Mr. Mulliner Stories · Came the Dawn (2/2)

Youth is a resilient period. With all his worldly prospects swept away and a large bruise on his person which made it uncomfortable for him to assume a sitting posture, you might have supposed that the return of Lancelot Mulliner from Putney would have resembled that of the late Napoleon from Moscow. Such, however, was not the case. What, Lancelot asked himself as he rode back to civilization on top of an omnibus, did money matter? Love, true love, was all. He would go to Lord Biddlecombe and tell him so in a few neatly-chosen words. And his lordship, moved by his eloquence, would doubtless drop a well-bred tear and at once see that the arrangements for his wedding to Angela⁠—for such, he had learned, was her name⁠—were hastened along with all possible speed. So uplifted was he by this picture that he began to sing, and would have continued for the remainder of the journey had not the conductor in a rather brusque manner ordered him to desist. He was obliged to content himself until the bus reached Hyde Park Corner by singing in dumb show.

The Earl of Biddlecombe’s town residence was in Berkeley Square. Lancelot rang the bell and a massive butler appeared.

“No hawkers, street criers, or circulars,” said the butler.

“I wish to see Lord Biddlecombe.”

“Is his lordship expecting you?”

“Yes,” said Lancelot, feeling sure that the girl would have spoken to her father over the morning toast and marmalade of a possible visit from him.

A voice made itself heard through an open door on the left of the long hall.

“Fotheringay.”

“Your lordship?”

“Is that the feller?”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Then bring him in, Fotheringay.”

“Very good, your lordship.”

Lancelot found himself in a small, comfortably-furnished room, confronting a dignified-looking old man with a patrician nose and small side-whiskers, who looked like something that long ago had come out of an egg.

“Afternoon,” said this individual.

“Good afternoon, Lord Biddlecombe,” said Lancelot.

“Now, about these trousers.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“These trousers,” said the other, extending a shapely leg. “Do they fit? Aren’t they a bit baggy round the ankles? Won’t they jeopardize my social prestige if I am seen in them in the Park?”

Lancelot was charmed with his affability. It gave him the feeling of having been made one of the family straight away.

“You really want my opinion?”

“I do. I want your candid opinion as a God-fearing man and a member of a West-End tailoring firm.”

“But I’m not.”

“Not a God-fearing man?”

“Not a member of a West-End tailoring firm.”

“Come, come,” said his lordship, testily. “You represent Gusset and Mainprice, of Cork Street.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then who the devil are you?”

“My name is Mulliner.”

Lord Biddlecombe rang the bell furiously.

“Fotheringay!”

“Your lordship?”

“You told me this man was the feller I was expecting from Gusset and Mainprice.”

“He certainly led me to suppose so, your lordship.”

“Well, he isn’t. His name is Mulliner. And⁠—this is the point, Fotheringay. This is the core and centre of the thing⁠—what the blazes does he want?”

“I could not say, your lordship.”

“I came here, Lord Biddlecombe,” said Lancelot, “to ask your consent to my immediate marriage with your daughter.”

“My daughter?”

“Your daughter.”

“Which daughter?”

“Angela.”

“My daughter Angela?”

“Yes.”

“You want to marry my daughter Angela?”

“I do.”

“Oh? Well, be that as it may,” said Lord Biddlecombe, “can I interest you in an ingenious little combination mousetrap and pencil-sharpener?”

Lancelot was for a moment a little taken aback by the question. Then, remembering what Angela had said of the state of the family finances, he recovered his poise. He thought no worse of this Grecian-beaked old man for ekeing out a slender income by acting as agent for the curious little object which he was now holding out to him. Many of the aristocracy, he was aware, had been forced into similar commercial enterprises by recent legislation of a harsh and Socialistic trend.

“I should like it above all things,” he said, courteously. “I was thinking only this morning that it was just what I needed.”

“Highly educational. Not a toy. Fotheringay, book one Mouso-Penso.”

“Very good, your lordship.”

“Are you troubled at all with headaches, Mr. Mulliner?”

“Very seldom.”

“Then what you want is Clark’s Cure for Corns. Shall we say one of the large bottles?”

“Certainly.”

“Then that⁠—with a year’s subscription to Our Tots⁠—will come to precisely one pound, three shillings, and sixpence. Thank you. Will there be anything further?”

“No, thank you. Now, touching the matter of⁠—”

“You wouldn’t care for a scarf-pin? Any ties, collars, shirts? No? Then goodbye, Mr. Mulliner.”

“But⁠—”

“Fotheringay,” said Lord Biddlecombe, “throw Mr. Mulliner out.”

