16

Claude and Eustace are leaving

One day Aunt Agatha came into my sitting-room while I was having a placid cigarette and started to tell me about Claude and Eustace.

“Thank goodness,” said Aunt Agatha, “arrangements have at last been made about Eustace and Claude.”

“Arrangements?” I did not understand.

“They sail on Friday for South Africa. Mr Van Alstyne, a friend of poor Emily’s, has invited them to his firm at Johannesburg, and we are hoping that they will settle down there and do well.”

I didn’t get the thing at all.

“Friday? The day after tomorrow, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“For South Africa?”

“Yes. They leave.”

“But … I mean, aren’t they in the middle of their term at Oxford?”

Aunt Agatha looked at me coldly.

“Do you positively mean to tell me, Bertie, that you take so little interest in the affairs of your nearest relatives that you are not aware that Claude and Eustace were expelled from Oxford over a fortnight ago?”

“No, really?”

“You are hopeless, Bertie. I should have thought that even you—”

“But why?”

“They poured lemonade on the Junior Dean of their college … I see nothing amusing here, Bertie.”

“No, no, rather not,” I said hurriedly. “I wasn’’t laughing. Just coughing. Got something stuck in my throat, you know.”

“Poor Emily,” went on Aunt Agatha, “she is one of those mothers who are the ruin of their children, she wished to keep the boys in London. But I was firm. The Colonies are the only place for wild youths like Eustace and Claude. So they sail on Friday. They have been staying for the last two weeks with your Uncle Clive in Worcestershire. They will spend tomorrow night in London and catch the boat on Friday morning.”

“Bit risky, isn’t it? I mean, if they’re left all alone in London …”

“They will not be left alone. They will be in your charge.”

“Mine!”

“Yes. I wish you to put them up in your flat for the night, and see that they do not miss the train in the morning.”

“Oh, I say, no!”

“Bertie!”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know. They’re rather crazy, you know … Always glad to see them, of course, but …”

“Bertie!”

“Oh, all right,” I said. “All right.”

When she had gone, I rang for Jeeves to break the news to him.

“Oh, Jeeves,” I said, “Mr Claude and Mr Eustace will be staying here tomorrow night.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I’m glad you think so. You know what those two lads are!”

“Very high-spirited young gentlemen, sir.”

“Blisters, Jeeves!”

For the last day there had been a certain amount of coolness in the home over a pair of wonderful spats which I had bought in the Burlington Arcade. I mean to say, instead of the ordinary grey and white, you can now get spats in your favourite colours. But Jeeves did not approve them. Of course, Jeeves, though in many ways the best valet in London, is too conservative, if you know what I mean, and an enemy to Progress.

The Twins came into my flat while I was dressing for dinner. I’m only six years older than Claude and Eustace, but in some strange manner they always make me feel as if I were a grandfather class and just waiting for the end. They pinched a couple of my special cigarettes, and started to prattle with the gaiety.

“Hallo, Bertie, old man,” said Claude. “Thank you for having us.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Only wish you were staying a long time.”

“Hear that, Eustace? He wishes we were staying a long time.”

“I expect it will seem a long time,” said Eustace, philosophically.

“You heard, Bertie? Our little bit of trouble, I mean?”

“Oh, yes. Aunt Agatha was telling me.”

“We leave our country for our country’s good,” said Eustace.

“And let there be no moaning at the bar,” said Claude, “when I put out to sea. What did Aunt Agatha tell you?”

“She said you poured lemonade on the Junior Dean.”

“Not at all,” said Claude, annoyed, “It wasn’t the Junior Dean. It was the Senior Tutor.”

“And it wasn’t lemonade,” said Eustace. “It was soda-water. The old man was standing just under our window while I was leaning out with a siphon in my hand. And now, what do you propose to do, Bertie, in the way of entertaining the handsome guests tonight?”

“My idea was to have a bit of dinner in the flat,” I said. “Jeeves is getting it ready now.”

“And afterwards?”

“Well, I thought we might chat of this and that, and then I think that you would probably like to go to bed early, as your train goes about ten or something, doesn’t it?”

