Meet Mr Mulliner
P. G. WODEHOUSE
PENGUIN BOOKS
Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ
(Publishing and Editorial)
_and_ Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
(Distribution and Warehouse)
Viking Penguin Inc., 40 West 23rd Street, New York, New York 10010, USA
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Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 2801 John Street, Markham, Ontario, Canada
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Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand
First published by Herbert Jenkins 1927
Published in Penguin Books 1962
Reprinted 1967, 1975, 1981, 1984, 1985, 1988
Copyright 1927 by P. G. Wodehouse
All rights reserved
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading
Set in Monotype Garamond
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to
the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
TO THE
EARL OF OXFORD AND
ASQUITH
CONTENTS
1. THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE
2. A SLICE OF LIFE
3. MULLINER'S BUCK-U-UPPO
4. THE BISHOP'S MOVE
5. CAME THE DAWN
6. THE STORY OF WILLIAM
7. PORTRAIT OF A DISCIPLINARIAN
8. THE ROMANCE OF A BULB-SQUEEZER
9. HONEYSUCKLE COTTAGE
1
THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE
Two men were sitting in the bar-parlour of the Anglers' Rest as I
entered it; and one of them, I gathered from his low, excited voice and
wide gestures, was telling the other a story. I could hear nothing but
an occasional 'Biggest I ever saw in my life!' and 'Fully as large as
that!' but in such a place it was not difficult to imagine the rest;
and when the second man, catching my eye, winked at me with a sort of
humorous misery, I smiled sympathetically back at him.
The action had the effect of establishing a bond between us; and when
the story-teller finished his tale and left, he came over to my table
as if answering a formal invitation.
'Dreadful liars some men are,' he said genially.
'Fishermen,' I suggested, 'are traditionally careless of the truth.'
'He wasn't a fisherman,' said my companion. 'That was our local doctor.
He was telling me about his latest case of dropsy. Besides'--he tapped
me earnestly on the knee--'you must not fall into the popular error
about fishermen. Tradition has maligned them. I am a fisherman myself,
and I have never told a lie in my life.'
I could well believe it. He was a short, stout, comfortable man of
middle age, and the thing that struck me first about him was the
extraordinary childlike candour of his eyes. They were large and round
and honest. I would have bought oil stock from him without a tremor.
The door leading into the white dusty road opened, and a small man with
rimless pince-nez and an anxious expression shot in like a rabbit and
had consumed a gin and ginger-beer almost before we knew he was there.
Having thus refreshed himself, he stood looking at us, seemingly ill at
ease.
'N-n-n-n-n-n--' he said.
We looked at him inquiringly.
'N-n-n-n-n-n-ice d-d-d-d--'
His nerve appeared to fail him, and he vanished as abruptly as he had
come.
'I think he was leading up to telling us that it was a nice day,'
hazarded my companion.
'It must be very embarrassing,' I said, 'for a man with such a painful
impediment in his speech to open conversation with strangers.'
'Probably trying to cure himself. Like my nephew George. Have I ever
told you about my nephew George?'
I reminded him that we had only just met, and that this was the first
time I had learned that he had a nephew George.
'Young George Mulliner. My name is Mulliner. I will tell you about
George's case--in many ways a rather remarkable one.'
* * * * *
My nephew George (said Mr Mulliner) was as nice a young fellow as
you would ever wish to meet, but from childhood up he had been
cursed with a terrible stammer. If he had had to earn his living, he
would undoubtedly have found this affliction a great handicap, but
fortunately his father had left him a comfortable income; and George
spent a not unhappy life, residing in the village where he had been
born and passing his days in the usual country sports and his evenings
in doing cross-word puzzles. By the time he was thirty he knew more
about Eli, the prophet, Ra, the Sun God, and the bird Emu than anybody
else in the county except Susan Blake, the vicar's daughter, who had
also taken up the solving of cross-word puzzles and was the first
girl in Worcestershire to find out the meaning of 'stearine' and
'crepuscular'.
It was his association with Miss Blake that first turned George's
thoughts to a serious endeavour to cure himself of his stammer.
Naturally, with this hobby in common, the young people saw a great deal
of one another: for George was always looking in at the vicarage to
ask her if she knew a word of seven letters meaning 'appertaining to
the profession of plumbing', and Susan was just as constant a caller
at George's cosy little cottage, being frequently stumped, as girls
will be, by words of eight letters signifying 'largely used in the
manufacture of poppet-valves'. The consequence was that one evening,
just after she had helped him out of a tight place with the word
'disestablishmentarianism', the boy suddenly awoke to the truth and
realized that she was all the world to him--or, as he put it to himself
from force of habit, precious, beloved, darling, much-loved, highly
esteemed or valued.
And yet, every time he tried to tell her so, he could get no further
than a sibilant gurgle which was no more practical use than a hiccup.
Something obviously had to be done, and George went to London to see a
specialist.
'Yes?' said the specialist.
'I-I-I-I-I-I-I--' said George.
'You were saying--?'
'Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo--'
'Sing it,' said the specialist.
'S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s--?' said George, puzzled.
The specialist explained. He was a kindly man with moth-eaten whiskers
and an eye like a meditative cod-fish.
'Many people,' he said, 'who are unable to articulate clearly in
ordinary speech find themselves lucid and bell-like when they burst
into song.'
It seemed a good idea to George. He thought for a moment; then threw
his head back, shut his eyes, and let it go in a musical baritone.
