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diff --git a/1477-0.txt b/1477-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9250a17 --- /dev/null +++ b/1477-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7188 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Toys of Peace, by Saki + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Toys of Peace + + +Author: Saki + + + +Release Date: December 26, 2011 [eBook #1477] +This eText was first posted July 1998 +[Last updated: June 29, 2012] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TOYS OF PEACE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1919 John Lane edition by Jane Duff and David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + THE TOYS OF PEACE + AND OTHER PAPERS + + + * * * * * + + TO + THE 22ND ROYAL FUSILIERS + + * * * * * + + + + +Note + + +Thanks are due to the Editors of the _Morning Post_, the _Westminster +Gazette_, and the _Bystander_ for their amiability in allowing tales that +appeared in these journals to be reproduced in the present volume. + + R. R. + + + + +Contents + + PAGE +A Memoir of H. H. Munro ix +The Toys of Peace 3 +Louise 13 +Tea 21 +The Disappearance of Crispina Umberleigh 29 +The Wolves of Cernogratz 39 +Louis 49 +The Guests 59 +The Penance 67 +The Phantom Luncheon 79 +A Bread and Butter Miss 87 +Bertie’s Christmas Eve 97 +Forewarned 107 +The Interlopers 119 +Quail Seed 129 +Canossa 141 +The Threat 149 +Excepting Mrs. Pentherby 157 +Mark 167 +The Hedgehog 175 +The Mappined Life 185 +Fate 193 +The Bull 201 +Morlvera 209 +Shock Tactics 217 +The Seven Cream Jugs 227 +The Occasional Garden 237 +The Sheep 245 +The Oversight 255 +Hyacinth 265 +The Image of the Lost Soul 277 +The Purple of the Balkan Kings 281 +The Cupboard of the Yesterdays 287 +For the Duration of the War 295 + + + + +HECTOR HUGH MUNRO + + +“When peace comes,” wrote an officer of the 22nd Royal Fusiliers, the +regiment in which Munro was a private and in which he rose to the rank of +lance-sergeant, “Saki will give us the most wonderful of all the books +about the war.” But that book of the war will not be written; for Munro +has died for King and country. In this volume are his last tales. And +it is because these tales, brilliant and elusive as butterflies, hide, +rather than reveal, the character of the man who wrote them, give but a +suggestion of his tenderness and simplicity, of his iron will, of his +splendour in the grip of war, that it is my duty to write these pages +about him, now that he lies in the kind earth of France. It is but to do +what his choice of a pen-name makes me sure he himself would have done +for a friend. + + “Yon rising Moon that looks for us again, + How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; + How oft hereafter, rising, look for us! + Through this same Garden—and for _one_ in vain. + + “And when like her, O Saki, you shall pass + Among the Guests, star-scattered on the grass, + And in your joyous errand reach the spot + Where I made one—turn down an empty glass.” + +The first time that Munro used the name of Saki was, I believe, in 1890, +when he published in the _Westminster Gazette_ the second of the +political satires, which were afterwards collected in a volume, called +_Alice in Westminster_. It was, I think, because the wistful philosophy +of FitzGerald appealed to him, as it did to so many of his +contemporaries, that he chose a pen-name from his verses. He loved the +fleeting beauty of life. “There is one thing I care for and that is +youth,” he once said. And he always remained youthful. It was perfectly +natural for him, although he was then a man of forty, to celebrate the +coming in of a new year by seizing the hands of strangers and flying +round in a great here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush at Oxford Circus, +and, later in the year, to dance in the moonlight round a bonfire in the +country, invoking Apollo with entreaties for sunshine to waken the +flowers. His last tale, _For the Duration of the War_, written when he +was at the front, shows that his spirit remained youthful to the end. +But if he gloried in the beauty of life, he was conscious of its sadness. +Have we any book in which the joy and pain of life are so intimately +blended as they are in _The Unbearable Bassington_? Munro himself +laughed when he was looking through a collection of criticisms of that +novel, some of which emphasised its gaiety and others its poignancy, and +remarked that they would bewilder the people who read them. + +It is not my present purpose to write a biography of my friend. That is +a task which must be discharged later, and an account of his life will be +given in the first volume of the collected edition of his works, which it +is proposed to publish after the war. Nevertheless, before writing of +the transformation wrought in him by the war, it may be well to give a +brief outline of his career. + +Munro was born in 1870 in Burmah, where his father, the late Colonel C. +A. Munro, was stationed. At his christening he was named Hector Hugh. +He belonged to a family with traditions of the two services. His +paternal grandfather had been in the army, and his mother was a daughter +of Rear-Admiral Mercer. Mrs. Munro died when her children were very +young, and Hector, his elder brother and his sister were brought up by +their father’s sisters, two maiden ladies, who were devoted to the +children, but had old-fashioned Scottish ideas of discipline. Their home +was near Barnstaple, a lonely house in a garden shut in by high stone +walls with meadows beyond. The three children had no companions, and +were thrown on their own resources for amusement. One of their +diversions was to produce a newspaper. All through his childhood Hector +professed violent Tory opinions, and at a very early age he began to take +an interest in politics and to read any books or papers dealing with them +that came his way. He loved, above all, the woodlands and the wild +things in them, especially the birds. His delicate health caused his +aunts somewhat to temper their severity in his case, but I fancy they +must have had some difficulty in curbing his high spirits; for he was a +thoroughly human boy and up to every sort of prank. He was sent for a +time to a private school at Exmouth, and when he left it did lessons at +home with his sister’s governess. Later he was sent to Bedford College. + +When school-days were over and Colonel Munro had returned to England for +good, Hector and his sister were taken abroad by their father. They +lived in Normandy and then in Dresden, where the first German words that +Hector learnt were the names of birds, sometimes picked up from strangers +in the zoological gardens. Then came a strenuous series of visits to +German and Austrian cities, which Colonel Munro arranged as much for the +education as the pleasure of his son and daughter. Museums and +picture-galleries were visited everywhere. Hector amused himself by +counting up the number of St. Sebastians in each gallery and making bets +with his sister as to which would have the most. Berlin won with +eighteen. The impression made on Munro by this tour is to be seen in his +books, and in the present volume there are two tales, _The Interlopers_ +and _The Wolves of Cernogratz_, which seem to have been inspired by the +memory of some romantic castle in the heart of Europe. A short play, +_Karl Ludwig’s Window_, which will be published later, is based on an +idea given by a visit to a castle near Prague. + +After a long visit to Davos, Colonel Munro returned with his family to +England and settled in North Devon, where he devoted himself during the +next two years to directing the studies of his son and daughter. Then +came another long visit to Davos, after which Hector left England and +joined the Burmese Mounted Police. He once told me of the feeling of +loneliness he experienced when he first arrived in Burmah, using almost +the same words in which he described Bassington’s sense of isolation in +the colony to which he was sent. That account of the young Englishman +looking enviously at a native boy and girl, racing wildly along in the +joy of youth and companionship, is one of the rare instances of +autobiography in Munro’s works. He was unable to support the Burmese +climate and, after having fever seven times in eleven months, was forced +to return to England. He remained at home for a year and hunted +regularly with his sister during the winter. He then came to London with +the intention of making a literary career for himself. His talent was +recognised by Sir Francis Gould, to whom a friend had given him an +introduction, and he soon began to write for the _Westminster Gazette_. +Two years after he settled in London the publication of the political +satires, based on _Alice in Wonderland_, brought him into prominence as a +wit and a writer to be counted with. Mr. Balfour was his chief butt in +these pieces. He was still, as he always remained, a Conservative, but +he held at the time that Mr. Balfour’s leadership was a weakness to the +party. + +In 1902 Munro went to the Balkans for the _Morning Post_, and later he +became the correspondent of that paper in St. Petersburg, where he was +during the revolution of 1905. + +He left St. Petersburg to represent the _Morning Post_ in Paris, and +returned to London in 1908, where the agreeable life of a man of letters +with a brilliant reputation awaited him. He had a lodging in Mortimer +Street and lived exceedingly simply. It was his custom to pass the +morning in a dressing-gown writing. His writing-pad was usually propped +up with a book to make it slant and he wrote slowly in a very clear hand, +rarely erasing a word or making a correction. His air and the movement +of his hand gave one the impression that he was drawing and not writing. +He almost always lunched at a Lyons bread-shop, partly because it was +economical and partly because, as he said, he got exactly the sort of +luncheon he liked. He cared nothing for money. He had to earn his +living, but he was content as long as he had enough money to supply his +needs. When a friend once suggested a profitable field for his writings, +he dismissed the idea by saying that he was not interested in the public +for which it was proposed that he should write. He loved his art, and, +by refusing to adopt a style that might have appealed to wider circles, +he made himself a place in our literature which, in the opinion of many, +will be lasting. Almost every day he played cards, either in the late +afternoon or in the evening, at the Cocoa Tree Club. The sight of the +wealth of others did not excite his envy. I remember his coming home +from a ball and relating that he had sat at supper next a millionairess, +whose doctor had prescribed a diet of milk-puddings. “I had a hearty +supper,” he said gleefully, “and for all her millions she was unable to +eat anything.” + +Munro was exceedingly generous. He would share his last sovereign with a +friend, and nothing pleased him better than to entertain his friends at +dinner in a club or restaurant. Nothing angered him more than meanness +in others. I remember the indignation with which he spoke of a rich +woman who had refused to give adequate help to a poor person, who stood +in need of it. + +This even life in town, occasionally varied by a visit to a country +house, was rudely disturbed by the shock of war. Munro was in the House +of Commons when Sir Edward Grey made his statement on the position that +this country was to take up. He told me that the strain of listening to +that speech was so great that he found himself in a sweat. He described +the slowness with which the Minister developed his argument and the way +in which he stopped to put on his eye-glasses to read a memorandum and +then took them off to continue, holding the House in suspense. That +night we dined at a chop-house in the Strand with two friends. On our +way Munro insisted on walking at a tremendous pace, and at dinner, when +he ordered cheese and the waiter asked whether he wanted butter, he said +peremptorily: “Cheese, no butter; there’s a war on.” A day or two later +he was condemning himself for the slackness of the years in London and +hiring a horse to take exercise, to which he was little addicted, in the +Park. He was determined to fight. Nothing else was to have been +expected of the man who wrote _When William Came_, a novel in which he +used his supreme gift of irony to rouse his fellow-countrymen from their +torpor and to stir them to take measures for the defence of the country. +_Punch_ declared that there had been no such conversational fireworks +since Wilde, in reviewing this book, but Munro was more gratified by a +word of encouragement sent him by Lord Roberts, after he had read the +book, than by all the praise of the critics. He was over military age +and he was not robust. In the first weeks of the war there seemed little +chance of his being able to become a soldier. “And I have always looked +forward to the romance of a European war,” he said. + +There still hangs in his room in Mortimer Street an old Flemish picture, +which he had picked up somewhere, of horsemen in doublets and plumed +hats, fighting beneath the walls of a city. It was, I think, the only +painting in his possession. Perhaps it was this picture that represented +to him the romance of which he spoke; but he did not hide from himself +the terrible side of war. Happily thoughts about war can be given in his +own words. The following piece appeared in the first edition of the +_Morning Post_ of April 23, 1915, under the title, _An Old Love_— + + “‘I know nothing about war,’ a boy of nineteen said to me two days + ago, ‘except, of course, that I’ve heard of its horrors; yet, + somehow, in spite of the horrors, there seems to be something in it + different to anything else in the world, something a little bit + finer.’ + + “He spoke wistfully, as one who feared that to him war would always + be an unreal, distant, second-hand thing, to be read about in special + editions, and peeped at through the medium of cinematograph shows. + He felt that the thing that was a little bit finer than anything else + in the world would never come into his life. + + “Nearly every red-blooded human boy has had war, in some shape or + form, for his first love; if his blood has remained red and he has + kept some of his boyishness in after life, that first love will never + have been forgotten. No one could really forget those wonderful + leaden cavalry soldiers; the horses were as sleek and prancing as + though they had never left the parade-ground, and the uniforms were + correspondingly spick and span, but the amount of campaigning and + fighting they got through was prodigious. There are other + unforgettable memories for those who had brothers to play with and + fight with, of sieges and ambushes and pitched encounters, of the + slaying of an entire garrison without quarter, or of chivalrous, + punctilious courtesy to a defeated enemy. Then there was the slow + unfolding of the long romance of actual war, particularly of European + war, ghastly, devastating, heartrending in its effect, and yet + somehow captivating to the imagination. The Thirty Years’ War was + one of the most hideously cruel wars ever waged, but, in conjunction + with the subsequent campaigns of the Great Louis, it throws a glamour + over the scene of the present struggle. The thrill that those + far-off things call forth in us may be ethically indefensible, but it + comes in the first place from something too deep to be driven out; + the magic region of the Low Countries is beckoning to us again, as it + beckoned to our forefathers, who went campaigning there almost from + force of habit. + + “One must admit that we have in these Islands a variant from the + red-blooded type. One or two young men have assured me that they are + not in the least interested in the war—‘I’m not at all patriotic, you + know,’ they announce, as one might announce that one was not a + vegetable or did not use a safety-razor. There are others whom I + have met within the recent harrowing days who had no place for the + war crisis in their thoughts and conversations; they would talk by + the hour about chamber-music, Greek folk-dances, Florentine art, and + the difficulty of getting genuine old oak furniture, but the national + honour and the national danger were topics that bored them. One felt + that the war would affect them chiefly as involving a possible + shortage in the supply of eau-de-Cologne or by debarring them from + visiting some favourite art treasure at a Munich gallery. It is + inconceivable that these persons were ever boys, they have certainly + not grown up into men; one cannot call them womanish—the women of our + race are made of different stuff. They belong to no sex and it seems + a pity that they should belong to any nation; other nations probably + have similar encumbrances, but we seem to have more of them than we + either desire or deserve. + + “There are other men among us who are patriotic, one supposes, but + with a patriotism that one cannot understand; it must be judged by a + standard that we should never care to set up. It seems to place a + huckstering interpretation on honour, to display sacred things in a + shop window, marked in plain figures. ‘If we remained neutral,’ as a + leading London morning paper once pleaded, ‘we should be, from the + commercial point of view, in precisely the same position as the + United States. We should be able to trade with all the belligerents + (so far as war allows of trade with them); we should be able to + capture the bulk of their trade in neutral markets; we should keep + our expenditure down; we should keep out of debt; we should have + healthy finances.’ + + “A question was buzzing in my head by the time I had finished reading + those alluring arguments: + + “Some men of noble stock were made; + Some glory in the murder-blade: + Some praise a science or an art, + But I like honourable trade. + + “The poet has given a satiric meaning to the last word but one in + those lines; perhaps that is why they flashed so readily to the mind. + + “One remembers with some feeling of relief the spectacle last August + of boys and youths marching and shouting through the streets in + semi-disciplined mobs, waving the flags of France and Britain. There + is perhaps nothing very patriotic in shouting and flag-waving, but it + is the only way these youngsters had of showing their feelings.” + +When at last Munro managed to enlist in the 2nd King Edward’s Horse, he +was supremely happy. He put on a trooper’s uniform with the exaltation +of a novice assuming the religious habit. But after a few months he +found that he was not strong enough for life in a cavalry regiment and he +arranged to exchange into the 22nd Royal Fusiliers. He chafed at the +long months of training in England and longed to get to the front, but +military discipline was to him something sacred and, whether in England +or in France, he did his utmost to conform himself to it and to force +others to do the same. One of his comrades told me that at the front +they would sometimes put their packs on a passing lorry; it was against +orders, and Munro refused to lighten the strain of a long march in this +way, although the straps of the pack galled his shoulders. + +Twice he was offered a commission, but he refused to take one. He +distrusted his ability to be a good officer and also he desired to go on +fighting side by side with his comrades, one of whom, now an officer and +a prisoner in Germany, had been his friend before the war. I was told by +a man of his company that one day a General was conducted along the +trenches by the Colonel commanding the regiment and recognised Munro, +whom he had met at dinner-parties in London. “What on earth are you +doing here?” he asked, and said that he had a job to be done at the rear +which would be the very thing for him. Munro excused himself from +accepting it. Another opportunity of less arduous work was offered him. +Men who could speak German were ordered to report: interpreters were +wanted to deal with prisoners. Munro reported, but urged that it had +taken him two years to get out to the front and that he desired to remain +there. He was allowed to do as he wished. And his gaiety never left +him. Those who were with him speak of the tales with which he amused +them. He even founded a club in one place at which they were stationed, +and called it the Back Kitchen Club, because the members met in the +kitchen of a peasant’s cottage. + +When he came home on leave, it was evident that the strain of military +life was telling on him. He was thin and his face was haggard. But the +spiritual change wrought in him by the war was greater than the physical. +He told me that he could never come back to the old life in London. And +he wrote asking me to find out from a person in Russia whether it would +be possible to acquire land in Siberia to till and to hunt, and whether a +couple of Yakutsk lads could be got as servants. It was the love of the +woodlands and the wild things in them, that he had felt as a child, +returning. The dross had been burnt up in the flame of war. + +Munro fell in the Beaumont-Hamel action in November 1916. On the 12th he +and his comrades were at Beldancourt. At one o’clock in the morning of +the 14th they went to Mailly. As the men were crossing No-Man’s-Land to +occupy trenches evacuated by the enemy, Munro was shot through the head. + +“Poor Saki! What an admiration we all had for him,” wrote the officer in +command of the 22nd Royal Fusiliers. “I always quoted him as one of the +heroes of the war. I saw daily the appalling discomforts he so +cheerfully endured. He flatly refused to take a commission or in any way +to allow me to try to make him more comfortable. General Vaughan told +him that a brain like his was wasted as a private soldier. He just +smiled. He was absolutely splendid. What courage! The men simply loved +him.” + + ROTHAY REYNOLDS, + +_September 1918_. + + + + +THE TOYS OF PEACE + + +“Harvey,” said Eleanor Bope, handing her brother a cutting from a London +morning paper of the 19th of March, “just read this about children’s +toys, please; it exactly carries out some of our ideas about influence +and upbringing.” + +“In the view of the National Peace Council,” ran the extract, “there are +grave objections to presenting our boys with regiments of fighting men, +batteries of guns, and squadrons of ‘Dreadnoughts.’ Boys, the Council +admits, naturally love fighting and all the panoply of war . . . but that +is no reason for encouraging, and perhaps giving permanent form to, their +primitive instincts. At the Children’s Welfare Exhibition, which opens +at Olympia in three weeks’ time, the Peace Council will make an +alternative suggestion to parents in the shape of an exhibition of ‘peace +toys.’ In front of a specially-painted representation of the Peace +Palace at The Hague will be grouped, not miniature soldiers but miniature +civilians, not guns but ploughs and the tools of industry . . . It is +hoped that manufacturers may take a hint from the exhibit, which will +bear fruit in the toy shops.” + +“The idea is certainly an interesting and very well-meaning one,” said +Harvey; “whether it would succeed well in practice—” + +“We must try,” interrupted his sister; “you are coming down to us at +Easter, and you always bring the boys some toys, so that will be an +excellent opportunity for you to inaugurate the new experiment. Go about +in the shops and buy any little toys and models that have special bearing +on civilian life in its more peaceful aspects. Of course you must +explain the toys to the children and interest them in the new idea. I +regret to say that the ‘Siege of Adrianople’ toy, that their Aunt Susan +sent them, didn’t need any explanation; they knew all the uniforms and +flags, and even the names of the respective commanders, and when I heard +them one day using what seemed to be the most objectionable language they +said it was Bulgarian words of command; of course it _may_ have been, but +at any rate I took the toy away from them. Now I shall expect your +Easter gifts to give quite a new impulse and direction to the children’s +minds; Eric is not eleven yet, and Bertie is only nine-and-a-half, so +they are really at a most impressionable age.” + +“There is primitive instinct to be taken into consideration, you know,” +said Harvey doubtfully, “and hereditary tendencies as well. One of their +great-uncles fought in the most intolerant fashion at Inkerman—he was +specially mentioned in dispatches, I believe—and their great-grandfather +smashed all his Whig neighbours’ hot houses when the great Reform Bill +was passed. Still, as you say, they are at an impressionable age. I +will do my best.” + +On Easter Saturday Harvey Bope unpacked a large, promising-looking red +cardboard box under the expectant eyes of his nephews. “Your uncle has +brought you the newest thing in toys,” Eleanor had said impressively, and +youthful anticipation had been anxiously divided between Albanian +soldiery and a Somali camel-corps. Eric was hotly in favour of the +latter contingency. “There would be Arabs on horseback,” he whispered; +“the Albanians have got jolly uniforms, and they fight all day long, and +all night, too, when there’s a moon, but the country’s rocky, so they’ve +got no cavalry.” + +A quantity of crinkly paper shavings was the first thing that met the +view when the lid was removed; the most exiting toys always began like +that. Harvey pushed back the top layer and drew forth a square, rather +featureless building. + +“It’s a fort!” exclaimed Bertie. + +“It isn’t, it’s the palace of the Mpret of Albania,” said Eric, immensely +proud of his knowledge of the exotic title; “it’s got no windows, you +see, so that passers-by can’t fire in at the Royal Family.” + +“It’s a municipal dust-bin,” said Harvey hurriedly; “you see all the +refuse and litter of a town is collected there, instead of lying about +and injuring the health of the citizens.” + +In an awful silence he disinterred a little lead figure of a man in black +clothes. + +“That,” he said, “is a distinguished civilian, John Stuart Mill. He was +an authority on political economy.” + +“Why?” asked Bertie. + +“Well, he wanted to be; he thought it was a useful thing to be.” + +Bertie gave an expressive grunt, which conveyed his opinion that there +was no accounting for tastes. + +Another square building came out, this time with windows and chimneys. + +“A model of the Manchester branch of the Young Women’s Christian +Association,” said Harvey. + +“Are there any lions?” asked Eric hopefully. He had been reading Roman +history and thought that where you found Christians you might reasonably +expect to find a few lions. + +“There are no lions,” said Harvey. “Here is another civilian, Robert +Raikes, the founder of Sunday schools, and here is a model of a municipal +wash-house. These little round things are loaves baked in a sanitary +bakehouse. That lead figure is a sanitary inspector, this one is a +district councillor, and this one is an official of the Local Government +Board.” + +“What does he do?” asked Eric wearily. + +“He sees to things connected with his Department,” said Harvey. “This +box with a slit in it is a ballot-box. Votes are put into it at election +times.” + +“What is put into it at other times?” asked Bertie. + +“Nothing. And here are some tools of industry, a wheelbarrow and a hoe, +and I think these are meant for hop-poles. This is a model beehive, and +that is a ventilator, for ventilating sewers. This seems to be another +municipal dust-bin—no, it is a model of a school of art and public +library. This little lead figure is Mrs. Hemans, a poetess, and this is +Rowland Hill, who introduced the system of penny postage. This is Sir +John Herschel, the eminent astrologer.” + +“Are we to play with these civilian figures?” asked Eric. + +“Of course,” said Harvey, “these are toys; they are meant to be played +with.” + +“But how?” + +It was rather a poser. “You might make two of them contest a seat in +Parliament,” said Harvey, “an have an election—” + +“With rotten eggs, and free fights, and ever so many broken heads!” +exclaimed Eric. + +“And noses all bleeding and everybody drunk as can be,” echoed Bertie, +who had carefully studied one of Hogarth’s pictures. + +“Nothing of the kind,” said Harvey, “nothing in the least like that. +Votes will be put in the ballot-box, and the Mayor will count them—and he +will say which has received the most votes, and then the two candidates +will thank him for presiding, and each will say that the contest has been +conducted throughout in the pleasantest and most straightforward fashion, +and they part with expressions of mutual esteem. There’s a jolly game +for you boys to play. I never had such toys when I was young.” + +“I don’t think we’ll play with them just now,” said Eric, with an entire +absence of the enthusiasm that his uncle had shown; “I think perhaps we +ought to do a little of our holiday task. It’s history this time; we’ve +got to learn up something about the Bourbon period in France.” + +“The Bourbon period,” said Harvey, with some disapproval in his voice. + +“We’ve got to know something about Louis the Fourteenth,” continued Eric; +“I’ve learnt the names of all the principal battles already.” + +This would never do. “There were, of course, some battles fought during +his reign,” said Harvey, “but I fancy the accounts of them were much +exaggerated; news was very unreliable in those days, and there were +practically no war correspondents, so generals and commanders could +magnify every little skirmish they engaged in till they reached the +proportions of decisive battles. Louis was really famous, now, as a +landscape gardener; the way he laid out Versailles was so much admired +that it was copied all over Europe.” + +“Do you know anything about Madame Du Barry?” asked Eric; “didn’t she +have her head chopped off?” + +“She was another great lover of gardening,” said Harvey, evasively; “in +fact, I believe the well known rose Du Barry was named after her, and now +I think you had better play for a little and leave your lessons till +later.” + +Harvey retreated to the library and spent some thirty or forty minutes in +wondering whether it would be possible to compile a history, for use in +elementary schools, in which there should be no prominent mention of +battles, massacres, murderous intrigues, and violent deaths. The York +and Lancaster period and the Napoleonic era would, he admitted to +himself, present considerable difficulties, and the Thirty Years’ War +would entail something of a gap if you left it out altogether. Still, it +would be something gained if, at a highly impressionable age, children +could be got to fix their attention on the invention of calico printing +instead of the Spanish Armada or the Battle of Waterloo. + +It was time, he thought, to go back to the boys’ room, and see how they +were getting on with their peace toys. As he stood outside the door he +could hear Eric’s voice raised in command; Bertie chimed in now and again +with a helpful suggestion. + +“That is Louis the Fourteenth,” Eric was saying, “that one in +knee-breeches, that Uncle said invented Sunday schools. It isn’t a bit +like him, but it’ll have to do.” + +“We’ll give him a purple coat from my paintbox by and by,” said Bertie. + +“Yes, an’ red heels. That is Madame de Maintenon, that one he called +Mrs. Hemans. She begs Louis not to go on this expedition, but he turns a +deaf ear. He takes Marshal Saxe with him, and we must pretend that they +have thousands of men with them. The watchword is _Qui vive_? and the +answer is _L’état c’est moi_—that was one of his favourite remarks, you +know. They land at Manchester in the dead of the night, and a Jacobite +conspirator gives them the keys of the fortress.” + +Peeping in through the doorway Harvey observed that the municipal +dust-bin had been pierced with holes to accommodate the muzzles of +imaginary cannon, and now represented the principal fortified position in +Manchester; John Stuart Mill had been dipped in red ink, and apparently +stood for Marshal Saxe. + +“Louis orders his troops to surround the Young Women’s Christian +Association and seize the lot of them. ‘Once back at the Louvre and the +girls are mine,’ he exclaims. We must use Mrs. Hemans again for one of +the girls; she says ‘Never,’ and stabs Marshal Saxe to the heart.” + +“He bleeds dreadfully,” exclaimed Bertie, splashing red ink liberally +over the façade of the Association building. + +“The soldiers rush in and avenge his death with the utmost savagery. A +hundred girls are killed”—here Bertie emptied the remainder of the red +ink over the devoted building—“and the surviving five hundred are dragged +off to the French ships. ‘I have lost a Marshal,’ says Louis, ‘but I do +not go back empty-handed.’” + +Harvey stole away from the room, and sought out his sister. + +“Eleanor,” he said, “the experiment—” + +“Yes?” + +“Has failed. We have begun too late.” + + + + +LOUISE + + +“The tea will be quite cold, you’d better ring for some more,” said the +Dowager Lady Beanford. + +Susan Lady Beanford was a vigorous old woman who had coquetted with +imaginary ill-health for the greater part of a lifetime; Clovis Sangrail +irreverently declared that she had caught a chill at the Coronation of +Queen Victoria and had never let it go again. Her sister, Jane +Thropplestance, who was some years her junior, was chiefly remarkable for +being the most absent-minded woman in Middlesex. + +“I’ve really been unusually clever this afternoon,” she remarked gaily, +as she rang for the tea. “I’ve called on all the people I meant to call +on; and I’ve done all the shopping that I set out to do. I even +remembered to try and match that silk for you at Harrod’s, but I’d +forgotten to bring the pattern with me, so it was no use. I really think +that was the only important thing I forgot during the whole afternoon. +Quite wonderful for me, isn’t it?” + +“What have you done with Louise?” asked her sister. “Didn’t you take her +out with you? You said you were going to.” + +“Good gracious,” exclaimed Jane, “what have I done with Louise? I must +have left her somewhere.” + +“But where?” + +“That’s just it. Where have I left her? I can’t remember if the +Carrywoods were at home or if I just left cards. If there were at home I +may have left Louise there to play bridge. I’ll go and telephone to Lord +Carrywood and find out.” + +“Is that you, Lord Carrywood?” she queried over the telephone; “it’s me, +Jane Thropplestance. I want to know, have you seen Louise?” + +“‘Louise,’” came the answer, “it’s been my fate to see it three times. +At first, I must admit, I wasn’t impressed by it, but the music grows on +one after a bit. Still, I don’t think I want to see it again just at +present. Were you going to offer me a seat in your box?” + +“Not the opera ‘Louise’—my niece, Louise Thropplestance. I thought I +might have left her at your house.” + +“You left cards on us this afternoon, I understand, but I don’t think you +left a niece. The footman would have been sure to have mentioned it if +you had. Is it going to be a fashion to leave nieces on people as well +as cards? I hope not; some of these houses in Berkeley-square have +practically no accommodation for that sort of thing.” + +“She’s not at the Carrywoods’,” announced Jane, returning to her tea; +“now I come to think of it, perhaps I left her at the silk counter at +Selfridge’s. I may have told her to wait there a moment while I went to +look at the silks in a better light, and I may easily have forgotten +about her when I found I hadn’t your pattern with me. In that case she’s +still sitting there. She wouldn’t move unless she was told to; Louise +has no initiative.” + +“You said you tried to match the silk at Harrod’s,” interjected the +dowager. + +“Did I? Perhaps it was Harrod’s. I really don’t remember. It was one +of those places where every one is so kind and sympathetic and devoted +that one almost hates to take even a reel of cotton away from such +pleasant surroundings.” + +“I think you might have taken Louise away. I don’t like the idea of her +being there among a lot of strangers. Supposing some unprincipled person +was to get into conversation with her.” + +“Impossible. Louise has no conversation. I’ve never discovered a single +topic on which she’d anything to say beyond ‘Do you think so? I dare say +you’re right.’ I really thought her reticence about the fall of the +Ribot Ministry was ridiculous, considering how much her dear mother used +to visit Paris. This bread and butter is cut far too thin; it crumbles +away long before you can get it to your mouth. One feels so absurd, +snapping at one’s food in mid-air, like a trout leaping at may-fly.” + +“I am rather surprised,” said the dowager, “that you can sit there making +a hearty tea when you’ve just lost a favourite niece.” + +“You talk as if I’d lost her in a churchyard sense, instead of having +temporarily mislaid her. I’m sure to remember presently where I left +her.” + +“You didn’t visit any place of devotion, did you? If you’ve left her +mooning about Westminster Abbey or St. Peter’s, Eaton Square, without +being able to give any satisfactory reason why she’s there, she’ll be +seized under the Cat and Mouse Act and sent to Reginald McKenna.” + +“That would be extremely awkward,” said Jane, meeting an irresolute piece +of bread and butter halfway; “we hardly know the McKennas, and it would +be very tiresome having to telephone to some unsympathetic private +secretary, describing Louise to him and asking to have her sent back in +time for dinner. Fortunately, I didn’t go to any place of devotion, +though I did get mixed up with a Salvation Army procession. It was quite +interesting to be at close quarters with them, they’re so absolutely +different to what they used to be when I first remember them in the +’eighties. They used to go about then unkempt and dishevelled, in a sort +of smiling rage with the world, and now they’re spruce and jaunty and +flamboyantly decorative, like a geranium bed with religious convictions. +Laura Kettleway was going on about them in the lift of the Dover Street +Tube the other day, saying what a lot of good work they did, and what a +loss it would have been if they’d never existed. ‘If they had never +existed,’ I said, ‘Granville Barker would have been certain to have +invented something that looked exactly like them.’ If you say things +like that, quite loud, in a Tube lift, they always sound like epigrams.” + +“I think you ought to do something about Louise,” said the dowager. + +“I’m trying to think whether she was with me when I called on Ada +Spelvexit. I rather enjoyed myself there. Ada was trying, as usual, to +ram that odious Koriatoffski woman down my throat, knowing perfectly well +that I detest her, and in an unguarded moment she said: ‘She’s leaving +her present house and going to Lower Seymour Street.’ ‘I dare say she +will, if she stays there long enough,’ I said. Ada didn’t see it for +about three minutes, and then she was positively uncivil. No, I am +certain I didn’t leave Louise there.” + +“If you could manage to remember where you _did_ leave her, it would be +more to the point than these negative assurances,” said Lady Beanford; +“so far, all we know is that she is not at the Carrywoods’, or Ada +Spelvexit’s, or Westminster Abbey.” + +“That narrows the search down a bit,” said Jane hopefully; “I rather +fancy she must have been with me when I went to Mornay’s. I know I went +to Mornay’s, because I remember meeting that delightful Malcolm +What’s-his-name there—you know whom I mean. That’s the great advantage +of people having unusual first names, you needn’t try and remember what +their other name is. Of course I know one or two other Malcolms, but +none that could possibly be described as delightful. He gave me two +tickets for the Happy Sunday Evenings in Sloane Square. I’ve probably +left them at Mornay’s, but still it was awfully kind of him to give them +to me.” + +“Do you think you left Louise there?” + +“I might telephone and ask. Oh, Robert, before you clear the tea-things +away I wish you’d ring up Mornay’s, in Regent Street, and ask if I left +two theatre tickets and one niece in their shop this afternoon.” + +“A niece, ma’am?” asked the footman. + +“Yes, Miss Louise didn’t come home with me, and I’m not sure where I left +her.” + +“Miss Louise has been upstairs all the afternoon, ma’am, reading to the +second kitchenmaid, who has the neuralgia. I took up tea to Miss Louise +at a quarter to five o’clock, ma’am.” + +“Of course, how silly of me. I remember now, I asked her to read the +_Faerie Queene_ to poor Emma, to try to send her to sleep. I always get +some one to read the _Faerie Queene_ to me when I have neuralgia, and it +usually sends me to sleep. Louise doesn’t seem to have been successful, +but one can’t say she hasn’t tried. I expect after the first hour or so +the kitchenmaid would rather have been left alone with her neuralgia, but +of course Louise wouldn’t leave off till some one told her to. Anyhow, +you can ring up Mornay’s, Robert, and ask whether I left two theatre +tickets there. Except for your silk, Susan, those seem to be the only +things I’ve forgotten this afternoon. Quite wonderful for me.” + + + + +TEA + + +James Cushat-Prinkly was a young man who had always had a settled +conviction that one of these days he would marry; up to the age of +thirty-four he had done nothing to justify that conviction. He liked and +admired a great many women collectively and dispassionately without +singling out one for especial matrimonial consideration, just as one +might admire the Alps without feeling that one wanted any particular peak +as one’s own private property. His lack of initiative in this matter +aroused a certain amount of impatience among the sentimentally-minded +women-folk of his home circle; his mother, his sisters, an +aunt-in-residence, and two or three intimate matronly friends regarded +his dilatory approach to the married state with a disapproval that was +far from being inarticulate. His most innocent flirtations were watched +with the straining eagerness which a group of unexercised terriers +concentrates on the slightest movements of a human being who may be +reasonably considered likely to take them for a walk. No decent-souled +mortal can long resist the pleading of several pairs of walk-beseeching +dog-eyes; James Cushat-Prinkly was not sufficiently obstinate or +indifferent to home influences to disregard the obviously expressed wish +of his family that he should become enamoured of some nice marriageable +girl, and when his Uncle Jules departed this life and bequeathed him a +comfortable little legacy it really seemed the correct thing to do to set +about discovering some one to share it with him. The process of +discovery was carried on more by the force of suggestion and the weight +of public opinion than by any initiative of his own; a clear working +majority of his female relatives and the aforesaid matronly friends had +pitched on Joan Sebastable as the most suitable young woman in his range +of acquaintance to whom he might propose marriage, and James became +gradually accustomed to the idea that he and Joan would go together +through the prescribed stages of congratulations, present-receiving, +Norwegian or Mediterranean hotels, and eventual domesticity. It was +necessary, however to ask the lady what she thought about the matter; the +family had so far conducted and directed the flirtation with ability and +discretion, but the actual proposal would have to be an individual +effort. + +Cushat-Prinkly walked across the Park towards the Sebastable residence in +a frame of mind that was moderately complacent. As the thing was going +to be done he was glad to feel that he was going to get it settled and +off his mind that afternoon. Proposing marriage, even to a nice girl +like Joan, was a rather irksome business, but one could not have a +honeymoon in Minorca and a subsequent life of married happiness without +such preliminary. He wondered what Minorca was really like as a place to +stop in; in his mind’s eye it was an island in perpetual half-mourning, +with black or white Minorca hens running all over it. Probably it would +not be a bit like that when one came to examine it. People who had been +in Russia had told him that they did not remember having seen any Muscovy +ducks there, so it was possible that there would be no Minorca fowls on +the island. + +His Mediterranean musings were interrupted by the sound of a clock +striking the half-hour. Half-past four. A frown of dissatisfaction +settled on his face. He would arrive at the Sebastable mansion just at +the hour of afternoon tea. Joan would be seated at a low table, spread +with an array of silver kettles and cream-jugs and delicate porcelain +tea-cups, behind which her voice would tinkle pleasantly in a series of +little friendly questions about weak or strong tea, how much, if any, +sugar, milk, cream, and so forth. “Is it one lump? I forgot. You do +take milk, don’t you? Would you like some more hot water, if it’s too +strong?” + +Cushat-Prinkly had read of such things in scores of novels, and hundreds +of actual experiences had told him that they were true to life. +Thousands of women, at this solemn afternoon hour, were sitting behind +dainty porcelain and silver fittings, with their voices tinkling +pleasantly in a cascade of solicitous little questions. Cushat-Prinkly +detested the whole system of afternoon tea. According to his theory of +life a woman should lie on a divan or couch, talking with incomparable +charm or looking unutterable thoughts, or merely silent as a thing to be +looked on, and from behind a silken curtain a small Nubian page should +silently bring in a tray with cups and dainties, to be accepted silently, +as a matter of course, without drawn-out chatter about cream and sugar +and hot water. If one’s soul was really enslaved at one’s mistress’s +feet how could one talk coherently about weakened tea? Cushat-Prinkly +had never expounded his views on the subject to his mother; all her life +she had been accustomed to tinkle pleasantly at tea-time behind dainty +porcelain and silver, and if he had spoken to her about divans and Nubian +pages she would have urged him to take a week’s holiday at the seaside. +Now, as he passed through a tangle of small streets that led indirectly +to the elegant Mayfair terrace for which he was bound, a horror at the +idea of confronting Joan Sebastable at her tea-table seized on him. A +momentary deliverance presented itself; on one floor of a narrow little +house at the noisier end of Esquimault Street lived Rhoda Ellam, a sort +of remote cousin, who made a living by creating hats out of costly +materials. The hats really looked as if they had come from Paris; the +cheques she got for them unfortunately never looked as if they were going +to Paris. However, Rhoda appeared to find life amusing and to have a +fairly good time in spite of her straitened circumstances. +Cushat-Prinkly decided to climb up to her floor and defer by half-an-hour +or so the important business which lay before him; by spinning out his +visit he could contrive to reach the Sebastable mansion after the last +vestiges of dainty porcelain had been cleared away. + +Rhoda welcomed him into a room that seemed to do duty as workshop, +sitting-room, and kitchen combined, and to be wonderfully clean and +comfortable at the same time. + +“I’m having a picnic meal,” she announced. “There’s caviare in that jar +at your elbow. Begin on that brown bread-and-butter while I cut some +more. Find yourself a cup; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about +hundreds of things.” + +She made no other allusion to food, but talked amusingly and made her +visitor talk amusingly too. At the same time she cut the +bread-and-butter with a masterly skill and produced red pepper and sliced +lemon, where so many women would merely have produced reasons and regrets +for not having any. Cushat-Prinkly found that he was enjoying an +excellent tea without having to answer as many questions about it as a +Minister for Agriculture might be called on to reply to during an +outbreak of cattle plague. + +“And now tell me why you have come to see me,” said Rhoda suddenly. “You +arouse not merely my curiosity but my business instincts. I hope you’ve +come about hats. I heard that you had come into a legacy the other day, +and, of course, it struck me that it would be a beautiful and desirable +thing for you to celebrate the event by buying brilliantly expensive hats +for all your sisters. They may not have said anything about it, but I +feel sure the same idea has occurred to them. Of course, with Goodwood +on us, I am rather rushed just now, but in my business we’re accustomed +to that; we live in a series of rushes—like the infant Moses.” + +“I didn’t come about hats,” said her visitor. “In fact, I don’t think I +really came about anything. I was passing and I just thought I’d look in +and see you. Since I’ve been sitting talking to you, however, a rather +important idea has occurred to me. If you’ll forget Goodwood for a +moment and listen to me, I’ll tell you what it is.” + +Some forty minutes later James Cushat-Prinkly returned to the bosom of +his family, bearing an important piece of news. + +“I’m engaged to be married,” he announced. + +A rapturous outbreak of congratulation and self-applause broke out. + +“Ah, we knew! We saw it coming! We foretold it weeks ago!” + +“I’ll bet you didn’t,” said Cushat-Prinkly. “If any one had told me at +lunch-time to-day that I was going to ask Rhoda Ellam to marry me and +that she was going to accept me I would have laughed at the idea.” + +The romantic suddenness of the affair in some measure compensated James’s +women-folk for the ruthless negation of all their patient effort and +skilled diplomacy. It was rather trying to have to deflect their +enthusiasm at a moment’s notice from Joan Sebastable to Rhoda Ellam; but, +after all, it was James’s wife who was in question, and his tastes had +some claim to be considered. + +On a September afternoon of the same year, after the honeymoon in Minorca +had ended, Cushat-Prinkly came into the drawing-room of his new house in +Granchester Square. Rhoda was seated at a low table, behind a service of +dainty porcelain and gleaming silver. There was a pleasant tinkling note +in her voice as she handed him a cup. + +“You like it weaker than that, don’t you? Shall I put some more hot +water to it? No?” + + + + +THE DISAPPEARANCE OF CRISPINA UMBERLEIGH + + +In a first-class carriage of a train speeding Balkanward across the flat, +green Hungarian plain two Britons sat in friendly, fitful converse. They +had first foregathered in the cold grey dawn at the frontier line, where +the presiding eagle takes on an extra head and Teuton lands pass from +Hohenzollern to Habsburg keeping—and where a probing official beak +requires to delve in polite and perhaps perfunctory, but always tiresome, +manner into the baggage of sleep-hungry passengers. After a day’s break +of their journey at Vienna the travellers had again foregathered at the +trainside and paid one another the compliment of settling instinctively +into the same carriage. The elder of the two had the appearance and +manner of a diplomat; in point of fact he was the well-connected +foster-brother of a wine business. The other was certainly a journalist. +Neither man was talkative and each was grateful to the other for not +being talkative. That is why from time to time they talked. + +One topic of conversation naturally thrust itself forward in front of all +others. In Vienna the previous day they had learned of the mysterious +vanishing of a world-famous picture from the walls of the Louvre. + +“A dramatic disappearance of that sort is sure to produce a crop of +imitations,” said the Journalist. + +“It has had a lot of anticipations, for the matter of that,” said the +Wine-brother. + +“Oh, of course there have been thefts from the Louvre before.” + +“I was thinking of the spiriting away of human beings rather than +pictures. In particular I was thinking of the case of my aunt, Crispina +Umberleigh.” + +“I remember hearing something of the affair,” said the Journalist, “but I +was away from England at the time. I never quite knew what was supposed +to have happened.” + +“You may hear what really happened if you will respect it as a +confidence,” said the Wine Merchant. “In the first place I may say that +the disappearance of Mrs. Umberleigh was not regarded by the family +entirely as a bereavement. My uncle, Edward Umberleigh, was not by any +means a weak-kneed individual, in fact in the world of politics he had to +be reckoned with more or less as a strong man, but he was unmistakably +dominated by Crispina; indeed I never met any human being who was not +frozen into subjection when brought into prolonged contact with her. +Some people are born to command; Crispina Mrs. Umberleigh was born to +legislate, codify, administrate, censor, license, ban, execute, and sit +in judgement generally. If she was not born with that destiny she +adopted it at an early age. From the kitchen regions upwards every one +in the household came under her despotic sway and stayed there with the +submissiveness of molluscs involved in a glacial epoch. As a nephew on a +footing of only occasional visits she affected me merely as an epidemic, +disagreeable while it lasted, but without any permanent effect; but her +own sons and daughters stood in mortal awe of her; their studies, +friendships, diet, amusements, religious observances, and way of doing +their hair were all regulated and ordained according to the august lady’s +will and pleasure. This will help you to understand the sensation of +stupefaction which was caused in the family when she unobtrusively and +inexplicably vanished. It was as though St. Paul’s Cathedral or the +Piccadilly Hotel had disappeared in the night, leaving nothing but an +open space to mark where it had stood. As far as was known nothing was +troubling her; in fact there was much before her to make life +particularly well worth living. The youngest boy had come back from +school with an unsatisfactory report, and she was to have sat in +judgement on him the very afternoon of the day she disappeared—if it had +been he who had vanished in a hurry one could have supplied the motive. +Then she was in the middle of a newspaper correspondence with a rural +dean in which she had already proved him guilty of heresy, inconsistency, +and unworthy quibbling, and no ordinary consideration would have induced +her to discontinue the controversy. Of course the matter was put in the +hands of the police, but as far as possible it was kept out of the +papers, and the generally accepted explanation of her withdrawal from her +social circle was that she had gone into a nursing home.” + +“And what was the immediate effect on the home circle?” asked the +Journalist. + +“All the girls bought themselves bicycles; the feminine cycling craze was +still in existence, and Crispina had rigidly vetoed any participation in +it among the members of her household. The youngest boy let himself go +to such an extent during his next term that it had to be his last as far +as that particular establishment was concerned. The elder boys +propounded a theory that their mother might be wandering somewhere +abroad, and searched for her assiduously, chiefly, it must be admitted, +in a class of Montmartre resort where it was extremely improbable that +she would be found.” + +“And all this while couldn’t your uncle get hold of the least clue?” + +“As a matter of fact he had received some information, though of course I +did