The twins looked at each other.

“Bertie,” said Eustace, “I offer the following programme: we will go to Giro’s after dinner. And stay there until two-thirty or three.”

“After which, no doubt,” said Claude, “the Lord will provide.”

“But I thought you would want to get a good night’s rest.”

“Good night’s rest!” said Eustace. “My dear old chap, you don’t imagine that we are dreaming of going to bed tonight, do you?”

I suppose the fact is, I’m not the man I was. I mean, those all-night vigils don’t fascinate me as they used to a few years ago.

As far as I can remember, after Giro’s we came back home about nine in the morning. In fact, I’d just got enough strength to say goodbye to the twins, wish them a pleasant voyage and a happy and successful career in South Africa, and sleep.

It must have been about one in the afternoon when I woke. The door opened and Claude walked in.

“Hallo, Bertie!” said Claude. “Had a nice refreshing sleep? Now, what about a good lunch?”

I’d been having so many distorted nightmares since I had gone to sleep that for half a minute I thought this was simply one more of them, and the worst of the lot. It was only when Claude sat down on my feet that I got on to the fact that this was stern reality.

“Great Lord! What are you doing here?” I gurgled.

Claude looked at me reproachfully.

“Hardly the tone I like to hear in a host, Bertie,” he said reprovingly. “Why, it was only last night that you were saying you wished I was stopping a long time. Your dream has come true. I am.”

“But why aren’t you on your way to South Africa?”

“Now,” said Claude, “I’ll explain. It’s like this, old man. You remember that girl you introduced me to at Giro’s last night?”

“Which girl?”

“There was only one,” said Claude coldly. “Her name was Marion Wardour. I danced with her a lot, if you remember.”

I began to recollect. Marion Wardour has been a friend of mine for some time. A very good girl. She’s playing in that show at the Apollo at the moment.

“We are soul-mates, Bertie,” said Claude. “Two hearts that beat as one, I mean, and all that sort of thing. So I don’t like the idea of going to South Africa and leaving a girl like that in England.”

“But what about Van Alstyne, or whatever his name is? He’ll be expecting you.”

“Oh, he’ll have Eustace. That’ll satisfy him. Very good fellow, Eustace. He will become a magnate of some kind. I shall watch his future progress with considerable interest. And now you must excuse me for a moment, Bertie. For some reason which I can’t explain, I’ve got a slight headache this morning.”

And, believe me or believe me not, the door had hardly closed behind him when in came Eustace with a shining morning face.

“Oh, my God!” I said.

Eustace started to giggle pretty freely.

“Good job, Bertie, good job!” he said. “I’m sorry for poor old Claude, but there was no alternative. It couldn’t be helped. If you really seriously expected me to go to South Africa, you shouldn’t have introduced me to Miss Wardour last night. I want to tell you all about that, Bertie. I’m not a man,’ said Eustace, sitting down on the bed, “who falls in love with every girl he sees. But when I meet my affinity I don’t waste time. I—”

“Oh, heaven! Are you in love with Marion Wardour, too?”

“Too? What do you mean, ‘too’?”

I was going to tell him about Claude, when the blighter came in in person.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

“What the hell are you doing here?” said Eustace.

“Have you come back to trouble Miss Wardour with your society?”

“Is that why you’ve come back?”

“Well,” said Claude at last. “I suppose it can’t be helped. If you’re here, you’re here. May the best man win!”

“Yes, but dash it all!” I said. “What’s the idea? Where do you think you’re going to stay in London?”

“Why, here,” said Eustace, surprised.

“Where else?” said Claude, raising his eyebrows.

“You won’t object, Bertie?” said Eustace.

“But, you silly asses, suppose Aunt Agatha finds out that I’m hiding you when you ought to be in South Africa? What shall I do?”

“What will he do?” Claude asked Eustace.

“Oh, I expect he’ll manage somehow,” said Eustace to Claude.

“Of course,” said Claude. “He’ll manage.”

“Rather!” said Eustace. “A wise chap like Bertie! Of course he will.”

