‘I had no desire to meet your Cousin Bernard,’ said Sacheverell, still speaking in the same frigid voice. And, while we are on this distasteful subject, I must request you not to see him again.’
The girl stared.
‘You must do how much?’
‘I must request you not to see him again,’ repeated Sacheverell. ‘I do not wish you to continue your Cousin Bernard’s acquaintance. I do not like his looks, nor do I approve of my fiancée lunching alone with young men.
Muriel seemed bewildered.
‘You want me to tie a can to poor old Bernard?’ she gasped.
‘I insist upon it.’
‘But, you poor goop, we were children together.’
Sacheverell shrugged his shoulders.
‘If,’ he said, ‘you survived knowing Bernard as a child, why not be thankful and let it go at that? Why deliberately come up for more punishment by seeking him out now? Well, there it is,’ said Sacheverell crisply. ‘I have told you my wishes, and you will respect them.’
Muriel appeared to be experiencing a difficulty in finding words. She was bubbling like a saucepan on the point of coming to the boil. Nor could any unprejudiced critic have blamed her for her emotion. The last time she had seen Sacheverell, it must be remembered, he had been the sort of man who made a shrinking violet look like a Chicago gangster. And here he was now, staring her in the eye and shooting off his head for all the world as if he were Mussolini informing the Italian Civil Service of a twelve per cent cut in their weekly salary.
And now,’ said Sacheverell, ‘there is another matter of which I wish to speak. I am anxious to see your father as soon as possible, in order to announce our engagement to him. It is quite time that he learned what my plans are. I shall be glad, therefore, if you will make arrangements to put me up at the Towers this coming week-end. Well,’ concluded Sacheverell, glancing at his watch, ‘I must be going. I have several matters to attend to, and your luncheon with your cousin was so prolonged that the hour is already late. Good-bye. We shall meet on Saturday.’
Sacheverell was feeling at the top of his form when he set out for Branksome Towers on the following Saturday. The eighth lesson of his course on how to develop an iron will had reached him by the morning post, and he studied it on the train. It was a pippin. It showed you exactly how Napoleon had got that way, and there was some technical stuff about narrowing the eyes and fixing them keenly on people which alone was worth the money. He alighted at Market Branksome Station in a glow of self-confidence. The only thing that troubled him was a fear lest Sir Redvers might madly attempt anything in the nature of opposition to his plans. He did not wish to be compelled to scorch the poor old man to a crisp at his own dinner-table.
He was meditating on this and resolving to remember to do his best to let the Colonel down as lightly as possible, when a voice spoke his name.
‘Mr Mulliner?’
He turned. He supposed he was obliged to believe his eyes.
And, if he did believe his eyes, the man standing beside him was none other than Muriel’s cousin Bernard.
‘They sent me down to meet you,’ continued Bernard. ‘I’m the old boy’s nephew. Shall we totter to the car?’
Sacheverell was beyond speech. The thought that, after what he had said, Muriel should have invited her cousin to the Towers had robbed him of utterance. He followed the other to the car in silence.
In the drawing-room of the Towers they found Muriel, already dressed for dinner, brightly shaking up cocktails.
‘So you got here?’ said Muriel.
At another time her manner might have struck Sacheverell as odd. There was an unwonted hardness in it. Her eye, though he was too preoccupied to notice it, had a dangerous gleam.
‘Yes,’ he replied shortly. ‘I got here.’
‘The Bish. arrived yet?’ asked Bernard.
‘Not yet. Father had a telegram from him. He won’t be along till late-ish. The Bishop of Bognor is coming to confirm a bevy of the local yokels,’ said Muriel, turning to Sacheverell.
‘Oh?’ said Sacheverell. He was not interested in Bishops. They left him cold. He was interested in nothing but her explanation of how her repellent cousin came to be here to-night in defiance of his own expressed wishes.
‘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 reboun
ded. 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.
But this was no time for abstract meditations on the question of right and wrong. He must hide … hide.
Yet why, you are asking, should my nephew Sacheverell wish to hide? Had he not in eight easy lessons from the Leave-It-To-Us School of Correspondence acquired complete self-confidence and an iron will? He had, but in this awful moment all that he had learned had passed from him like a dream. The years had rolled back, and he was a fifteen-year-old jelly again, in the full grip of his Headmaster Phobia.