not know of it at the time. He got a message one day telling him +that his wife had been kidnapped and smuggled out of the country; she was +said to be hidden away, in one of the islands off the coast of Norway I +think it was, in comfortable surroundings and well cared for. And with +the information came a demand for money; a lump sum of £2000 was to be +paid yearly. Failing this she would be immediately restored to her +family.” + +The Journalist was silent for a moment, and them began to laugh quietly. + +“It was certainly an inverted form of holding to ransom,” he said. + +“If you had known my aunt,” said the Wine Merchant, “you would have +wondered that they didn’t put the figure higher.” + +“I realise the temptation. Did your uncle succumb to it?” + +“Well, you see, he had to think of others as well as himself. For the +family to have gone back into the Crispina thraldom after having tasted +the delights of liberty would have been a tragedy, and there were even +wider considerations to be taken into account. Since his bereavement he +had unconsciously taken up a far bolder and more initiatory line in +public affairs, and his popularity and influence had increased +correspondingly. From being merely a strong man in the political world +he began to be spoken of as _the_ strong man. All this he knew would be +jeopardised if he once more dropped into the social position of the +husband of Mrs. Umberleigh. He was a rich man, and the £2000 a year, +though not exactly a fleabite, did not seem an extravagant price to pay +for the boarding-out of Crispina. Of course, he had severe qualms of +conscience about the arrangement. Later on, when he took me into his +confidence, he told me that in paying the ransom, or hush-money as I +should have called it, he was partly influenced by the fear that if he +refused it the kidnappers might have vented their rage and disappointment +on their captive. It was better, he said, to think of her being well +cared for as a highly-valued paying-guest in one of the Lofoden Islands +than to have her struggling miserably home in a maimed and mutilated +condition. Anyway he paid the yearly instalment as punctually as one +pays a fire insurance, and with equal promptitude there would come an +acknowledgment of the money and a brief statement to the effect that +Crispina was in good health and fairly cheerful spirits. One report even +mentioned that she was busying herself with a scheme for proposed reforms +in Church management to be pressed on the local pastorate. Another spoke +of a rheumatic attack and a journey to a ‘cure’ on the mainland, and on +that occasion an additional eighty pounds was demanded and conceded. Of +course it was to the interest of the kidnappers to keep their charge in +good health, but the secrecy with which they managed to shroud their +arrangements argued a really wonderful organisation. If my uncle was +paying a rather high price, at least he could console himself with the +reflection that he was paying specialists’ fees.” + +“Meanwhile had the police given up all attempts to track the missing +lady?” asked the Journalist. + +“Not entirely; they came to my uncle from time to time to report on clues +which they thought might yield some elucidation as to her fate or +whereabouts, but I think they had their suspicions that he was possessed +of more information than he had put at their disposal. And then, after a +disappearance of more than eight years, Crispina returned with dramatic +suddenness to the home she had left so mysteriously.” + +“She had given her captors the slip?” + +“She had never been captured. Her wandering away had been caused by a +sudden and complete loss of memory. She usually dressed rather in the +style of a superior kind of charwoman, and it was not so very surprising +that she should have imagined that she was one; and still less that +people should accept her statement and help her to get work. She had +wandered as far afield as Birmingham, and found fairly steady employment +there, her energy and enthusiasm in putting people’s rooms in order +counterbalancing her obstinate and domineering characteristics. It was +the shock of being patronisingly addressed as ‘my good woman’ by a +curate, who was disputing with her where the stove should be placed in a +parish concert hall that led to the sudden restoration of her memory. ‘I +think you forget who you are speaking to,’ she observed crushingly, which +was rather unduly severe, considering she had only just remembered it +herself.” + +“But,” exclaimed the Journalist, “the Lofoden Island people! Who had +they got hold of?” + +“A purely mythical prisoner. It was an attempt in the first place by +some one who knew something of the domestic situation, probably a +discharged valet, to bluff a lump sum out of Edward Umberleigh before the +missing woman turned up; the subsequent yearly instalments were an +unlooked-for increment to the original haul. + +“Crispina found that the eight years’ interregnum had materially weakened +her ascendancy over her now grown-up offspring. Her husband, however, +never accomplished anything great in the political world after her +return; the strain of trying to account satisfactorily for an unspecified +expenditure of sixteen thousand pounds spread over eight years +sufficiently occupied his mental energies. Here is Belgrad and another +custom house.” + + + + +THE WOLVES OF CERNOGRATZ + + +“Are there any old legends attached to the castle?” asked Conrad of his +sister. Conrad was a prosperous Hamburg merchant, but he was the one +poetically-dispositioned member of an eminently practical family. + +The Baroness Gruebel shrugged her plump shoulders. + +“There are always legends hanging about these old places. They are not +difficult to invent and they cost nothing. In this case there is a story +that when any one dies in the castle all the dogs in the village and the +wild beasts in forest howl the night long. It would not be pleasant to +listen to, would it?” + +“It would be weird and romantic,” said the Hamburg merchant. + +“Anyhow, it isn’t true,” said the Baroness complacently; “since we bought +the place we have had proof that nothing of the sort happens. When the +old mother-in-law died last springtime we all listened, but there was no +howling. It is just a story that lends dignity to the place without +costing anything.” + +“The story is not as you have told it,” said Amalie, the grey old +governess. Every one turned and looked at her in astonishment. She was +wont to sit silent and prim and faded in her place at table, never +speaking unless some one spoke to her, and there were few who troubled +themselves to make conversation with her. To-day a sudden volubility had +descended on her; she continued to talk, rapidly and nervously, looking +straight in front of her and seeming to address no one in particular. + +“It is not when _any one_ dies in the castle that the howling is heard. +It was when one of the Cernogratz family died here that the wolves came +from far and near and howled at the edge of the forest just before the +death hour. There were only a few couple of wolves that had their lairs +in this part of the forest, but at such a time the keepers say there +would be scores of them, gliding about in the shadows and howling in +chorus, and the dogs of the castle and the village and all the farms +round would bay and howl in fear and anger at the wolf chorus, and as the +soul of the dying one left its body a tree would crash down in the park. +That is what happened when a Cernogratz died in his family castle. But +for a stranger dying here, of course no wolf would howl and no tree would +fall. Oh, no.” + +There was a note of defiance, almost of contempt, in her voice as she +said the last words. The well-fed, much-too-well dressed Baroness stared +angrily at the dowdy old woman who had come forth from her usual and +seemly position of effacement to speak so disrespectfully. + +“You seem to know quite a lot about the von Cernogratz legends, Fraulein +Schmidt,” she said sharply; “I did not know that family histories were +among the subjects you are supposed to be proficient in.” + +The answer to her taunt was even more unexpected and astonishing than the +conversational outbreak which had provoked it. + +“I am a von Cernogratz myself,” said the old woman, “that is why I know +the family history.” + +“You a von Cernogratz? You!” came in an incredulous chorus. + +“When we became very poor,” she explained, “and I had to go out and give +teaching lessons, I took another name; I thought it would be more in +keeping. But my grandfather spent much of his time as a boy in this +castle, and my father used to tell me many stories about it, and, of +course, I knew all the family legends and stories. When one has nothing +left to one but memories, one guards and dusts them with especial care. +I little thought when I took service with you that I should one day come +with you to the old home of my family. I could wish it had been anywhere +else.” + +There was silence when she finished speaking, and then the Baroness +turned the conversation to a less embarrassing topic than family +histories. But afterwards, when the old governess had slipped away +quietly to her duties, there arose a clamour of derision and disbelief. + +“It was an impertinence,” snapped out the Baron, his protruding eyes +taking on a scandalised expression; “fancy the woman talking like that at +our table. She almost told us we were nobodies, and I don’t believe a +word of it. She is just Schmidt and nothing more. She has been talking +to some of the peasants about the old Cernogratz family, and raked up +their history and their stories.” + +“She wants to make herself out of some consequence,” said the Baroness; +“she knows she will soon be past work and she wants to appeal to our +sympathies. Her grandfather, indeed!” + +The Baroness had the usual number of grandfathers, but she never, never +boasted about them. + +“I dare say her grandfather was a pantry boy or something of the sort in +the castle,” sniggered the Baron; “that part of the story may be true.” + +The merchant from Hamburg said nothing; he had seen tears in the old +woman’s eyes when she spoke of guarding her memories—or, being of an +imaginative disposition, he thought he had. + +“I shall give her notice to go as soon as the New Year festivities are +over,” said the Baroness; “till then I shall be too busy to manage +without her.” + +But she had to manage without her all the same, for in the cold biting +weather after Christmas, the old governess fell ill and kept to her room. + +“It is most provoking,” said the Baroness, as her guests sat round the +fire on one of the last evenings of the dying year; “all the time that +she has been with us I cannot remember that she was ever seriously ill, +too ill to go about and do her work, I mean. And now, when I have the +house full, and she could be useful in so many ways, she goes and breaks +down. One is sorry for her, of course, she looks so withered and +shrunken, but it is intensely annoying all the same.” + +“Most annoying,” agreed the banker’s wife, sympathetically; “it is the +intense cold, I expect, it breaks the old people up. It has been +unusually cold this year.” + +“The frost is the sharpest that has been known in December for many +years,” said the Baron. + +“And, of course, she is quite old,” said the Baroness; “I wish I had +given her notice some weeks ago, then she would have left before this +happened to her. Why, Wappi, what is the matter with you?” + +The small, woolly lapdog had leapt suddenly down from its cushion and +crept shivering under the sofa. At the same moment an outburst of angry +barking came from the dogs in the castle-yard, and other dogs could be +heard yapping and barking in the distance. + +“What is disturbing the animals?” asked the Baron. + +And then the humans, listening intently, heard the sound that had roused +the dogs to their demonstrations of fear and rage; heard a long-drawn +whining howl, rising and falling, seeming at one moment leagues away, at +others sweeping across the snow until it appeared to come from the foot +of the castle walls. All the starved, cold misery of a frozen world, all +the relentless hunger-fury of the wild, blended with other forlorn and +haunting melodies to which one could give no name, seemed concentrated in +that wailing cry. + +“Wolves!” cried the Baron. + +Their music broke forth in one raging burst, seeming to come from +everywhere. + +“Hundreds of wolves,” said the Hamburg merchant, who was a man of strong +imagination. + +Moved by some impulse which she could not have explained, the Baroness +left her guests and made her way to the narrow, cheerless room where the +old governess lay watching the hours of the dying year slip by. In spite +of the biting cold of the winter night, the window stood open. With a +scandalised exclamation on her lips, the Baroness rushed forward to close +it. + +“Leave it open,” said the old woman in a voice that for all its weakness +carried an air of command such as the Baroness had never heard before +from her lips. + +“But you will die of cold!” she expostulated. + +“I am dying in any case,” said the voice, “and I want to hear their +music. They have come from far and wide to sing the death-music of my +family. It is beautiful that they have come; I am the last von +Cernogratz that will die in our old castle, and they have come to sing to +me. Hark, how loud they are calling!” + +The cry of the wolves rose on the still winter air and floated round the +castle walls in long-drawn piercing wails; the old woman lay back on her +couch with a look of long-delayed happiness on her face. + +“Go away,” she said to the Baroness; “I am not lonely any more. I am one +of a great old family . . . ” + +“I think she is dying,” said the Baroness when she had rejoined her +guests; “I suppose we must send for a doctor. And that terrible howling! +Not for much money would I have such death-music.” + +“That music is not to be bought for any amount of money,” said Conrad. + +“Hark! What is that other sound?” asked the Baron, as a noise of +splitting and crashing was heard. + +It was a tree falling in the park. + +There was a moment of constrained silence, and then the banker’s wife +spoke. + +“It is the intense cold that is splitting the trees. It is also the cold +that has brought the wolves out in such numbers. It is many years since +we have had such a cold winter.” + +The Baroness eagerly agreed that the cold was responsible for these +things. It was the cold of the open window, too, which caused the heart +failure that made the doctor’s ministrations unnecessary for the old +Fraulein. But the notice in the newspapers looked very well— + + “On December 29th, at Schloss Cernogratz, Amalie von Cernogratz, for + many years the valued friend of Baron and Baroness Gruebel.” + + + + +LOUIS + + +“It would be jolly to spend Easter in Vienna this year,” said +Strudwarden, “and look up some of my old friends there. It’s about the +jolliest place I know of to be at for Easter—” + +“I thought we had made up our minds to spend Easter at Brighton,” +interrupted Lena Strudwarden, with an air of aggrieved surprise. + +“You mean that you had made up your mind that we should spend Easter +there,” said her husband; “we spent last Easter there, and Whitsuntide as +well, and the year before that we were at Worthing, and Brighton again +before that. I think it would be just as well to have a real change of +scene while we are about it.” + +“The journey to Vienna would be very expensive,” said Lena. + +“You are not often concerned about economy,” said Strudwarden, “and in +any case the trip of Vienna won’t cost a bit more than the rather +meaningless luncheon parties we usually give to quite meaningless +acquaintances at Brighton. To escape from all that set would be a +holiday in itself.” + +Strudwarden spoke feelingly; Lena Strudwarden maintained an equally +feeling silence on that particular subject. The set that she gathered +round her at Brighton and other South Coast resorts was composed of +individuals who might be dull and meaningless in themselves, but who +understood the art of flattering Mrs. Strudwarden. She had no intention +of foregoing their society and their homage and flinging herself among +unappreciative strangers in a foreign capital. + +“You must go to Vienna alone if you are bent on going,” she said; “I +couldn’t leave Louis behind, and a dog is always a fearful nuisance in a +foreign hotel, besides all the fuss and separation of the quarantine +restrictions when one comes back. Louis would die if he was parted from +me for even a week. You don’t know what that would mean to me.” + +Lena stooped down and kissed the nose of the diminutive brown Pomeranian +that lay, snug and irresponsive, beneath a shawl on her lap. + +“Look here,” said Strudwarden, “this eternal Louis business is getting to +be a ridiculous nuisance. Nothing can be done, no plans can be made, +without some veto connected with that animal’s whims or convenience being +imposed. If you were a priest in attendance on some African fetish you +couldn’t set up a more elaborate code of restrictions. I believe you’d +ask the Government to put off a General Election if you thought it would +interfere with Louis’s comfort in any way.” + +By way of answer to this tirade Mrs. Strudwarden stooped down again and +kissed the irresponsive brown nose. It was the action of a woman with a +beautifully meek nature, who would, however, send the whole world to the +stake sooner than yield an inch where she knew herself to be in the +right. + +“It isn’t as if you were in the least bit fond of animals,” went on +Strudwarden, with growing irritation; “when we are down at Kerryfield you +won’t stir a step to take the house dogs out, even if they’re dying for a +run, and I don’t think you’ve been in the stables twice in your life. +You laugh at what you call the fuss that’s being made over the +extermination of plumage birds, and you are quite indignant with me if I +interfere on behalf of an ill-treated, over-driven animal on the road. +And yet you insist on every one’s plans being made subservient to the +convenience of that stupid little morsel of fur and selfishness.” + +“You are prejudiced against my little Louis,” said Lena, with a world of +tender regret in her voice. + +“I’ve never had the chance of being anything else but prejudiced against +him,” said Strudwarden; “I know what a jolly responsive companion a +doggie can be, but I’ve never been allowed to put a finger near Louis. +You say he snaps at any one except you and your maid, and you snatched +him