Whether it was the drinks, or the smell of the sandalwood, or all this warmth and light after his drab existence, Murchison could not have said, but he felt his whole personality changing and unfolding and flowering as he lay back in the big chair sharing the tranquil silence. The warmth of the fire was lulling him to sleep, and as he drowsed with half-shut eyes it seemed to him as if the face of the bull of Babylon was superimposed upon that of his host, so that the two had become one; and the arm that lay along the padded arm of the big chair, its loose, crimson sleeve catching the fire-light, was the rose-red granite Arm of Power. Whether his dream would have led on to the coming of the Great God Pan himself, was mercifully concealed, for his host arose and phoned for a meal, and they adjourned to a small but beautifully equipped little dining-room, where a dark, lively Italian, the owner of the restaurant, served them with admirable food, openly adoring Brangwyn, and apparently quite accustomed to waiting on birds of paradise. Murchison had felt somewhat embarrassed at appearing before Brangwyn's domestic staff in his flowing robes, but Italians take that sort of thing in their stride.
The proprietor-waiter informed Brangwyn or the ingredients of every course; Murchison would have found this exasperating were it not for the light it threw upon his host as an epicure. Brangwyn evidently sensed his irritation, for he murmured in a low voice when the little man was momentarily absent from the room. ‘One tips an hireling, but one appreciates an artist,’ and Murchison got a yet further insight into his host's nature. The excitable little man, in his second-hand dress-suit, proprietor of a cheap eating-house in a slum, was to be treated as an artist because in his queer way he was an artist.
As Murchison had expected, the talk swung round to his own affairs when they returned to the lounge after dinner. He felt grateful to Brangwyn for his leisurely, Oriental style of diplomacy. It is so much easier to face a thing when one comes to it gradually. But, even so, he was almost rudely secretive in response to the leads his host gave him, because his need was so great, and he was so desperately anxious not to appear to cadge. Brangwyn could learn nothing of his affairs save that he made his home with his brother, had not got any special line of work, and was disengaged at the moment; he guessed the rest, and thought well of his one-time subaltern for leaving him to guess it.
But even the reticence of self-respect can be carried too far, and there were things Brangwyn greatly wished to know about his guest, though he was careful to hide his interest. The fellow might be suitable; and, again, he might not, and he did not wish to commit himself beyond the point where he could readily back out if the latter proved to be the case. But there are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with butter, and he thought that Murchison had had enough butter, and that it was time to cut the cackle and come to the bosses. He shot a sudden, authoritative question at him:
‘What were you up to when I met you, calling upon Pan in front of the British Museum?’
Murchison jumped as if he had been stung, and his fair skin blushed painfully.
‘Raising the devil, I suppose,’ he muttered resentfully, greatly disliking his host's reference to the matter.
‘Why did you wish to raise the devil?’
‘Living with my brother, who's a clergyman, and his wife, who's a clergyman's wife, is apt to make you want to raise the devil if you can't raise the wind.’
Brangwyn saw that nothing was to be obtained by the direct method, so tried the indirect one, watching for reactions.
‘It appeared to me, from what I know of the matter, and I have studied it a good deal, that you were well on the way to obtaining the presence of Pan when I interrupted you.’
Murchison did not answer, but Brangwyn fancied he pricked up his ears.
‘Have you ever seen the invocation performed effectually?’ he continued.
‘No,’ said Murchison uneasily.
‘I have, and the results are very striking.’
‘Does Pan appear in person?’
‘How would you define Pan?’
‘Ah, you have me there. I haven't any idea on the subject, save that he gave his name to panic.’
‘Panic is what he produces in the unprepared, but in those who are prepared for his coming he produces a divine inebriation.’
‘Oh, does he?’ said Murchison sulkily, ‘I prefer beer myself.’
Brangwyn saw that it was inadvisable to pursue the matter further, as the subject seemed a sore one. But as it was sore, he concluded that it was also vital, and ticked off the chief point in favour of the candidature of the unsuspecting Murchison for the matter he had in view. Murchison was reaching out well beyond the veil, whether he knew it or not, and whether he could be got to admit it or not, and as Brangwyn's interests lay exclusively beyond the veil, this was as it should be in a prospective employee.
He came to the point abruptly, ‘Murchison, would you care to consider the offer of a post as secretary-chauffeur with myself. Live in and five pounds a week? It's only temporary, I am afraid, because I am liable to be called abroad at any time, and then the arrangement would have to come to an end, but I would help you to get fixed up with something else after you had finished with me.’ That gave him a bolt-hole if Murchison did not come up to expectations.
Murchison's first reaction was a horrible suspicion that he was being offered charity, and the suspicion made him ungracious.
‘What would the duties be?’ he asked unemotionally, though his heart was fuming over inside him at this extraordinary piece of luck that had come his way after the long years in the wilderness.
‘The duties,’ said Brangwyn, a little puzzled by his manner, ‘would be a certain amount of chauffeuring, as my eyes are not equal to long runs, but mainly odd jobs. Cope with correspondence; tackle tradesmen; keep an eye on Luigi and the chars, and stand between me and the world generally. I am engaged in some rather special work, and there are times when I can't be interrupted; and I want someone with the sense to handle things for me on his own initiative at those times.’
‘My usual salary is three pounds a week and keep myself,’ said Murchison sullenly. ‘Why are you offering me a salary like that? It isn't my market price.’
‘Because it is a position of trust and requires initiative,’ said Brangwyn tactfully, ‘and because the hours are irregular. I believe in paying enough to make the job worth while, and then I secure satisfactory service. Moreover, you will have to dress decently and generally keep up appearances, so it isn't all net profit.’
