Evening Star Newspaper, September 27, 1936, Page 85

September 27, 1936 We will not dwell in detail on the agony of spirit endured by my nephew Brancepeth in the days that followed this poignant conversation. The spec- tacle of a sensitive artist soul on the rack is never a pleasant one. What with brooding on his shattered ro- mance and trying to paint Lord Brom- borough's portrait and watching Edwin Potter bleating round Muriel and not being able to think of a funny animal for the movies, it is little won- der that before the end of the first week he had become an object to excite the pity of the tender-hearted. Phipps, the butler, was tender- hearted. He yearned to do something to ameliorate the young man’s lot. The method that suggested itself to him was to take a bottle of champagne to the young man'’s room. So Phipps, on the fifth night of Brancepeth’s visit, went to his room, and found him lying on his bed in striped pajamas, staring at the ceiling. The day that was now drawing to a close had been a particularly bad one for Brancepeth. He had found himself chafing beneath Lord Brom- borough’s moustache in a spirit of sullen rebellion. Before the afternoon sitting was over, he had become con- scious of a vivid feeling of hatred for the thing. He longed for the courage to get at it with a hatchet, after the manner of a pioneer in some wild coun- try hewing a clearing in the surround- ing jungle. When Phipps found him, his fists were clenched and he was biting his lower lip. “I have brought you a little cham- pagne, sir,” said Phipps, in his kindly way. “It occurred to me that you might be in need of a restorative.” Brancepeth was touched. *“That's awfully good of you. I am feeling rather fagged. The weather, I suppose.” A gentle smile played over the but- ler’'s face as he watched the young man put away a couple quick. ‘No, sir. 1 do not think it is the weather. You may be quite frank with me, sir. I understand. It must be a very wear- ing task, painting his lordship. Several artists have had to give it up. There was a young fellow here in the spring - of last year who had to be removed to the cottage hospital. His manner had been strange and moody for some days, and one night we found him on a ladder, in the nude, tearing away at the ivy on the west wall. His lord- ship’s moustache had been too much for him."” Brancepeth groaned. He knew just how his brother artist must have felt. ““The ironical thing,” continued the butler, “is that conditions would be just as bad were the moustache non- existent. I have been in service at the Hall for a number of years, and I can assure you that his lordship was fully as hard on the eye when he was clean- shaven.” ‘“Why, what was the matter?"’ ‘“*He had a face like a fish, sir.” Something resembling an electric shock shot through Brancepeth, caus- ing him to quiver in every limb. “A funny fish?"”’ he asked. ‘“Yes, sir. Extremely droll.” There had never been a funny fish on the screen. Funny mice, funny cats, funny dogs — Brancepeth stared be- fore him with glowing eyes. ‘‘Yes, sir, when his lordship began to grow a moustache, 1 was relieved. It seemed to me that it must be a change for the better. And so it was at first. But now . . . you know how itis, sir . . . I often find myself wish- . ing those old, happy days were back again. We never know when we are well off, sir, do we?"’ ‘““You would be glad to see the last of Lord Bromborough's moustache?”’ ‘“Yes, sir. Very glad.” “Right,” said Brancepeth. ‘‘Then I'll shave it off.” “‘Shave off his lordship’s mous- tache?"’ gasped Phipps. “This very night.” “But, sir .. ."” “Well?” “The thought that crossed my mind, sir, was — how?"” Brancepeth clicked his tongue im- patiently. “Quite easy. I suppose he likes a little something, last thing at night? Whiskey or what not?" I always bring his lordship a glass of warm milk to the smoking-room.” THIS WEEK Hidden Treasure Continved from poge four ‘“‘Have you taken it to him yet?"” “Not yet, sir.” ““And have you anything in the nature of a sleeping draught?”’ “Yes, sir. His lordship is a poor sleeper in the hot weather and gener- ally takes a tablet of Slumberola in his milk.” ““Then, Phipps, you will slip into his milk tonight not one tablet but four.” ‘“But, sir . . ."” “I know, I know. What you are try- ing to say, I presume, is — what is there in it, for you? 1 will tell you, Phipps. There is a packet in it for you. If Lord Bromborough's face in its stark fundamentals is as you describe it, I can guarantee that in less than no time I shall be bounding about the place trying to evade super-tax. In which event, rest assured that you will get your cut. You are sure of your facts? If I make a clearing in the tangled wild-wood, I shall come eventually to a face like a fish?"” ‘““Yes, sir.” ““A fish with good comedy values?”’ ““Oh, yes, sir. Till it began to get me down, many is the laugh I had at the sight of it.” ‘““That is all I wish to know. Well, Phipps, can I count on your co-opera- tion? I may add that this means my life’s happiness.” The butler was plainly moved. “Well, sir, I wouldn’t wish to come between a young gentleman and his life’s happiness. I will do as you re- quest, sir.” *I knew that I could rely on you,” said Brancepeth with emotion. “‘All that remains, then, is for you to show me Lord Bromborough's room.” “In the summer months when the nights are sultry, his lordship does not sleep in his room; he reposes in a hammock slung between two trees on the lawn.” “l know the hammock,” said Brancepeth tenderly. “Well, that’s fine, then. The thing’s in the bag.” Brancepeth’s first impression on waking next morning was that he had had a strange and beautiful dream. It was vivid, lovely, all about stealing out of the house in striped pajamas and dressing gown, armed with a pair of scissors, and stooping over the hammock where Lord Brom- borough lay and razing his great moustache to its foundations. And he was just heaving a wistful sigh and wishing it were true, when he found that it was. It all came back to him — the furtive sneak downstairs, the wary passage of the lawn, the snip- snip-snip of the scissors blending with a strong man’s snores in the silent night. The thing had actually occurred ! It was not Brancepeth’s custom, as a rule, to spring from his bed at the beginning of a new day, but he did so now. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before he was on his way to the breakfast room. Only Phipps, however, was in the breakfast room. He was lighting wicks under the hot dishes on the sideboard. Brancepeth greeted him jovially. ““Good morning, Phipps. What ho, what ho, with a hey nonny nonny and a hot cha cha.” The butler was looking nervous. ““Good morning, sir. Er — might I ask, sir . . .” ““Oh, yes,” said Brancepeth. ‘“The operation was a complete success. Everything went according to plan.” “I am very glad to hear it, sir.”” “Tell me, Phipps,” said Brance- peth, helping himself buoyantly to a fried egg and a bit of bacon, “‘what sort of a fish did Lord Bromborough look like before he had a moustache?”’ The butler reflected. ‘‘Well, sir, I don’t know if you have seen Sidney, the Sturgeon?” “Eh?"” , *On the pictures, sir. I recently at- tended a cinematographic perform- ance at Norwich —it was on my afternoon off last week — and,” said Phipps, chuckling gently at the rec- ollection, ‘“‘they were showing a most entertaining new feature, ‘The Ad- ventures of Sidney, the Sturgeon.’ This sturgeon looked extremely like his lordship used to in the old days.” He drifted from the room and Brancepeth stared after him, stunned. His air castles had fallen about him in ruins. Fame, fortune and married bliss were as far away from him as ever. If there was already a funny fish on the silver screen, it would be mere waste of time to do another. He clasped his head in his hands and groaned over his fried egg. And, as he did so, the door opened. “Ha!” said Lord Bromborough. “‘Good morning, good morning.” Brancepeth spun round with a sharp jerk. There before him stood Lord Bromborough, but not a hair of his moustache was missing. ‘“Eh, what?” said Lord Brom- borough, sniffing. ‘‘Kedgeree? Capital, capital.” He headed purposefully for the sideboard. The door opened again, and Edwin Potter came in. He seemed worried. “I say,” he said, ‘““my father’s missing."” “On how many cylinders?”’ asked Lord Bromborough. He was a man who liked his joke of a morning. *I mean to say,” continued Edwin Potter, “I can’t find him. I went to speak to him, and his bed had not been slept in.” Lord Bromborough was dishing kedgeree on to a plate. “That’s all right,”” he said. ‘“‘He wanted to try my hammock last night, so I let him.If he slept as soundly as I did, he slept well. I became drowsy as I was finishing my glass of hot milk and I woke this moming in an ‘arm-chair in the smok- ing-room. Ah, my dear,” he went on, as Muriel entered, ‘‘come along and try this kedgeree. It smells excellent. I was just telling our young friend here that his father slept in my ham- mock last night.” Muriel’s face was wearing a look of perplexity. “Out in the garden?”’ *“Of course. You know where my hammock is.” “Then there must be a goat in the garden.” “Goat?” said Lord Bromborough. “What do you mean, goat? Why should there be a goat in the garden?”’ “Because something has eaten off Sir Preston’s moustache.” “What!” “Yes. I met him outside, and the shrubbery had completely disap- peared. Here he is. Look!” 8 What seemed at first to Brancepeth a total stranger was standing in the doorway. It was only when the new- comer folded his arms and began to speak in the familiar, rasping voice that he recognized Sir Preston Potter, Bart. “So!” said Sir Preston, directing at Lord Bromborough a fiery glance. Lord Bromborough finished his kedgeree and looked up. “Ah, Potter,” he said. ‘“‘Shaved your moustache, have you? Very sensible. It would never have amounted to anything, and you will be happier without it.” Flame shot from Sir Preston Pot- ter’s eye. ‘“‘Bromborough,” he snarled, “I have only five things to say to you. The first is that you are the lowest, foulest fiend that ever disgraced the pure pages of Debrett; the second, that your dastardly act in clipping off my moustache shows you to be a craven who knew that defeat stared him in the eye and that only thus could he hope to triumph; the third, that I intend to approach my lawyer immediately with a view to taking legal action; the fourth is good-bye for ever; and the fifth —" “But, my dear fellow, you seem to be suggesting that I had something to do with this. I approve of what has happened, yes. I approve of it heartily. Norfolk will be a sweeter and better place to live in now that this has occurred. But it was none of my doing.” Lord Bromborough protested. *““The fifth thing I wish to say is that the engagement between my son and your daughter is at an end.” “Like your moustache. Ha, ha!’ said Lord Bromborough. “Oh, but, Father!” cried Edwin Potter. “I mean, dash it!" “And 7 mean,” thundered Sir Pres- ton, ‘“‘that your engagement is at an end.” He turned @and strode from the room, followed by Edwin, protesting bleatingly. Lord Bromborough took a cigarette from his case. “Silly old ass,” he said. “‘I expect that moustache of his was clipped off by a body of public-spirited citizens. It is absurd to suppose that a man could grow a beastly, weedy caricature of a moustache like Potter’s without inflaming popular feeling. No doubt they have been lying in wait for him for months. Well, my dear, so your wedding’s off. A nuisance in a way of course, for I'd just bought a new pair of trousers to give you away in. Still, it can’t be helped.” “No, it can’t be helped,” said Muriel. ‘‘Besides, there will be another one along in a minute.” She shot a tender smile at Brance- peth, but on his lips there was no answering simper. What did it profit him, he was ask- ing himself bitterly, that the wedding was off? He, himself, could never marry Muriel. He was a penniless artist without prospects. He would never invent a comic animal for the movies now. There had been an instant when he had hoped that Sir Preston’s un- covered face might suggest one, but the hope had died at birth. Sir Preston Potter, without his moustache, had merely looked like a man without a moustache. He became aware that his host was addressing him. “I beg your pardon?” “I said, ‘Got a light?’ ”* *‘Oh, sorry,” said Brancepeth. He took out his lighter and gave it a twiddle. Then, absently, he put the flame to the cigarette between his host’s lips. Or rather, for preoccupa- tion had temporarily destroyed his judgment of distance, to the mous- tache that billowed above and around it. And the next moment there was a sheet of flame and a cloud of acrid smoke. When this had cleared away, only a little smouldering stubble was left of what had once been one of Norfolk’s two most outstanding eye- sores. A barely human cry rent the air, but Brancepeth hardly heard it. He was staring like one in a trance at the face that confronted him through the shredding mists, fascinated by the short, broad nose, the bulging eyes, the mouth that gaped and twitched. It was only when his host made a swift dive across the table with bared teeth and clutching hands that pru- dence returned to its throne. Brance- peth slid under the table and came out on the other side. “Catch him!* cried the infuriated peer. ““Trip him up! Sit on his head " “Certainly not,” said Muriel. *He is the man I love.” “Is he! said Lord Bromborough, breathing heavily as he crouched for another spring. “Well, he's the man I am going to choke to death.” *“I think I should nip through the window, darling,”” said Muriel gently. Brancepeth weighed the advice hastily and found it good. The window giving on to the gravel drive, was, he perceived, open at the bottom. The sweet summer air floated in, and an instant later he was floating out. As he rose from the gravel, something solid struck him on the back of the head. It was a coffee pot. But coffee pots, however shrewdly aimed, mattered little to Brancepeth contusion, and he had in addition skinned both hands and one of his knees. His trousers, moreover, had a large hole in them. Nevertheless, his heart was singing within him. For Phipps had been wrong. Phipps (Continved on page 15) Ostermoor 13 [ “ou MustHaveSpent Years on Shorthand” **NO; I Learned it in 6 WEEKS!” ER employer aloud. Baker. No one learn short- hand in six weeks. 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