away from old Lady Peterby the other day, when she wanted to pet him, +for fear he would bury his teeth in her. All that I ever see of him is +the top of his unhealthy-looking little nose, peeping out from his basket +or from your muff, and I occasionally hear his wheezy little bark when +you take him for a walk up and down the corridor. You can’t expect one +to get extravagantly fond of a dog of that sort. One might as well work +up an affection for the cuckoo in a cuckoo-clock.” + +“He loves me,” said Lena, rising from the table, and bearing the +shawl-swathed Louis in her arms. “He loves only me, and perhaps that is +why I love him so much in return. I don’t care what you say against him, +I am not going to be separated from him. If you insist on going to +Vienna you must go alone, as far as I am concerned. I think it would be +much more sensible if you were to come to Brighton with Louis and me, but +of course you must please yourself.” + +“You must get rid of that dog,” said Strudwarden’s sister when Lena had +left the room; “it must be helped to some sudden and merciful end. Lena +is merely making use of it as an instrument for getting her own way on +dozens of occasions when she would otherwise be obliged to yield +gracefully to your wishes or to the general convenience. I am convinced +that she doesn’t care a brass button about the animal itself. When her +friends are buzzing round her at Brighton or anywhere else and the dog +would be in the way, it has to spend whole days alone with the maid, but +if you want Lena to go with you anywhere where she doesn’t want to go +instantly she trots out the excuse that she couldn’t be separated from +her dog. Have you ever come into a room unobserved and heard Lena +talking to her beloved pet? I never have. I believe she only fusses +over it when there’s some one present to notice her.” + +“I don’t mind admitting,” said Strudwarden, “that I’ve dwelt more than +once lately on the possibility of some fatal accident putting an end to +Louis’s existence. It’s not very easy, though, to arrange a fatality for +a creature that spends most of its time in a muff or asleep in a toy +kennel. I don’t think poison would be any good; it’s obviously horribly +over-fed, for I’ve seen Lena offer it dainties at table sometimes, but it +never seems to eat them.” + +“Lena will be away at church on Wednesday morning,” said Elsie +Strudwarden reflectively; “she can’t take Louis with her there, and she +is going on to the Dellings for lunch. That will give you several hours +in which to carry out your purpose. The maid will be flirting with the +chauffeur most of the time, and, anyhow, I can manage to keep her out of +the way on some pretext or other.” + +“That leaves the field clear,” said Strudwarden, “but unfortunately my +brain is equally a blank as far as any lethal project is concerned. The +little beast is so monstrously inactive; I can’t pretend that it leapt +into the bath and drowned itself, or that it took on the butcher’s +mastiff in unequal combat and got chewed up. In what possible guise +could death come to a confirmed basket-dweller? It would be too +suspicious if we invented a Suffragette raid and pretended that they +invaded Lena’s boudoir and threw a brick at him. We should have to do a +lot of other damage as well, which would be rather a nuisance, and the +servants would think it odd that they had seen nothing of the invaders.” + +“I have an idea,” said Elsie; “get a box with an air-tight lid, and bore +a small hole in it, just big enough to let in an indiarubber tube. Pop +Louis, kennel and all, into the box, shut it down, and put the other end +of the tube over the gas-bracket. There you have a perfect lethal +chamber. You can stand the kennel at the open window afterwards, to get +rid of the smell of gas, and all that Lena will find when she comes home +late in the afternoon will be a placidly defunct Louis.” + +“Novels have been written about women like you,” said Strudwarden; “you +have a perfectly criminal mind. Let’s come and look for a box.” + +Two mornings later the conspirators stood gazing guiltily at a stout +square box, connected with the gas-bracket by a length of indiarubber +tubing. + +“Not a sound,” said Elsie; “he never stirred; it must have been quite +painless. All the same I feel rather horrid now it’s done.” + +“The ghastly part has to come,” said Strudwarden, turning off the gas. +“We’ll lift the lid slowly, and let the gas out by degrees. Swing the +door to and fro to send a draught through the room.” + +Some minutes later, when the fumes had rushed off, he stooped down and +lifted out the little kennel with its grim burden. Elsie gave an +exclamation of terror. Louis sat at the door of his dwelling, head erect +and ears pricked, as coldly and defiantly inert as when they had put him +into his execution chamber. Strudwarden dropped the kennel with a jerk, +and stared for a long moment at the miracle-dog; then he went into a peal +of chattering laughter. + +It was certainly a wonderful imitation of a truculent-looking toy +Pomeranian, and the apparatus that gave forth a wheezy bark when you +pressed it had materially helped the imposition that Lena, and Lena’s +maid, had foisted on the household. For a woman who disliked animals, +but liked getting her own way under a halo of unselfishness, Mrs. +Strudwarden had managed rather well. + +“Louis is dead,” was the curt information that greeted Lena on her return +from her luncheon party. + +“Louis _dead_!” she exclaimed. + +“Yes, he flew at the butcher-boy and bit him, and he bit me, too, when I +tried to get him off, so I had to have him destroyed. You warned me that +he snapped, but you didn’t tell me that he was downright dangerous. I +shall have to pay the boy something heavy by way of compensation, so you +will have to go without those buckles that you wanted to have for Easter; +also I shall have to go to Vienna to consult Dr. Schroeder, who is a +specialist on dog-bites, and you will have to come too. I have sent what +remains of Louis to Rowland Ward to be stuffed; that will be my Easter +gift to you instead of the buckles. For Heaven’s sake, Lena, weep, if +you really feel it so much; anything would be better than standing there +staring as if you thought I had lost my reason.” + +Lena Strudwarden did not weep, but her attempt at laughing was an +unmistakable failure. + + + + +THE GUESTS + + +“The landscape seen from our windows is certainly charming,” said +Annabel; “those cherry orchards and green meadows, and the river winding +along the valley, and the church tower peeping out among the elms, they +all make a most effective picture. There’s something dreadfully sleepy +and languorous about it, though; stagnation seems to be the dominant +note. Nothing ever happens here; seedtime and harvest, an occasional +outbreak of measles or a mildly destructive thunderstorm, and a little +election excitement about once in five years, that is all that we have to +modify the monotony of our existence. Rather dreadful, isn’t it?” + +“On the contrary,” said Matilda, “I find it soothing and restful; but +then, you see, I’ve lived in countries where things do happen, ever so +many at a time, when you’re not ready for them happening all at once.” + +“That, of course, makes a difference,” said Annabel. + +“I have never forgotten,” said Matilda, “the occasion when the Bishop of +Bequar paid us an unexpected visit; he was on his way to lay the +foundation-stone of a mission-house or something of the sort.” + +“I thought that out there you were always prepared for emergency guests +turning up,” said Annabel. + +“I was quite prepared for half a dozen Bishops,” said Matilda, “but it +was rather disconcerting to find out after a little conversation that +this particular one was a distant cousin of mine, belonging to a branch +of the family that had quarrelled bitterly and offensively with our +branch about a Crown Derby dessert service; they got it, and we ought to +have got it, in some legacy, or else we got it and they thought they +ought to have it, I forget which; anyhow, I know they behaved +disgracefully. Now here was one of them turning up in the odour of +sanctity, so to speak, and claiming the traditional hospitality of the +East.” + +“It was rather trying, but you could have left your husband to do most of +the entertaining.” + +“My husband was fifty miles up-country, talking sense, or what he +imagined to be sense, to a village community that fancied one of their +leading men was a were-tiger.” + +“A what tiger?” + +“A were-tiger; you’ve heard of were-wolves, haven’t you, a mixture of +wolf and human being and demon? Well, in those parts they have +were-tigers, or think they have, and I must say that in this case, so far +as sworn and uncontested evidence went, they had every ground for +thinking so. However, as we gave up witchcraft prosecutions about three +hundred years ago, we don’t like to have other people keeping on our +discarded practices; it doesn’t seem respectful to our mental and moral +position.” + +“I hope you weren’t unkind to the Bishop,” said Annabel. + +“Well, of course he was my guest, so I had to be outwardly polite to him, +but he was tactless enough to rake up the incidents of the old quarrel, +and to try to make out that there was something to be said for the way +his side of the family had behaved; even if there was, which I don’t for +a moment admit, my house was not the place in which to say it. I didn’t +argue the matter, but I gave my cook a holiday to go and visit his aged +parents some ninety miles away. The emergency cook was not a specialist +in curries, in fact, I don’t think cooking in any shape or form could +have been one of his strong points. I believe he originally came to us +in the guise of a gardener, but as we never pretended to have anything +that could be considered a garden he was utilised as assistant goat-herd, +in which capacity, I understand, he gave every satisfaction. When the +Bishop heard that I had sent away the cook on a special and unnecessary +holiday he saw the inwardness of the manœuvre, and from that moment we +were scarcely on speaking terms. If you have ever had a Bishop with whom +you were not on speaking terms staying in your house, you will appreciate +the situation.” + +Annabel confessed that her life-story had never included such a +disturbing experience. + +“Then,” continued Matilda, “to make matters more complicated, the +Gwadlipichee overflowed its banks, a thing it did every now and then when +the rains were unduly prolonged, and the lower part of the house and all +the out-buildings were submerged. We managed to get the ponies loose in +time, and the syce swam the whole lot of them off to the nearest rising +ground. A goat or two, the chief goat-herd, the chief goat-herd’s wife, +and several of their babies came to anchorage in the verandah. All the +rest of the available space was filled up with wet, bedraggled-looking +hens and chickens; one never really knows how many fowls one possesses +till the servants’ quarters are flooded out. Of course, I had been +through something of the sort in previous floods, but never before had I +had a houseful of goats and babies and half-drowned hens, supplemented by +a Bishop with whom I was hardly on speaking terms.” + +“It must have been a trying experience,” commented Annabel. + +“More embarrassments were to follow. I wasn’t going to let a mere +ordinary flood wash out the memory of that Crown Derby dessert service, +and I intimated to the Bishop that his large bedroom, with a writing +table in it, and his small bath-room, with a sufficiency of cold-water +jars in it, was his share of the premises, and that space was rather +congested under the existing circumstances. However, at about three +o’clock in the afternoon, when he had awakened from his midday sleep, he +made a sudden incursion into the room that was normally the drawing-room, +but was now dining-room, store-house, saddle-room, and half a dozen other +temporary premises as well. From the condition of my guest’s costume he +seemed to think it might also serve as his dressing-room. + +“’I’m afraid there is nowhere for you to sit,’ I said coldly; ‘the +verandah is full of goats.’ + +“’There is a goat in my bedroom,’ he observed with equal coldness, and +more than a suspicion of sardonic reproach. + +“’Really,’ I said, ‘another survivor? I thought all the other goats were +done for.’ + +“‘This particular goat is quite done for,’ he said, ‘it is being devoured +by a leopard at the present moment. That is why I left the room; some +animals resent being watched while they are eating.’ + +“The leopard, of course, was easily explained; it had been hanging round +the goat sheds when the flood came, and had clambered up by the outside +staircase leading to the Bishop’s bath-room, thoughtfully bringing a goat +with it. Probably it found the bath-room too damp and shut-in for its +taste, and transferred its banqueting operations to the bedroom while the +Bishop was having his nap.” + +“What a frightful situation!” exclaimed Annabel; “fancy having a ravening +leopard in the house, with a flood all round you.” + +“Not in the least ravening,” said Matilda; “it was full of goat, had any +amount of water at its disposal if it felt thirsty, and probably had no +more immediate wish than a desire for uninterrupted sleep. Still, I +think any one will admit that it was an embarrassing predicament to have +your only available guest-room occupied by a leopard, the verandah choked +up with goats and babies and wet hens, and a Bishop with whom you were +scarcely on speaking terms planted down in your own sitting-room. I +really don’t know how I got through those crawling hours, and of course +mealtimes only made matters worse. The emergency cook had every excuse +for sending in watery soup and sloppy rice, and as neither the chief +goat-herd nor his wife were expert divers, the cellar could not be +reached. Fortunately the Gwadlipichee subsides as rapidly as it rises, +and just before dawn the syce came splashing back, with the ponies only +fetlock deep in water. Then there arose some awkwardness from the fact +that the Bishop wished to leave sooner than the leopard did, and as the +latter was ensconced in the midst of the former’s personal possessions +there was an obvious difficulty in altering the order of departure. I +pointed out to the Bishop that a leopard’s habits and tastes are not +those of an otter, and that it naturally preferred walking to wading; and +that in any case a meal of an entire goat, washed down with tub-water, +justified a certain amount of repose; if I had had guns fired to frighten +the animal away, as the Bishop suggested, it would probably merely have +left the bedroom to come into the already over-crowded drawing-room. +Altogether it was rather a relief when they both left. Now, perhaps, you +can understand my appreciation of a sleepy countryside where things don’t +happen.” + + + + +THE PENANCE + + +Octavian Ruttle was one of those lively cheerful individuals on whom +amiability had set its unmistakable stamp, and, like most of his kind, +his soul’s peace depended in large measure on the unstinted approval of +his fellows. In hunting to death a small tabby cat he had done a thing +of which he scarcely approved himself, and he was glad when the gardener +had hidden the body in its hastily dug grave under a lone oak-tree in the +meadow, the same tree that the hunted quarry had climbed as a last effort +towards safety. It had been a distasteful and seemingly ruthless deed, +but circumstances had demanded the doing of it. Octavian kept chickens; +at least he kept some of them; others vanished from his keeping, leaving +only a few bloodstained feathers to mark the manner of their going. The +tabby cat from the large grey house that stood with its back to the +meadow had been detected in many furtive visits to the hen-coups, and +after due negotiation with those in authority at the grey house a +sentence of death had been agreed on. “The children will mind, but they +need not know,” had been the last word on the matter. + +The children in question were a standing puzzle to Octavian; in the +course of a few months he considered that he should have known their +names, ages, the dates of their birthdays, and have been introduced to +their favourite toys. They remained however, as non-committal as the +long blank wall that shut them off from the meadow, a wall over which +their three heads sometimes appeared at odd moments. They had parents in +India—that much Octavian had learned in the neighbourhood; the children, +beyond grouping themselves garment-wise into sexes, a girl and two boys, +carried their life-story no further on his behoof. And now it seemed he +was engaged in something which touched them closely, but must be hidden +from their knowledge. + +The poor helpless chickens had gone one by one to their doom, so it was +meet that their destroyer should come to a violent end; yet Octavian felt +some qualms when his share of the violence was ended. The little cat, +headed off from its wonted tracks of safety, had raced unfriended from +shelter to shelter, and its end had been rather piteous. Octavian walked +through the long grass of the meadow with a step less jaunty than usual. +And as he passed beneath the shadow of the high blank wall he glanced up +and became aware that his hunting had had undesired witnesses. Three +white set faces were looking down at him, and if ever an artist wanted a +threefold study of cold human hate, impotent yet unyielding, raging yet +masked in stillness, he would have found it in the triple gaze that met +Octavian’s eye. + +“I’m sorry, but it had to be done,” said Octavian, with genuine apology +in his voice. + +“Beast!” + +The answer came from three throats with startling intensity. + +Octavian felt that the blank wall would not be more impervious to his +explanations than the bunch of human hostility that peered over its +coping; he wisely decided to withhold his peace overtures till a more +hopeful occasion. + +Two days later he ransacked the best sweet shop in the neighbouring +market town for a box of chocolates that by its size and contents should +fitly atone for the dismal deed done under the oak tree in the meadow. +The two first specimens that were shown him he hastily rejected; one had +a group of chickens pictured on its lid, the other bore the portrait of a +tabby kitten. A third sample was more simply bedecked with a spray of +painted poppies, and Octavian hailed the flowers of forgetfulness as a +happy omen. He felt distinctly more at ease with his surroundings when +the imposing package