Hypatia uttered a sharp exclamation.
‘Is this a time,’ she cried passionately’, ‘to talk of beetles?’
‘Well, you know, don’t you know,’ said Ronald, with a touch of apology in his voice, ‘they seem rather to force themselves on your attention when they get down your back. I daresay you’ve had the same experience yourself. I don’t suppose in the ordinary way I mention beetles half a dozen times a year, but… I should say the fifth knob would be about the spot now. A good, sharp slosh with plenty of follow-through ought to do the trick.’
Hypatia clenched her hands. She was seething with that febrile exasperation which, since the days of Eve, has come upon women who find themselves linked to a cloth-head.
‘You poor sap,’ she said tensely. ‘You keep babbling about beetles, and you don’t appear to realize that, if you want to kiss me, you’d better cram in all the kissing you can now, while the going is good. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that after to-night you’re going to fade out of the picture.’
‘Oh, I say, no! Why?’
‘My Uncle Percy arrives this evening.’
‘The Bishop?’
‘Yes. And my Aunt Priscilla.’
‘And you think they won’t be any too frightfully keen on me?’
‘I know they won’t. I wrote and told them we were engaged, and I had a letter this afternoon saying you wouldn’t do.’
‘No, I say, really? Oh, I say, dash it!’
‘“Out of the question”, my uncle said. And underlined it.’
‘Not really? Not absolutely underlined it?’
‘Yes. Twice. In very black ink.’
A cloud darkened the young man’s face. The beetle had begun to try out a few tentative dance-steps on the small of his back, but he ignored it. A Tiller troupe of beetles could not have engaged his attention now.
‘But what’s he got against me?’
‘Well, for one thing he has heard that you were sent down from Oxford.’
‘But all the best men are. Look at What’s-his-name. Chap who wrote poems. Shellac, or some such name.’
‘And then he knows that you dance a lot.’
‘What’s wrong with dancing? I’m not very well up in these things, but didn’t David dance before Saul? Or am I thinking of a couple of other fellows? Anyway, I know that somebody danced before somebody and was extremely highly thought of in consequence.
‘David…’
‘I’m not saying it was David, mind you. It may quite easily have been Samuel.’
‘David…’
‘Or even Nimshi, the son of Bimshi, or somebody like that.’
‘David, or Samuel, or Nimshi the son of Bimshi,’ said Hypatia, ‘did not dance at the Home from Home.’
Her allusion was to the latest of those frivolous night-clubs which spring up from time to time on the reaches of the Thames which are within a comfortable distance from London. This one stood some half a mile from the vicarage gates.
‘Is that what the Bish is beefing about?’ demanded Ronald, genuinely astonished. ‘You don’t mean to tell me he really objects to the Home from Home? Why, a cathedral couldn’t be more rigidly respectable. Does he realize that the place has only been raided five times in the whole course of its existence? A few simple words of explanation will put all this right. I’ll have a talk with the old boy.’
Hypatia shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s no use talking. He has made his mind up. One of the things he said in his letter was that, rather than countenance my union to a worthless worldling like you, he would gladly see me turned into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife, Genesis 19, 26. And nothing could be fairer than that, could it? So what I would suggest is that you start in immediately to fold me in your arms and cover my face with kisses. It’s the last chance you’ll get.’
The young man was about to follow her advice, for he could see that there was much in what she said: but at this moment there came from the direction of the house the sound of a manly voice trolling the Psalm for the Second Sunday after Septuagesima. And an instant later their host, the Rev. Augustine Mulliner, appeared in sight. He saw them and came hurrying across the garden, leaping over the flower-beds with extraordinary lissomness.
‘Amazing elasticity that bird has, both physical and mental,’ said Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne, eyeing Augustine, as he approached, with a gloomy envy. ‘How does he get that way?’
‘He was telling me last night,’ said Hypatia. ‘He has a tonic which he takes regularly. It is called Mulliner’s Buck-U-Uppo, and acts directly upon the red corpuscles.’’I wish he would give the Bish a swig of it,’ said Ronald moodily. A sudden light of hope came into his eyes. ‘I say, Hyp, old girl,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s rather a notion. Don’t you think it’s rather a notion? It looks to me like something of an idea. If the Bish were to dip his beak into the stuff, it might make him take a brighter view of me.’
