trotted after her to the door, bleating and frisking a goodish bit, and then came back and looked at me in a goofy sort of way.
‘Well, Bertie?’
‘Well, what?’
‘I mean, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, rather,’ I said, humouring the poor fish.
‘Wonderful eyes?’
‘Oh, rather.’
‘Wonderful figure?’
‘Oh, quite.’
‘Wonderful voice?’
Here I was able to intone the response with a little more heartiness. The Bellinger, at Tuppy’s request, had sung us a few songs before digging in at the trough, and nobody could have denied that her pipes were in great shape. Plaster was still falling from the ceiling.
‘Terrific,’ I said.
Tuppy sighed, and, having helped himself to about four inches of whisky and one of soda, took a deep, refreshing draught.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I needed that.’
‘Why didn’t you have it at lunch?’
‘Well, it’s this way,’ said Tuppy. ‘I have not actually ascertained what Cora’s opinions are on the subject of the taking of slight snorts from time to time, but I thought it more prudent to lay off. The view I took was that laying off would seem to indicate the serious mind. It is touch-and-go, as you might say, at the moment, and the smallest thing may turn the scale.’
‘What beats me is how on earth you expect to make her think you’ve got a mind at all – let alone a serious one.’
‘I have my methods.’
‘I bet they’re rotten.’
‘You do, do you?’ said Tuppy warmly. ‘Well, let me tell you, my lad, that that’s exactly what they’re anything but. I am handling this affair with consummate generalship. Do you remember Beefy Bingham who was at Oxford with us?’
‘I ran into him only the other day. He’s a parson now.’
‘Yes. Down in the East End. Well, he runs a Lads’ Club for the local toughs – you know the sort of thing – cocoa and back-gammon in the reading-room and occasional clean, bright entertainments in the Oddfellows’ Hall: and I’ve been helping him. I don’t suppose I’ve passed an evening away from the backgammon board for weeks. Cora is extremely pleased. I’ve got her to promise to sing on Tuesday at Beefy’s next clean, bright entertainment.’
‘You have?’
‘I absolutely have. And now mark my devilish ingenuity, Bertie. I’m going to sing, too.’
‘Why do you suppose that’s going to get you anywhere?’
‘Because the way I intend to sing the song I intend to sing will prove to her that there are great deeps in my nature, whose existence she has not suspected. She will see that rough, unlettered audience wiping the tears out of its bally eyes and she will say to herself “What ho! The old egg really has a soul!” For it is not one of your mouldy comic songs, Bertie. No low buffoonery of that sort for me. It is all about Angels being lonely and what not—’
I uttered a sharp cry.
‘You don’t mean you’re going to sing “Sonny Boy”?’
‘I jolly well do.’
I was shocked. Yes, dash it, I was shocked. You see, I held strong views on “Sonny Boy”. I considered it a song only to be attempted by a few of the elect in the privacy of the bathroom. And the thought of it being murdered in open Oddfellows’ Hall by a man who could treat a pal as young Tuppy had treated me that night at the Drones sickened me. Yes, sickened me.
I hadn’t time, however, to express my horror and disgust, for at this juncture Jeeves came in.
‘Mrs Travers has just rung up on the telephone, sir. She desired me to say that she will be calling to see you in a few minutes.’
‘Contents noted, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘Now listen, Tuppy—’
I stopped. The fellow wasn’t there.
‘What have you done with him, Jeeves?’ I asked.
‘Mr Glossop has left, sir.’
‘Left? How can he have left? He was sitting there—’
‘That is the front door closing now, sir.’
‘But what made him shoot off like that?’
‘Possibly Mr Glossop did not wish to meet Mrs Travers, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I could not say, sir. But undoubtedly at the mention of Mrs Travers’ name he rose very swiftly.’
‘Strange, Jeeves.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I turned to a subject of more moment.
‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘Mr Glossop proposes to sing “Sonny Boy” at an entertainment down in the East End next Tuesday.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Before an audience consisting mainly of costermongers, with a sprinkling of whelk-stall owners, purveyors of blood-oranges, and minor pugilists.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Make a note to remind me to be there. He will infallibly get the bird, and I want to witness his downfall.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And when Mrs Travers arrives, I shall be in the sitting-room.’
* * *
Those who know Bertram Wooster best are aware that in his journey through life he is impeded and generally snootered by about as scaly a platoon of aunts as was ever assembled. But there is one exception to the general ghastliness – viz., my Aunt Dahlia. She married old Tom Travers the year Bluebottle won the Cambridgeshire, and is one of the best. It is always a pleasure to me to chat with her, and it was with a courtly geniality that I rose to receive her as she sailed over the threshold at about two-fifty-five.
She seemed somewhat perturbed, and snapped into the agenda without delay. Aunt Dahlia is one of those big, hearty women. She used to go in a lot for hunting, and she generally speaks as if she had just sighted a fox on a hillside half a mile away.
‘Bertie,’ she cried, in the manner of one encouraging a bevy of hounds to renewed efforts. ‘I want your help.’