had been sent across to the grey house, and a +message returned to say that it had been duly given to the children. The +next morning he sauntered with purposeful steps past the long blank wall +on his way to the chicken-run and piggery that stood at the bottom of the +meadow. The three children were perched at their accustomed look-out, +and their range of sight did not seem to concern itself with Octavian’s +presence. As he became depressingly aware of the aloofness of their gaze +he also noted a strange variegation in the herbage at his feet; the +greensward for a considerable space around was strewn and speckled with a +chocolate-coloured hail, enlivened here and there with gay tinsel-like +wrappings or the glistening mauve of crystallised violets. It was as +though the fairy paradise of a greedyminded child had taken shape and +substance in the vegetation of the meadow. Octavian’s bloodmoney had +been flung back at him in scorn. + +To increase his discomfiture the march of events tended to shift the +blame of ravaged chicken-coops from the supposed culprit who had already +paid full forfeit; the young chicks were still carried off, and it seemed +highly probable that the cat had only haunted the chicken-run to prey on +the rats which harboured there. Through the flowing channels of servant +talk the children learned of this belated revision of verdict, and +Octavian one day picked up a sheet of copy-book paper on which was +painstakingly written: “Beast. Rats eated your chickens.” More ardently +than ever did he wish for an opportunity for sloughing off the disgrace +that enwrapped him, and earning some happier nickname from his three +unsparing judges. + +And one day a chance inspiration came to him. Olivia, his two-year-old +daughter, was accustomed to spend the hour from high noon till one +o’clock with her father while the nursemaid gobbled and digested her +dinner and novelette. About the same time the blank wall was usually +enlivened by the presence of its three small wardens. Octavian, with +seeming carelessness of purpose, brought Olivia well within hail of the +watchers and noted with hidden delight the growing interest that dawned +in that hitherto sternly hostile quarter. His little Olivia, with her +sleepy placid ways, was going to succeed where he, with his anxious +well-meant overtures, had so signally failed. He brought her a large +yellow dahlia, which she grasped tightly in one hand and regarded with a +stare of benevolent boredom, such as one might bestow on amateur +classical dancing performed in aid of a deserving charity. Then he +turned shyly to the group perched on the wall and asked with affected +carelessness, “Do you like flowers?” Three solemn nods rewarded his +venture. + +“Which sorts do you like best?” he asked, this time with a distinct +betrayal of eagerness in his voice. + +“Those with all the colours, over there.” Three chubby arms pointed to a +distant tangle of sweet-pea. Child-like, they had asked for what lay +farthest from hand, but Octavian trotted off gleefully to obey their +welcome behest. He pulled and plucked with unsparing hand, and brought +every variety of tint that he could see into his bunch that was rapidly +becoming a bundle. Then he turned to retrace his steps, and found the +blank wall blanker and more deserted than ever, while the foreground was +void of all trace of Olivia. Far down the meadow three children were +pushing a go-cart at the utmost speed they could muster in the direction +of the piggeries; it was Olivia’s go-cart and Olivia sat in it, somewhat +bumped and shaken by the pace at which she was being driven, but +apparently retaining her wonted composure of mind. Octavian stared for a +moment at the rapidly moving group, and then started in hot pursuit, +shedding as he ran sprays of blossom from the mass of sweet-pea that he +still clutched in his hands. Fast as he ran the children had reached the +piggery before he could overtake them, and he arrived just in time to see +Olivia, wondering but unprotesting, hauled and pushed up to the roof of +the nearest sty. They were old buildings in some need of repair, and the +rickety roof would certainly not have borne Octavian’s weight if he had +attempted to follow his daughter and her captors on their new vantage +ground. + +“What are you going to do with her?” he panted. There was no mistaking +the grim trend of mischief in those flushed by sternly composed young +faces. + +“Hang her in chains over a slow fire,” said one of the boys. Evidently +they had been reading English history. + +“Frow her down the pigs will d’vour her, every bit ’cept the palms of her +hands,” said the other boy. It was also evident that they had studied +Biblical history. + +The last proposal was the one which most alarmed Octavian, since it might +be carried into effect at a moment’s notice; there had been cases, he +remembered, of pigs eating babies. + +“You surely wouldn’t treat my poor little Olivia in that way?” he +pleaded. + +“You killed our little cat,” came in stern reminder from three throats. + +“I’m sorry I did,” said Octavian, and if there is a standard measurement +in truths Octavian’s statement was assuredly a large nine. + +“We shall be very sorry when we’ve killed Olivia,” said the girl, “but we +can’t be sorry till we’ve done it.” + +The inexorable child-logic rose like an unyielding rampart before +Octavian’s scared pleadings. Before he could think of any fresh line of +appeal his energies were called out in another direction. Olivia had +slid off the roof and fallen with a soft, unctuous splash into a morass +of muck and decaying straw. Octavian scrambled hastily over the pigsty +wall to her rescue, and at once found himself in a quagmire that engulfed +his feet. Olivia, after the first shock of surprise at her sudden drop +through the air, had been mildly pleased at finding herself in close and +unstinted contact with the sticky element that oozed around her, but as +she began to sink gently into the bed of slime a feeling dawned on her +that she was not after all very happy, and she began to cry in the +tentative fashion of the normally good child. Octavian, battling with +the quagmire, which seemed to have learned the rare art of giving way at +all points without yielding an inch, saw his daughter slowly disappearing +in the engulfing slush, her smeared face further distorted with the +contortions of whimpering wonder, while from their perch on the pigsty +roof the three children looked down with the cold unpitying detachment of +the Parcæ Sisters. + +“I can’t reach her in time,” gasped Octavian, “she’ll be choked in the +muck. Won’t you help her?” + +“No one helped our cat,” came the inevitable reminder. + +“I’ll do anything to show you how sorry I am about that,” cried Octavian, +with a further desperate flounder, which carried him scarcely two inches +forward. + +“Will you stand in a white sheet by the grave?” + +“Yes,” screamed Octavian. + +“Holding a candle?” + +“An’ saying ‘I’m a miserable Beast’?” + +Octavian agreed to both suggestions. + +“For a long, long time?” + +“For half an hour,” said Octavian. There was an anxious ring in his +voice as he named the time-limit; was there not the precedent of a German +king who did open-air penance for several days and nights at +Christmas-time clad only in his shirt? Fortunately the children did not +appear to have read German history, and half an hour seemed long and +goodly in their eyes. + +“All right,” came with threefold solemnity from the roof, and a moment +later a short ladder had been laboriously pushed across to Octavian, who +lost no time in propping it against the low pigsty wall. Scrambling +gingerly along its rungs he was able to lean across the morass that +separated him from his slowly foundering offspring and extract her like +an unwilling cork from it’s slushy embrace. A few minutes later he was +listening to the shrill and repeated assurances of the nursemaid that her +previous experience of filthy spectacles had been on a notably smaller +scale. + +That same evening when twilight was deepening into darkness Octavian took +up his position as penitent under the lone oak-tree, having first +carefully undressed the part. Clad in a zephyr shirt, which on this +occasion thoroughly merited its name, he held in one hand a lighted +candle and in the other a watch, into which the soul of a dead plumber +seemed to have passed. A box of matches lay at his feet and was resorted +to on the fairly frequent occasions when the candle succumbed to the +night breezes. The house loomed inscrutable in the middle distance, but +as Octavian conscientiously repeated the formula of his penance he felt +certain that three pairs of solemn eyes were watching his moth-shared +vigil. + +And the next morning his eyes were gladdened by a sheet of copy-book +paper lying beside the blank wall, on which was written the message +“Un-Beast.” + + + + +THE PHANTOM LUNCHEON + + +“The Smithly-Dubbs are in Town,” said Sir James. “I wish you would show +them some attention. Ask them to lunch with you at the Ritz or +somewhere.” + +“From the little I’ve seen of the Smithly-Dubbs I don’t thing I want to +cultivate their acquaintance,” said Lady Drakmanton. + +“They always work for us at election times,” said her husband; “I don’t +suppose they influence very many votes, but they have an uncle who is on +one of my ward committees, and another uncle speaks sometimes at some of +our less important meetings. Those sort of people expect some return in +the shape of hospitality.” + +“Expect it!” exclaimed Lady Drakmanton; “the Misses Smithly-Dubb do more +than that; they almost demand it. They belong to my club, and hang about +the lobby just about lunch-time, all three of them, with their tongues +hanging out of their mouths and the six-course look in their eyes. If I +were to breathe the word ‘lunch’ they would hustle me into a taxi and +scream ‘Ritz’ or ‘Dieudonne’s’ to the driver before I knew what was +happening.” + +“All the same, I think you ought to ask them to a meal of some sort,” +persisted Sir James. + +“I consider that showing hospitality to the Smithly-Dubbs is carrying +Free Food principles to a regrettable extreme,” said Lady Drakmanton; +“I’ve entertained the Joneses and the Browns and the Snapheimers and the +Lubrikoffs, and heaps of others whose names I forget, but I don’t see why +I should inflict the society of the Misses Smithly-Dubb on myself for a +solid hour. Imagine it, sixty minutes, more or less, of unrelenting +gobble and gabble. Why can’t _you_ take them on, Milly?” she asked, +turning hopefully to her sister. + +“I don’t know them,” said Milly hastily. + +“All the better; you can pass yourself off as me. People say that we are +so alike that they can hardly tell us apart, and I’ve only spoken to +these tiresome young women about twice in my life, at committee-rooms, +and bowed to them in the club. Any of the club page-boys will point them +out to you; they’re always to be found lolling about the hall just before +lunch-time.” + +“My dear Betty, don’t be absurd,” protested Milly; “I’ve got some people +lunching with me at the Carlton to-morrow, and I’m leaving Town the day +afterwards.” + +“What time is your lunch to-morrow?” asked Lady Drakmanton reflectively. + +“Two o’clock,” said Milly. + +“Good,” said her sister; “the Smithly-Dubbs shall lunch with me +to-morrow. It shall be rather an amusing lunch-party. At least, I shall +be amused.” + +The last two remarks she made to herself. Other people did not always +appreciate her ideas of humour. Sir James never did. + +The next day Lady Drakmanton made some marked variations in her usual +toilet effects. She dressed her hair in an unaccustomed manner, and put +on a hat that added to the transformation of her appearance. When she +had made one or two minor alterations she was sufficiently unlike her +usual smart self to produce some hesitation in the greeting which the +Misses Smithly-Dubb bestowed on her in the club-lobby. She responded, +however, with a readiness which set their doubts at rest. + +“What is the Carlton like for lunching in?” she asked breezily. + +The restaurant received an enthusiastic recommendation from the three +sisters. + +“Let’s go and lunch there, shall we?” she suggested, and in a few +minutes’ time the Smithly-Dubb mind was contemplating at close quarters a +happy vista of baked meats and approved vintage. + +“Are you going to start with caviare? I am,” confided Lady Drakmanton, +and the Smithly-Dubbs started with caviare. The subsequent dishes were +chosen in the same ambitious spirit, and by the time they had arrived at +the wild duck course it was beginning to be a rather expensive lunch. + +The conversation hardly kept pace with the brilliancy of the menu. +Repeated references on the part of the guests to the local political +conditions and prospects in Sir James’s constituency were met with vague +“ahs” and “indeeds” from Lady Drakmanton, who might have been expected to +be specially interested. + +“I think when the Insurance Act is a little better understood it will +lose some of its present unpopularity,” hazarded Cecilia Smithly-Dubb. + +“Will it? I dare say. I’m afraid politics don’t interest me very much,” +said Lady Drakmanton. + +The three Miss Smithly-Dubbs put down their cups of Turkish coffee and +stared. Then they broke into protesting giggles. + +“Of course, you’re joking,” they said. + +“Not me,” was the disconcerting answer; “I can’t make head or tail of +these bothering old politics. Never could, and never want to. I’ve +quite enough to do to manage my own affairs, and that’s a fact.” + +“But,” exclaimed Amanda Smithly-Dubb, with a squeal of bewilderment +breaking into her voice, “I was told you spoke so informingly about the +Insurance Act at one of our social evenings.” + +It was Lady Drakmanton who stared now. “Do you know,” she said, with a +scared look around her, “rather a dreadful thing is happening. I’m +suffering from a complete loss of memory. I can’t even think who I am. +I remember meeting you somewhere, and I remember you asking me to come +and lunch with you here, and that I accepted your kind invitation. +Beyond that my mind is a positive blank.” + +The scared look was transferred with intensified poignancy to the faces +of her companions. + +“_You_ asked _us_ to lunch,” they exclaimed hurriedly. That seemed a +more immediately important point to clear up than the question of +identity. + +“Oh, no,” said the vanishing hostess, “_that_ I do remember about. You +insisted on my coming here because the feeding was so good, and I must +say it comes up to all you said about it. A very nice lunch it’s been. +What I’m worrying about is who on earth am I? I haven’t the faintest +notion?” + +“You are Lady Drakmanton,” exclaimed the three sisters in chorus. + +“Now, don’t make fun of me,” she replied, crossly, “I happen to know her +quite well by sight, and she isn’t a bit like me. And it’s an odd thing +you should have mentioned her, for it so happens she’s just come into the +room. That lady in black, with the yellow plume in her hat, there over +by the door.” + +The Smithly-Dubbs looked in the indicated direction, and the uneasiness +in their eyes deepened into horror. In outward appearance the lady who +had just entered the room certainly came rather nearer to their +recollection of their Member’s wife than the individual who was sitting +at table with them. + +“Who _are_ you, then, if that is Lady Drakmanton?” they asked in +panic-stricken bewilderment. + +“That is just what I don’t know,” was the answer; “and you don’t seem to +know much better than I do.” + +“You came up to us in the club—” + +“In what club?” + +“The New Didactic, in Calais Street.” + +“The New Didactic!” exclaimed Lady Drakmanton with an air of returning +illumination; “thank you so much. Of course, I remember now who I am. +I’m Ellen Niggle, of the Ladies’ Brasspolishing Guild. The Club employs +me to come now and then and see to the polishing of the brass fittings. +That’s how I came to know Lady Drakmanton by sight; she’s very often in +the Club. And you are the ladies who so kindly asked me out to lunch. +Funny how it should all have slipped my memory, all of a sudden. The +unaccustomed good food and wine must have been too much for me; for the +moment I really couldn’t call to mind who I was. Good gracious,” she +broke off suddenly, “it’s ten past two; I should be at a polishing job in +Whitehall. I must scuttle off like a giddy rabbit. Thanking you ever +so.” + +She left the room with a scuttle sufficiently suggestive of the animal +she had mentioned, but the giddiness was all on the side of her +involuntary hostesses. The restaurant seemed to be spinning round them; +and the bill when it appeared did nothing to restore their composure. +They were as nearly in tears as it is permissible to be during the +luncheon hour in a really good restaurant. Financially speaking, they +were well able to afford the luxury of an elaborate lunch, but their +ideas on the subject of entertaining differed very sharply, according to +the circumstances of whether they were dispensing or receiving +hospitality. To have fed themselves liberally at their own expense was, +perhaps, an extravagance to be deplored, but, at any rate, they had had +something for their money; to have drawn an unknown and socially +unremunerative Ellen Niggle into the net of their hospitality was a +catastrophe that they could not contemplate with any degree of calmness. + +The Smithly-Dubbs never quite recovered from their unnerving experience. +They have given up politics and taken to doing good. + + + + +A BREAD AND BUTTER MISS + + +“Starling Chatter and Oakhill have both dropped back in the betting,” +said Bertie van Tahn, throwing the morning paper across the breakfast +table. + +“That leaves Nursery Tea practically favourite,” said Odo Finsberry. + +“Nursery Tea and Pipeclay are at the top of the betting at present,” said +Bertie, “but that French horse, Le Five O’Clock, seems to be fancied as +much as anything. Then there is Whitebait, and the Polish horse with a +name like some one trying to stifle a sneeze in church; they both seem to +have a lot of support.” + +“It’s the most open Derby there’s been for years,” said Odo. + +“It’s simply no good trying to pick the winner on form,” said Bertie; +“one must just trust to luck and inspiration.” + +“The question is whether to trust to one’s own inspiration, or somebody +else’s. _Sporting Swank_ gives Count Palatine to win, and Le Five +O’Clock for a place.” + +“Count Palatine—that adds another to our list of perplexities. Good +morning, Sir Lulworth; have you a fancy for