Mulliner Nights

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘Her ladyship not arrived?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ sir. She stepped down the street to dispatch a telegram. Would you desire me to serve cream, sir, or will the ordinary milk suffice?’

  ‘Cream? Milk?’

  ‘I have laid out an extra saucer.

  ‘Blenkinsop,’ said Eustace, passing a rather feverish hand across his brow, for he had much to disturb him these days. ‘You appear to be talking of something, but it does not penetrate. What is all this babble of milk and cream? Why do you speak in riddles of extra saucers?’

  ‘For the cat, sir.’

  ‘What cat?’

  ‘Her ladyship was accompanied by her cat, Francis.’

  The strained look passed from Eustace’s face.

  ‘Oh? Her cat?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, in regard to nourishment, it gets milk — the same as the rest of us — and likes it. But serve it in the kitchen, because of the canary.’

  ‘Master Francis is not in the kitchen, sir.’

  ‘Well, in the pantry or my bedroom or wherever he is.’

  ‘When last I saw Master Francis, sir, he was enjoying a cooling stroll on the window-sill.’

  And at this juncture there silhouetted itself against the evening sky a lissom form.

  ‘Here! Hi! My gosh! I say! Dash it!’ exclaimed Eustace, eyeing it with unconcealed apprehension.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Blenkinsop. ‘Excuse me, sir. I fancy I heard the front door-bell.’

  And he withdrew, leaving Eustace a prey to the liveliest agitation.

  Eustace, you see, was still hoping, in spite of having been so remiss in the matter of the dog, to save his stake, if I may use the expression, on the canary. In other words, when Marcella Tyrrwhitt returned and began to be incisive on the subject of the vanished Reginald, he wished to be in a position to say: ‘True! True! In the matter of Reginald, I grant that I have failed you. But pause before you speak and take a look at that canary — fit as a fiddle and bursting with health. And why? Because of my unremitting care.’

  A most unpleasant position he would be in if, in addition to having to admit that he was one Peke down on the general score, he also had to reveal that William, his sheet-anchor, was inextricably mixed up with the gastric juices of a cat which the girl did not even know by sight.

  And that this tragedy was imminent he was sickeningly aware from the expression on the animal’s face. It was a sort of devout, ecstatic look. He had observed much the same kind of look on the face of his Aunt Georgiana when about to sail into the cucumber sandwiches. Francis was inside the room now, and was gazing up at the canary with a steady, purposeful eye. His tail was twitching at the tip.

  The next moment, to the accompaniment of a moan of horror from Eustace, he had launched himself into the air in the bird’s direction.

  Well, William was no fool. Where many a canary would have blenched, he retained his sangfroid unimpaired. He moved a little to the left, causing the cat to miss by a foot. And his beak, as he did so, was curved in a derisive smile. In fact, thinking it over later, Eustace realized that right from the beginning William had the situation absolutely under control and wanted nothing but to be left alone to enjoy a good laugh.

  At the moment, however, this did not occur to Eustace. Shaken to the core, he supposed the bird to be in the gravest peril. He imagined it to stand in need of all the aid and comfort he could supply. And, springing quickly to the tea-table, he rummaged among its contents for something that would serve him as ammunition in the fray.

  The first thing he put his hand on was the plate of cucumber sandwiches. These, with all the rapidity at his command, he discharged, one after the other. But, though a few found their mark, there was nothing in the way of substantial results. The very nature of a cucumber sandwich makes it poor throwing. He could have obtained direct hits on Francis all day without slowing him up. In fact, the very moment after the last sandwich had struck him in the ribs, he was up in the air again, clawing hopefully.’

  William side-stepped once more, and Francis returned to earth. And Eustace, emotion ruining his aim, missed him by inches with a sultana cake, three muffins, and a lump of sugar.

  Then, desperate, he did what he should, of course, have done at the very outset. Grabbing the table-cloth, he edged round with extraordinary stealth till he was in the cat’s immediate rear, and dropped it over him just as he was tensing his muscles for another leap. Then, flinging himself on the mixture of cat and table-cloth, he wound them up into a single convenient parcel.