Hypatia, like all girls who intend to be good wives, made it a practice to look on any suggestions thrown out by her future lord and master as fatuous and futile.
‘I never heard anything so silly,’ she said.
‘Well, I wish you would try it. No harm in trying it, what?’
‘Of course I shall do nothing of the kind.’
‘Well, I do think you might try it,’ said Ronald. ‘I mean, try it, don’t you know.’
He could speak no further on the matter, for now they were no longer alone. Augustine had come up. His kindly face looked grave.
‘I say, Ronnie, old bloke,’ said Augustine, ‘I don’t want to hurry you, but I think I ought to inform you that the Bishes, male and female, are even now on their way up from the station. I should be popping, if I were you. The prudent man looketh well to his going. Proverbs, 14, 15.’
‘All right,’ said Ronald sombrely. ‘I suppose,’ he added, turning to the girl, ‘you wouldn’t care to sneak out to-night and come and have one final spot of shoe-slithering at the Home from Home? It’s a Gala Night. Might be fun, what? Give us a chance of saying good-bye properly, and all that.’
‘I never heard anything so silly,’ said Hypatia, mechanically. ‘Of course I’ll come.’
‘Right-ho. Meet you down the road about twelve then,’ said Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne.
He walked swiftly away, and presently was lost to sight behind the shrubbery. Hypatia turned with a choking sob, and Augustine took her hand and squeezed it gently.
‘Cheer up, old onion,’ he urged. ‘Don’t lose hope. Remember, many waters cannot quench love. Song of Solomon, 5, 7.’
‘I don’t see what quenching love has got to do with it,’ said Hypatia peevishly. ‘Our trouble is that I’ve got an uncle complete with gaiters and a hat with bootlaces on it who can’t see Ronnie with a telescope.’
‘I know.’ Augustine nodded sympathetically. And my heart bleeds for you. I’ve been through all this sort of thing myself. When I was trying to marry Jane, I was stymied by a father-in-law-to-be who had to be seen to be believed. A chap, I assure you, who combined chronic shortness of temper with the ability to bend pokers round his biceps. Tact was what won him over, and tact is what I propose to employ in your case. I have an idea at the back of my mind. I won’t tell you what it is, but you may take it from me it’s the real tabasco.’
‘How kind you are, Augustine!’ sighed the girl.
‘It comes from mixing with Boy Scouts. You may have noticed that the village is stiff with them. But don’t you worry, old girl. I owe you a lot for the way you’ve looked after Jane these last weeks, and I’m going to see you through. If I can’t fix up your little affair, I’ll eat my Hymns Ancient and Modern. And uncooked at that.’
And with these brave words Augustine Mulliner turned two hand-springs, vaulted over the rustic bench, and went about his duties in the parish.
Augustine was rather relieved, when he came down to dinner that night, to find that Hypatia’ was not to be among those present. The girl was taking her m
eal on a tray with Jane, his wife, in the invalid’s bedroom, and he was consequently able to embark with freedom on the discussion of her affairs. As soon as the servants had left the room, accordingly he addressed himself to the task.
‘Now listen, you two dear good souls,’ he said. ‘What I want to talk to you about, now that we are alone, is this business of Hypatia and Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne.’The Lady Bishopess pursed her lips, displeased. She was a woman of ample and majestic build. A friend of Augustine’s, who had been attached to the Tank Corps during the War, had once said that he knew nothing that brought the old days back more vividly than the sight of her. All she needed, he maintained, was a steering-wheel and a couple of machine-guns, and you could have moved her up into any Front Line and no questions asked.
‘Please, Mr Mulliner!’ she said coldly.
Augustine was not to be deterred. Like all the Mulliners, he was at heart a man of reckless courage.
‘They tell me you are thinking of bunging a spanner into the works,’ he said. ‘Not true, I hope?’
‘Quite true, Mr Mulliner. Am I not right, Percy?’
‘Quite,’ said the Bishop.