‘And you shall have it, Aunt Dahlia,’ I replied suavely. ‘I can honestly say that there is no one to whom I would more readily do a good turn than yourself; no one to whom I am more delighted to be—’
‘Less of it,’ she begged, ‘less of it. You know that friend of yours, young Glossop?’
‘He’s just been lunching here.’
‘He has, has he? Well, I wish you’d poisoned his soup.’
‘We didn’t have soup. And, when you describe him as a friend of mine, I wouldn’t quite say the term absolutely squared with the facts. Some time ago, one night when we had been dining together at the Drones—’
At this point Aunt Dahlia – a little brusquely, it seemed to me – said that she would rather wait for the story of my life till she could get it in book-form. I could see now that she was definitely not her usual sunny self, so I shelved my personal grievances and asked what was biting her.
‘It’s that young hound Glossop,’ she said.
‘What’s he been doing?’
‘Breaking Angela’s heart.’ (Angela. Daughter of above. My cousin. Quite a good egg.)
‘Breaking Angela’s heart?’
‘Yes … Breaking … Angela’s … HEART!’
‘You say he’s breaking Angela’s heart?’
She begged me in rather a feverish way to suspend the vaudeville cross-talk stuff.
‘How’s he doing that?’ I asked.
‘With his neglect. With his low, callous, double-crossing duplicity.’
‘Duplicity is the word, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said. ‘In treating of young Tuppy Glossop, it springs naturally to the lips. Let me just tell you what he did to me one night at the Drones. We had finished dinner—’
‘Ever since the begi
nning of the season, up till about three weeks ago, he was all over Angela. The sort of thing which, when I was a girl, we should have described as courting—’
‘Or wooing?’
‘Wooing or courting, whichever you like.’
‘Whichever you like, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said courteously.
‘Well, anyway, he haunted the house, lapped up daily lunches, danced with her half the night, and so on, till naturally the poor kid, who’s quite off her oats about him, took it for granted that it was only a question of time before he suggested that they should feed for life out of the same crib. And now he’s gone and dropped her like a hot brick, and I hear he’s infatuated with some girl he met at a Chelsea tea-party – a girl named – now, what was it?’
‘Cora Bellinger.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She was lunching here to-day.’
‘He brought her?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Pretty massive. In shape, a bit on the lines of the Albert Hall.’
‘Did he seem very fond of her?’
‘Couldn’t take his eyes off the chassis.’
‘The modern young man,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘is a congenital idiot and wants a nurse to lead him by the hand and some strong attendant to kick him regularly at intervals of a quarter of an hour.’
I tried to point out the silver lining.
‘If you ask me, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said, ‘I think Angela is well out of it. This Glossop is a tough baby. One of London’s toughest. I was trying to tell you just now what he did to me one night at the Drones. First having got me in sporting mood with a bottle of the ripest, he betted I wouldn’t swing myself across the swimming-bath by the ropes and rings. I knew I could do it on my head, so I took him on, exulting in the fun, so to speak. And when I’d done half the trip and was going as strong as dammit, I found he had looped the last rope back against the rail, leaving me no alternative but to drop into the depths and swim ashore in correct evening costume.’
‘He did?’
‘He certainly did. It was months ago, and I haven’t got really dry yet. You wouldn’t want your daughter to marry a man capable of a thing like that?’
‘On the contrary, you restore my faith in the young hound. I see that there must be lots of good in him, after all. And I want this Bellinger business broken up, Bertie.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t care how. Any way you please.’
‘But what can I do?’
‘Do? Why, put the whole thing before your man Jeeves. Jeeves will find a way. One of the most capable fellers I ever met. Put the thing squarely up to Jeeves and tell him to let his mind play round the topic.’
‘There may be something in what you say, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said thoughtfully.
‘Of course there is,’ said Aunt Dahlia. ‘A little thing like this will be child’s play to Jeeves. Get him working on it, and I’ll look in to-morrow to hear the result.’
With which, she biffed off, and I summoned Jeeves to the presence.
‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘you have heard all?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I thought you would. My Aunt Dahlia has what you might call a carrying voice. Has it ever occurred to you that, if all other sources of income failed, she could make a good living calling the cattle home across the Sands of Dee?’
‘I had not considered the point, sir, but no doubt you are right.’
‘Well, how do we go? What is your reaction? I think we should do our best to help and assist.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I am fond of my Aunt Dahlia and I am fond of my cousin Angela. Fond of them both, if you get my drift. What the misguided girl finds to attract her in young Tuppy, I cannot say, Jeeves, and you cannot say. But apparently she loves the man – which shows it can be done, a thing I wouldn’t have believed myself – and is pining away like—’
‘Patience on a monument, sir.’
‘Like Patience, as you very shrewdly remark, on a monument. So we must cluster round. Bend your brain to the problem, Jeeves. It is one that will tax you to the uttermost.’
Aunt Dahlia blew in on the morrow, and I rang the bell for Jeeves. He appeared looking brainier than one could have believed possible – sheer intellect shining from every feature – and I could see at once that the engine had been turning over.