  Exceedingly pleased with himself Eustace felt at this point. It seemed to him that he had shown resource, intelligence, and an agility highly creditable in one who had not played Rugby football for years. A good deal of bitter criticism was filtering through the cloth, but he overlooked it. Francis, he knew, when he came to think the thing over calmly, would realize that he -deserved all he was getting. He had always found Francis a fair-minded cat, when the cold sobriety of his judgment was not warped by the sight of canaries.

  He was about to murmur a word or two to this effect, in the hope of inducing the animal to behave less like a gyroscope, when, looking round, he perceived that he was not alone.

  Standing grouped about the doorway were his Aunt Georgiana, the girl, Marcella Tyrrwhitt, and the well-remembered figure of Orlando Wotherspoon.

  ‘Lady Beazley-Beazley, Miss Tyrrwhitt, Mr Orlando Wotherspoon,’ announced Blenkinsop. ‘Tea is served, sir.’

  A wordless cry broke from Eustace’s lips. The table-cloth fell from his nerveless fingers. And the cat, Francis, falling on his head on the carpet, shot straight up the side of the wall and entrenched himself on top of the curtains.

  There was a pause. Eustace did not know quite what to say. He felt embarrassed.

  It was Orlando Wotherspoon who broke the silence.

  ‘So!’ said Orlando Wotherspoon. At your old games, Mulliner, I perceive.

  Eustace’s Aunt Georgiana was pointing dramatically.

  ‘He threw cucumber sandwiches at my cat!’

  ‘So I observe,’ said Wotherspoon. He spoke in ‘an unpleasant, quiet voice, and he was looking not unlike a high priest of one of the rougher religions who runs his eye over the human sacrifice preparatory to asking his caddy for the niblick. ‘Also, if I mistake not, sultana cake and muffins.’

  ‘Would you require fresh muffins, sir?’ asked Blenkinsop.

  ‘The case, in short, would appear to be on all fours,’ proceeded Wotherspoon, ‘with that of J. B. Stokes, of 9, Mangles-bury Mansions, West Kensington.’

  ‘Listen!’ said Eustace, backing towards the window. ‘I can explain everything.’

  ‘There is no need of explanations, Mulliner,’ said ‘Orlando Wotherspoon. He had rolled up the left sleeve of his coat and was beginning to roll up the right. He twitched his biceps to limber it up. ‘The matter explains itself.’

  Eustace’s Aunt Georgiana, who had been standing under the curtain making chirruping noises, came back to the group in no agreeable frame of mind. Overwrought by what had occurred, Francis had cut her dead, and she was feeling it a good deal.

  ‘If I may use your telephone, Eustace,’ she said quietly, ‘I would like to ring up my lawyer and disinherit you. But first,’ she added to Wotherspoon, who was now inhaling and expelling the breath from his nostrils in rather a disturbing manner, ‘would you oblige me by thrashing him within an inch of his life?’

  ‘I was about to do so, madam,’ replied Wotherspoon courteously. ‘If this young lady will kindly stand a little to one side-’

  ‘Shall I prepare some more cucumber sandwiches, sir?’ asked Blenkinsop.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Marcella Tyrrwhitt, who hitherto had not spoken.

  Orlando Wotherspoon shook his head gently.

  ‘If, deprecating scenes of violence, it is your intention, Miss Tyrrwhitt—Any relation of my old friend, Major-General George Tyrrwhitt of the Buffs, by the way?’

  ‘My uncle.�
�

  ‘Well, well! I was dining with him only last night.’

  ‘It’s a small world, after all,’ said Lady Beazley-Beazley.

  ‘It is, indeed,’ said Orlando Wotherspoon. ‘So small that I feel there is scarcely room in it for both Mulliner the cat-slosher and myself. I shall, therefore, do my humble best to eliminate him. And, as I was about to say, if, deprecating scenes of violence, you were about to plead for the young man, it will, I fear, ‘be useless. I can listen to no intercession. The regulations of Our Dumb Chums’ League are very strict.’

  Marcella Tyrrwhitt uttered a hard, rasping laugh.

  ‘Intercession?’ she said. ‘What do you mean — intercession? I wasn’t going to intercede for this wambling misfit. I was going to ask if I could have first whack.’

  ‘Indeed? Might I enquire why?’

  Marcella’s eyes flashed. Eustace became convinced, he tells me, that she had Spanish blood in her.

  ‘Would you desire another sultana cake, sir?’ asked Blenkinsop.

