Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3824/The Surprise
A Sequel to "The Choice."
Mr. Julius Bannockburn hung up his hat with a bang and stepped angrily into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Bannockburn was comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with the tea-table at her side and a fire blazing.
"That's right," she said placidly, ignoring her husband's very obvious mental disarray,—"just in time for a cup of tea."
"No tea for me," he said darkly.
"Oh, yes. It'll do you good," she replied, and poured some out.
"By the way, how much do you give for this tea?" Mr. Bannockburn sharply inquired.
"Two-and-eight," she replied.
He grunted. "I get excellent tea in the City which retails at two shillings a pound," he said. "Better than this."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Bannockburn, "you don't often have this. This is my tea. You prefer Indian."
"And why so many different kinds of cake?" Mr. Bannockburn went on.
"You wouldn't grudge me those?" she answered. "Surely, even with the war, little things like that might go on?"
Mr. Bannockburn sent his eyes round the room on a tour of critical exploration.
"Yes," he continued, "and how can you do with a fire—at any rate such a fire—on a day like this? The room is like an oven." He scowled murderously at the innocent flames and opened the window.
"I felt distinctly chilly," said Mrs. 'Bannockburn. "Besides, a fire is so much more cheerful."
"Cheerful!" said Mr. Bannockburn with a snarl. "I'm glad something is cheerful."
"My dear," said his wife soothingly, "you're over-worried. You've had a hard day at the office. But I've got something to show you that will make you happy again." She smiled gaily.
"Happy!" Mr. Bannockburn echoed with abysmal bitterness. "Happy!" He groaned.
"Yes, happy," said his wife. "Now drink your tea," she added, "and then light a cigar and tell me all about it."
"Cigars!" said Mr. Bannockburn; "I've done with cigars. At any rate with Havanas. We're on the brink of ruin, I tell you."
"Not any longer," said his wife with a little confident laugh. "That's all right now. Taking the new name was to settle that, you know."
Mr. Bannockburn was attempting to eat a cake, but at these words he gave it up. He struck a match angrily and lit a cigar—a Havana. "Well, what is it you want to show me?" he asked.
"The cards," she said. "They look splendid. Here," and she handed a visiting-card across the table and drew his attention to the delicate copper-plate in which their new name had been inscribed: "Mrs. Julius Bannockburn."
Mr. Bannockburn scowled afresh. "How many of these have you ordered?" he asked anxiously.
"Five hundred for each of us," she replied. "And they're done. They all came this morning."
Mr. Bannockburn groaned again. "What ridiculous haste!" he said. "Where was all the hurry?"
Mrs. Bannockburn laughed. "I must say!" she exclaimed. "You to complain of things being done quickly! I've done all you told me," she continued. "Everything. I sent a notice to the Post Office about the telephone directory, telling them to alter the name. I sent to Kelly's about the London Directory. I told all the tradespeople. I got the cards. I even went further and ordered a few silver labels for your walking-sticks and umbrellas. I thought you would like that."
Mr. Bannockburn puffed at his cigar and said nothing.
"Aren't I a good head clerk?" she went on. "But, after all, when one does change one's name it is wise to go right through with it, isn't it?"
"Yes," said her husband ominously, "when one does change one's name."
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Bannockburn asked sharply. "Has anything gone wrong?"
"Everything," he said. "I've had a notice forbidding changes of name altogether. Everyone has had it."
"When did you get it?" his wife inquired with a flutter.
"To-day."
"Then it's all right," she said excitedly. "We made the change several days ago."
"Yes," replied her husband, "but the notice goes on to say that everyone who has changed since the war began must revert to the name he had before the war commenced. You can't get away from that."
"But we paid for it," Mrs. Bannockburn exclaimed. "We paid for it. Why did they take our money?"
"They didn't know then," said her lord. "It's only just decided by this infernal Government."
Mrs. Bannockburn turned white. "This is terrible," she said. "And how unfair! How grossly unfair! It's not as if we were Germans. I'm not a German at all, and you are merely a German's son, and British to the core. Of course they'll give the money back?"
"It says nothing about that," replied the Briton.
"How very unlike England!" she said.
"Yes," he agreed; "but the point is, apart from the horrible expense of it all, that here we are, saddled with a name which is bound to keep customers away and which we thought we had got rid of for ever. It's horrible. It's wrong. It's a shame." He paced the room furiously.
Mrs. Bannockburn—or, as we now should say, Mrs. Blumenbach—looked in the fire for a few moments in silence. "Well," she said at last, "we must make the best of it, I suppose; we're not paupers anyway, and things are never so bad as one fears. After all, we haven't been to so very much expense. A few cards and so forth. You, dear, can hardly have spent a penny over it."
"Eh," said Mr. Blumenbach sharply—"what?"
"I said that the cost to which we have gone since we changed our name is very trifling," his wife repeated. "You yourself have been put to no expense at all, except perhaps office paper."
Mr. Blumenbach looked suspiciously at her and resumed his walk. "No, no," he said; "that's fortunate certainly."
At this moment a servant entered bringing the post, which included a long roll of paper addressed to "Mrs. Julius Bannockburn."
"I wonder what this can be," she remarked as she reached for a paper-knife.
Her husband snatched it and held it behind him. "Oh, I know all about that," he said; "it's a mistake. It's meant for me, not you."
"But it's addressed to me," said his wife. "Please let me have it."
Mr. Blumenbach for a moment flashed lightning. "Oh, all right," he said, "take it. I might as well confess to my folly, and, after all, I did it as a pleasant surprise for you, even though it's a failure. But I heard about some heraldic fellow, and I got him to draw me up a Bannockburn pedigree. A Scotch one, you know. I was going to have it framed in the hall. Burn the thing without looking at it."
"Was it—was it—very expensive?" his wife asked tremblingly.
"Fifty pounds," he said, half in pride at his own recklessness and half as though having a tooth out.
"Fifty pounds!" Mrs. Blumenbach moaned, and burst into tears.