Mulliner Nights (4 page)
‘Another ace!’
he exclaimed. ‘Well I’m dashed!’
Lord
Brangbolton had risen from his chair.
‘Excuse me,’
he said in a strange, croaking voice. ‘I just want to have a little chat with
my friend, my dear old friend, Mulliner here. Might I have a word in private
with you, Mr Mulliner?’
There was
silence between the two men until they had reached a corner of the terrace out
of earshot of the library window. Then Lord Brangbolton cleared his throat.
‘Mulliner,’ he
began, ‘or, rather — what is your Christian name?’
‘Adrian.’
‘Adrian, my
dear fellow,’ said Lord Brangbolton, ‘my memory is not what it should be, but I
seem to have a distinct recollection that, when I was in my bath before dinner,
you said something about wanting to marry my daughter Millicent.’
‘I did,’
replied Adrian. ‘And, if your objections to me as a Suitor were mainly
financial, let me assure you that, since we last spoke, I have become a wealthy
man.’
‘I never had
any objections to you, Adrian, financial or otherwise,’ said Lord Brangbolton,
patting his arm affectionately. ‘I have always felt that the man my daughter
married ought to be a fine, warm-hearted young fellow like you. For you,
Adrian,’ he proceeded, ‘are essentially warm-hearted. You would never dream of
distressing a father-in-law by mentioning any… any little… well, in short,
I saw from your smile in there that you had noticed that I was introducing into
that game of Blind Hooky — or, rather, Persian Monarchs — certain little —
shall I say variations, designed to give it additional interest and excitement,
and I feel sure that you would scorn to embarrass a father-in-law by… Well,
to cut a long story short, my boy, take Millicent and with her a father’s
blessing.’
He extended
his hand. Adrian clasped it warmly.
‘I am the
happiest man in the world,’ he said, smiling.
Lord
Brangbolton winced.
‘Do you mind
not doing that?’ he said.
‘I only
smiled,’ said Adrian.
‘I know,’ said
Lord Brangbolton.
Little remains
to be told. Adrian and Millicent were married three months later at a
fashionable West End church. All Society was there. The presents were both
numerous and costly, and the bride looked charming. The service was conducted
by the Very Reverend the Dean of Bittlesham.
It was in the
vestry afterwards, as Adrian looked at Millicent and seemed to realize for the
first time that all his troubles were over and that this lovely girl was indeed
his, for better or worse, that a full sense of his happiness swept over the
young man.
All through
the ceremony he had been grave, as befitted a man at the most serious point of
his career. But now, fizzing as if with some spiritual yeast, he clasped her in
his arms and over her shoulder his face broke into a quick smile.
He found
himself looking into the eyes of the Dean of Bittlesham. A moment later he felt
a tap on his arm.
‘Might I have
a word with you in private, Mr Mulliner?’ said the Dean in a low voice.
‘C
ats
are not dogs!’
There is only
one place where you can hear good things like that thrown off quite casually in
the general run of conversation, and that is the bar-parlour of the Angler’s
Rest. It was there, as we sat grouped about the fire, that a thoughtful Pint of
Bitter had made the statement just recorded.
Although the
talk up to this point had been dealing with Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, we
readily adjusted our minds to cope with the new topic. Regular attendance at
the nightly sessions over which Mr Mulliner presides with such unfailing
dignity and geniality tends to produce mental nimbleness. In our little circle
I have known an argument on the Final Destination of the Soul to change inside
forty seconds into one concerning the best method of preserving the juiciness
of bacon fat.
‘Cats,’
proceeded the Pint of Bitter, ‘are selfish. A man waits on a cat hand and foot
for weeks, humouring its lightest whim, and then it goes and leaves him flat
because it has found a place down the road where the fish is more frequent.’
‘What I’ve got
against cats,’ said a Lemon Sour, speaking feelingly, as one brooding on a
private grievance, ‘is their unreliability. They lack candour and are not
square shooters. You get your cat and you call him Thomas or George, as the
case may be. So far, so good. Then one morning you wake up and find six kittens
in the hat-box and you have to reopen the whole matter, approaching it from an
entirely different angle.’
