going to be a matter of the greatest difficulty to find the key. That
night, when his employer dined, Wilfred searched his room thoroughly.
He found nothing. The key, he was forced to conclude, was kept on the
baronet's person.
Then how to secure it?
It is not too much to say that Wilfred Mulliner was nonplussed. The
brain which had electrified the world of Science by discovering that
if you mixed a stiffish oxygen and potassium and added a splash of
trinitrotoluol and a spot of old brandy you got something that could be
sold in America as champagne at a hundred and fifty dollars the case
had to confess itself baffled.
* * * * *
To attempt to analyse the young man's emotions, as the next week
dragged itself by, would be merely morbid. Life cannot, of course,
be all sunshine: and in relating a story like this, which is a
slice of life, one must pay as much attention to shade as to light:
nevertheless, it would be tedious were I to describe to you in detail
the soul-torments which afflicted Wilfred Mulliner as day followed
day and no solution to the problem presented itself. You are all
intelligent men, and you can picture to yourselves how a high-spirited
young fellow, deeply in love, must have felt; knowing that the girl he
loved was languishing in what practically amounted to a dungeon, though
situated on an upper floor, and chafing at his inability to set her
free.
His eyes became sunken. His cheek-bones stood out. He lost weight.
And so noticeable was this change in his physique that Sir Jasper
ffinch-ffarrowmere commented on it one evening in tones of unconcealed
envy.
'How the devil, Straker,' he said--for this was the pseudonym under
which Wilfred was passing--'do you manage to keep so thin? Judging by
the weekly books, you eat like a starving Esquimaux, and yet you don't
put on weight. Now I, in addition to knocking off butter and potatoes,
have started drinking hot unsweetened lemon-juice each night before
retiring: and yet, damme,' he said--for, like all baronets, he was
careless in his language--'I weighed myself this morning, and I was up
another six ounces. What's the explanation?'
'Yes, Sir Jasper,' said Wilfred, mechanically.
'What the devil do you mean, Yes, Sir Jasper?'
'No, Sir Jasper.'
The baronet wheezed plaintively.
'I've been studying this matter closely,' he said, 'and it's one of
the seven wonders of the world. Have you ever seen a fat valet? Of
course not. Nor has anybody else. There is no such thing as a fat
valet. And yet there is scarcely a moment during the day when a valet
is not eating. He rises at six-thirty, and at seven is having coffee
and buttered toast. At eight, he breakfasts off porridge, cream, eggs,
bacon, jam, bread, butter, more eggs, more bacon, more jam, more tea,
and more butter, finishing up with a slice of cold ham and a sardine.
At eleven o'clock he has his "elevenses", consisting of coffee, cream,
more bread, and more butter. At one, luncheon--a hearty meal, replete
with every form of starchy food and lots of beer. If he can get at
the port, he has port. At three, a snack. At four, another snack. At
five, tea and buttered toast. At seven--dinner, probably with floury
potatoes, and certainly with lots more beer. At nine, another snack.
And at ten-thirty he retires to bed, taking with him a glass of milk
and a plate of biscuits to keep himself from getting hungry in the
night. And yet he remains as slender as a string-bean, while I, who
have been dieting for years, tip the beam at two hundred and seventeen
pounds, and am growing a third and supplementary chin. These are
mysteries, Straker.'
'Yes, Sir Jasper.'
'Well, I'll tell you one thing,' said the baronet, 'I'm getting down
one of those indoor Turkish Bath cabinet-affairs from London; and if
that doesn't do the trick, I give up the struggle.'
* * * * *
The indoor Turkish Bath duly arrived and was unpacked; and it was some
three nights later that Wilfred, brooding in the servants' hall, was
aroused from his reverie by Murgatroyd.
'Here,' said Murgatroyd, 'wake up. Sir Jasper's calling you.'
'Calling me what?' asked Wilfred, coming to himself with a start.
'Calling you very loud,' growled the butler.
It was indeed so. From the upper regions of the house there was
proceeding a series of sharp yelps, evidently those of a man in mortal
stress. Wilfred was reluctant to interfere in any way if, as seemed
probable, his employer was dying in agony; but he was a conscientious
man, and it was his duty, while in this sinister house, to perform the
work for which he was paid. He hurried up the stairs; and, entering Sir
Jasper's bedroom, perceived the baronet's crimson face protruding from
the top of the indoor Turkish Bath.
'So you've come at last!' cried Sir Jasper. 'Look here, when you put me
into this infernal contrivance just now, what did you do to the dashed
thing?'