“And now,” said Claude, “what about that lunch we were discussing a moment ago, Bertie?”

For the days that followed the unexpected resurrection of the blighted twins were so absolutely foul that the old nerves began to stick out of my body a foot long and curling at the ends.

One day Aunt Agatha came to my flat to have a chat. Twenty minutes earlier and she would have found the twins. She sank into a chair, and I could see that she was not in her usual sunny spirits.

“Bertie,” she said, “I am uneasy.”

So was I. The twins could come back.

“I wonder,” she said, “if I was too cruel with Claude and Eustace.”

“You weren’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I—er—mean it would be so unlike you to be cruel with anybody, Aunt Agatha.”

Not bad, really. It pleased the old aunt, and she looked at me with pleasure.

“It is nice of you to say that, Bertie, but what I was thinking was, are they safe?”

“Are they what?”

“Do you think all is well with them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Has it ever occurred to you, Bertie,” she said, “that your Uncle George may be a psychic?”

“A psychic?”

“Do you think it is possible that he could see things not visible to the normal eye?”

I don’t know if you’ve ever met my Uncle George. He’s a festive old guy who wanders from club to club continually having a couple with other festive old guys. It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.

“Your Uncle George was dining with me last night, and he was quite shaken. He declares that, while on his way from the Devonshire Club to Boodle’s he suddenly saw the phantasm of Eustace.”

“The what of Eustace?”

“The phantasm. The wraith. It was so clear that he thought for an instant that it was Eustace himself. The figure vanished round a corner, and when Uncle George got there nothing was to be seen. It is all very queer and disturbing. It had a marked effect on poor George. All through dinner he touched nothing but barley-water, and his manner was quite disturbed. You do think those poor, dear boys are safe, Bertie? They have not met with some horrible accident?”

I said no, I didn’t think they had met with any horrible accident. I thought Eustace was a horrible accident, and Claude about the same, but I didn’t say so. And she went away, still worried.

When the twins came in, I told them all.

“But, my dear old man,” said Claude. “Be reasonable. We can’t hide ourselves.”

“Out of the question,” said Eustace.

“But, damn it—”

“Bertie!” said Eustace reprovingly. “Not before the boy!”

“Of course, in a way I see his point,” said Claude. “I suppose the solution of the problem would be to buy a couple of disguises.”

“My dear old chap!” said Eustace, looking at him with admiration. “The brightest idea! Not your own, surely?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it was Bertie who put it into my head.”

“Me!”

“You were telling me the other day about old Bingo Little and the beard he bought when he didn’t want his uncle to recognize him.”

“Something in that,” agreed Eustace. “We’ll make it whiskers, then.”

“And false noses,” said Claude.

“And, as you say, false noses. Bertie, old chap, we don’t want to be any trouble to you.”

And, when I went to Jeeves for consolation, all he would say was something about Young Blood. No sympathy.

“Very good, Jeeves,” I said. “I shall go for a walk in the park. Please bring me my spats.”

“Very good, sir.”

A couple of days after that Marion Wardour came in at about the hour of tea. She looked round the room before sitting down.

“Your cousins not at home, Bertie?” she said.

“No, thank goodness!”

“Then I’ll tell you where they are. They’re in my sitting-room, glaring at each other from opposite corners, waiting for me to come in. Bertie, how to stop it?”

Jeeves came in with the tea, but the poor girl was going on with her complaint. She had an absolutely hunted air.

“I can’t move a step without seeing one or both of them,” she said. “Generally both. And they just settle down grimly and try to sit each other out.”

“I know,” I said sympathetically. “I know.”

“Well, what’s to be done?”

“I don’t know. Couldn’t you tell your maid to say you are not at home?”

She shuddered slightly.

“I tried that once. They sat on the stairs, and I couldn’t get out all the afternoon. And I had a lot of important engagements. I wish you would persuade them to go to South Africa, where they seem to be wanted.”

“You must have made an impression on them.”

“I should say I have. They’ve started giving me presents now. At least Claude has. He insisted on my accepting this cigarette-case last night. He came round to the theatre and wouldn’t go away till I took it. It’s not a bad one, I must say.”

