Chapter 4
It has long been a theory of mine that any man of a certain intelligence will also hold a corresponding creative ability in one important respect: the ability to explain away his own ill behaviour. Those of low cunning may enjoy it as well, but strangely, they are quite often more subconsciously aware that their justifications lack a certain something, whereas it seems to take a truly practical, rational individual to fool himself entirely with his reasoning.
I have no doubt it has a great deal to do with arrogance.
In any case, as much as it pains me to admit it now, I was so filled with conceit after Mr. Wooster's and my confrontation in the music room, that the behaviour which I was attempting to explain away was not the potential cruelty I may have shown towards my master, but my increasing inability to take control of the situation. Why was I not able to predict Mr. Wooster's reactions? Why could I not persuade him to see the situation from my viewpoint, and so coax him back into his normal good spirits? What obvious answer was I failing to see?
Determined to logically work through the problem, I decided to go for a walk across the grounds. I had hardly started when, realizing that I indeed had the time to do such a thing, I reached my first conclusion: I was suffering from a lack of activity. The normal structure of my days was not there, and I was at loose ends. Laundry, the marketing, the preparation of meals, housekeeping duties, the reception of telegrams, the answering of phones - all were handled by the household staff. All of Mr. Wooster's bills had been paid before we left London. There were no outside social events to make arrangements for, nor any preparations to be made for entertaining at the flat. No travel arrangements or packing had been requested.
No, all that my duties at present consisted of were seeing to Mr. Wooster's wardrobe (a task already usurped by Frederick), running his bath, assisting with his dress (a service he apparently had not wished this morning), serving him tea or libations and running general errands, neither of the last two for which he had been present long enough that day to ask for. As for 'pitching in' with the Brinkley staff, I gathered very quickly that morning that my services were not required until the evening meal, if then.
So, when considered with the fact that, except for the last week here at the Travers' country seat, I had also been on my own in the flat for the two months Mr. Wooster was in Cannes, with barely anything to occupy myself beyond seeing to my own needs, it was easy to see that I must be stagnating.
Fast on the heels of that conclusion, was the thought that perhaps I was having trouble anticipating Mr. Wooster's behaviour due to the lack of our usual daily proximity for those same two months. Was it possible we had fallen out of synchronization, as it were? I had never noticed the need for such an adjustment when I returned from my yearly holidays, but in those instances, I was the one who had left and then returned to familiar surroundings. As a servant, one is expected to silently adapt to whatever circumstances one finds oneself in, without changing one's mood. A gentleman, on the other hand, has the luxury (or disadvantage) of being able adapt his circumstances to what he desires, and therefore often grows over-accustomed to always having things a certain way. And when things change, or the unexpected arises, he is thrown out of sorts.
These conclusions of course consoled me as to my present disturbing inability to find an answer, but they did not provide any answers themselves. As I rounded the large oak that marked the southernmost boundary of the Travers' estate, random questions intruded into my thoughts.
Why had Mr. Wooster not requested me to ready for our return to London? True, it had only been a day and he was no doubt not in the best frame of mind, but instinct was telling me there was more to it.
Why had Mr. Wooster not brought up the matter of his fall? If he wished to make me feel contrite, it seemed like an obvious ploy. Was he embarrassed, or, even in his resentment, did the Code of the Woosters preclude him from making use of such a low tactic? Is this why he did not want me to see him undressed this morning, or was it simply a way of playing the martyr? And why was he so distraught in the first place? Nothing ever dampened his buoyant spirits for long and he was certainly not one to hold a grudge.
It seems foolish now to have been so blind, but I simply could not understand it. I can only plead that I was completely unaware of how much my thought processes were clouded by things other than stagnation and being away from Mr. Wooster for two months. As I stated before, an intelligent man can fool himself as to the truth of many things.
However, at that point, my path seemed clear: I needed more information.
-x-
"Good afternoon, this is the Market Snodsbury operator. How may I place your call?"
"Good afternoon, Miss Collins."
"Oh… it's you, Mr. Jeeves." I nearly faltered in my objective at the suddenly coquettish lilt.
"Yes, Miss. I was wondering if you could possibly assist me, Miss Collins."
"Of course, Mr. Jeeves. I'll do anything I can."
"That would be most welcome, Miss Collins."