'Nothing beyond what was indicated in the printed pamphlet accompanying
the machine, Sir Jasper. Following the instructions, I slid Rod A into
Groove B, fastening with Catch C--'
'Well, you must have made a mess of it, somehow. The thing's stuck. I
can't get out.'
'You can't?' cried Wilfred.
'No. And the bally apparatus is getting considerably hotter than the
hinges of the Inferno.' I must apologize for Sir Jasper's language, but
you know what baronets are. 'I'm being cooked to a crisp.'
A sudden flash of light seemed to blaze upon Wilfred Mulliner.
'I will release you, Sir Jasper--'
'Well, hurry up, then.'
'On one condition.' Wilfred fixed him with a piercing gaze. 'First, I
must have the key.'
'There isn't a key, you idiot. It doesn't lock. It just clicks when you
slide Gadget D into Thingummybob E.'
'The key I require is that of the room in which you are holding Angela
Purdue a prisoner.'
'What the devil do you mean? Ouch!'
'I will tell you what I mean, Sir Jasper ffinch-ffarrowmere. I am
Wilfred Mulliner!'
'Don't be an ass. Wilfred Mulliner has black hair. Yours is red. You
must be thinking of someone else.'
'This is a wig,' said Wilfred. 'By Clarkson.' He shook a
menacing finger at the baronet. 'You little thought, Sir Jasper
ffinch-ffarrowmere, when you embarked on this dastardly scheme, that
Wilfred Mulliner was watching your every move. I guessed your plans
from the start. And now is the moment when I checkmate them. Give me
that key, you Fiend.'
'ffiend,' corrected Sir Jasper, automatically.
'I am going to release my darling, to take her away from this dreadful
house, to marry her by special licence as soon as it can legally be
done.'
In spite of his sufferings, a ghastly laugh escaped Sir Jasper's lips.
'You are, are you?'
'I am.'
'Yes, you are!'
'Give me the key.'
'I haven't got it, you chump. It's in the door.'
'Ha, ha!'
'It's no good saying "Ha, ha!" It is in the door. On Angela's side of
the door.'
'A likely story! But I cannot stay here wasting time. If you will not
give me the key, I shall go up and break in the door.'
'Do!' Once more the baronet laughed like a tortured soul. 'And see what
she'll say.'
Wilfred could make nothing of this last remark. He could, he thought,
imagine very clearly what Angela would say. He could picture her
sobbing on his chest, murmuring that she knew he would come, that she
had never doubted him for an instant. He leapt for the door.
'Here! Hi! Aren't you going to let me out?'
'Presently,' said Wilfred. 'Keep cool.' He raced up the stairs.
'Angela,' he cried, pressing his lips against the panel. 'Angela!'
'Who's that?' answered a well-remembered voice from within.
'It is I--Wilfred. I am going to burst open the door. Stand clear of
the gates.'
He drew back a few paces, and hurled himself at the woodwork. There was
a grinding crash, as the lock gave. And Wilfred, staggering on, found
himself in a room so dark that he could see nothing.
'Angela, where are you?'
'I'm here. And I'd like to know why you are, after that letter I wrote
you. Some men,' continued the strangely cold voice, 'do not seem to
know how to take a hint.'
Wilfred staggered, and would have fallen had he not clutched at his
forehead.
'That letter?' he stammered. 'You surely didn't mean what you wrote in
that letter?'
'I meant every word and I wish I had put in more.'
'But--but--but--But don't you love me, Angela?'
A hard, mocking laugh rang through the room.
'Love you? Love the man who recommended me to try Mulliner's Raven
Gipsy Face-Cream!'
'What do you mean?'
'I will tell you what I mean. Wilfred Mulliner, look on your handiwork!'
The room became suddenly flooded with light. And there, standing with
her hand on the switch, stood Angela--a queenly, lovely figure, in
whose radiant beauty the sternest critic would have noted but one
flaw--the fact that she was piebald.
Wilfred gazed at her with adoring eyes. Her face was partly brown and
partly white, and on her snowy neck were patches of sepia that looked
like the thumb-prints you find on the pages of books in the Free
Library: but he thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever
seen. He longed to fold her in his arms: and but for the fact that her
eyes told him that she would undoubtedly land an upper-cut on him if he
tried it he would have done so.
'Yes,' she went on, 'this is what you have made of me, Wilfred
Mulliner--you and that awful stuff you call the Raven Gipsy Face-Cream.