'I love a lassie, a bonny, bonny lassie,' sang George. 'She's as pure
as the lily in the dell.'
'No doubt,' said the specialist, wincing a little.
'She's as sweet as the heather, the bonny purple heather--Susan, my
Worcestershire bluebell.'
'Ah!' said the specialist. 'Sounds a nice girl. Is this she?' he asked,
adjusting his glasses and peering at the photograph which George had
extracted from the interior of the left side of his under-vest.
George nodded, and drew in breath.
'Yes, sir,' he carolled, 'that's my baby. No, sir, don't mean maybe.
Yes, sir, that's my baby now. And, by the way, by the way, when I meet
that preacher I shall say--"Yes, sir, that's my--"'
'Quite,' said the specialist, hurriedly. He had a sensitive ear.
'Quite, quite.'
'If you knew Susie like I know Susie,' George was beginning, but the
other stopped him.
'Quite. Exactly. I shouldn't wonder. And now,' said the specialist,
'what precisely is the trouble? No,' he added, hastily, as George
inflated his lungs, 'don't sing it. Write the particulars on this piece
of paper.'
George did so.
'H'm!' said the specialist, examining the screed. 'You wish to woo,
court, and become betrothed, engaged, affianced to this girl, but you
find yourself unable, incapable, incompetent, impotent, and powerless.
Every time you attempt it, your vocal cords fail, fall short, are
insufficient, wanting, deficient, and go blooey.'
George nodded.
'A not unusual case. I have had to deal with this sort of thing before.
The effect of love on the vocal cords of even a normally eloquent
subject is frequently deleterious. As regards the habitual stammerer,
tests have shown that in ninety-seven point five six nine recurring of
cases the divine passion reduces him to a condition where he sounds
like a soda-water siphon trying to recite _Gunga Din_. There is
only one cure.'
'W-w-w-w-w--?' asked George.
'I will tell you. Stammering,' proceeded the specialist, putting
the tips of his fingers together and eyeing George benevolently,
'is mainly mental and is caused by shyness, which is caused by the
inferiority complex, which in its turn is caused by suppressed desires
or introverted inhibitions or something. The advice I give to all young
men who come in here behaving like soda-water siphons is to go out and
make a point of speaking to at least three perfect strangers every
day. Engage these strangers in conversation, persevering no matter how
priceless a chump you may feel, and before many weeks are out you will
find that the little daily dose has had its effect. Shyness will wear
off, and with it the stammer.'
And, having requested the young man--in a voice of the clearest timbre,
free from all trace of impediment--to hand over a fee of five guineas,
the specialist sent George out into the world.
* * * * *
The more George thought about the advice he had been given, the less
he liked it. He shivered in the cab that took him to the station to
catch the train back to East Wobsley. Like all shy young men, he had
never hitherto looked upon himself as shy--preferring to attribute his
distaste for the society of his fellows to some subtle rareness of
soul. But now that the thing had been put squarely up to him, he was
compelled to realize that in all essentials he was a perfect rabbit.
The thought of accosting perfect strangers and forcing his conversation
upon them sickened him.
But no Mulliner has ever shirked an unpleasant duty. As he reached the
platform and strode along it to the train, his teeth were set, his eyes
shone with an almost fanatical light of determination, and he intended
before his journey was over to conduct three heart-to-heart chats if he
had to sing every bar of them.
The compartment into which he had made his way was empty at the moment,
but just before the train started a very large, fierce-looking man got
in. George would have preferred somebody a little less formidable for
his first subject, but he braced himself and bent forward. And, as he
did so, the man spoke.
'The wur-wur-wur-wur-weather', he said, 'sus-sus-seems to be
ter-ter-taking a tur-tur-turn for the ber-ber-better, der-doesn't it?'
George sank back as if he had been hit between the eyes. The train had
moved out of the dimness of the station by now, and the sun was shining
brightly on the speaker, illuminating his knobbly shoulders, his craggy
jaw, and, above all, the shockingly choleric look in his eyes. The
reply 'Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-yes' to such a man would obviously be madness.
But to abstain from speech did not seem to be much better as a policy.
George's silence appeared to arouse this man's worst passions. His face
had turned purple and he glared painfully.
'I uk-uk-asked you a sus-sus-civil quk-quk-quk,' he said, irascibly.
'Are you d-d-d-d-deaf?'
All we Mulliners have been noted for our presence of mind. To open his
mouth, point to his tonsils, and utter a strangled gurgle was with
George the work of a moment.
The tension relaxed. The man's annoyance abated.
'D-d-d-dumb?' he said, commiseratingly. 'I beg your p-p-p-p-pup.
I t-t-trust I have not caused you p-p-p-p-pup. It m-must
be tut-tut-tut-tut-tut not to be able to sus-sus-speak
fuf-fuf-fuf-fuf-fluently.'
He then buried himself in his paper, and George sank back in his
corner, quivering in every limb.
* * * * *
To get to East Wobsley, as you doubtless know, you have to change
at Ippleton and take the branch-line. By the time the train reached
this junction, George's composure was somewhat restored. He deposited
his belongings in a compartment of the East Wobsley train, which was
waiting in a glued manner on the other side of the platform, and,
finding that it would not start for some ten minutes, decided to pass
the time by strolling up and down in the pleasant air.