‘If you want
to know what’s the trouble with cats,’ said a red-faced man with glassy eyes,
who had been rapping on the table for his fourth whisky, ‘they’ve got no tact.
That’s what’s the trouble with them. I remember a friend of mine had a cat.
Made quite a pet of that cat, he did. And what occurred? What was the outcome?
One night he came home rather late and was feeling for the keyhole with his
corkscrew; and, believe me or not, his cat selected that precise moment to jump
on the back of his neck out of a tree. No tact.’
Mr Mulliner
shook his head.
‘I grant you
all this,’ he said, ‘but still, in my opinion, you have not got quite to the
root of the matter. The real objection to the great majority of cats is their
insufferable air of superiority. Cats, as a class, have never completely got
over the snootiness caused by the fact that in Ancient Egypt they were
worshipped as gods. This makes them too prone to set themselves up as critics
and censors of the frail and erring human beings whose lot they share. They
stare rebukingly. They view with concern. And on a sensitive man this often has
the worst effects, inducing an inferiority complex of the gravest kind. It is
odd that the conversation should have taken this turn,’ said Mr Mulliner,
sipping his hot Scotch and lemon, ‘for I was thinking only this afternoon of
the rather strange case of my cousin Edward’s son, Lancelot.’
‘I knew a cat—’
began a Small Bass.
My cousin
Edward’s son, Lancelot (said Mr Mulliner) was, at the time of which I speak, a
comely youth of some twenty-five summers. Orphaned at an early age, he had been
brought up in the home of his Uncle Theodore, the saintly Dean of Bolsover; and
it was a great shock to that good man when Lancelot, on attaining his majority,
wrote from London to inform him that he had taken a studio in Bott Street,
Chelsea, and proposed to remain in the metropolis and become an artist.
The Dean’s
opinion of artists was low. As a prominent member of the Bolsover Watch
Committee, it had recently been his distasteful duty to be present at a private
showing of the super-super-film, ‘Palettes of Passion’; and he replied to his
nephew’s communication with a vibrant letter in which he emphasized the
grievous pain it gave him to think that one of his flesh and blood should
deliberately be embarking on a career which must inevitably lead sooner or
later to the painting of Russian princesses lying on divans in the semi-nude
with their arms round tame jaguars. He urged Lancelot to return and become a
curate while there was yet time.
But Lancelot
was firm. He deplored the rift between himself and a relative whom he had
always respected; but he was dashed if he meant to go back to an environment
where his individuality had been stifled and his soul confined in chains. And
for four years there was silence between uncle and nephew.
During these
years Lancelot had made progress in his chosen profession. At the time at which
this story opens, his prospects seemed bright. He was painting the portrait of
Brenda, only daughter of Mr and Mrs B. B. Carberry-Pirbright, of 11
,
Maxton
Square, South Kensington, which meant thirty pounds in his sock on delivery. He
had learned to cook eggs and bacon. He had practically mastered the ukulele.
And, in addition, he was engaged to be married to a fearless young
vers
libre
poetess of the name of Gladys Bingley, better known as The Sweet
Singer of Garbidge Mews, Fulham — a charming girl who looked like a pen-wiper.
It seemed to
Lancelot that life was very full and beautiful. He lived joyously in the
present, giving no thought to the past.
But how true
it is that the past is inextricably mixed up with the present and that we can
never tell when it may not spring some delayed bomb beneath our feet. One
afternoon, as he sat making a few small alterations in the portrait of Brenda
Carberry-Pirbright, his fiancée entered.
He had been
expecting her to call, for to-day she was going off for a three weeks’ holiday
to the South of France, and she had promised to look in on her way to the
station. He laid down his brush and gazed at her with a yearning affection,
thinking for the thousandth time how he worshipped every spot of ink on her
nose. Standing there in the doorway with her bobbed hair sticking out in every
direction like a golliwog’s she- made a picture that seemed to speak to his
very depths.
‘Hullo,
Reptile!’ he said lovingly.