As Lancelot scrambled to his feet from the hard pavement of Berkeley Square, he was conscious of a rush of violent anger which deprived him momentarily of speech. He stood there, glaring at the house from which he had been ejected, his face working hideously. So absorbed was he that it was some time before he became aware that somebody was plucking at his coat-sleeve.

“Pardon me, sir.”

Lancelot looked round. A stout smooth-faced man with horn-rimmed spectacles was standing beside him.

“If you could spare me a moment⁠—”

Lancelot shook him off impatiently. He had no desire at a time like this to chatter with strangers. The man was babbling something, but the words made no impression upon his mind. With a savage scowl, Lancelot snatched the fellow’s umbrella from him and, poising it for an instant, flung it with a sure aim through Lord Biddlecombe’s study window. Then, striding away, he made for Berkeley Street. Glancing over his shoulder as he turned the corner, he saw that Fotheringay, the butler, had come out of the house and was standing over the spectacled man with a certain quiet menace in his demeanour. He was rolling up his sleeves, and his fingers were twitching a little.

Lancelot dismissed the man from his thoughts. His whole mind now was concentrated on the coming interview with Angela. For he had decided that the only thing to do was to seek her out at her club, where she would doubtless be spending the afternoon, and plead with her to follow the dictates of her heart and, abandoning parents and wealthy suitors, come with her true mate to a life of honest poverty sweetened by love and vers libre.

Arriving at the Junior Lipstick, he inquired for her, and the hall-porter dispatched a boy in buttons to fetch her from the billiard-room, where she was refereeing the finals of the Débutantes’ Shove-Ha’penny Tournament. And presently his heart leaped as he saw her coming towards him, looking more like a vision of Springtime than anything human and earthly. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder, and as she approached she inserted a monocle inquiringly in her right eye.

“Hullo, laddie!” she said. “You here? What’s on the mind besides hair? Talk quick. I’ve only got a minute.”

“Angela,” said Lancelot, “I have to report a slight hitch in the programme which I sketched out at our last meeting. I have just been to see my uncle and he has washed his hands of me and cut me out of his will.”

“Nothing doing in that quarter, you mean?” said the girl, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully.

“Nothing. But what of it? What matters it so long as we have each other? Money is dross. Love is everything. Yes, love indeed is light from heaven, a spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire. Give me to live with Love alone, and let the world go dine and dress. If life’s a flower, I choose my own. ’Tis Love in Idleness. When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind! Come, Angela, let us read together in a book more moving than the Koran, more eloquent than Shakespeare, the book of books, the crown of all literature⁠—Bradshaw’s Railway Guide. We will turn up a page and you shall put your finger down, and wherever it rests there we will go, to live forever with our happiness. Oh, Angela, let us⁠—”

“Sorry,” said the girl. “Purvis wins. The race goes by the form-book after all. There was a time when I thought you might be going to crowd him on the rails and get your nose first under the wire with a quick last-minute dash, but apparently it is not to be. Deepest sympathy, old crocus, but that’s that.”

Lancelot staggered.

“You mean you intend to marry this Purvis?”

“Pop in about a month from now at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and see for yourself.”

“You would allow this man to buy you with his gold?”

“Don’t overlook his diamonds.”

“Does love count for nothing? Surely you love me?”

“Of course I do, my desert king. When you do that flat-footed Black Bottom step with the sort of wiggly twiggle at the end, I feel as if I were eating plovers’ eggs in a new dress to the accompaniment of heavenly music.” She sighed. “Yes, I love you, Lancelot. And women are not like men. They do not love lightly. When a woman gives her heart, it is forever. The years will pass, and you will turn to another. But I shall not forget. However, as you haven’t a bob in the world⁠—” She beckoned to the hall-porter. “Margerison.”

“Your ladyship?”

“Is it raining?”

“No, your ladyship.”

“Are the front steps clean?”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Then throw Mr. Mulliner out.”

Lancelot leaned against the railings of the Junior Lipstick, and looked out through a black mist upon a world that heaved and rocked and seemed on the point of disintegrating into ruin and chaos. And a lot he would care, he told himself bitterly, if it did. If Seamore Place from the west and Charles Street from the east had taken a running jump and landed on the back of his neck, it would have added little or nothing to the turmoil of his mind. In fact, he would rather have preferred it.