It was a lovely afternoon. The sun was gilding the platform with its
rays, and a gentle breeze blew from the west. A little brook ran
tinkling at the side of the road; birds were singing in the hedgerows;
and through the trees could be discerned dimly the noble façade of the
County Lunatic Asylum. Soothed by his surroundings, George began to
feel so refreshed that he regretted that in this wayside station there
was no one present whom he could engage in talk.
It was at this moment that the distinguished-looking stranger entered
the platform.
The new-comer was a man of imposing physique, simply dressed in
pyjamas, brown boots, and a mackintosh. In his hand he carried a
top-hat, and into this he was dipping his fingers, taking them out, and
then waving them in a curious manner to right and left. He nodded so
affably to George that the latter, though a little surprised at the
other's costume, decided to speak. After all, he reflected, clothes do
not make the man, and, judging from the other's smile, a warm heart
appeared to beat beneath that orange-and-mauve striped pyjama jacket.
'N-n-n-n-nice weather,' he said.
'Glad you like it,' said the stranger. 'I ordered it specially.'
George was a little puzzled by this remark, but he persevered.
'M-might I ask wur-wur-what you are dud-doing?'
'Doing?'
'With that her-her-her-her-hat?'
'Oh, with this hat? I see what you mean. Just scattering largesse to
the multitude,' replied the stranger, dipping his fingers once more
and waving them with a generous gesture. 'Devil of a bore, but it's
expected of a man in my position. The fact is,' he said, linking his
arm in George's and speaking in a confidential undertone, 'I'm the
Emperor of Abyssinia. That's my palace over there,' he said, pointing
through the trees. 'Don't let it go any further. It's not supposed to
be generally known.'
It was with a rather sickly smile that George now endeavoured to
withdraw his arm from that of his companion, but the other would have
none of this aloofness. He seemed to be in complete agreement with
Shakespeare's dictum that a friend, when found, should be grappled to
you with hooks of steel. He held George in a vise-like grip and drew
him into a recess of the platform. He looked about him, and seemed
satisfied.
'We are alone at last,' he said.
This fact had already impressed itself with sickening clearness on the
young man. There are few spots in the civilized world more deserted
than the platform of a small country station. The sun shone on the
smooth asphalt, on the gleaming rails, and on the machine which, in
exchange for a penny placed in the slot marked 'Matches', would supply
a package of wholesome butter-scotch--but on nothing else.
What George could have done with at the moment was a posse of police
armed with stout clubs, and there was not even a dog in sight.
'I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time,' said the stranger,
genially.
'Huh-huh-have you?' said George.
'Yes. I want your opinion of human sacrifices.'
George said he didn't like them.
'Why not?' asked the other, surprised.
George said it was hard to explain. He just didn't.
'Well, I think you're wrong,' said the Emperor. 'I know there's a
school of thought growing up that holds your views, but I disapprove
of it. I hate all this modern advanced thought. Human sacrifices have
always been good enough for the Emperors of Abyssinia, and they're good
enough for me. Kindly step in here, if you please.'
He indicated the lamp-and-mop room, at which they had now arrived.
It was a dark and sinister apartment, smelling strongly of oil and
porters, and was probably the last place on earth in which George would
have wished to be closeted with a man of such peculiar views. He shrank
back.
'You go in first,' he said.
'No larks,' said the other, suspiciously.
'L-l-l-l-larks?'
'Yes. No pushing a fellow in and locking the door and squirting water
at him through the window. I've had that happen to me before.'
'Sus-certainly not.'
'Right!' said the Emperor. 'You're a gentleman and I'm a gentleman.
Both gentlemen. Have you a knife, by the way? We shall need a knife.'
'No. No knife.'
'Ah, well,' said the Emperor, 'then we'll have to look about for
something else. No doubt we shall manage somehow.'
And with the debonair manner which so became him, he scattered another
handful of largesse and walked into the lamp-room.
It was not the fact that he had given his word as a gentleman that
kept George from locking the door. There is probably no family on
earth more nicely scrupulous as regards keeping its promises than the
Mulliners, but I am compelled to admit that, had George been able to
find the key, he would have locked that door without hesitation. Not
being able to find the key, he had to be satisfied with banging it.
This done, he leaped back and raced away down the platform. A confused
noise within seemed to indicate that the Emperor had become involved
with some lamps.
George made the best of the respite. Covering the ground at a high rate
of speed, he flung himself into the train and took refuge under the
seat.
There he remained, quaking. At one time he thought that his uncongenial
acquaintance had got upon his track, for the door of the compartment
opened and a cool wind blew in upon him. Then, glancing along the
floor, he perceived feminine ankles. The relief was enormous, but even
in his relief George, who was the soul of modesty, did not forget his
manners. He closed his eyes.
A voice spoke.
'Porter!'
'Yes, ma'am?'
'What was all that disturbance as I came into the station?'
'Patient escaped from the asylum, ma'am.'
'Good gracious!'
The voice would undoubtedly have spoken further, but at this moment the
train began to move. There came the sound of a body descending upon a
cushioned seat, and some little time later the rustling of a paper. The
train gathered speed and jolted on.
* * * * *
George had never before travelled under the seat of a railway carriage;
and, though he belonged to the younger generation, which is supposed
to be so avid of new experiences, he had no desire to do so now. He
decided to emerge, and, if possible, to emerge with the minimum of
ostentation. Little as he knew of women, he was aware that as a sex
they are apt to be startled by the sight of men crawling out from under
the seats of compartments. He began his manoeuvres by poking out his
head and surveying the terrain.
