“Oh, Jeeves,” I said; “about that check suit.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is it really a frost?”
“A trifle too bizarre, sir, in my opinion.”
“But lots of fellows have asked me who my tailor is.”
“Doubtless in order to avoid him, sir.”
“He’s supposed to be one of the best men in London.”
“I am saying nothing against his moral character, sir.”
I hesitated a bit. I had a feeling that I was passing into this chappie’s clutches, and that if I gave in now I should become just like poor old Aubrey Fothergill, unable to call my soul my own. On the other hand, this was obviously a cove of rare intelligence, and it would be a comfort in a lot of ways to have him doing the thinking for me. I made up my mind.
“All right, Jeeves,” I said. “You know! Give the bally thing away to somebody!”
He looked down at me like a father gazing tenderly at the wayward child.
“Thank you, sir. I gave it to the under-gardener last night. A little more tea, sir?”
DISENTANGLING OLD DUGGIE
Doesn’t some poet or philosopher fellow say that it’s when our intentions are best that we always make the worst breaks? I can’t put my hand on the passage, but you’ll find it in Shakespeare or somewhere, I’m pretty certain.
At any rate, it’s always that way with me. And the affair of Douglas Craye is a case in point.
I had dined with Duggie (a dear old pal of mine) one night at his club, and as he was seeing me out he said: “Reggie, old top”—my name’s Reggie Pepper—”Reggie, old top, I’m rather worried.”
“Are you, Duggie, old pal?” I said.
“Yes, Reggie, old fellow,” he said, “I am. It’s like this. The Booles have asked me down to their place for the weekend, and I don’t know whether to go or not. You see, they have early breakfast, and besides that there’s a frightful risk of music after dinner. On the other hand, young Roderick Boole thinks he can play piquet.”
“I should go,” I said.
“But I’m not sure Roderick’s going to be there this time.”
It was a problem, and I didn’t wonder poor old Dug had looked pale and tired at dinner.
Then I had the idea which really started all the trouble.
“Why don’t you consult a palmist?” I said.
“That sounds a good idea,” said Duggie.
“Go and see Dorothea in Forty-second Street. She’s a wonder. She’ll settle it for you in a second. She’ll see from your lines that you are thinking of making a journey, and she’ll either tell you to get a move on, which will mean that Roderick will be there, or else to keep away because she sees disaster.”
“You seem to be next to the game all right.”
“I’ve been to a good many of them. You’ll like Dorothea.”
“What did you say her name was—Dorothea? What do I do? Do I just walk in? Shan’t I feel a fearful chump? How much do I give her?”
“Five bucks. You’d better write and make a date.”
“All right,” said Duggie. “But I know I shall look a frightful fool.”
About a week later I ran into him between the acts at the Knickerbocker. The old boy was beaming.
“Reggie,” he said, “you did me the best turn anyone’s ever done me, sending me to Mrs. Darrell.”
“Mrs. Darrell?”
“You know. Dorothea. Her real name’s Darrell. She’s a widow. Her husband was in some regiment, and left her without a penny. It’s a frightfully pathetic story. Haven’t time to tell you now. My boy, she’s a marvel. She had hardly looked at my hand, when she said: ‘You will prosper in any venture you undertake.’ And next day, by George, I went down to the Booles’ and separated young Roderick from seventy dollars. She’s a wonderful woman. Did you ever see just that shade of hair?”
“I didn’t notice her hair.”
He gaped at me in a sort of petrified astonishment.
“You—didn’t—notice—her—hair!” he gasped.
I can’t fix the dates exactly, but it must have been about three weeks after this that I got a telegram:
“Call Madison Avenue immediately—Florence Craye.”
She needn’t have signed her name. I should have known who it was from by the wording. Ever since I was a kid, Duggie’s sister Florence has oppressed me to the most fearful extent. Not that I’m the only one. Her brothers live in terror of her, I know. Especially Edwin. He’s never been able to get away from her and it’s absolutely broken his spirit. He’s a mild, hopeless sort of chump who spends all his time at home—they live near Philadelphia—and has never been known to come to New York. He’s writing a history of the family, or something, I believe.
You see, events have conspired, so to speak, to let Florence do pretty much as she likes with them. Originally there was old man Craye, Duggie’s father, who made a fortune out of the Soup Trust; Duggie’s elder brother Edwin; Florence; and Duggie. Mrs. Craye has been dead some years. Then came the smash. It happened through the old man. Most people, if you ask them, will tell you that he ought to be in Bloomingdale; and I’m not sure they’re not right. At any rate, one morning he came down to breakfast, lifted the first cover on the sideboard, said in a sort of despairing way, “Eggs! Eggs! Eggs! Curse all eggs!” and walked out of the room. Nobody thought much of it till about an hour afterward, when they found that he had packed a grip, left the house, and caught the train to New York. Next day they got a letter from him, saying that he was off to Europe, never to return, and that all communications were to be addressed to his lawyers. And from that day on none of them had seen him. He wrote occasionally, generally from Paris; and that was all.
Well, directly news of this got about, down swooped a series of aunts to grab the helm. They didn’t stay long. Florence had them out, one after the other, in no time. If any lingering doubt remained in their minds, don’t you know, as to who was going to be boss at home, it wasn’t her fault. Since then she has run the show.
I went to Madison Avenue. It was one of the aunts’ houses. There was no sign of the aunt when I called—she had probably climbed a tree and pulled it up after her—but Florence was there.
She is a tall woman with what, I believe, is called “a presence.” Her eyes are bright and black, and have a way of getting right inside you, don’t you know, and running up and down your spine. She has a deep voice. She is about ten years older than Duggie’s brother Edwin, who is six years older than Duggie.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “Sit down.”
I poured myself into a chair.
“Reginald,” she said, “what is this I hear about Douglas?”
I said I didn’t know.
“He says that you introduced him.”
“Eh?”
“To this woman—this Mrs. Darrell.”
“Mrs. Darrell?”
My memory’s pretty rocky, and the name conveyed nothing to me.
She pulled out a letter.
“Yes,” she said, “Mrs. Dorothy Darrell.”
“Great Scott! Dorothea!”
Her eyes resumed their spine drill.
“Who is she?”
“Only a palmist.”
“Only a palmist!” Her voice absolutely boomed. “Well, my brother Douglas is engaged to be married to her.”
“Many happy returns of the day,” I said.
I don’t know why I said it. It wasn’t what I meant to say. I’m not sure I meant to say anything.
She glared at me. By this time I was pure jelly. I simply flowed about the chair.
“You are facetious, Reginald,” she said.
“No, no, no,” I shouted. “It slipped out. I wouldn’t be facetious for worlds.”
“I am glad. It is no laughing matter. Have you any suggestions?”
“Suggestions?”
“You don’t imagine it can be allowed to go on? The engagement must be broken, of course. But how?”
“Why don’t you tell him he mustn’t?”
“I shall naturally express my strong disapproval, but it may not be effective. When out of the reach of my personal influence, my wretched brother is self-willed to a degree.”