Fury, as it had done on the pavement of Berkeley Square, robbed him of speech. But his hands, his shoulders, his brows, his lips, his nose, and even his eyelashes seemed to be charged with a silent eloquence. He twitched his eyebrows in agony. He twiddled his fingers in despair. Nothing was left now, he felt, as he shifted the lobe of his left ear in a nor’-nor’-easterly direction, but suicide. Yes, he told himself, tightening and relaxing the muscles of his cheeks, all that remained now was death.

But, even as he reached this awful decision, a kindly voice spoke in his ear.

“Oh, come now, I wouldn’t say that,” said the kindly voice.

And Lancelot, turning, perceived the smooth-faced man who had tried to engage him in conversation in Berkeley Square.

“Say, listen,” said the smooth-faced man, sympathy in each lens of his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Tempests may lower and a strong man stand face to face with his soul, but hope, like a healing herb, will show the silver lining where beckons joy and life and happiness.”

Lancelot eyed him haughtily.

“I am not aware⁠—” he began.

“Say, listen,” said the other, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I know just what has happened. Mammon has conquered Cupid, and once more youth has had to learn the old, old lesson that though the face be fair the heart may be cold and callous.”

“What⁠—?”

The smooth-faced man raised his hand.

“That afternoon. Her apartment. ‘No. It can never be. I shall wed a wealthier wooer.’ ”

Lancelot’s fury began to dissolve into awe. There seemed something uncanny in the way this total stranger had diagnosed the situation. He stared at him, bewildered.

“How did you know?” he gasped.

“You told me.”

“I?”

“Your face did. I could read every word. I’ve been watching you for the last two minutes, and, say, boy, it was a wow!”

“Who are you?” asked Lancelot.

The smooth-faced man produced from his waistcoat pocket a fountain-pen, two cigars, a packet of chewing-gum, a small button bearing the legend, “Boost for Hollywood,” and a visiting-card⁠—in the order named. Replacing the other articles, he handed the card to Lancelot.

“I’m Isadore Zinzinheimer, kid,” he said. “I represent the Bigger, Better, and Brighter Motion-Picture Company of Hollywood, Cal., incorporated last July for sixteen hundred million dollars. And if you’re thinking of asking me what I want, I want you. Yes, sir! Say, listen. A fellow that can register the way you can is needed in my business; and, if you think money can stop me getting him, name the biggest salary you can think of and hear me laugh. Boy, I use banknotes for summer underclothing, and I don’t care how bad you’ve got the gimme’s if only you’ll sign on the dotted line. Say, listen. A bozo that with a mere twitch of the upper lip can make it plain to one and all that he loves a haughty aristocrat and that she has given him the air because his rich uncle, who is a pickle manufacturer living in Putney, won’t have anything more to do with him, is required out at Hollywood by the next boat if the movies are ever to become an educational force in the truest and deepest sense of the words.”

Lancelot stared at him.

“You want me to come to Hollywood?”

“I want you, and I’m going to get you. And if you think you’re going to prevent me, you’re trying to stop Niagara with a tennis racket. Boy, you’re great! When you register, you register. Your face is as chatty as a board of directors. Say, listen. You know the great thing we folks in the motion-picture industry have got to contend with? The curse of the motion-picture industry is that in every audience there are from six to seven young women with adenoids who will insist on reading out the titles as they are flashed on the screen, filling the rest of the customers with harsh thoughts and dreams of murder. What we’re trying to collect is stars that can register so well that titles won’t be needed. And, boy, you’re the king of them. I know you’re feeling good and sore just now because that beazle in there spurned your honest love; but forget it. Think of your Art. Think of your Public. Come now, what shall we say to start with? Five thousand a week? Ten thousand? You call the shots, and I’ll provide the blank contract and fountain-pen.”

Lancelot needed no further urging. Already love had turned to hate, and he no longer wished to marry Angela. Instead, he wanted to make her burn with anguish and vain regrets; and it seemed to him that Fate was pointing the way. Pretty silly the future Lady Angela Purvis would feel when she discovered that she had rejected the love of a man with a salary of ten thousand dollars a week. And fairly foolish her old father would feel when news reached him of the good thing he had allowed to get away. And racking would be the remorse, when he returned to London as Civilized Girlhood’s Sweetheart and they saw him addressing mobs from a hotel balcony, of his Uncle Jeremiah, of Fotheringay, of Bewstridge, and of Margerison.

A light gleamed in Lancelot’s eye, and he rolled the tip of his nose in a circular movement.

“You consent?” said Mr. Zinzinheimer, delighted. “Attaboy! Here’s the pen and here’s the contract.”

“Gimme!” said Lancelot.

A benevolent glow irradiated the other’s spectacles.

“Came the Dawn!” he murmured. “Came the Dawn!”