All was well. The woman, in her seat across the way, was engrossed in
her paper. Moving in a series of noiseless wriggles, George extricated
himself from his hiding-place and, with a twist which would have been
impossible to a man not in the habit of doing Swedish exercises daily
before breakfast, heaved himself into the corner seat. The woman
continued reading her paper.
The events of the past quarter of an hour had tended rather to drive
from George's mind the mission which he had undertaken on leaving
the specialist's office. But now, having leisure for reflection, he
realized that, if he meant to complete his first day of the cure, he
was allowing himself to run sadly behind schedule. Speak to three
strangers, the specialist had told him, and up to the present he had
spoken to only one. True, this one had been a pretty considerable
stranger, and a less conscientious young man than George Mulliner might
have considered himself justified in chalking him up on the scoreboard
as one and a half or even two. But George had the dogged, honest
Mulliner streak in him, and he refused to quibble.
He nerved himself for action, and cleared his throat.
'Ah-h'rm!' said George.
And, having opened the ball, he smiled a winning smile and waited for
his companion to make the next move.
The move which his companion made was in an upwards direction, and
measured from six to eight inches. She dropped her paper and regarded
George with a pale-eyed horror. One pictures her a little in the
position of Robinson Crusoe when he saw the footprint in the sand. She
had been convinced that she was completely alone, and lo! out of space
a voice had spoken to her. Her face worked, but she made no remark.
George, on his side, was also feeling a little ill at ease. Women
always increased his natural shyness. He never knew what to say to them.
Then a happy thought struck him. He had just glanced at his watch and
found the hour to be nearly four-thirty. Women, he knew, loved a drop
of tea at about this time, and fortunately there was in his suit-case a
full thermos-flask.
'Pardon me, but I wonder if you would care for a cup of tea?' was
what he wanted to say, but, as so often happened with him when in the
presence of the opposite sex, he could get no further than a sort of
sizzling sound like a cockroach calling to its young.
The woman continued to stare at him. Her eyes were now about the size
of regulation standard golf-balls, and her breathing suggested the last
stages of asthma. And it was at this point that George, struggling
for speech, had one of those inspirations which frequently come to
Mulliners. There flashed into his mind what the specialist had told him
about singing. Say it with music--that was the thing to do.
He delayed no longer.
'Tea for two and two for tea and me for you and you for me--'
He was shocked to observe his companion turning Nile-green. He decided
to make his meaning clearer.
'I have a nice thermos. I have a full thermos. Won't you share my
thermos, too? When skies are grey and you feel you are blue, tea sends
the sun smiling through. I have a nice thermos. I have a full thermos.
May I pour out some for you?'
You will agree with me, I think, that no invitation could have been
more happily put, but his companion was not responsive. With one
last agonized look at him, she closed her eyes and sank back in her
seat. Her lips had now turned a curious grey-blue colour, and they
were moving feebly. She reminded George, who, like myself, was a keen
fisherman, of a newly-gaffed salmon.
* * * * *
George sat back in his corner, brooding. Rack his brain as he might, he
could think of no topic which could be guaranteed to interest, elevate,
and amuse. He looked out of the window with a sigh.
The train was now approaching the dear old familiar East Wobsley
country. He began to recognize landmarks. A wave of sentiment poured
over George as he thought of Susan, and he reached for the bag of buns
which he had bought at the refreshment room at Ippleton. Sentiment
always made him hungry.
He took his thermos out of the suit-case, and, unscrewing the top,
poured himself out a cup of tea. Then, placing the thermos on the seat,
he drank.
He looked across at his companion. Her eyes were still closed, and she
uttered little sighing noises. George was half-inclined to renew his
offer of tea, but the only tune he could remember was _Hard-Hearted
Hanna, the Vamp from Savannah_, and it was difficult to fit suitable
words to it. He ate his bun and gazed out at the familiar scenery.
Now, as you approach East Wobsley, the train, I must mention, has to
pass over some points; and so violent is the sudden jerking that strong
men have been known to spill their beer. George, forgetting this in his
preoccupation, had placed the thermos only a few inches from the edge
of the seat. The result was that, as the train reached the points, the
flask leaped like a live thing, dived to the floor, and exploded.
Even George was distinctly upset by the sudden sharpness of the report.
His bun sprang from his hand and was dashed to fragments. He blinked
thrice in rapid succession. His heart tried to jump out of his mouth
and loosened a front tooth.
But on the woman opposite the effect of the untoward occurrence was
still more marked. With a single piercing shriek, she rose from her
seat straight into the air like a rocketing pheasant; and, having
clutched the communication-cord, fell back again. Impressive as her
previous leap had been, she excelled it now by several inches. I do
not know what the existing record for the Sitting High-Jump is, but
she undoubtedly lowered it; and if George had been a member of the
Olympic Games Selection Committee, he would have signed this woman up
immediately.
* * * * *
It is a curious thing that, in spite of the railway companies' sporting
willingness to let their patrons have a tug at the extremely moderate
price of five pounds a go, very few people have ever either pulled a
communication-cord or seen one pulled. There is, thus, a widespread
ignorance as to what precisely happens on such occasions.
