The Bishop’s Move
Another Sunday was drawing to a close, and Mr. Mulliner had come into the bar-parlour of the Anglers’ Rest wearing on his head, in place of the seedy old wideawake which usually adorned it, a glistening top-hat. From this, combined with the sober black of his costume and the rather devout voice in which he ordered hot Scotch and lemon, I deduced that he had been attending Evensong.
“Good sermon?” I asked.
“Quite good. The new curate preached. He seems a nice young fellow.”
“Speaking of curates,” I said, “I have often wondered what became of your nephew—the one you were telling me about the other day.”
“Augustine?”
“The fellow who took the Buck-U-Uppo.”
“That was Augustine. And I am pleased and not a little touched,” said Mr. Mulliner, beaming, “that you should have remembered the trivial anecdote which I related. In this self-centred world one does not always find such a sympathetic listener to one’s stories. Let me see, where did we leave Augustine?”
“He had just become the bishop’s secretary and gone to live at the Palace.”
“Ah, yes. We will take up his career, then, some six months after the date which you have indicated.”
It was the custom of the good Bishop of Stortford—for, like all the prelates of our Church, he loved his labours—to embark upon the duties of the day (said Mr. Mulliner) in a cheerful and jocund spirit. Usually, as he entered his study to dispatch such business as might have arisen from the correspondence which had reached the Palace by the first post, there was a smile upon his face and possibly upon his lips a snatch of some gay psalm. But on the morning on which this story begins an observer would have noted that he wore a preoccupied, even a sombre, look. Reaching the study door, he hesitated as if reluctant to enter; then, pulling himself together with a visible effort, he turned the handle.
“Good morning, Mulliner, my boy,” he said. His manner was noticeably embarrassed.
Augustine glanced brightly up from the pile of letters which he was opening.
“Cheerio, Bish. How’s the lumbago today?”
“I find the pain sensibly diminished, thank you, Mulliner—in fact, almost nonexistent. This pleasant weather seems to do me good. For lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. Song of Solomon 2:11–12.”
“Good work,” said Augustine. “Well, there’s nothing much of interest in these letters so far. The Vicar of St. Beowulf’s in the West wants to know, How about incense?”
“Tell him he mustn’t.”
“Right ho.”
The bishop stroked his chin uneasily. He seemed to be nerving himself for some unpleasant task.
“Mulliner,” he said.
“Hullo?”
“Your mention of the word ‘vicar’ provides a cue, which I must not ignore, for alluding to a matter which you and I had under advisement yesterday—the matter of the vacant living of Steeple Mummery.”
“Yes?” said Augustine eagerly. “Do I click?”
A spasm of pain passed across the bishop’s face. He shook his head sadly.
“Mulliner, my boy,” he said. “You know that I look upon you as a son and that, left to my own initiative, I would bestow this vacant living on you without a moment’s hesitation. But an unforeseen complication has arisen. Unhappy lad, my wife has instructed me to give the post to a cousin of hers. A fellow,” said the bishop bitterly, “who bleats like a sheep and doesn’t know an alb from a reredos.”
Augustine, as was only natural, was conscious of a momentary pang of disappointment. But he was a Mulliner and a sportsman.
“Don’t give it another thought, Bish,” he said cordially. “I quite understand. I don’t say I hadn’t hopes, but no doubt there will be another along in a minute.”
“You know how it is,” said the bishop, looking cautiously round to see that the door was closed. “It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop than with a brawling woman in a wide house. Proverbs 21:9.”
“A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike. Proverbs 27:15,” agreed Augustine.
“Exactly. How well you understand me, Mulliner.”
“Meanwhile,” said Augustine, holding up a letter, “here’s something that calls for attention. It’s from a bird of the name of Trevor Entwhistle.”
“Indeed? An old schoolfellow of mine. He is now Headmaster of Harchester, the foundation at which we both received our early education. What does he say?”
“He wants to know if you will run down for a few days and unveil a statue which they have just put up to Lord Hemel of Hempstead.”
“Another old schoolfellow. We called him Fatty.”
“There’s a postscript over the page. He says he still has a dozen of the ’87 port.”
The bishop pursed his lips.
“These earthly considerations do not weigh with me so much as old Catsmeat—as the Reverend Trevor Entwhistle seems to suppose. However, one must not neglect the call of the dear old school. We will certainly go.”
“We?”
“I shall require your company. I think you will like Harchester, Mulliner. A noble pile, founded by the seventh Henry.”
“I know it well. A young brother of mine is there.”
“Indeed? Dear me,” mused the bishop, “it
