‘Well,’ said
Bernard, ‘I suppose I’d better be going up and disguising myself as a waiter.’
‘I, too,’ said
Sacheverell. He turned to Muriel. ‘I take it I am in the Blue Suite, as before?’
‘No,’ said
Muriel. ‘You’re in the Garden Room. You see— ‘I see perfectly,’ said
Sacheverell curtly.
He turned on
his heel and stalked to the door.
The
indignation which Sacheverell had felt on seeing Bernard at the station was as
nothing compared with that which seethed within him as he dressed for dinner.
That Bernard should be at the Towers at all was monstrous. That he should have
been given the star bedroom in preference to himself, Sacheverell Mulliner, was
one of those things before which the brain reels.
As you are
doubtless aware, the distribution of bedrooms in country houses is as much a
matter of rigid precedence as the distribution of dressing-rooms at a theatre.
The nibs get the best ones, the small fry squash in where they can. If
Sacheverell had been a
prima donna
told off to dress with the second character-woman,
he could not have been more mortified.
It was not
simply that the Blue Suite was the only one in the house with a bathroom of its
own: it was the principle of the thing. The fact that he was pigging it in the
Garden Room, while Bernard wallowed in luxury in the Blue Suite was tantamount
to a declaration on Muriel’s part that she intended to get back at him for the
attitude which he had taken over her luncheon-party. It was a slight, a
deliberate snub, and Sacheverell came down to dinner coldly resolved to nip
all this nonsense in the bud without delay.
Wrapped in his
thoughts, he paid no attention to the conversation during the early part of
dinner. He sipped a moody spoonful or two of soup and toyed with a morsel of
salmon, but spiritually he was apart. It was only when the saddle of lamb had
been distributed and the servitors had begun to come round with the vegetables
that he was roused from his reverie by a sharp, barking noise from the head of
the table, not unlike the note of a man-eating tiger catching sight of a Hindu
peasant; and, glancing up, he perceived that it proceeded from Sir Redvers
Branksome. His host was staring in an unpleasant manner at a dish which had
just been placed under his nose by the butler.
It was in
itself a commonplace enough occurrence — merely the old, old story of the head
of the family kicking at the spinach; but for some reason it annoyed
Sacheverell intensely. His strained nerves were jangled by the animal cries
which had begun to fill the air, and he told himself that Sir Redvers, if he
did not switch it off pretty quick, was going to be put through it in no
uncertain fashion.
Sir Redvers,
meanwhile, unconscious of impending doom, was glaring at the dish.
‘What,’ he enquired
in a hoarse, rasping voice, ‘is this dashed, sloppy, disgusting, slithery,
gangrened mess?’
The butler did
not reply. He had been through all this before. He merely increased in volume
the detached expression which good butlers wear on these occasions. He looked
like a prominent banker refusing to speak without advice of counsel. It was
Muriel who supplied the necessary information.’It’s spinach, father.’
‘Then take it
away and give it to the cat. You know I hate spinach.’
‘But it’s so
good for you.
‘Who says it’s
good for me?’
All the
doctors. It bucks you up if you haven’t enough hæmoglobins.’
‘I have plenty
of hæmoglobins,’ said the Colonel testily. ‘More than I know what to do with.’
‘It’s full of
iron.’
‘Iron!’ The
Colonel’s eyebrows had drawn themselves together into a single, formidable
zareba of hair. He snorted fiercely. ‘Iron! Do you take me for a
sword-swallower? Are you under the impression that I am an ostrich, that I
should browse on iron? Perhaps you would like me to tuck away a few doorknobs
and a couple of pairs of roller-skates? Or a small portion of tin-tacks? Iron,
forsooth!’
Just, in
short, the ordinary, conventional spinach-row of the better-class English home;
but Sacheverell was in no mood for it. This bickering and wrangling irritated
him, and he decided that it must stop. He half rose from his chair.
‘Branksome,’
he said in a quiet, level voice, ‘you will eat your spinach.’
‘Eh? What?
What’s that?’
‘You will eat
your nice spinach immediately, Branksome,’ said Sacheverell. And at the same
time he narrowed his eyes and fixed them keenly on his host.