‘We have made careful enquiries about the young man, and are satisfied that he is entirely unsuitable.’
‘Would you say that?’ said Augustine. A pretty good egg, I’ve always found him. What’s your main objection to the poor lizard?’
The Lady Bishopess shivered.
‘We learn that he is frequently to be seen dancing at an advanced hour, not only in gilded London night-clubs but even in what should be the purer atmosphere of Walsingford-below-Chiveney-on-Thames. There is a resort in this neighbourhood known, I believe, as the Home from Home.’
‘Yes, just down the road,’ said Augustine. ‘It’s a. Gala Night to-night, if you cared to look in. Fancy dress optional.’
‘I understand that he is to be seen there almost nightly. Now, against dancing qua dancing,’ proceeded the Lady Bishopess, ‘I have nothing to say. Properly conducted, it is a pleasing and innocuous pastime. In my own younger days I myself was no mean exponent of the polka, the schottische and the Roger de Coverley. Indeed, it was at a Dance in Aid of the ‘Distressed Daughters of Clergymen of the Church of England Relief Fund that I first met my husband.’
‘Really?’ said Augustine. ‘Well, cheerio!’ he said, draining his glass of port.
‘But dancing, as the term is understood nowadays, is another matter. I have no doubt that what you call a Gala Night would prove, on inspection, to be little less than one of those orgies where perfect strangers of both sexes unblushingly throw coloured celluloid balls at one another and in other ways behave in a manner more suitable to the Cities of the Plain than to our dear England. No, Mr Mulliner, if this young man Ronald Bracy-Gascoigne is in the habit of frequenting places of the type of the Home from Home, he is not a fit mate for a pure young girl like my niece Hypatia. Am I not correct, Percy?’
‘Perfectly correct, my dear.’
‘Oh, right-ho, then,’ said Augustine philosophically, and turned the conversation to the forthcoming Pan-Anglican synod.’
Living in the country had given Augustine Mulliner the excellent habit of going early to bed. He had a sermon to compose on the morrow, and in order to be fresh and at his best in the morning he retired shortly before eleven. And, as he had anticipated an unbroken eight hours of refreshing sleep, it was with no little annoyance that he became aware, towards midnight, of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Opening his eyes, he found that the light had been switched on and that the Bishop of Stortford was standing at his bedside.
‘Hullo!’ said Augustine. Anything wrong?’
The Bishop smiled genially, and hummed a bar or two of the hymn for those of riper years at sea. He was plainly in excellent spirits.
‘Nothing, my dear fellow,’ he replied. ‘In fact, very much the reverse. How are you, Mulliner?’
‘I feel fine, Bish.’
‘I’ll bet you two chasubles to a hassock you don’t feel as fine as I do,’ said the Bishop. ‘It must be something in the air of this place. I haven’t felt like this since Boat Race Night of the year 1893. Wow!’ he continued. ‘Whoopee! How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy tabernacles, O Israel! Numbers, 44, 5.’ And, gripping the rail of the bed, he endeavoured to balance himself on his hands with his feet in the air.
Augustine looked at him with growing concern. He could not rid himself of a curious feeling that there was something sinister behind this ebullience. Often before, he had seen his guest in a mood of dignified animation, for the robust cheerfulness of the other’s outlook was famous in ecclesiastical circles. But here, surely, was something more than dignified animation.
‘Yes,’ proceeded the Bishop, completing his gymnastics and sitting down on the bed, ‘I feel like a fighting-cock, Mulliner. I am full of beans. And the idea of wasting the golden hours of the night in bed seemed so silly that I had to get up and look in on you for a chat. Now, this is what I want to speak to you about, my dear fellow. I wonder if you recollect writing to me — round about Epiphany, it would have been — to tell me of the hit you made in the Boy Scouts pantomime here? You played Sindbad the Sailor, if I am not mistaken?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, what I came here to ask, my dear Mulliner, was this. Can you, by any chance, lay your hand on that Sindbad costume? I want to borrow it, if I may.
‘What for?’
‘Never mind what for, Mulliner. Sufficient for you to know that motives of the soundest churchmanship render it essential for me to have that suit.’