The procedure, George tells me, is as follows: First there comes a
grinding noise, as the brakes are applied. Then the train stops. And
finally, from every point of the compass, a seething mob of interested
onlookers begins to appear.
It was about a mile and a half from East Wobsley that the affair had
taken place, and as far as the eye could reach the country-side was
totally devoid of humanity. A moment before nothing had been visible
but smiling cornfields and broad pasture-lands; but now from east,
west, north, and south running figures began to appear. We must
remember that George at the time was in a somewhat overwrought frame of
mind, and his statements should therefore be accepted with caution; but
he tells me that out of the middle of a single empty meadow, entirely
devoid of cover, no fewer than twenty-seven distinct rustics suddenly
appeared, having undoubtedly shot up through the ground.
The rails, which had been completely unoccupied, were now thronged
with so dense a crowd of navvies that it seemed to George absurd to
pretend that there was any unemployment in England. Every member of
the labouring classes throughout the country was so palpably present.
Moreover, the train, which at Ippleton had seemed sparsely occupied,
was disgorging passengers from every door. It was the sort of mob-scene
which would have made David W. Griffith scream with delight; and it
looked, George says, like Guest Night at the Royal Automobile Club.
But, as I say, we must remember that he was overwrought.
* * * * *
It is difficult to say what precisely would have been the correct
behaviour of your polished man of the world in such a situation. I
think myself that a great deal of sang-froid and address would be
required even by the most self-possessed in order to pass off such a
contretemps. To George, I may say at once, the crisis revealed itself
immediately as one which he was totally incapable of handling. The
one clear thought that stood out from the welter of his emotions was
the reflection that it was advisable to remove himself, and to do so
without delay. Drawing a deep breath, he shot swiftly off the mark.
All we Mulliners have been athletes; and George, when at the
University, had been noted for his speed of foot. He ran now as he had
never run before. His statement, however, that as he sprinted across
the first field he distinctly saw a rabbit shoot an envious glance at
him as he passed and shrug its shoulders hopelessly, I am inclined to
discount. George, as I have said before, was a little over-excited.
Nevertheless, it is not to be questioned that he made good going. And
he had need to, for after the first instant of surprise, which had
enabled him to secure a lead, the whole mob was pouring across country
after him; and dimly, as he ran, he could hear voices in the throng
informally discussing the advisability of lynching him. Moreover, the
field through which he was running, a moment before a bare expanse of
green, was now black with figures, headed by a man with a beard who
carried a pitchfork. George swerved sharply to the right, casting a
swift glance over his shoulder at his pursuers. He disliked them all,
but especially the man with the pitchfork.
It is impossible for one who was not an eye-witness to say how
long the chase continued and how much ground was covered by the
interested parties. I know the East Wobsley country well, and I have
checked George's statements; and, if it is true that he travelled
east as far as Little Wigmarsh-in-the-Dell and as far west as
Higgleford-cum-Wortlebury-beneath-the-Hill, he must undoubtedly have
done a lot of running.
But a point which must not be forgotten is that, to a man
not in a condition to observe closely, the village of
Higgleford-cum-Wortlebury-beneath-the-Hill might easily not have been
Higgleford-cum-Wortlebury-beneath-the-Hill at all, but another hamlet
which in many respects closely resembles it. I need scarcely say that I
allude to Lesser-Snodsbury-in-the-Vale.
Let us assume, therefore, that George, having touched
Little-Wigmarsh-in-the-Dell, shot off at a tangent and reached
Lesser-Snodsbury-in-the-Vale. This would be a considerable run. And,
as he remembers flitting past Farmer Higgins's pigsty and the Dog and
Duck at Pondlebury Parva and splashing through the brook Wipple at
the point where it joins the River Wopple, we can safely assume that,
wherever else he went, he got plenty of exercise.
But the pleasantest of functions must end, and, just as the setting
sun was gilding the spire of the ivy-covered church of St Barnabas the
Resilient, where George as a child had sat so often, enlivening the
tedium of the sermon by making faces at the choir-boys, a damp and
bedraggled figure might have been observed crawling painfully along the
High Street of East Wobsley in the direction of the cosy little cottage
known to its builder as Chatsworth and to the village tradesmen as
'Mulliner's'.
It was George, home from the hunting-field.
* * * * *
Slowly George Mulliner made his way to the familiar door, and, passing
through it, flung himself into his favourite chair. But a moment later
a more imperious need than the desire to rest forced itself upon his
attention. Rising stiffly, he tottered to the kitchen and mixed himself
a revivifying whisky-and-soda. Then, refilling his glass, he returned
to the sitting-room, to find that it was no longer empty. A slim, fair
girl, tastefully attired in tailor-made tweeds, was leaning over the
desk on which he kept his _Dictionary of English Synonyms_.
She looked up as he entered, startled.
'Why, Mr Mulliner!' she exclaimed. 'What has been happening? Your
clothes are torn, rent, ragged, tattered, and your hair is all
dishevelled, untrimmed, hanging loose or negligently, at loose ends!'
George smiled a wan smile.
'You are right,' he said. 'And, what is more, I am suffering from
extreme fatigue, weariness, lassitude, exhaustion, prostration, and
languor.'
The girl gazed at him, a divine pity in her soft eyes.
'I'm so sorry,' she murmured. 'So very sorry, grieved, distressed,
afflicted, pained, mortified, dejected, and upset.'