This is the skin you loved to touch! I took your advice and bought
one of the large jars at seven and six, and see the result! Barely
twenty-four hours after the first application, I could have walked into
any circus and named my own terms as the Spotted Princess of the Fiji
Islands. I fled here to my childhood home, to hide myself. And the
first thing that happened'--her voice broke--'was that my favourite
hunter shied at me and tried to bite pieces out of his manger: while
Ponto, my little dog, whom I have reared from a puppy, caught one sight
of my face and is now in the hands of the vet. and unlikely to recover.
And it was you, Wilfred Mulliner, who brought this curse upon me!'
Many men would have wilted beneath these searing words, but Wilfred
Mulliner merely smiled with infinite compassion and understanding.
'It is quite all right,' he said. 'I should have warned you,
sweetheart, that this occasionally happens in cases where the skin is
exceptionally delicate and finely-textured. It can be speedily remedied
by an application of the Mulliner Snow of the Mountains Lotion, four
shillings the medium-sized bottle.'
'Wilfred! Is this true?'
'Perfectly true, dearest. And is this all that stands between us?'
'No!' shouted a voice of thunder.
Wilfred wheeled sharply. In the doorway stood Sir Jasper
ffinch-ffarrowmere. He was swathed in a bath-towel, what was visible
of his person being a bright crimson. Behind him, toying with a
horse-whip, stood Murgatroyd, the butler.
'You didn't expect to see me, did you?'
'I certainly,' replied Wilfred, severely, 'did not expect to see you in
a lady's presence in a costume like that.'
'Never mind my costume.' Sir Jasper turned.
'Murgatroyd, do your duty!'
The butler, scowling horribly, advanced into the room.
'Stop!' screamed Angela.
'I haven't begun yet, miss,' said the butler, deferentially.
'You shan't touch Wilfred. I love him.'
'What!' cried Sir Jasper. 'After all that has happened?'
'Yes. He has explained everything.'
A grim frown appeared on the baronet's vermilion face.
'I'll bet he hasn't explained why he left me to be cooked in that
infernal Turkish Bath. I was beginning to throw out clouds of smoke
when Murgatroyd, faithful fellow, heard my cries and came and released
me.'
'Though not my work,' added the butler.
Wilfred eyed him steadily.
'If,' he said, 'you used Mulliner's Reduc-o, the recognized specific
for obesity, whether in the tabloid form at three shillings the tin,
or as a liquid at five and six the flask, you would have no need
to stew in Turkish Baths. Mulliner's Reduc-o, which contains no
injurious chemicals, but is compounded purely of health-giving herbs,
is guaranteed to remove excess weight, steadily and without weakening
after-effects, at the rate of two pounds a week. As used by the
nobility.'
The glare of hatred faded from the baronet's eyes.
'Is that a fact?' he whispered.
'It is.'
'You guarantee it?'
'All the Mulliner preparations are fully guaranteed.'
'My boy!' cried the baronet. He shook Wilfred by the hand. 'Take her,'
he said, brokenly. 'And with her my b-blessing.'
A discreet cough sounded in the background.
'You haven't anything, by any chance, sir,' asked Murgatroyd, 'that's
good for lumbago?'
'Mulliner's Ease-o will cure the most stubborn case in six days.'
'Bless you, sir, bless you,' sobbed Murgatroyd. 'Where can I get it?'
'At all chemists.'
'It catches me in the small of the back principally, sir.'
'It need catch you no longer,' said Wilfred.
There is little to add. Murgatroyd is now the most lissom butler in
Yorkshire. Sir Jasper's weight is down under the fifteen stone and he
is thinking of taking up hunting again. Wilfred and Angela are man and
wife; and never, I am informed, had the wedding-bells of the old church
at ffinch village rung out a blither peal than they did on that June
morning when Angela, raising to her love a face on which the brown was
as evenly distributed as on an antique walnut table, replied to the
clergyman's question, 'Wilt thou, Angela, take this Wilfred?' with a
shy, 'I will'. They now have two bonny bairns--the small, or Percival,
at a preparatory school in Sussex, and the large, or Ferdinand, at Eton.
* * * * *
Here Mr Mulliner, having finished his hot Scotch, bade us farewell and
took his departure.
A silence followed his exit. The company seemed plunged in deep
thought. Then somebody rose.
'Well, good night all,' he said.
It seemed to sum up the situation.
3
MULLINER'S BUCK-U-UPPO
The village Choral Society had been giving a performance of Gilbert and
Sullivan's _Sorcerer_ in aid of the Church Organ Fund; and, as we
sat in the window of the Anglers' Rest, smoking our pipes, the audience
came streaming past us down the little street. Snatches of song floated
to our ears, and Mr Mulliner began to croon in unison.