It wasn’t. It was in gold with a diamond stuck in the middle. And the strange thing was that I had a notion I’d seen something very like it before somewhere. How Claude had been able to find the money to buy a thing like that was more than I could imagine.

Next day was a Wednesday, and as the object of their devotion had a matinée, the twins were free. Claude had gone with his whiskers on to Hurst Park, and Eustace and I were in the flat, talking. At least, he was talking and I was wishing he would go.

“The love of a good woman, Bertie,” he was saying, “must be a wonderful thing. Sometimes … Good Lord! What’s that?”

The front door had opened, and from out in the hall there came the sound of Aunt Agatha’s voice asking if I was in. There was just about two seconds to clear the way for her, but it was long enough for Eustace to dive under the sofa. His last shoe had just disappeared when she came in.

She had a worried look. It seemed to me about this time that everybody had.

“Bertie,” she said, “what are your plans?”

“What do you mean? I’m dining tonight with—”

“No, no, I don’t mean tonight. Are you busy for the next few days? But, of course you are not,” she went on, not waiting for me to answer. “You never have anything to do. Your whole life is spent in idle—but we can talk about that later. What I came for this afternoon was to tell you that I wish you to go with your poor Uncle George to Harrogate for a few weeks. The sooner you can start, the better.”

I uttered a yelp of protest.

“If you are not entirely heartless, Bertie, you will do as I ask you. Your poor Uncle George has had a severe shock.”

“What, another?”

“He feels that only complete rest and careful medical attendance can restore his nervous system. We do not think he ought to be alone, so I wish you to accompany him.”

“But, I say!”

“Bertie!”

There was a pause in the conversation.

“What shock has he had?” I asked.

“Between ourselves,” said Aunt Agatha, lowering her voice in an impressive manner, “You are one of the family, Bertie, and I can speak freely to you. You know as well as I do that your poor Uncle George has for many years not been a—he has—er—developed a bit of a habit—”

“Drinking?”

“I must confess that he has not been, perhaps, as temperate as he should. Well, the fact is, that he has had a shock.”

“Yes, but what?”

“As far as I could understand, he has been the victim of a burglary.”

“Burglary!”

“He says that a strange man with whiskers and a peculiar nose entered his rooms in Jermyn Street during his absence and stole some of his property. He says that he came back and found the man in his sitting-room. He immediately rushed out of the room and disappeared.”

“Uncle George?”

“No, the man. And, according to your Uncle George, he had stolen a valuable cigarette-case. But, as I say, I am inclined to think that the whole thing was imagination. He has not been himself since the day when he fancied that he saw Eustace in the street. So I should like you, Bertie, to be prepared to start for Harrogate with him not later than Saturday.’

She left and Eustace crawled out from under the sofa. The blighter was strongly moved. So was I, for the matter of that. The idea of several weeks with Uncle George at Harrogate!

“So that’s where he got that cigarette-case, dash him!” said Eustace bitterly. “That fellow ought to be in a jail.”

“He ought to be in South Africa,” I said. “And so ought you.”

And with an eloquence which rather surprised me, for perhaps ten minutes I explained him his duty to his family. I appealed to his sense of decency.

After this, Claude and Eustace refused to talk to each other. I’d got accustomed to thinking that they would stay with me forever, when Claude came to me one Friday morning and told me the news, I could hardly believe.

“Bertie,” he said, “I’ve been thinking it over.”

“What over?” I said.

“The whole thing. This staying in London when I ought to be in South Africa. It isn’t fair,” said Claude warmly. “It isn’t right. Bertie, old man, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“You are?” I asked.

“Yes. If,” said Claude, “you won’t mind sending old Jeeves out to buy a ticket for me. I’m afraid I’ll have to borrow some money from you, old man. You don’t mind?”

“That’s great!” I said, clutching his hand fervently.

“That’s all right, then. Oh, I say, you won’t say a word to Eustace about this, will you?”

“But isn’t he going, too?”

Claude shuddered.

“No, thank heaven! No, not a word to Eustace.”