George took her hand. Her sweet sympathy had effected the cure for
which he had been seeking so long. Coming on top of the violent
emotions through which he had been passing all day, it seemed to work
on him like some healing spell, charm, or incantation. Suddenly, in a
flash, he realized that he was no longer a stammerer. Had he wished at
that moment to say, 'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' he
could have done it without a second thought.
But he had better things to say than that.
'Miss Blake--Susan--Susie.' He took her other hand in his. His voice
rang out clear and unimpeded. It seemed to him incredible that he had
ever yammered at this girl like an over-heated steam-radiator. 'It
cannot have escaped your notice that I have long entertained towards
you sentiments warmer and deeper than those of ordinary friendship. It
is love, Susan, that has been animating my bosom. Love, first a tiny
seed, has burgeoned in my heart till, blazing into flame, it has swept
away on the crest of its wave my diffidence, my doubt, my fears, and
my foreboding, and now, like the topmost topaz of some ancient tower,
it cries to all the world in a voice of thunder: "You are mine! My
mate! Predestined to me since Time first began!" As the star guides
the mariner when, battered by boiling billows, he hies him home to the
haven of hope and happiness, so do you gleam upon me along life's rough
road and seem to say, "Have courage, George! I am here!" Susan, I am
not an eloquent man--I cannot speak fluently as I could wish--but these
simple words which you have just heard come from the heart, from the
unspotted heart of an English gentleman. Susan, I love you. Will you be
my wife, married woman, matron, spouse, help-meet, consort, partner, or
better half?'
'Oh, George!' said Susan. 'Yes, yea, ay, aye! Decidedly,
unquestionably, indubitably, incontrovertibly, and past all dispute!'
He folded her in his arms. And, as he did so, there came from the
street outside--faintly, as from a distance--the sound of feet and
voices. George leaped to the window. Rounding the corner, just by the
Cow and Wheelbarrow public-house, licensed to sell ales, wines, and
spirits, was the man with the pitchfork, and behind him followed a vast
crowd.
'My darling,' said George, 'for purely personal and private reasons,
into which I need not enter, I must now leave you. Will you join me
later?'
'I will follow you to the ends of the earth,' replied Susan,
passionately.
'It will not be necessary,' said George. 'I am only going down to the
coal-cellar. I shall spend the next half-hour or so there. If anybody
calls and asks for me, perhaps you would not mind telling them that I
am out.'
'I will, I will,' said Susan. 'And, George, by the way. What I really
came here for was to ask you if you knew a hyphenated word of nine
letters, ending in k and signifying an implement employed in the
pursuit of agriculture.'
'Pitchfork, sweetheart,' said George. 'But you may take it from me,
as one who knows, that agriculture isn't the only thing it is used in
pursuit of.'
* * * * *
And since that day (concluded Mr Mulliner) George, believe me or
believe me not, has not had the slightest trace of an impediment in his
speech. He is now the chosen orator at all political rallies for miles
around; and so offensively self-confident has his manner become that
only last Friday he had his eye blacked by a hay-corn-and-feed merchant
of the name of Stubbs. It just shows you, doesn't it?
2
A SLICE OF LIFE
The conversation in the bar-parlour of the Anglers' Rest had drifted
round to the subject of the Arts: and somebody asked if that
film-serial, _The Vicissitudes of Vera_, which they were showing
down at the Bijou Dream, was worth seeing.
'It's very good,' said Miss Postlethwaite, our courteous and efficient
barmaid, who is a prominent first-nighter. 'It's about this mad
professor who gets this girl into his toils and tries to turn her into
a lobster.'
'Tries to turn her into a lobster?' echoed we, surprised.
'Yes, sir. Into a lobster. It seems he collected thousands and
thousands of lobsters and mashed them up and boiled down the juice from
their glands and was just going to inject it into this Vera Dalrymple's
spinal column when Jack Frobisher broke into the house and stopped him.'
'Why did he do that?'
'Because he didn't want the girl he loved to be turned into a lobster.'
'What we mean,' said we, 'is why did the professor want to turn the
girl into a lobster?'
'He had a grudge against her.'
This seemed plausible, and we thought it over for a while. Then one of
the company shook his head disapprovingly.
'I don't like stories like that,' he said. 'They aren't true to life.'
'Pardon me, sir,' said a voice. And we were aware of Mr Mulliner in our
midst.
'Excuse me interrupting what may be a private discussion,' said Mr
Mulliner, 'but I chanced to overhear the recent remarks, and you, sir,
have opened up a subject on which I happen to hold strong views--to
wit, the question of what is and what is not true to life. How can we,
with our limited experience, answer that question? For all we know, at
this very moment hundreds of young women all over the country may be
in the process of being turned into lobsters. Forgive my warmth, but I
have suffered a good deal from this sceptical attitude of mind which is
so prevalent nowadays. I have even met people who refused to believe my
story about my brother Wilfred, purely because it was a little out of
the ordinary run of the average man's experience.'
Considerably moved, Mr Mulliner ordered a hot Scotch with a slice of
lemon.
'What happened to your brother Wilfred? Was he turned into a lobster?'
'No,' said Mr Mulliner, fixing his honest blue eyes on the speaker,
'he was not. It would be perfectly easy for me to pretend that he was
turned into a lobster; but I have always made it a practice--and I
always shall make it a practice--to speak nothing but the bare truth.
My brother Wilfred simply had rather a curious adventure.'