'"Ah me! I was a pa-ale you-oung curate then!"' chanted Mr Mulliner in
the rather snuffling voice in which the amateur singer seems to find it
necessary to render the old songs.
'Remarkable,' he said, resuming his natural tones, 'how fashions
change, even in clergymen. There are very few pale young curates
nowadays.'
'True,' I agreed. 'Most of them are beefy young fellows who rowed for
their colleges. I don't believe I have ever seen a pale young curate.'
'You never met my nephew Augustine, I think?'
'Never.'
'The description in the song would have fitted him perfectly. You will
want to hear all about my nephew Augustine.'
* * * * *
At the time of which I am speaking (said Mr Mulliner) my nephew
Augustine was a curate, and very young and extremely pale. As a boy
he had completely outgrown his strength, and I rather think at his
Theological College some of the wilder spirits must have bullied him;
for when he went to Lower Briskett-in-the-Midden to assist the vicar,
the Rev. Stanley Brandon, in his cure of souls, he was as meek and
mild a young man as you could meet in a day's journey. He had flaxen
hair, weak blue eyes, and the general demeanour of a saintly but timid
cod-fish. Precisely, in short, the sort of young curate who seems to
have been so common in the eighties, or whenever it was that Gilbert
wrote _The Sorcerer_.
The personality of his immediate superior did little or nothing to help
him to overcome his native diffidence. The Rev. Stanley Brandon was a
huge and sinewy man of violent temper, whose red face and glittering
eyes might well have intimidated the toughest curate. The Rev. Stanley
had been a heavy-weight boxer at Cambridge, and I gather from Augustine
that he seemed to be always on the point of introducing into debates
on parish matters the methods which had made him so successful in the
roped ring. I remember Augustine telling me that once, on the occasion
when he had ventured to oppose the other's views in the matter of
decorating the church for the Harvest Festival, he thought for a moment
that the vicar was going to drop him with a right hook to the chin.
It was some quite trivial point that had come up--a question as to
whether the pumpkin would look better in the apse or the clerestory, if
I recollect rightly--but for several seconds it seemed as if blood was
about to be shed.
Such was the Rev. Stanley Brandon. And yet it was to the daughter of
this formidable man that Augustine Mulliner had permitted himself to
lose his heart. Truly, Cupid makes heroes of us all.
Jane was a very nice girl, and just as fond of Augustine as he was
of her. But, as each lacked the nerve to go to the girl's father
and put him abreast of the position of affairs, they were forced to
meet surreptitiously. This jarred upon Augustine, who, like all the
Mulliners, loved the truth and hated any form of deception. And one
evening, as they paced beside the laurels at the bottom of the vicarage
garden, he rebelled.
'My dearest,' said Augustine, 'I can no longer brook this secrecy. I
shall go into the house immediately and ask your father for your hand.'
Jane paled and clung to his arm. She knew so well that it was not her
hand but her father's foot which he would receive if he carried out
this mad scheme.
'No, no, Augustine! You must not!'
'But, darling, it is the only straightforward course.'
'But not tonight. I beg of you, not tonight.'
'Why not?'
'Because father is in a very bad temper. He has just had a letter from
the bishop, rebuking him for wearing too many orphreys on his chasuble,
and it has upset him terribly. You see, he and the bishop were at
school together, and father can never forget it. He said at dinner that
if old Boko Bickerton thought he was going to order him about he would
jolly well show him.'
'And the bishop comes here tomorrow for the Confirmation services!'
gasped Augustine.
'Yes. And I'm so afraid they will quarrel. It's such a pity father
hasn't some other bishop over him. He always remembers that he once hit
this one in the eye for pouring ink on his collar, and this lowers his
respect for his spiritual authority. So you won't go in and tell him
tonight, will you?'
'I will not,' Augustine assured her with a slight shiver.
'And you will be sure to put your feet in hot mustard and water when
you get home? The dew has made the grass so wet.'
'I will indeed, dearest.'
'You are not strong, you know.'
'No, I am not strong.'
'You ought to take some really good tonic.'
'Perhaps I ought. Good night, Jane.'
'Good night, Augustine.'
The lovers parted. Jane slipped back into the vicarage, and Augustine
made his way to his cosy rooms in the High Street. And the first thing
he noticed on entering was a parcel on the table, and beside it a
letter.
He opened it listlessly, his thoughts far away.
'My dear Augustine.'
He turned to the last page and glanced at the signature. The letter was
from his Aunt Angela, the wife of my brother, Wilfred Mulliner. You may
remember that I once told you the story of how these two came together.