"You don't have to keep calling me Miss Collins, you know. You could call me Elsie." Her voice had got uncommonly…throaty all of a sudden.
"I would hate to think I left you in a position that might lead to the question of some impropriety, Miss Collins. I would not want you to risk your future prospects at the telephone company."
"Oh, Mr. Jeeves, you are so considerate of a girl."
"Thank you, miss. Now, if you could - "
"Of course, Mr. Jeeves. How can I take care of you?"
"My master asked me to send out a very important letter for him in the evening post, but he left in quite a hurry for an appointment in Worcester and I did not fully catch the name as he ran out. All I know is that the letter is to go to the person he was consulting on the telephone earlier today. I know it is most irregular, but if you could perhaps inform me as to the individual's name, I would be most appreciative. I am terribly worried the matter is urgent and I would hate for a delay to cause Mr. Wooster any difficulty."
She hesitated. "Well, it's just that we're not supposed to…"
"Please, Miss Collins… Elsie," I said at my most sincere. "I would be extremely grateful."
"You won't tell anyone?"
"Rest assured, Miss, you can trust to my discretion."
"Well, all right. It was a Mr. Henshaw, in London."
"Archibald Henshaw?"
"Yes, that's him."
"Thank you very much, Miss Collins. You've been of the greatest assistance to me."
"If there's ever anything more I can do for you, Mr. Jeeves, you will be certain to let me know, won't you?"
"Indeed, Miss. Thank you again," I said, before finally being able to ring off. Modern communication was becoming more gruelling by the day.
However, that was irrelevant. The question facing me now was why on Earth Mr. Wooster was calling his solicitor.
-x-
Despite the chilly looks from the household staff, I was determined to serve at dinner and so I offered my services to Mr. Seppings when Mrs. Travers was in close proximity, therefore making it difficult for him to refuse.
Mr. Wooster, after having missed breakfast, the picnic luncheon, and afternoon tea, finally presented himself to partake of a meal with the party. The first volley lobbed his way was from young Mr. Glossop.
"Bertie, old man! How good to see you! We'd all thought you had drowned!"
Mr. Wooster looked confused, as if he'd been too preoccupied to realize what the main gist of the dinner conversation was going to be. "How's that again, Tuppy?"
I could have told him that delaying the inevitable would only make it worse.
"The rain last night, you chump!" Mr. Glossop answered, then let out what one can only call a guffaw, "Or in the old giggle juice today - take your pick!"
"I'm sorry, what?" I was startled to note the look of genuine perplexity on my master's face. This caused me to wonder where he could have been if not at a local establishment.
"Didn't know a stop in the road like Market Snodsbury had a pub that opened at 8.30 in the morning," Mr. Glossop continued, as if Mr. Wooster hadn't said a word. "You must tell us where it is, Bertie."
"Oh, yes, you must!" Mr. Fink-Nottle chimed in.
"I… I don't understand…" Mr. Wooster protested, and for the first time I noticed how exhausted he looked.
"Good heavens, you blister, you're not under the surface at this moment, are you?" Mr. Glossop continued to tease. "Or is there still water in your ears from last night?" he asked and then gave my master a hearty slap on the back.
"Maybe it's mould by now!" Mr. Fink-Nottle suggested, and, in the midst of everyone's laughter, only Mr. Seppings and I started at the sight of Mr. Wooster suddenly coming over very pale.
"Well, I suppose we're being too rough on the poor old thing," Mr. Glossop pretended to commiserate, "Straddling a bicycle seat for eighteen miles, after all - why, he's worn out the most intelligent part of him!"
Mr. Wooster managed a wan smile, but thankfully was saved at that point by the sound of the dinner gong. The jests subsided and conversation for the most part moved onto other things as the group moved into the dining room.
It was just after the fish course, however, when Mrs. Travers noticed Mr. Wooster's uncharacteristic silence.
"Good heavens, you poor blot, what's the matter with you?" she asked. "It's not like you to mope like this. You've looked an ass before and never let it get you down."
Mr. Wooster pulled himself out of the unfocused stare he had been directing towards his wine glass for the last five minutes, and forced himself to regard his aunt. "I'm sorry, old thing. Just a little tired, don't you know."