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ cried Marcella. ‘Do you know what this man has done? I left my dog, Reginald, in his care, and he swore to guard and cherish him. And what occurred? My back was hardly turned when he went and gave him away as a birthday present to some foul female of the, name of Beatrice Something.’

  Eustace uttered a strangled cry.

  ‘Let me explain!’

  ‘I was in Paris,’ proceeded Marcella, ‘walking along the Champs-Elysées, and I saw a girl coming towards me with a, Peke, and I said to myself: “Hullo, that Peke looks extraordinarily like my Reginald,” and then she came up and it was Reginald, and I said: “Here! Hey! What are you doing with my Peke Reginald?” and this girl said: “What do you mean, your Peke Reginald? It’s my Peke Percival, and it was given to me as a birthday present by a friend of mine named Eustace Mulliner.” And I bounded on to the next aeroplane and came over here to tear him into little shreds. And what I say is, it’s a shame if I’m not to be allowed a go at him after all the trouble and expense I’ve been put to.’

  And, burying her lovely face in her hands, she broke into uncontrollable sobs.

  Orlando Wotherspoon looked at Lady Beazley-Beazley. Lady Beazley-Beazley looked at Orlando Wotherspoon. There was pity in their eyes.

  ‘There, there!’ said Lady Beazley-Beazley. ‘There, there, there, my dear!’

  ‘Believe me, Miss Tyrrwhitt,’ said Orlando Wotherspoon, patting her shoulder paternally, ‘there are few things I would not do for the niece of my old friend, Major-General George Tyrrwhitt of the Buffs, but this is an occasion when, much as it may distress me, I must be firm. I shall have to make my report at the annual committee-meeting of Our Dumb Chums’ League, and how would I look, explaining that I had stepped aside and allowed a delicately nurtured girl to act for me in a matter so important as the one now on the agenda? Consider, Miss Tyrrwhitt! Reflect!’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ sobbed Marcella, ‘but all the way over, all during those long, weary hours in the aeroplane, I was buoying myself up with the thought of what I was going to do to Eustace Mulliner when we met. See! I picked out my heaviest parasol.’

  Orlando Wotherspoon eyed the dainty weapon with an indulgent smile.

  ‘I fear that would hardly meet such a case as this,’ he said. ‘You had far better leave the conduct of this affair to me.’

  ‘Did you say more muffins, sir?’ asked Blenkinsop.

  ‘I do not wish to boast,’ said Wotherspoon, ‘but I have had considerable experience. I have been formally thanked by my committee on several occasions.’

  ‘So you see, dear,’ said Lady Beazley-Beazley soothingly, ‘it will be ever so much better to—’

  ‘Any buttered toast, fancy cakes, or macaroons?’ asked Blenkinsop.

  ‘— leave the matter entirely in Mr Wotherspoon’s hands. I know just how you feel. I am feeling the same myself. But even in these modern days, my dear, it is the woman’s part to efface herself and—’

  ‘Oh, well!’ said Marcella moodily.

  Lady Beazley-Beazley folded her in her arms and over her shoulder nodded brightly at Orlando Wotherspoon.

  ‘Please go on, Mr Wotherspoon,’ she said.

  Wotherspoon bowed, with a formal word of thanks. And, turning, was just in time to see Eustace disappearing through the window.

  The fact is, as this dialogue progressed, Eustace had found himself more and more attracted by that open window. It had seemed to beckon to him. And at this juncture, dodging lightly round Blenkinsop, who had now lost his grip entirely and was suggesting things like watercress and fruit-salad, he precipitated himself into the depths and, making a good landing, raced for the open spaces at an excellent rate of speed.

  That night, heavily cloaked and disguised in a false moustache, ‘he called at my address, clamouring for tickets to Switzerland. He arrived there some few days later, and ever since has stuck to his duties with unremitting energy.

  So much so that, in that letter which you saw me reading, he informs me that he has just been awarded the Order of the Crimson Edelweiss, Third Class, with crossed cuckoo-clocks, carrying with it the right to yodel in the presence of the Vice-President. A great honour for so young a man.

  7 BEST SELLER

  A sharp snort, plainly emanating from a soul in anguish, broke the serene silence that brooded over the bar-parlour of the Angler’s Rest. And, looking up, we perceived Miss Postlethwaite, our sensitive barmaid, dabbing at her eyes with a dishcloth.