If so, you will recall that my brother Wilfred was the eminent chemical
researcher who had invented, among other specifics, such world-famous
preparations as Mulliner's Raven Gipsy Face-Cream and the Mulliner Snow
of the Mountains Lotion. He and Augustine had never been particularly
intimate, but between Augustine and his aunt there had always existed a
warm friendship.
My dear Augustine (wrote Angela Mulliner),
I have been thinking so much about you lately, and I cannot forget
that, when I saw you last, you seemed very fragile and deficient in
vitamins. I do hope you take care of yourself.
I have been feeling for some time that you ought to take a tonic,
and by a lucky chance Wilfred has just invented one which he tells
me is the finest thing he has ever done. It is called Buck-U-Uppo,
and acts directly on the red corpuscles. It is not yet on the
market, but I have managed to smuggle a sample bottle from
Wilfred's laboratory, and I want you to try it at once. I am sure
it is just what you need.
Your affectionate aunt,
Angela Mulliner
PS.--You take a tablespoonful before going to bed, and another just
before breakfast.
Augustine was not an unduly superstitious young man, but the
coincidence of this tonic arriving so soon after Jane had told him that
a tonic was what he needed affected him deeply. It seemed to him that
this thing must have been meant. He shook the bottle, uncorked it, and,
pouring out a liberal tablespoonful, shut his eyes and swallowed it.
The medicine, he was glad to find, was not unpleasant to the taste.
It had a slightly pungent flavour, rather like old boot-soles beaten
up in sherry. Having taken the dose, he read for a while in a book of
theological essays, and then went to bed.
And as his feet slipped between the sheets, he was annoyed to find that
Mrs Wardle, his housekeeper, had once more forgotten his hot-water
bottle.
'Oh, dash!' said Augustine.
He was thoroughly upset. He had told the woman over and over again that
he suffered from cold feet and could not get to sleep unless the dogs
were properly warmed up. He sprang out of bed and went to the head of
the stairs.
'Mrs Wardle!' he cried.
There was no reply.
'Mrs Wardle!' bellowed Augustine in a voice that rattled the
window-panes like a strong nor'-easter. Until tonight he had always
been very much afraid of his housekeeper and had both walked and talked
softly in her presence. But now he was conscious of a strange new
fortitude. His head was singing a little, and he felt equal to a dozen
Mrs Wardles.
Shuffling footsteps made themselves heard.
'Well, what is it now?' asked a querulous voice.
Augustine snorted.
'I'll tell you what it is now,' he roared. 'How many times have I told
you always to put a hot-water bottle in my bed? You've forgotten it
again, you old cloth-head!'
Mrs Wardle peered up, astounded and militant.
'Mr Mulliner, I am not accustomed--'
'Shut up!' thundered Augustine. 'What I want from you is less back-chat
and more hot-water bottles. Bring it up at once, or I leave tomorrow.
Let me endeavour to get it into your concrete skull that you aren't
the only person letting rooms in this village. Any more lip and I walk
straight round the corner, where I'll be appreciated. Hot-water bottle
ho! And look slippy about it.'
'Yes, Mr Mulliner. Certainly, Mr Mulliner. In one moment, Mr Mulliner.'
'Action! Action!' boomed Augustine. 'Show some speed. Put a little snap
into it.'
'Yes, yes, most decidedly, Mr Mulliner,' replied the chastened voice
from below.
An hour later, as he was dropping off to sleep, a thought crept into
Augustine's mind. Had he not been a little brusque with Mrs Wardle? Had
there not been in his manner something a shade abrupt--almost rude?
Yes, he decided regretfully, there had. He lit a candle and reached for
the diary which lay on the table at his bedside.
He made an entry.
The meek shall inherit the earth. Am I sufficiently meek? I wonder.
This evening, when reproaching Mrs Wardle, my worthy housekeeper,
for omitting to place a hot-water bottle in my bed, I spoke quite
crossly. The provocation was severe, but still I was surely to
blame for allowing my passions to run riot. Mem: Must guard agst
this.
But when he woke next morning, different feelings prevailed. He took
his ante-breakfast dose of Buck-U-Uppo: and looking at the entry in
the diary, could scarcely believe that it was he who had written it.
'Quite cross?' Of course he had been quite cross. Wouldn't anybody be
quite cross who was for ever being persecuted by beetle-wits who forgot
hot-water bottles?
Erasing the words with one strong dash of a thick-leaded pencil, he
scribbled in the margin a hasty 'Mashed potatoes! Served the old idiot
right!' and went down to breakfast.