* * * * *
My brother Wilfred (said Mr Mulliner) is the clever one of the family.
Even as a boy he was always messing about with chemicals, and at the
University he devoted his time entirely to research. The result was
that while still quite a young man he had won an established reputation
as the inventor of what are known to the trade as Mulliner's Magic
Marvels--a general term embracing the Raven Gipsy Face-Cream, the Snow
of the Mountains Lotion, and many other preparations, some designed
exclusively for the toilet, others of a curative nature, intended to
alleviate the many ills to which the flesh is heir.
Naturally, he was a very busy man: and it is to this absorption in his
work that I attribute the fact that, though--like all the Mulliners--a
man of striking personal charm, he had reached his thirty-first year
without ever having been involved in an affair of the heart. I remember
him telling me once that he simply had no time for girls.
But we all fall sooner or later, and these strong concentrated men
harder than any. While taking a brief holiday one year at Cannes, he
met a Miss Angela Purdue, who was staying at his hotel, and she bowled
him over completely.
She was one of these jolly, outdoor girls; and Wilfred had told me
that what attracted him first about her was her wholesome sunburned
complexion. In fact, he told Miss Purdue the same thing when, shortly
after he had proposed and been accepted, she asked him in her girlish
way what it was that had first made him begin to love her.
'It's such a pity,' said Miss Purdue, 'that the sunburn fades so soon.
I do wish I knew some way of keeping it.'
Even in his moments of holiest emotion Wilfred never forgot that he was
a business man.
'You should try Mulliner's Raven Gipsy Face-Cream,' he said. 'It comes
in two sizes--the small (or half-crown) jar and the large jar at seven
shillings and sixpence. The large jar contains three and a half times
as much as the small jar. It is applied nightly with a small sponge
before retiring to rest. Testimonials have been received from numerous
members of the aristocracy and may be examined at the office by any
bonafide inquirer.'
'Is it really good?'
'I invented it,' said Wilfred, simply.
She looked at him adoringly.
'How clever you are! Any girl ought to be proud to marry you.'
'Oh, well,' said Wilfred, with a modest wave of his hand.
'All the same, my guardian is going to be terribly angry when I tell
him we're engaged.'
'Why?'
'I inherited the Purdue millions when my uncle died, you see, and my
guardian has always wanted me to marry his son, Percy.'
Wilfred kissed her fondly, and laughed a defiant laugh.
'Jer mong feesh der selar,' he said lightly.
But, some days after his return to London, whither the girl had
preceded him, he had occasion to recall her words. As he sat in his
study, musing on a preparation to cure the pip in canaries, a card was
brought to him.
'Sir Jasper ffinch-ffarrowmere, Bart.,' he read. The name was strange
to him.
'Show the gentleman in,' he said. And presently there entered a
very stout man with a broad, pink face. It was a face whose natural
expression should, Wilfred felt, have been jovial, but at the moment it
was grave.
'Sir Jasper Finch-Farrowmere?' said Wilfred.
'ffinch-ffarrowmere,' corrected the visitor, his sensitive ear
detecting the capital letters.
'Ah yes. You spell it with two small f's.'
'Four small f's.'
'And to what do I owe the honour--'
'I am Angela Purdue's guardian.'
'How do you do? A whisky-and-soda?'
'I thank you, no. I am a total abstainer. I found that alcohol had a
tendency to increase my weight, so I gave it up. I have also given
up butter, potatoes, soups of all kinds and--However,' he broke off,
the fanatic gleam which comes into the eyes of all fat men who are
describing their system of diet fading away, 'this is not a social
call, and I must not take up your time with idle talk. I have a message
for you, Mr Mulliner. From Angela.'
'Bless her!' said Wilfred. 'Sir Jasper, I love that girl with a fervour
which increases daily.'
'Is that so?' said the baronet. Well, what I came to say was, it's all
off.'
'What?'
'All off. She sent me to say that she had thought it over and wanted to
break the engagement.'
Wilfred's eyes narrowed. He had not forgotten what Angela had said
about this man wanting her to marry his son. He gazed piercingly at
his visitor, no longer deceived by the superficial geniality of his
appearance. He had read too many detective stories where the fat,
jolly, red-faced man turns out a fiend in human shape to be a ready
victim to appearances.
'Indeed?' he said, coldly. 'I should prefer to have this information
from Miss Purdue's own lips.'
'She won't see you. But, anticipating this attitude on your part, I
brought a letter from her. You recognize the writing?'
Wilfred took the letter. Certainly, the hand was Angela's, and the
meaning of the words he read unmistakable. Nevertheless, as he handed
the missive back, there was a hard smile on his face.
'There is such a thing as writing a letter under compulsion,' he said.
The baronet's pink face turned mauve.
'What do you mean, sir?'
'What I say.'
'Are you insinuating--'
'Yes, I am.'
'Pooh, sir!'
'Pooh to you!' said Wilfred. 'And, if you want to know what I think,
you poor fish, I believe your name is spelled with a capital F, like
anybody else's.'
Stung to the quick, the baronet turned on his heel and left the room
without another word.
Although he had given up his life to chemical research, Wilfred
Mulliner was no mere dreamer. He could be the man of action when
necessity demanded. Scarcely had his visitor left when he was on his
way to the Senior Test-Tubes, the famous chemists' club in St James's.