  ‘Sorry you were troubled,’ said Miss Postlethwaite, in answer to our concerned gaze, ‘but he’s just gone off to India, leaving her standing tight-lipped and dry-eyed in the moonlight outside the old Manor. And her little dog has crawled up and licked her hand, as if he understood and sympathized.’

  We stared at one another blankly. It was Mr Mulliner who, with his usual clear insight, penetrated to the heart of the mystery.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Mulliner, ‘you have been reading “Rue for Remembrance”, I see. How did you like it?’

  “Slovely,’ said Miss Postlethwaite. ‘It lays the soul of Woman bare as with a scalpel.’

  ‘You do not consider that there is any falling off from the standard of its predecessors? You find it as good as “Parted Ways”?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Oh!’ said a Stout and Bitter, enlightened. ‘You’re reading a novel?’

  ‘The latest work,’ said Mr Mulliner, ‘from the pen of the authoress of “Parted Ways”, which, as no doubt you remember, made so profound a sensation some years ago. I have a particular interest in this writer’s work, as she is my niece.’

  ‘Your niece?’

  ‘By marriage. In private life she is Mrs Egbert Mulliner.’ He sipped his hot Scotch and lemon, and mused a while.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you would care to hear the story of my nephew Egbert and his bride? It is a simple little story, just one of those poignant dramas of human interest which are going on in our midst every day. If Miss Postlethwaite is not too racked by emotion to replenish my glass, I shall be delighted to tell it to you.

  I will ask you (said Mr Mulliner) to picture my nephew Egbert standing at the end of the pier at the picturesque little resort of Burwash Bay one night in June, trying to nerve himself to ask Evangeline Pembury the question that was so near his heart. A hundred times he had tried to ask it, and a hundred times he had lacked the courage. But to-night he was feeling in particularly good form, and he cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘There is something,’ he said in a low, husky voice, ‘that I want to ask you.’

  He paused. He felt strangely breathless. The girl was looking out across the moonlit water. The night was very still. From far away in the distance came the faint strains of the town band, as it picked its way through the Star of Eve song from Tannhäuser —somewhat impeded by the second trombone, who had got his music-sheets mixed and was playing ‘The Wedding of the Painted Doll’.’

  ‘Something,’ sai
d Egbert, ‘that I want to ask you.’

  ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

  Again he paused. He was afraid. Her answer meant so much to him.

  Egbert Mulliner had come to this quiet seaside village for a rest cure. By profession he was an assistant editor, attached to the staff of The Weekly Booklover, and, as every statistician knows, assistant editors of literary weeklies are ranked high up among the Dangerous Trades. The strain of interviewing female novelists takes toll of the physique of all but the very hardiest.

  For six months, week in and week out, Egbert Mulliner had been listening to female novelists talking about Art and their Ideals. He had seen them in cosy corners in their boudoirs, had watched them being kind to dogs and happiest when among their flowers. And one morning the proprietor of The Booklover, finding the young man sitting at his desk with little flecks of foam about his mouth and muttering over and over again in a dull, toneless voice the words, Aurelia McGoggin, she draws her inspiration from the scent of white lilies!’ had taken him straight off to a specialist.

  ‘Yes,’ the specialist had said, after listening at Egbert’s chest for a while through a sort of telephone, ‘we are a little run down, are we not? We see floating spots, do we not, and are inclined occasionally to bark like a seal from pure depression of spirit? Precisely. What we need is to augment the red corpuscles in our bloodstream.’

  And this augmentation of red corpuscles had been effected by his first sight of Evangeline Pembury. They had met at a picnic. As Egbert rested for a moment from the task of trying to dredge the sand from a plateful of chicken salad, his eyes had fallen on a divine girl squashing a wasp with a teaspoon. And for the first time since he had tottered out of the offices of The Weekly Booklover he had ceased to feel like something which a cat, having dragged from an ash-can, has inspected and rejected with a shake of the head as unfit for feline consumption. In an instant his interior had become a sort of Jamboree of red corpuscles. Millions of them were splashing about and calling gaily to other millions, still hesitating on the bank: ‘Come on in! The blood’s fine!’