The Rise of Henry Morcar by Phyllis Bentley Read Free Book Online

anything else,” said Mrs. Morcar in a wise wifely tone.
    But a few days later the Owl Cut was again out of favour. A few days after that its position was once more retrieved, and Harry, obscurely relieved, prepared to dismiss the matter from his mind. Somehow it had worried him; no doubt it was only part of the general undecipherable mystery of grown-up behaviour, but the obvious distress it caused his father worried him. Why, his father had looked positively haggard as he knocked out his pipe! It was a pleasure to see him now leaning back in his chair and smoking comfortably. Even as he watched, however, the boy saw a faint look of perplexity creep over his father’s face. His heart sank, a core of uneasiness formed in his mind. Sure enough, next day his father came home with tobacco in a different wrapping. The boy watched apprehensively as he unfolded the tinfoil—his father was always neat and careful in his movements—and shredded the tobacco into his pouch.
    â€œYes, this is milder,” he announced with satisfaction.
    But a few days later he was again smoking Owl Cut.
    This matter of the tobacco, apparently so trifling and even silly, really so significant, dragged on for the next three months till it became a protracted nightmare. A whole collection of half-consumed packets gathered in the bookcase drawer; every time Mr. Morcar opened the drawer he began an irritable lament which lasted dreary minutes. Over and over again he explained to his wife, to his son, to Mr. Shaw, to his fellow Councillors, to his cashier and foreman, to anyone who would listen, that hehad smoked Owl Cut for seventeen years and now he could not abide it.
    â€œI must be growing old, Clara,” he joked. “That’s what it is.”
    â€œNonsense,” said Mrs. Morcar firmly.
    Mr. Morcar wrote a letter to the manufacturers complaining that they had let down the quality of their product; they replied in affable terms, denying the charge and sending a selection of all their brands for “such a valued customer” to sample. Mr. Morcar was greatly pleased; an almost childish look of happiness illumined his face as he examined the packets and explained to his son the meaning of the various symbols they bore. He took them next door and displayed them to Mr. Shaw, who was not a pipe-smoker. He wrote a polite note to the manufacturers, promising to let them know his preference when he had smoked a pipeful of each brand; but it was a week before he sampled them. Mrs. Morcar and Harry watched him anxiously. He took a pull or two, held the pipe away from him and looked at it. The moment that followed seemed an eternity. At last he replaced the pipe in his mouth.
    â€œNot bad,” he said.
    Harry gave a long sigh; Mrs. Morcar with a shake rearranged the embroidery on her knee. Presently Mr. Shaw came in, smoking one of his customary cigars.
    â€œWell, how’s the tobacco, Fred?” he enquired.
    â€œI don’t care for it much,” replied Mr. Morcar distastefully.
    Mr. Shaw gave him a sharp glance. “Tell you what, Fred,” he suggested: “I think your digestion’s out of order. You should see your doctor and get a bottle to put it right. What do you think, Mrs. Morcar, eh?”
    Mrs. Morcar seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. “I’ve been telling him so,” she said at last in an airy tone.
    A doctor! Was his father really ill enough to need a doctor? Harry looked at Mr. Shaw, whose sallow eyelids were lowered, then tried to see his father as his neighbour saw him. He perceived with a pang that his father’s mild brown eyes were unnaturally large and burning, the skin tight-drawn across his forehead, his cheeks sunken and pale. He had lost weight too; his waistcoat across which he wore Alderman Morcar’s famous watch-chain hung loose so that the chain drooped and sagged. His hands looked wrinkled, fleshless. Harry got up suddenly and leaving his homework