‘Speak, Jeeves,’ I said.
‘Very good, sir.’
‘You have brooded?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘With what success?’
‘I have a plan, sir, which I fancy may produce satisfactory results.’
‘Let’s have it,’ said Aunt Dahlia.
‘In affairs of this description, madam, the first essential is to study the psychology of the individual.’
‘The what of the individual?’
‘The psychology, madam.’
‘He means the psychology,’ I said. ‘And by psychology, Jeeves, you imply—?’
‘The natures and dispositions of the principals in the matter, sir.’
‘You mean, what they’re like?’
‘Precisely, sir.’
‘Does he talk like this to you when you’re alone, Bertie?’ asked Aunt Dahlia.
‘Sometimes. Occasionally. And, on the other hand, sometimes not. Proceed, Jeeves.’
‘Well, sir, if I may say so, the thing that struck me most forcibly about Miss Bellinger when she was under my observation was that hers was a somewhat hard and intolerant nature. I could envisage Miss Bellinger applauding success. I could not so easily see her pitying and sympathizing with failure. Possibly you will recall, sir, her attitude when Mr Glossop endeavoured to light her cigarette with his automatic lighter? I thought I detected a certain impatience at his inability to produce the necessary flame.’
‘True, Jeeves. She ticked him off.’
‘Precisely, sir.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Aunt Dahlia, looking a bit fogged. ‘You think that, if he goes on trying to light her cigarettes with his automatic lighter long enough, she will eventually get fed up and hand him the mitten? Is that the idea?’
‘I merely mentioned the episode, madam, as an indication of Miss Bellinger’s somewhat ruthless nature.’
‘Ruthless,’ I said, ‘is right. The Bellinger is hard-boiled. Those eyes. That chin. I could read them. A woman of blood and iron, if ever there was one.’
‘Precisely, sir. I think, therefore, that, should Miss Bellinger be a witness of Mr Glossop appearing to disadvantage in public, she would cease to entertain affection for him. In the event, for instance, of his failing to please the audience on Tuesday with his singing—’
I saw daylight.
‘By Jove, Jeeves! You mean if he gets the bird, all will be off?’
‘I shall be greatly surprised if such is not the case, sir.’
I shook my head.
‘We cannot leave this thing to chance, Jeeves. Young Tuppy, singing “Sonny Boy”, is the likeliest prospect for the bird that I can think of – but, no – you must see for yourself that we can’t simply trust to luck.’
‘We need not trust to luck, sir. I would suggest that you approach your friend, Mr Bingham, and volunteer your services as a performer at his forthcoming entertainment. It could readily be arranged that you sang immediately before Mr Glossop. I fancy, sir, that, if Mr Glossop were to sing “Sonny Boy” directly after you, too, had sung “Sonny Boy”, the audience would respond satisfactorily. By the time Mr Glossop began to sing, they would have lost their taste for that particular song and would express their feelings warmly.’
‘Jeeves,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘you’re a marvel!’
‘Thank you, madam.’
‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘you’re an ass!’
‘What do you mean, he’s an ass?’ said Aunt Dahlia hotly. ‘I think it’s the greatest scheme I ever heard.’
‘Me sing “Sonny Boy” at Beefy Bingham’s clean, bright entert
ainment? I can see myself!’
‘You sing it daily in your bath, sir. Mr Wooster,’ said Jeeves, turning to Aunt Dahlia, ‘has a pleasant, light baritone—’
‘I bet he has,’ said Aunt Dahlia.
I froze the man with a look.
‘Between singing “Sonny Boy” in one’s bath, Jeeves, and singing it before a hall full of assorted blood-orange merchants and their young, there is a substantial difference.’
‘Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘you’ll sing, and like it!’
‘I will not.’
‘Bertie!’
‘Nothing will induce—’
‘Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia firmly, ‘you will sing “Sonny Boy” on Tuesday, the third prox., and sing it like a lark at sunrise, or may an aunt’s curse—’
‘I won’t!’
‘Think of Angela!’
‘Dash Angela!’
‘Bertie!’
‘No, I mean, hang it all!’
‘You won’t?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘That is your last word, is it?’
‘It is. Once and for all, Aunt Dahlia, nothing will induce me to let out so much as a single note.’
And so that afternoon I sent a pre-paid wire to Beefy Bingham, offering my services in the cause, and by nightfall the thing was fixed up. I was billed to perform next but one after the intermission. Following me, came Tuppy. And, immediately after him, Miss Cora Bellinger, the well-known operatic soprano.
‘Jeeves,’ I said that evening – and I said it coldly – ‘I shall be obliged if you will pop round to the nearest music-shop and procure me a copy of “Sonny Boy”. It will now be necessary for me to learn both verse and refrain. Of the trouble and nervous strain which this will involve, I say nothing.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘But this I do say—’
‘I had better be starting immediately, sir, or the shop will be closed.’
‘Ha!’ I said.
And I meant it to sting.