Murchison was mollified. He looked up with a sudden quick smile that completely changed his face. ‘I'd like the job first-rate,’ he said. ‘I'll do my best for you, you know that.’
‘Splendid!’ said Brangwyn. ‘You can fetch your belongings tomorrow. Meanwhile, I suggest we think about turning in. I hope you won't mind if I put you in my sister's room until I can get one fixed up for you.’
‘Your sister's room?’ demanded Murchison in sudden horror, all his dreams of a delightful bachelor menage falling about his ears.
‘Yes, my sister keeps a couple of rooms as a pied á terre, but she doesn't use them much. I can fix you up quite comfortably upstairs. There's a whole lot of space I have never made any use of in this place.’
Brangwyn rose and led the way up a corkscrew wooden stair in the corner on to the gallery that ran round the room at half its height. He opened a door and entered a small room furnished as a sitting-room, passed through it into a bathroom, and then on into a bedroom, Murchison following him.
‘A complete flat, you see,’ he said, with a wave of his hand. ‘all ready for occupation. We always keep the bed made in case she appears unexpectedly.’
‘Is she likely to appear unexpectedly at the present moment,’ asked Murchison anxiously.
‘I trust not,’ said his host negligently.
‘What time is breakfast?’ Murchison thought that he would not be sorry when the night was safely over.
‘Tennish,’ said Brangwyn, ‘I am a night-worker, I am afraid. But if you ring through on the house-phone in the sitting room, Luigi will bring you rolls and coffee or tea and toast, any time you fancy. Then we have a decent breakfast between 10 and 1. Tea about three, and supper latish, when I've finished work. I find that a better way of breaking up the day than the usual arrangements, which spoils your morning sleep, sends you to bed when you are just beginning to wake up, and lays you dead in the afternoon.’
Murchison acquiesced readily enough. He would have acquiesced if his new employer had suggested cannibalism.
Good-nights having been said, Murchison strewed his clothes all over the room in the manner his sister-in-law had never been able to break him of, and then gathered them up hastily in case the redoubtable Miss Brangwyn returned unexpectedly. He wondered what sort of an old dame she would prove to be. Was she lean and cantankerous, or placid and whale-like? Would she keep an eye on his doings and report to her brother, or want to use him as a lounge lizard? She was the one fly in the ointment of what promised to be a perfect existence, and he found it hard to take her philosophically. Then he remembered his employer's words to the effect that the post was only temporary, and a sudden pang shot through him; he must be careful not to strike his roots too deeply lest the wrench of pulling them up should be too great.
He got into the heavy silk pyjamas that had been lent him, comparing them with the flannelette ones that were waiting in vain for him at Acton. He considered the bed, with its great square frilled pillow and deep rose-coloured eiderdown, but did not feel like sleep. It was by no means late, and he suspected that he had been pushed politely out of the way while his employer got on with whatever it was that occupied him o' nights. He wandered into the sitting-room to see if he could find a book. There were plenty of books here, just as there were downstairs. Miss Brangwyn was evidently a lady with catholic tastes in the literal, but by no means the theological, sense. Modern science and ancient philosophy jostled each other on her shelves, together with many modern novels and a very representative selection of the poets. Embarras de richesse here, thought Murchison, moving from shelf to shelf round the little room. He picked out a book at last. Jung on the Psychology of the Unconscious. What a book for an elderly female who ought to be knitting socks while she read missionary reports! He opened it and glanced at the fly-leaf, saw there a book-plate, looked more closely, and lo, his friend the Babylonian bull stared him in the face, wings neatly folded over his back, great bull-foot advanced, and on his plinth the name Ursula Brangwyn.
Murchison nearly dropped the book in his astonishment, not to say horror. He thrust it hastily back into its place on the shelf, got into bed, turned out the light, and put his head under the bedclothes.
It may have been this last act, or it may have been Brangwyn's cocktails that made him dream. For dream he did, and dreams of a quality he had never had before. He was a vivid dreamer, as are many men whose lives are shut in and inhibited; but his dreams were not particularly vivid that night. They reminded him of the times when he slept through his brother's services and the dronings mingled with his dreams. He thought he heard an organ being played in the distance, and the chanting of a mighty choir drawing near and dying away and drawing near again. He dreamt of the War, and searchlights playing up and down the sky, only they were coloured searchlights, of the colours of the robes he and Brangwyn had worn at dinner. All these things he seemed to be seeing and hearing between sleeping and waking, and they were vague and a long way off.
Then suddenly his dreams came to a focus and became crystal-clear and vividly bright, and he dreamt that at the foot of his bed a woman's head, bodiless, hung in mid-air, no larger than an orange, but vividly living, gazing at him intently. He sat up in bed in his dream and stared back at it open-mouthed, unable even to think. There was a curious likeness to Brangwyn about it. It might have been Brangwyn's daughter, if he had ever had a daughter. It neither spoke nor stirred, but it was alive, for the eyelids blinked from time to time. Then it slowly faded, and he woke up to find that he actually was sitting up in bed, but gazing into the blank emptiness of midnight.
He switched on the bedside stand-lamp and looked round the room. The door was shut and locked as he had left it; but even if it had not been, the vision could not possibly have been of a living woman because of the smallness of the head. He switched off the light and dropped back on to Miss Brangwyn's frilled pillow in disgust. He had dreamt of beautiful females before; they were no particular novelty, and he had read enough of popular psychology, which interested him, to know that night was compensating him for the denials of the day. He dropped off to sleep again, and slept dreamlessly till morning.