Mr. Mulliner Stories · A Slice of Life (2/2)

His eyes became sunken. His cheekbones 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 Eskimo, 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 thumbprints 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 uppercut 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 horsewhip, 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 aftereffects, 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.