Mrs. Travers rolled her eyes. "More likely you've fallen on your head." Mr. Wooster pulled back as if slapped, but Mrs. Travers, busy cutting into a stalk of asparagus, didn't observe it. A moment too late, she turned and leaned towards him. "Perhaps you should stick to water for now, you young menace," she advised him sotto voce, though with Mrs. Travers' famed ability of projection, the entire table was set to smirking.
"Be fair, Mummy, he probably got his fill of water last night," Miss Angela laughed, though with a gentle smile to let Mr. Wooster know she was not serious.
"Well, there is that," Mrs. Travers conceded, with a genial smile herself. "However," she went on, returning to her normal volume, "as to being tired, you execrable fungus, it's your own silly fault. Whatever possessed you to pull such a foolish prank as that?"
I tensed, suddenly certain Mr. Wooster would reveal my part in the scheme. And, while I was fully confident that the Traverses and their guests would understand the psychology of the entire scheme, it would have been most certainly awkward to defend myself over the dinner table.
But Mr. Wooster only grimaced and replied, "I don't remember."
"Hit his head, most definitely," Mr. Fink-Nottle put in.
"Oh, Gussie!" Miss Bassett exclaimed reprovingly, and I saw Mr. Wooster give a sudden wince and by the positions of their arms, it was not hard to see that Miss Bassett had surprised him by grabbing hold of his hand under the table. And, as most of the table resumed their individual conversations with one another, she gave him a look which could only be described as pitying, as if to say that she, and she alone, knew why he was so distracted.
"Um…yes," Mr. Wooster said, disengaging his hand and looking slightly panic-stricken. If I hadn't informed him of the dissolution of his engagement to Miss Bassett, I fear he might have knocked over his chair and upset the serving trolley behind him.
"Yes, what, Attila?" Mrs. Travers demanded, unaware of what had just happened. "What are you blithering about now? No one's asked a question."
Mr. Wooster sighed. "Sorry, Aunt Dahlia. I must have been wool-gathering and thought I heard something."
"Bertie Wooster, what's got into you?"
"How do you mean, Aunt Dahlia?"
"Well, look at you! Gormless is the only word which springs to mind. And you've been so dull all night. Whatever's become of the vaunted Bertie Wooster, life of the party? You should meet my nephew, I tell people, he's always got an entertaining story to tell."
"Do you really?" Mr. Wooster asked, eyes lightening for the first time that day.
"Of course! Bertie's always good for a laugh, I say."
"Oh," Mr. Wooster said softly.
"I know what the problem is. You've taken too much on yourself. That's where you went wrong. Trying to solve everyone's problems, why, it's just ridiculous. No, you go back to listening to Jeeves. When I think of all the trouble you could have spared us over these last few days, if you had just done the sensible thing and let Jeeves handle it, I could kick Spink-Bottle in the leg."
"What's that?" Mr. Fink-Nottle turned towards the pair and asked.
"Nothing, Augustus. Finish your dinner," Mrs. Travers ordered. Mr. Fink-Nottle obediently turned away again, finishing his beef bourguignon, while listening to Mr. Travers declaim on the subject of the perils of taxation. "My word, Bertie, that young Spink-Bottle may be a fairly innocuous specimen, but he eats like a lizard!" She shook her head. "Now what was I saying? Oh yes, you should leave the thinking to Jeeves. Now take the last few days - thankfully, things all worked out by themselves in the end without help from either of you, but I'm sure if Jeeves had had a hand in it, we could have solved every problem within five minutes of his arrival and saved ourselves no end of bother!"
Mr. Wooster looked up and his eyes went wide. "But - "
"No! No buts, Bertie. You must learn to not interfere with Jeeves! The man cannot work his wonders with you constantly butting in. And you complicated matter interminably. Why, what if one of your silly ideas had caused a rift too large for even Jeeves to solve?"
"But he did - " His puzzlement was natural - the truth behind the matter of the firebell was so foremost in his mind that he had forgot the others knew nothing of my part in it, for good or bad.
"I'm sure he did try to think of something, but you no doubt scuppered his plans. Which is why I'm telling you to leave it to Jeeves in future - he knows how to arrange things."
Mr. Wooster levelled his cold gaze on me as I poured another glass of wine for Mr. Glossop. "He certainly does indeed," was all he said.