There, consulting Kelly's _County Families_, he learnt that Sir
Jasper's address was ffinch Hall in Yorkshire. He had found out all he
wanted to know. It was at ffinch Hall, he decided, that Angela must now
be immured.
For that she was being immured somewhere he had no doubt. That letter,
he was positive, has been written by her under stress of threats.
The writing was Angela's, but he declined to believe that she was
responsible for the phraseology and sentiment. He remembered reading
a story where the heroine was forced into courses which she would not
otherwise have contemplated by the fact that somebody was standing over
her with a flask of vitriol. Possibly this was what that bounder of a
baronet had done to Angela.
Considering this possibility, he did not blame her for what she had
said about him, Wilfred, in the second paragraph of her note. Nor did
he reproach her for signing herself 'Yrs truly, A. Purdue'. Naturally,
when baronets are threatening to pour vitriol down her neck, a refined
and sensitive young girl cannot pick her words. This sort of thing must
of necessity interfere with the selection of the _mot juste_.
That afternoon, Wilfred was in a train on his way to Yorkshire. That
evening, he was in the ffinch Arms in the village of which Sir Jasper
was the squire. That night, he was in the gardens of ffinch Hall,
prowling softly round the house, listening.
And presently, as he prowled, there came to his ears from an upper
window a sound that made him stiffen like a statue and clench his hands
till the knuckles stood out white under the strain.
It was the sound of a woman sobbing.
* * * * *
Wilfred spent a sleepless night, but by morning he had formed his plan
of action. I will not weary you with a description of the slow and
tedious steps by which he first made the acquaintance of Sir Jasper's
valet, who was an _habitué_ of the village inn, and then by
careful stages won the man's confidence with friendly words and beer.
Suffice it to say that, about a week later, Wilfred had induced this
man with bribes to leave suddenly on the plea of an aunt's illness,
supplying--so as to cause his employer no inconvenience--a cousin to
take his place.
This cousin, as you will have guessed, was Wilfred himself. But a very
different Wilfred from the dark-haired, clean-cut young scientist
who had revolutionized the world of chemistry a few months before by
proving that H_{2}O+b3g4z7-m9z8=g6f5p3x. Before leaving London on what
he knew would be a dark and dangerous enterprise, Wilfred had taken
the precaution of calling in at a well-known costumier's and buying
a red wig. He had also purchased a pair of blue spectacles: but for
the role which he had now undertaken these were, of course, useless.
A blue-spectacled valet could not but have aroused suspicion in the
most guileless baronet. All that Wilfred did, therefore, in the way of
preparation, was to don the wig, shave off his moustache, and treat his
face to a light coating of the Raven Gipsy Face-Cream. This done, he
set out for ffinch Hall.
Externally, ffinch Hall was one of those gloomy, sombre country-houses
which seem to exist only for the purpose of having horrid crimes
committed in them. Even in his brief visit to the grounds, Wilfred had
noticed fully half a dozen places which seemed incomplete without a
cross indicating spot where body was found by the police. It was the
sort of house where ravens croak in the front garden just before the
death of the heir, and shrieks ring out from behind barred windows in
the night.
Nor was its interior more cheerful. And, as for the personnel of
the domestic staff, that was less exhilarating than anything else
about the place. It consisted of an aged cook who, as she bent over
her cauldrons, looked like something out of a travelling company of
_Macbeth_, touring the smaller towns of the North, and Murgatroyd,
the butler, a huge, sinister man with a cast in one eye and an evil
light in the other.
Many men, under these conditions, would have been daunted. But not
Wilfred Mulliner. Apart from the fact that, like all the Mulliners, he
was as brave as a lion, he had come expecting something of this nature.
He settled down to his duties and kept his eyes open, and before long
his vigilance was rewarded.
One day, as he lurked about the dim-lit passage-ways, he saw Sir Jasper
coming up the stairs with a laden tray in his hands. It contained a
toast-rack, a half bot. of white wine, pepper, salt, veg., and in a
covered dish something which Wilfred, sniffing cautiously, decided was
a cutlet.
Lurking in the shadows, he followed the baronet to the top of the
house. Sir Jasper paused at a door on the second floor. He knocked. The
door opened, a hand was stretched forth, the tray vanished, the door
closed, and the baronet moved away.
So did Wilfred. He had seen what he had wanted to see, discovered what
he had wanted to discover. He returned to the servants' hall, and under
the gloomy eyes of Murgatroyd began to shape his plans.
'Where you been?' demanded the butler, suspiciously.
'Oh, hither and thither,' said Wilfred, with a well-assumed airiness.
Murgatroyd directed a menacing glance at him.
'You'd better stay where you belong,' he said, in his thick, growling
voice. 'There's things in this house that don't want seeing.'
'Ah!' agreed the cook, dropping an onion in the cauldron.
Wilfred could not repress a shudder.
But, even as he shuddered, he was conscious of a certain relief.
At least, he reflected, they were not starving his darling. That
cutlet had smelt uncommonly good: and, if the bill of fare was always
maintained at this level, she had nothing to complain of in the
catering.
But his relief was short-lived. What, after all, he asked himself, are
cutlets to a girl who is imprisoned in a locked room of a sinister
country-house and is being forced to marry a man she does not love?
Practically nothing. When the heart is sick, cutlets merely alleviate,
they do not cure. Fiercely Wilfred told himself that, come what might,
few days should pass before he found the key to that locked door and
bore away his love to freedom and happiness.