‘What ho,
Worm!’ said Gladys, maidenly devotion shining through the monocle which she
wore in her left eye. ‘I can stay just half an hour.’
‘Oh, well,
half an hour soon passes,’ said Lancelot. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
A letter, ass.
What did you think it was?’
‘Where did you
get it?’
‘I found the
postman outside.’
Lancelot took
the envelope from her and examined it.
‘Gosh!’ he
said.
‘What’s the
matter?’
‘It’s from my
Uncle Theodore.’
‘I didn’t know
you had an Uncle Theodore.’
‘Of course I
have. I’ve had him for years.’
‘What’s he
writing to you about?’
‘If you’ll
kindly keep quiet for two seconds, if you know how,’ said Lancelot, ‘I’ll tell
you.
And in a clear
voice which, like that of all the Mulliners, however distant from the main
branch, was beautifully modulated, he read as follows:
‘The
Deanery,
‘Bolsover,
‘Wilts.
‘
MY DEAR LANCELOT
,
‘As you have,
no doubt, already learned from your
Church Times,
I have been offered
and have accepted the vacant Bishopric of Bongo-Bongo in West Africa. I sail immediately
to take up my new duties, which I trust will be blessed.
‘In these
circumstances, it becomes necessary for me to find a good home for my cat
Webster. It is, alas, out of the question that he should accompany me, as the
rigours of the climate and the lack of essential comforts might well sap a
constitution which has never been robust.
‘I am
dispatching him, therefore, to your address, my dear boy, in a straw-lined
hamper, in the full confidence that you will prove a kindly and conscientious
host.
‘With cordial good wishes,
‘Your affectionate uncle,
‘
THEODORE
BONGO-BONGO
.’
For some
moments after he had finished reading this communication, a thoughtful silence
prevailed in the studio. Finally Gladys spoke.
‘Of all the
nerve!’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘What do you
want with a cat?’
Lancelot
reflected.
‘It is true,’
he said, ‘that, given a free hand, I would prefer not to have my studio turned
into a cattery or cat-bin. But consider the special circumstances. Relations
between Uncle Theodore and self have for the last few years been a bit
strained. In fact, you might say we had definitely patted brass-rags. It looks
to me as if he were coming round. I should describe this letter as more or less
what, you might call an olive-branch. If I lush this cat up satisfactorily,
shall I not be in a position later on to make a swift touch?’
‘He is rich,
this bean?’ said Gladys, interested.
‘Extremely.’
‘Then,’ said
Gladys, ‘consider my objections withdrawn. A good stout cheque from a grateful
cat-fancier would undoubtedly come in very handy. We might be able to get
married this year.’
‘Exactly,’
said Lancelot. A pretty loathsome prospect, of course, but still, as we’ve
arranged to do it, the sooner we get it over, the better, what?’
Absolutely.’
‘Then that’s
settled. I accept custody of cat.’
‘It’s the only
thing to do,’ said Gladys. ‘Meanwhile, can you lend me a comb? Have you such a
thing in your bedroom?’
‘What do you
want with a comb?’
‘I got some
soup in my hair at lunch. I won’t be a minute.’
She hurried
out, and Lancelot, taking up the letter again, found that he had omitted to
read a continuation of it on the back page.
It was to the
following effect:
‘P.S. In
establishing Webster in your home, I am actuated by another motive than the
simple desire to see to it that my faithful friend and companion is adequately
provided for.
‘From both a
moral and an educative standpoint, I am convinced that Webster’s society will
prove of inestimable value to you. His advent, indeed, I venture to hope, will
be a turning-point in your life. Thrown, as you must be, incessantly among
loose and immoral Bohemians, you will find in this cat an example of upright
conduct which cannot but act as an antidote to the poison cup of temptation
which is, no doubt, hourly pressed to your lips.
‘P.P.S. Cream
only at midday, and fish not more than three times a week.’
He was reading
these words for the second time, when the front door-bell rang and he found a
man on the steps with a hamper. A discreet mew from within revealed its
contents, and Lancelot, carrying it into the studio, cut the strings.