‘Very well, Bish. I’ll find it for you tomorrow.’
‘To-morrow will not do. This dilatory spirit of putting things off, this sluggish attitude of laissez-faire and procrastination, ‘said the Bishop, frowning, ‘are scarcely what I expected to find in you, Mulliner. But there,’ he added, more kindly, ‘let us say no more. Just dig up that Sindbad costume and look slippy about it, and we will forget the whole matter. What does it look like?’
‘Just an ordinary sailor-suit, Bish.’
‘Excellent. Some species of head-gear goes with it, no doubt?’
‘A cap with H.M.S. Blotto on the band.’
‘Admirable. Then, my dear fellow,’ said the Bishop, beaming, ‘if you will just let me have it, I will trouble you no further tonight. Your day’s toil in the vineyard has earned repose. The sleep of the labouring man is sweet. Ecclesiastes, 5, 12.’
As the door closed behind his guest, Augustine was conscious of a definite uneasiness. Only once before had he seen his spiritual superior in quite this exalted condition. That had been two years ago, when they had gone down to Harchester College to unveil the statue of Lord Hemel of Hempstead. On that occasion, he recollected, the Bishop, under the influence of an overdose of Buck-U-Uppo, had not been content with unveiling the statue. He had gone out in the small hours of the night and painted it pink. Augustine could still recall the surge of emotion which had come upon him when, leaning out of the window, he had observed the prelate climbing up the waterspout on his way back to his room. And he still remembered the sorrowful pity with which he had listened to the other’s lame explanation that he was a cat belonging to the cook.
‘Sleep, in the present circumstances, was out of the question. With a pensive sigh, Augustine slipped on a dressing-gown and went downstairs to his study. It would ease his mind, he thought, to do a little work on that sermon of his.
Augustine’s study was on the ground floor, looking on to the garden. It was a lovely night, and he opened the French windows, the better to enjoy the soothing scents of the flowers beyond. Then, seating himself at his desk, he began to work.
The task of composing a sermon which should practically make sense and yet not be above the heads of his rustic flock was always one that caused Augustine Mulliner to concentrate tensely. Soon he was lost in his labour and oblivious to everything but the problem of how to find a word of one syllable that meant Sup
ralapsarianism. A glaze of preoccupation had come over his eyes, and the tip of his tongue, protruding from the left corner of his mouth, revolved in slow circles.
From this waking trance he emerged slowly to the-realization that somebody was speaking his name and that he was no longer alone in the room.
Seated in his arm-chair, her lithe young body wrapped in a green dressing-gown, was Hypatia Wace.
‘Hullo!’ said Augustine, staring. ‘You here?’
‘Hullo,’ said Hypatia. ‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘I thought you had gone to the Home from Home to meet Ronald.’
Hypatia shook her head.
‘We never made it,’ she said. ‘Ronnie rang up to say that he had had a private tip that the place was to be raided to-night. So we thought it wasn’t safe to start anything.’
‘Quite right,’ said Augustine approvingly. ‘Prudence first. Whatsoever thou takest in hand, remember the end and thou shalt never do amiss. Ecclesiastes, 7, 36.’
Hypatia dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
‘I couldn’t sleep, and I saw the light, so I came down. I’m so miserable, Augustine.’
‘About this Ronnie business?’
‘Yes.’
‘There, there. Everything’s going to be hotsy-totsy.’
‘I don’t see how you make that out. Have you heard Uncle Percy and Aunt Priscilla talk about Ronnie? They couldn’t be more off the poor, unfortunate fish if he were the Scarlet Woman of Babylon.’
‘I know. I know. But, as I hinted this afternoon, I have a little plan. I have been giving your case a good deal of thought, and I think you will agree with me that it is your Aunt Priscilla who is the real trouble. Sweeten her, and the Bish will follow her lead. What she thinks to-day, he always thinks to-morrow. In other words, if we can win her over, he will give his consent in a minute. Am I wrong or am I right?’
Hypatia nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right, as far as it goes. Uncle Percy always does what Aunt Priscilla tells him to. But how are you going to sweeten her?’
Mulliner Nights Page 19