“Jeeves,” I said, coming into the kitchen. “Go out to the ticket office and book a berth on tomorrow’s boat for Mr Claude. He is leaving us, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr Claude does not wish any mention of this to be made to Mr Eustace.”

“No, sir. Mr Eustace made the same proviso when he desired me to obtain a berth on tomorrow’s boat for himself.”

I looked at the man.

“Is he going, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is strange.”

“Yes, sir.”

I wanted to ask Jeeves more questions but those spats still formed a barrier.

“So that’s that, Jeeves,” I said. “The episode is concluded.”

“Yes, sir.”

I left him.

They had left stealthily and separately immediately after breakfast. I was lying back on the old sofa, gazing peacefully up at the flies on the ceiling and feeling what a wonderful world this was, when Jeeves came in with a letter.

“A messenger-boy has brought this, sir.”

I opened the envelope, and the first thing that fell out was a five-pound note.

“Great Lord!” I said. “What’s this?”

The letter was written in pencil, and was quite brief;

Dear Bertie,

Will you give enclosed to your man. He has saved my life. This is the first happy day I’ve had for a week.

Yours,

M.W.

Jeeves was standing holding out the fiver, which had fluttered to the floor.

“Take it,” I said. “It seems to be for you.”

“Sir?”

“I say that fiver is for you, apparently. Miss Wardour sent it.”

“That was extremely kind of her, sir.”

“What is she sending you fivers for? She says you saved her life.”

Jeeves smiled gently.

“She over-estimates my services, sir.”

“But what were your services, dash it?”

“It was in the matter of Mr Claude and Mr Eustace, sir. I was hoping that she would not tell about it, as I did not wish you to think that I had been taking a liberty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I chanced to be in the room while Miss Wardour was complaining about Mr Claude and Mr Eustace. I felt that it might be excusable if I gave her some advice.”

“Good Lord!”

“It occurred to me that, were Miss Wardour to inform Mr Claude and Mr Eustace independently that she proposed sailing for South Africa to take up a theatrical engagement, the desired effect might be produced. It appears that my anticipations were correct, sir. The young gentlemen ate it, if I may use the expression.”

“Jeeves,” I said, “we Woosters may make mistakes, but we are never too proud to admit it—you are the best!”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“Oh, but I say!” A ghastly thought had struck me. “When they get on the boat and find she isn’t there, won’t they come back?”

“I anticipated that possibility, sir. At my suggestion, Miss Wardour informed the young gentlemen that she proposed to travel overland to Madeira and join the vessel there.”

“And where do they stop after Madeira?”

“Nowhere, sir.”

For a moment I just lay back, letting the idea of the thing soak in. There seemed to me to be only one flaw.

“The only pity is,” I said, “that on a large boat like that they will be able to avoid each other. I mean, I should have liked to feel that Claude was having Eustace’s society and vice versa.”

“I think that that will be so, sir. I booked a two-berth room. Mr Claude will occupy one berth, Mr Eustace the other.”

I sighed.

“Have you started packing yet, Jeeves?” I asked.

“Packing, sir?”

“For Harrogate. I’ve got to go there today with Sir George.”

“Of course, yes, sir. I forgot to mention it. Sir George rang up on the telephone this morning while you were still asleep, and said that he had changed his plans. He does not intend to go to Harrogate.”

“Oh, I say, how wonderful!”

“I thought you might be pleased, sir.”

“What made him change his plans? Did he say?”

“No, sir. But his man, Stevens, says, that he is feeling much better and does not now require a rest. I took the liberty of giving Stevens the recipe for that cocktail of mine, of which you have always approved so much. Stevens tells me that Sir George informed him this morning that he is feeling a new man.”

Well, there was only one thing to do, and I did it. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt, but there was no alternative.

“Jeeves,” I said, “those spats.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You really dislike them?”

“Intensely, sir.”

“You don’t think time might induce you to change your views?”

“No, sir.”

“All right, then. Very well. Say no more. You may burn them.”

“Thank you very much, sir. I have already done so. Before breakfast this morning. A quiet grey is far more suitable, sir. Thank you, sir.”