And suddenly
the rich purple colour began to die out of the old man’s cheeks. Gradually his
eyebrows crept back into their normal position. For a brief while he met
Sacheverell’s eye; then he dropped his own and a weak smile came into his face.
‘Well, well,’
he said, with a pathetic attempt at bluffness, as he reached over and grabbed
the spoon. ‘What have we here? Spinach, eh? Capital, capital! Full of iron, I
believe, and highly recommended by the medical profession.’
And he dug in
and scooped up a liberal portion.
A short silence
followed, broken only by the sloshing sound of the Colonel eating spinach. Then
Sacheverell spoke.
‘I wish to see
you in your study immediately after dinner, Branksome,’ he said curtly.
Muriel was
playing the piano when Sacheverell came into the drawing-room some forty
minutes after the conclusion of dinner. She was interpreting a work by one of
those Russian composers who seem to have been provided by Nature especially
with a view to soothing the nervous systems of young girls who are not feeling
quite themselves. It was a piece from which the best results are obtained by
hauling off and delivering a series of overhand swings which make the
instrument wobble like the engine-room of a liner; and Muriel, who was a fine,
sturdy girl, was putting a lot of beef into it.
The change in
Sacheverell had distressed Muriel Branksome beyond measure, Contemplating him,
she felt as she had sometimes felt at a dance when she had told her partner to
bring her ice-cream and he had come frisking up with a bowl of mock-turtle
soup. Cheated — that is what she felt she had been. She had given her heart to
a mild, sweet-natured, lovable lamb; and the moment she had done so he had suddenly
flung off his sheep’s clothing and said: April fool! I’m a wolf!’
Haughty by
nature, Muriel Branksome was incapable of bearing anything in the shape of
bossiness from the male. Her proud spirit- revolted at it. And bossiness had
become Sacheverell Mulliner’s middle name.
The result was
that, when Sacheverell entered the drawing-room, he found his loved one all set
for the big explosion.
He suspected
nothing. He was pleased with himself, and looked it.
‘I put your
father in his place all right at dinner, what?’ said Sacheverell, buoyantly. ‘Put
him right where he belonged, I think.’
Muriel gnashed
her teeth in a quiet undertone.
‘He isn’t so
hot,’ said Sacheverell. ‘The way you used to talk about him, one would have
thought he was the real ginger. Quite the reverse I found him. As nice a
soft-spoken old bird as one could wish to meet. When I told him about our
engagement, he just came and rubbed his head against my leg and rolled over
with his paws in the air.’
Muriel
swallowed softly.
‘Our what?’
she said.
‘Our
engagement.’
‘Oh?’ said
Muriel. ‘You told him we were engaged, did you?’
‘I certainly
did.’
‘Then you can
jolly well go back,’ said Muriel, blazing into sudden fury, ‘and tell him you
were talking through your hat.’
Sacheverell
started.
‘That last
remark once again, if you don’t mind.’
A hundred
times, if you wish it,’ said Muriel. ‘Get this well into your fat head.
Memorize it carefully. If necessary, write it on your cuff. I am not going to
marry you. I wouldn’t marry you to win a substantial bet or to please an old
school-friend. I wouldn’t marry you if you offered me all the money in the
world. So there!’
Sacheverell
blinked. He was taken aback.
‘This sounds
like the bird,’ he said.
‘It is the
bird.’
‘You are
really giving me the old raspberry?’
‘I am.’
‘Don’t you
love your little Sacheverell?’
‘No, I don’t.
I think my little Sacheverell is a mess.’
There was a
silence. Sacheverell regarded her with lowered brows. Then he uttered a short,
bitter laugh.
‘Oh, very
well,’ he said.
Sacheverell
Mulliner boiled with jealous rage. Of course, he saw what had happened. The
girl had fallen once more under the glamorous spell of her cousin Bernard, and
proposed to throw a Mulliner’s heart aside like a soiled glove. But if she
thought he was going to accept the situation meekly and say no more about it,
she would soon discover her error.
Sacheverell
loved this girl — not with the tepid preference which passes for love in these
degenerate days, but with all the medieval fervour of a rich and passionate
soul. And he intended to marry her. Yes, if the whole Brigade of Guards stood
between, he was resolved to walk up the aisle with her arm in his and help her
cut the cake at the subsequent breakfast.
Bernard…! He
would soon settle Bernard.
For all his
inner ferment, Sacheverell retained undiminished the clearness of mind which
characterizes Mulliners in times of crisis. An hour’s walk up and down the
terrace had shown him what he must do. There was nothing to be gained by acting
hastily. He must confront Bernard alone in the silent night, when they would be
free from danger of interruption and he could set the full force of his iron
personality playing over the fellow like a hose.
And so it came
about that the hour of eleven, striking from the clock above the stables, found
Sacheverell Mulliner sitting grimly in the Blue Suite, waiting for his victim
to arrive.
His brain was
like ice. He had matured his plan of campaign. He did not intend to hurt the
main — merely to order him to leave the house instantly and never venture to
see or speak to Muriel again.
So mused
Sacheverell Mulliner, unaware that no Cousin Bernard would come within ten
yards of the Blue Suite that night. Bernard had already retired to rest in the
Pink Room on the third floor, which had been his roosting-place from the
beginning of his visit. The Blue Suite, being the abode of the most honoured
guest, had, of course, been earmarked from the start for the Bishop of Bognor.
Carburettor
trouble and a series of detours had delayed the Bishop in his journey to
Branksome Towers. At first, he had hoped to make it in time for dinner. Then he
had anticipated an arrival at about nine-thirty. Finally, he was exceedingly
relieved to reach his destination shortly after eleven.
A quick
sandwich and a small lime-juice and soda were all that the prelate asked of his
host at that advanced hour. These consumed, he announced himself ready for bed,
and Colonel Branksome conducted him to the door of the Blue Suite.
‘I hope you
will find everything comfortable, my dear Bishop,’ he said.
‘I am
convinced of it, my dear Branksome,’ said the Bishop. ‘And to-morrow I trust I
shall feel less fatigued and in a position to meet the rest of your guests.’
‘There is only
one beside my nephew Bernard. A young fellow named Mulliner.’
‘Mulligan?’
‘Mulliner.’
‘Ah, yes,’
said the Bishop. ‘Mulliner.’
And
simultaneously, inside the room, my nephew Sacheverell sprang from his chair,
and stood frozen, like a statue.
In narrating
this story, I have touched lightly upon Sacheverell’s career at Harborough
College. I shall not be digressing now if I relate briefly what had always been
to him the high spot in it.
One sunny
summer day, when a lad of fourteen and a half, my nephew had sought to relieve
the tedium of school routine by taking a golf-ball and flinging it against the
side of the building, his intention being to catch it as it rebounded.
Unfortunately, when it came to the acid test, the ball did not rebound. Instead
of going due north, it went nor’-nor’-east, with the result that it passed
through the window of the headmaster’s library at the precise moment when that
high official was about to lean out for a breath of air. And the next moment, a
voice, proceeding apparently from heaven, had spoken one word. The voice was
like the deeper notes of a great organ, and the word was the single word:
‘MULLINER!!!’
And, just as
the word Sacheverell now heard was the same word, so was the voice the same
voice.
To appreciate
my nephew’s concern, you must understand that the episode which I have just
related had remained green in his memory right through the years. His pet
nightmare, and the one which had had so depressing an effect on his
morale,
had
always been the one where he found himself standing, quivering and helpless,
while a voice uttered the single word ‘Mulliner!’
Little wonder,
then, that he now remained for an instant paralysed. His only coherent thought
was a bitter reflection that somebody might have had the sense to tell him that
the Bishop of Bognor was his old headmaster, the Rev. J. G. Smethurst.
Naturally, in that case, he would have been out of the place in two strides.
But they had simply said the Bishop of Bognor, and it had meant nothing to him.
Now that it
was too late, he seemed to recall having heard somebody somewhere say something
about the Rev. J. G. Smethurst becoming a bishop; and even in this moment of
collapse he was able to feel a thrill of justifiable indignation at the
shabbiness of the act. It wasn’t fair for headmasters to change their names
like this and take people unawares. The Rev. J. G. Smethurst might argue as
much as he liked, but he couldn’t get away from the fact that he had played a
shady trick on the community. The man was practically going about under an
alias.