the Derby by any chance?” + +“I don’t usually take much interest in turf matters,” said Sir Lulworth, +who had just made his appearance, “but I always like to have a bet on the +Guineas and the Derby. This year, I confess, it’s rather difficult to +pick out anything that seems markedly better than anything else. What do +you think of Snow Bunting?” + +“Snow Bunting?” said Odo, with a groan, “there’s another of them. +Surely, Snow Bunting has no earthly chance?” + +“My housekeeper’s nephew, who is a shoeing-smith in the mounted section +of the Church Lads’ Brigade, and an authority on horseflesh, expects him +to be among the first three.” + +“The nephews of housekeepers are invariably optimists,” said Bertie; +“it’s a kind of natural reaction against the professional pessimism of +their aunts.” + +“We don’t seem to get much further in our search for the probable +winner,” said Mrs. de Claux; “the more I listen to you experts the more +hopelessly befogged I get.” + +“It’s all very well to blame us,” said Bertie to his hostess; “you +haven’t produced anything in the way of an inspiration.” + +“My inspiration consisted in asking you down for Derby week,” retorted +Mrs. de Claux; “I thought you and Odo between you might throw some light +on the question of the moment.” + +Further recriminations were cut short by the arrival of Lola Pevensey, +who floated into the room with an air of gracious apology. + +“So sorry to be so late,” she observed, making a rapid tour of inspection +of the breakfast dishes. + +“Did you have a good night?” asked her hostess with perfunctory +solicitude. + +“Quite, thank you,” said Lola; “I dreamt a most remarkable dream.” + +A flutter, indicative of general boredom; went round the table. Other +people’s dreams are about as universally interesting as accounts of other +people’s gardens, or chickens, or children. + +“I dreamt about the winner of the Derby,” said Lola. + +A swift reaction of attentive interest set in. + +“Do tell us what you dreamt,” came in a chorus. + +“The really remarkable thing about it is that I’ve dreamt it two nights +running,” said Lola, finally deciding between the allurements of sausages +and kedgeree; “that is why I thought it worth mentioning. You know, when +I dream things two or three nights in succession, it always means +something; I have special powers in that way. For instance, I once +dreamed three times that a winged lion was flying through the sky and one +of his wings dropped off, and he came to the ground with a crash; just +afterwards the Campanile at Venice fell down. The winged lion is the +symbol of Venice, you know,” she added for the enlightenment of those who +might not be versed in Italian heraldry. “Then,” she continued, “just +before the murder of the King and Queen of Servia I had a vivid dream of +two crowned figures walking into a slaughter-house by the banks of a big +river, which I took to be the Danube; and only the other day—” + +“Do tell us what you’ve dreamt about the Derby,” interrupted Odo +impatiently. + +“Well, I saw the finish of the race as clearly as anything; and one horse +won easily, almost in a canter, and everybody cried out ‘Bread and Butter +wins! Good old Bread and Butter.’ I heard the name distinctly, and I’ve +had the same dream two nights running.” + +“Bread and Butter,” said Mrs. de Claux, “now, whatever horse can that +point to? Why—of course; Nursery Tea!” + +She looked round with the triumphant smile of a successful unraveller of +mystery. + +“How about Le Five O’Clock?” interposed Sir Lulworth. + +“It would fit either of them equally well,” said Odo; “can you remember +any details about the jockey’s colours? That might help us.” + +“I seem to remember a glimpse of lemon sleeves or cap, but I can’t be +sure,” said Lola, after due reflection. + +“There isn’t a lemon jacket or cap in the race,” said Bertie, referring +to a list of starters and jockeys; “can’t you remember anything about the +appearance of the horse? If it were a thick-set animal, this bread and +butter would typify Nursery Tea; and if it were thin, of course, it would +mean Le Five O’Clock.” + +“That seems sound enough,” said Mrs. de Claux; “do think, Lola dear, +whether the horse in your dream was thin or stoutly built.” + +“I can’t remember that it was one or the other,” said Lola; “one wouldn’t +notice such a detail in the excitement of a finish.” + +“But this was a symbolic animal,” said Sir Lulworth; “if it were to +typify thick or thin bread and butter surely it ought to have been either +as bulky and tubby as a shire cart-horse; or as thin as a heraldic +leopard.” + +“I’m afraid you are rather a careless dreamer,” said Bertie resentfully. + +“Of course, at the moment of dreaming I thought I was witnessing a real +race, not the portent of one,” said Lola; “otherwise I should have +particularly noticed all helpful details.” + +“The Derby isn’t run till to-morrow,” said Mrs. de Claux; “do you think +you are likely to have the same dream again to-night? If so; you can fix +your attention on the important detail of the animal’s appearance.” + +“I’m afraid I shan’t sleep at all to-night,” said Lola pathetically; +“every fifth night I suffer from insomnia, and it’s due to-night.” + +“It’s most provoking,” said Bertie; “of course, we can back both horses, +but it would be much more satisfactory to have all our money on the +winner. Can’t you take a sleeping-draught, or something?” + +“Oakleaves, soaked in warm water and put under the bed, are recommended +by some,” said Mrs. de Claux. + +“A glass of Benedictine, with a drop of eau-de-Cologne—” said Sir +Lulworth. + +“I have tried every known remedy,” said Lola, with dignity; “I’ve been a +martyr to insomnia for years.” + +“But now we are being martyrs to it,” said Odo sulkily; “I particularly +want to land a big coup over this race.” + +“I don’t have insomnia for my own amusement,” snapped Lola. + +“Let us hope for the best,” said Mrs. de Claux soothingly; “to-night may +prove an exception to the fifth-night rule.” + +But when breakfast time came round again Lola reported a blank night as +far as visions were concerned. + +“I don’t suppose I had as much as ten minutes’ sleep, and, certainly, no +dreams.” + +“I’m so sorry, for your sake in the first place, and ours as well,” said +her hostess; “do you think you could induce a short nap after breakfast? +It would be so good for you—and you _might_ dream something. There would +still be time for us to get our bets on.” + +“I’ll try if you like,” said Lola; “it sounds rather like a small child +being sent to bed in disgrace.” + +“I’ll come and read the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ to you if you think it +will make you sleep any sooner,” said Bertie obligingly. + +Rain was falling too steadily to permit of outdoor amusement, and the +party suffered considerably during the next two hours from the absolute +quiet that was enforced all over the house in order to give Lola every +chance of achieving slumber. Even the click of billiard balls was +considered a possible factor of disturbance, and the canaries were +carried down to the gardener’s lodge, while the cuckoo clock in the hall +was muffled under several layers of rugs. A notice, “Please do not Knock +or Ring,” was posted on the front door at Bertie’s suggestion, and guests +and servants spoke in tragic whispers as though the dread presence of +death or sickness had invaded the house. The precautions proved of no +avail: Lola added a sleepless morning to a wakeful night, and the bets of +the party had to be impartially divided between Nursery Tea and the +French Colt. + +“So provoking to have to split out bets,” said Mrs. de Claux, as her +guests gathered in the hall later in the day, waiting for the result of +the race. + +“I did my best for you,” said Lola, feeling that she was not getting her +due share of gratitude; “I told you what I had seen in my dreams, a brown +horse, called Bread and Butter, winning easily from all the rest.” + +“What?” screamed Bertie, jumping up from his sea, “a _brown_ horse! +Miserable woman, you never said a word about it’s being a brown horse.” + +“Didn’t I?” faltered Lola; “I thought I told you it was a brown horse. +It was certainly brown in both dreams. But I don’t see what the colour +has got to do with it. Nursery Tea and Le Five O’Clock are both +chestnuts.” + +“Merciful Heaven! Doesn’t brown bread and butter with a sprinkling of +lemon in the colours suggest anything to you?” raged Bertie. + +A slow, cumulative groan broke from the assembly as the meaning of his +words gradually dawned on his hearers. + +For the second time that day Lola retired to the seclusion of her room; +she could not face the universal looks of reproach directed at her when +Whitebait was announced winner at the comfortable price of fourteen to +one. + + + + +BERTIE’S CHRISTMAS EVE + + +It was Christmas Eve, and the family circle of Luke Steffink, Esq., was +aglow with the amiability and random mirth which the occasion demanded. +A long and lavish dinner had been partaken of, waits had been round and +sung carols; the house-party had regaled itself with more caroling on its +own account, and there had been romping which, even in a pulpit +reference, could not have been condemned as ragging. In the midst of the +general glow, however, there was one black unkindled cinder. + +Bertie Steffink, nephew of the aforementioned Luke, had early in life +adopted the profession of ne’er-do-weel; his father had been something of +the kind before him. At the age of eighteen Bertie had commenced that +round of visits to our Colonial possessions, so seemly and desirable in +the case of a Prince of the Blood, so suggestive of insincerity in a +young man of the middle-class. He had gone to grow tea in Ceylon and +fruit in British Columbia, and to help sheep to grow wool in Australia. +At the age of twenty he had just returned from some similar errand in +Canada, from which it may be gathered that the trial he gave to these +various experiments was of the summary drum-head nature. Luke Steffink, +who fulfilled the troubled role of guardian and deputy-parent to Bertie, +deplored the persistent manifestation of the homing instinct on his +nephew’s part, and his solemn thanks earlier in the day for the blessing +of reporting a united family had no reference to Bertie’s return. + +Arrangements had been promptly made for packing the youth off to a +distant corner of Rhodesia, whence return would be a difficult matter; +the journey to this uninviting destination was imminent, in fact a more +careful and willing traveller would have already begun to think about his +packing. Hence Bertie was in no mood to share in the festive spirit +which displayed itself around him, and resentment smouldered within him +at the eager, self-absorbed discussion of social plans for the coming +months which he heard on all sides. Beyond depressing his uncle and the +family circle generally by singing “Say au revoir, and not good-bye,” he +had taken no part in the evening’s conviviality. + +Eleven o’clock had struck some half-hour ago, and the elder Steffinks +began to throw out suggestions leading up to that process which they +called retiring for the night. + +“Come, Teddie, it’s time you were in your little bed, you know,” said +Luke Steffink to his thirteen-year-old son. + +“That’s where we all ought to be,” said Mrs. Steffink. + +“There wouldn’t be room,” said Bertie. + +The remark was considered to border on the scandalous; everybody ate +raisins and almonds with the nervous industry of sheep feeding during +threatening weather. + +“In Russia,” said Horace Bordenby, who was staying in the house as a +Christmas guest, “I’ve read that the peasants believe that if you go into +a cow-house or stable at midnight on Christmas Eve you will hear the +animals talk. They’re supposed to have the gift of speech at that one +moment of the year.” + +“Oh, _do_ let’s _all_ go down to the cow-house and listen to what they’ve +got to say!” exclaimed Beryl, to whom anything was thrilling and amusing +if you did it in a troop. + +Mrs. Steffink made a laughing protest, but gave a virtual consent by +saying, “We must all wrap up well, then.” The idea seemed a +scatterbrained one to her, and almost heathenish, but if afforded an +opportunity for “throwing the young people together,” and as such she +welcomed it. Mr. Horace Bordenby was a young man with quite substantial +prospects, and he had danced with Beryl at a local subscription ball a +sufficient number of times to warrant the authorised inquiry on the part +of the neighbours whether “there was anything in it.” Though Mrs. +Steffink would not have put it in so many words, she shared the idea of +the Russian peasantry that on this night the beast might speak. + +The cow-house stood at the junction of the garden with a small paddock, +an isolated survival, in a suburban neighbourhood; of what had once been +a small farm. Luke Steffink was complacently proud of his cow-house and +his two cows; he felt that they gave him a stamp of solidity which no +number of Wyandottes or Orpingtons could impart. They even seemed to +link him in a sort of inconsequent way with those patriarchs who derived +importance from their floating capital of flocks and herbs, he-asses and +she-asses. It had been an anxious and momentous occasion when he had had +to decide definitely between “the Byre” and “the Ranch” for the naming of +his villa residence. A December midnight was hardly the moment he would +have chosen for showing his farm-building to visitors, but since it was a +fine night, and the young people were anxious for an excuse for a mild +frolic, Luke consented to chaperon the expedition. The servants had long +since gone to bed, so the house was left in charge of Bertie, who +scornfully declined to stir out on the pretext of listening to bovine +conversation. + +“We must go quietly,” said Luke, as he headed the procession of giggling +young folk, brought up in the rear by the shawled and hooded figure of +Mrs. Steffink; “I’ve always laid stress on keeping this a quiet and +orderly neighbourhood.” + +It was a few minutes to midnight when the party reached the cow-house and +made its way in by the light of Luke’s stable lantern. For a moment +every one stood in silence, almost with a feeling of being in church. + +“Daisy—the one lying down—is by a shorthorn bull out of a Guernsey cow,” +announced Luke in a hushed voice, which was in keeping with the foregoing +impression. + +“Is she?” said Bordenby, rather as if he had expected her to be by +Rembrandt. + +“Myrtle is—” + +Myrtle’s family history was cut short by a little scream from the women +of the party. + +The cow-house door had closed noiselessly behind them and the key had +turned gratingly in the lock; then they heard Bertie’s voice pleasantly +wishing them good-night and his footsteps retreating along the garden +path. + +Luke Steffink strode to the window; it was a small square opening of the +old-fashioned sort, with iron bars let into the stonework. + +“Unlock the door this instant,” he shouted, with as much air of menacing +authority as a hen might assume when screaming through the bars of a coop +at a marauding hawk. In reply to his summons the hall-door closed with a +defiant bang. + +A neighbouring clock struck the hour of midnight. If the cows had +received the gift of human speech at that moment they would not have been +able to make themselves heard. Seven or eight other voices were engaged +in describing Bertie’s present conduct and his general character at a +high pressure of excitement and indignation. + +In the course of half an hour or so everything that it was permissible to +say about Bertie had been said some dozens of times, and other topics +began to come to the front—the extreme mustiness of the cow-house, the +possibility of it catching fire, and the probability of it being a Rowton +House for the vagrant rats of the neighbourhood. And still no sign of +deliverance came to the unwilling vigil-keepers. + +Towards one o’clock the sound of rather boisterous and undisciplined +carol-singing approached rapidly, and came to a sudden anchorage, +apparently just outside the garden-gate. A motor-load of youthful +“bloods,” in a high state of conviviality, had made a temporary halt for +repairs; the stoppage, however, did not extend to the vocal efforts of +the party, and the watchers in the cow-shed were treated to a highly +unauthorised rendering of “Good King Wenceslas,” in which the adjective +“good” appeared to be very carelessly applied. + +The noise had the effect of bringing Bertie out into the garden, but he +utterly ignored the pale, angry faces peering out at the cow-house +window, and concentrated his attention on the revellers outside the gate. + +“Wassail, you chaps!” he shouted. + +“Wassail, old sport!” they shouted back; “we’d jolly well drink y’r +health, only we’ve nothing to drink it in.” + +“Come and wassail inside,” said Bertie hospitably; “I’m all alone, and +there’s heap’s of ‘wet’.” + +They were total strangers, but his touch of kindness made them instantly +his kin. In another moment the unauthorised version of King Wenceslas, +which, like many other scandals, grew worse on repetition, went echoing +up the garden path; two of the revellers gave an impromptu performance on +the way by executing the staircase waltz up the terraces of what Luke +Steffink, hitherto with some justification, called his rock-garden. The +rock part of it was still there when the waltz had been accorded its +third encore. Luke, more than ever like a cooped hen behind the +cow-house bars, was in a position to realise the feelings of +concert-goers unable to countermand the call for an encore which they +neither desire or deserve. + +The hall door closed with a bang on Bertie’s guests, and the sounds of +merriment became faint and muffled to the weary watchers at the other end +of the garden. Presently two ominous pops, in quick succession, made +themselves distinctly heard. + +“They’ve got at the champagne!” exclaimed Mrs. Steffink. + +“Perhaps it’s the sparkling Moselle,” said Luke hopefully. + +Three or four more pops were heard. + +“The champagne _and_ the sparkling Moselle,” said Mrs. Steffink. + +Luke uncorked an expletive which, like brandy in a temperance household, +was only used on rare emergencies. Mr. Horace Bordenby had been making +use of similar expressions under his breath for a considerable time past. +The experiment of “throwing the young people together” had been prolonged +beyond a point when it was likely to produce any romantic result. + +Some forty minutes later the hall door opened and disgorged a crowd that +had thrown off any restraint of shyness that might have influenced its +earlier actions. Its vocal efforts in the direction of carol singing +were now supplemented by instrumental music; a Christmas-tree that had +been prepared for the children of the gardener and other household +retainers had yielded a rich spoil of tin trumpets, rattles, and drums. +The life-story of King Wenceslas had been dropped, Luke was thankful to +notice, but it was intensely irritating for the chilled prisoners in the +cow-house to be told that it was a hot time in the old town to-night, +together with some accurate but entirely superfluous information as to +the imminence of Christmas morning. Judging by the protests which began +to be shouted from the upper windows of neighbouring houses the +sentiments prevailing in the cow-house were heartily echoed in other +quarters. + +The revellers found their car, and, what was more remarkable, managed to +drive off in it, with a parting fanfare of tin trumpets. The lively beat +of a drum disclosed the fact that the master of the revels remained on +the scene. + +“Bertie!” came in an angry, imploring chorus of shouts and screams from +the cow-house window. + +“Hullo,” cried the owner of the name, turning his rather errant steps in +the direction of the summons; “are you people still there? Must have +heard everything cows got to say by this time. If you haven’t, no use +waiting. After all, it’s a Russian legend, and Russian Chrismush Eve not +due for ’nother fortnight. Better come out.” + +After one or two ineffectual attempts he managed to pitch the key of the +cow-house door in through the window. Then, lifting his voice in the +strains of “I’m afraid to go home in the dark,” with a lusty drum +accompaniment, he led the way back to the house. The hurried procession +of the released that followed in his steps came in for a good deal of the +adverse comment that his exuberant display had evoked. + +It was the happiest Christmas Eve he had ever spent. To quote his own +words, he had a rotten Christmas. + + + + +FOREWARNED + + +Alethia Debchance sat in a corner of an otherwise empty railway carriage, +more or less at ease as regarded body, but in some trepidation as to +mind. She had embarked on a social adventure of no little magnitude as +compared with the accustomed seclusion and stagnation of her past life. +At the age of twenty-eight she could look back on nothing more eventful +than the daily round of her existence in her aunt’s house at +Webblehinton, a hamlet four and a half miles distant from a country town +and about a quarter of a century removed from modern times. Their +neighbours had been elderly and few, not much given to social +intercourse, but helpful or politely sympathetic in times of illness. +Newspapers of the ordinary kind were a rarity; those that Alethia saw +regularly were devoted exclusively either to religion or to poultry, and +the world of politics was to her an unheeded unexplored region. Her +ideas on life in general had been acquired through the medium of popular +respectable novel-writers, and modified or emphasised by such knowledge +as her aunt, the vicar, and her aunt’s housekeeper had put at her +disposal. And now, in her twenty-ninth year, her aunt’s death had left +her, well provided for as regards income, but somewhat isolated in the +matter of kith and kin and human companionship. She had some cousins who +were on terms of friendly, though infrequent, correspondence with her, +but as they lived permanently in Ceylon, a locality about which she knew +little, beyond the assurance contained in the missionary hymn that the +human element there was vile, they were not of much immediate use to her. +Other cousins she also possessed, more distant as regards relationship, +but not quite so geographically remote, seeing that they lived somewhere +in the Midlands. She could hardly remember ever having met them, but +once or twice in the course of the last three or four years they had +expressed a polite wish that she should pay them a visit; they had +probably not been unduly depressed by the fact that her aunt’s failing +health had prevented her from accepting their invitation. The note of +condolence that had arrived on the occasion of her aunt’s death had +included a vague hope that Alethia would find time in the near future to +spend a few days with her cousins, and after much deliberation and many +hesitations she had written to propose herself as a guest for a definite +date some weeks ahead. The family, she reflected with relief, was not a +large one; the two daughters were married and away, there was only old +Mrs. Bludward and her son Robert at home. Mrs. Bludward was something of +an invalid, and Robert was a young man who had been at Oxford and was +going into Parliament. Further than that Alethia’s information did not +go; her imagination, founded on her extensive knowledge of the people one +met in novels, had to supply the gaps. The mother was not difficult to +place; she would either be an ultra-amiable old lady, bearing her feeble +health with uncomplaining fortitude, and having a kind word for the +gardener’s boy and a sunny smile for the chance visitor, or else she +would be cold and peevish, with eyes that pierced you like a gimlet, and +an unreasoning idolatry of her son. Alethia’s imagination rather +inclined her to the latter view. Robert was more of a problem. There +were three dominant types of manhood to be taken into consideration in +working out his classification; there was Hugo, who was strong, good, and +beautiful, a rare type and not very often met with; there was Sir Jasper, +who was utterly vile and absolutely unscrupulous, and there was Nevil, +who was not really bad at heart, but had a weak mouth and usually +required the life-work of two good women to keep him from ultimate +disaster. It was probable, Alethia considered, that Robert came into the +last category, in which case she was certain to enjoy the companionship +of one or two excellent women, and might possibly catch glimpses of +undesirable adventuresses or come face to face with reckless +admiration-seeking married women. It was altogether an exciting +prospect, this sudden venture into an unexplored world of unknown human +beings, and Alethia rather wished that she could have taken the vicar +with her; she was not, however, rich or important enough to travel with a +chaplain, as the Marquis of Moystoncleugh always did in the novel she had +just been reading, so she recognised that such a proceeding was out of +the question. + +The train which carried Alethia towards her destination was a local one, +with the wayside station habit strongly developed. At most of the +stations no one seemed to want to get into the train or to leave it, but +at one there were several market folk on the platform, and two men, of +the farmer or small cattle-dealer class, entered Alethia’s carriage. +Apparently they had just foregathered, after a day’s business, and their +conversation consisted of a rapid exchange of short friendly inquiries as +to health, family, stock, and so forth, and some grumbling remarks on the +weather. Suddenly, however, their talk took a dramatically interesting +turn, and Alethia listened with wide-eyed attention. + +“What do you think of Mister Robert Bludward, eh?” + +There was a certain scornful ring in his question. + +“Robert Bludward? An out-an’-out rotter, that’s what he is. Ought to be +ashamed to look any decent man in the face. Send him to Parliament to +represent us—not much! He’d rob a poor man of his last shilling, he +would.” + +“Ah, that he would. Tells a pack of lies to get our votes, that’s all +that he’s after, damn him. Did you see the way the _Argus_ showed him up +this week? Properly exposed him, hip and thigh, I tell you.” + +And so on they ran, in their withering indictment. There could be no +doubt that it was Alethia’s cousin and prospective host to whom they were +referring; the allusion to a Parliamentary candidature settled that. +What could Robert Bludward have done, what manner of man could he be, +that people should speak of him with such obvious reprobation? + +“He was hissed down at Shoalford yesterday,” said one of the speakers. + +Hissed! Had it come to that? There was something dramatically biblical +in the idea of Robert Bludward’s neighbours and acquaintances hissing him +for very scorn. Lord Hereward Stranglath had been hissed, now Alethia +came to think of it, in the eighth chapter of _Matterby Towers_, while in +the act of opening a Wesleyan bazaar, because he was suspected (unjustly +as it turned out afterwards) of having beaten the German governess to +death. And in _Tainted Guineas_ Roper Squenderby had been deservedly +hissed, on the steps of the Jockey Club, for having handed a rival owner +a forged telegram, containing false news of his mother’s death, just +before the start for an important race, thereby ensuring the withdrawal +of his rival’s horse. In placid Saxon-blooded England people did not +demonstrate their feelings lightly and without some strong compelling +cause. What manner of evildoer was Robert Bludward? + +The train stopped at another small station, and the two men got out. One +of them left behind him a copy of the _Argus_, the local paper to which +he had made reference. Alethia pounced on it, in the expectation of +finding a cultured literary endorsement of the censure which these rough +farming men had expressed in their homely, honest way. She had not far +to look; “Mr. Robert Bludward, Swanker,” was the title of one of the +principal articles in the paper. She did not exactly know what a swanker +was, probably it referred to some unspeakable form of cruelty, but she +read enough in the first few sentences of the article to discover that +her cousin Robert, the man at whose house she was about to stay, was an +unscrupulous, unprincipled character, of a low order of intelligence, yet +cunning withal, and that he and his associates were responsible for most +of the misery, disease, poverty, and ignorance with which the country was +afflicted; never, except in one or two of the denunciatory Psalms, which +she had always supposed to have be written in a spirit of exaggerated +Oriental imagery, had she read such an indictment of a human being. And +this monster was going to meet her at Derrelton Station in a few short +minutes. She would know him at once; he would have the dark beetling +brows, the quick, furtive glance, the sneering, unsavoury smile that +always characterised the Sir Jaspers of this world. It was too late to +escape; she must force herself to meet him with outward calm. + +It was a considerable shock to her to find that Robert was fair, with a +snub nose, merry eye, and rather a schoolboy manner. “A serpent in +duckling’s plumage,” was her private comment; merciful chance had +revealed him to her in his true colours. + +As they drove away from the station a dissipated-looking man of the +labouring class waved his hat in friendly salute. “Good luck to you, Mr. +Bludward,” he shouted; “you’ll come out on top! We’ll break old +Chobham’s neck for him.” + +“Who was that man?” asked Alethia quickly. + +“Oh, one of my supporters,” laughed Robert; “a bit of a poacher and a bit +of a pub-loafer, but he’s on the right side.” + +So these were the sort of associates that Robert Bludward consorted with, +thought Alethia. + +“Who is the person he referred to as old Chobham?” she asked. + +“Sir John Chobham, the man who is opposing me,” answered Robert; “that is +his house away there among the trees on the right.” + +So there was an upright man, possibly a very Hugo in character, who was +thwarting and defying the evildoer in his nefarious career, and there was +a dastardly plot afoot to break his neck! Possibly the attempt would be +made within the next few hours. He must certainly be warned. Alethia +remembered how Lady Sylvia Broomgate, in _Nightshade Court_, had +pretended to be bolted with by her horse up to the front door of a +threatened county magnate, and had whispered a warning in his ear which +saved him from being the victim of foul murder. She wondered if there +was a quiet pony in the stables on which she would be allowed to ride out +alone. The chances were that she would be watched. Robert would come +spurring after her and seize her bridle just as she was turning in at Sir +John’s gates. + +A group of men that they passed in a village street gave them no very +friendly looks, and Alethia thought she heard a furtive hiss; a moment +later they came upon an errand boy riding a bicycle. He had the frank +open countenance, neatly brushed hair and tidy clothes that betoken a +clear conscience and a good mother. He stared straight at the occupants +of the car, and, after he had passed them, sang in his clear, boyish +voice: + +“We’ll hang Bobby Bludward on the sour apple tree.” + +Robert merely laughed. That was how he took the scorn and condemnation +of his fellow-men. He had goaded them to desperation with his shameless +depravity till they spoke openly of putting him to a violent death, and +he laughed. + +Mrs. Bludward proved to be of the type that Alethia had suspected, +thin-lipped, cold-eyed, and obviously devoted to her worthless son. From +her no help was to be expected. Alethia locked her door that night, and +placed such ramparts of furniture against it that the maid had great +difficulty in breaking in with the early tea in the morning. + +After breakfast Alethia, on the pretext of going to look at an outlying +rose-garden, slipped away to the village through which they had passed on +the previous evening. She remembered that Robert had pointed out to her +a public reading-room, and here she considered it possible that she might +meet Sir John Chobham, or some one who knew him well and would carry a +message to him. The room was empty when she entered it; a _Graphic_ +twelve days old, a yet older copy of _Punch_, and one or two local papers +lay upon the central table; the other tables were stacked for the most +part with chess and draughts-boards, and wooden boxes of chessmen and +dominoes. Listlessly she picked up one of the papers, the _Sentinel_, +and glanced at its contents. Suddenly she started, and began to read +with breathless attention a prominently printed article, headed “A Little +Limelight on Sir John Chobham.” The colour ebbed away from her face, a +look of frightened despair crept into her eyes. Never, in any novel that +she had read, had a defenceless young woman been confronted with a +situation like this. Sir John, the Hugo of her imagination, was, if +anything, rather more depraved and despicable than Robert Bludward. He +was mean, evasive, callously indifferent to his country’s interests, a +cheat, a man who habitually broke his word, and who was responsible, with +his associates, for most of the poverty, misery, crime, and national +degradation with which the country was afflicted. He was also a +candidate for Parliament, it seemed, and as there was only one seat in +this particular locality, it was obvious that the success of either +Robert or Sir John would mean a check to the ambitions of the other, +hence, no doubt, the rivalry and enmity between these otherwise kindred +souls. One was seeking to have his enemy done to death, the other was +apparently trying to stir up his supporters to an act of “Lynch law”. +All this in order that there might be an unopposed election, that one or +other of the candidates might go into Parliament with honeyed eloquence +on his lips and blood on his heart. Were men really so vile? + +“I must go back to Webblehinton at once,” Alethia informed her astonished +hostess at lunch time; “I have had a telegram. A friend is very +seriously ill and I have been sent for.” + +It was dreadful to have to concoct lies, but it would be more dreadful to +have to spend another night under that roof. + +Alethia reads novels now with even greater appreciation than before. She +has been herself in the world outside Webblehinton, the world where the +great dramas of sin and villainy are played unceasingly. She had come +unscathed through it, but what might have happened if she had gone +unsuspectingly to visit Sir John Chobham and warn him of his danger? +What indeed! She had been saved by the fearless outspokenness of the +local Press. + + + + +THE INTERLOPERS + + +In a forest of mixed growth somewhere on the eastern spurs of the +Karpathians, a man stood one winter night watching and listening, as +though he waited for some beast of the woods to come within the range of +his vision, and, later, of his rifle. But the game for whose presence he +kept so keen an outlook was none that figured in the sportsman’s calendar +as lawful and proper for the chase; Ulrich von Gradwitz patrolled the +dark forest in quest of a human enemy. + +The forest lands of Gradwitz were of wide extent and well stocked with +game; the narrow strip of precipitous woodland that lay on its outskirt +was not remarkable for the game it harboured or the shooting it afforded, +but it was the most jealously guarded of all its owner’s territorial +possessions. A famous law suit, in the days of his grandfather, had +wrested it from the illegal possession of a neighbouring family of petty +landowners; the dispossessed party had never acquiesced in the judgment +of the Courts, and a long series of poaching affrays and similar scandals +had embittered the relationships between the families for three +generations. The neighbour feud had grown into a personal one since +Ulrich had come to be head of his family; if there was a man in the world +whom he detested and wished ill to it was Georg Znaeym, the inheritor of +the quarrel and the tireless game-snatcher and raider of the disputed +border-forest. The feud might, perhaps, have died down or been +compromised if the personal ill-will of the two men had not stood in the +way; as boys they had thirsted for one another’s blood, as men each +prayed that misfortune might fall on the other, and this wind-scourged +winter night Ulrich had banded together his foresters to watch the dark +forest, not in quest of four-footed quarry, but to keep a look-out for +the prowling thieves whom he suspected of being afoot from across the +land boundary. The roebuck, which usually kept in the sheltered hollows +during a storm-wind, were running like driven things to-night, and there +was movement and unrest among the creatures that were wont to sleep +through the dark hours. Assuredly there was a disturbing element in the +forest, and Ulrich could guess the quarter from whence it came. + +He strayed away by himself from the watchers whom he had placed in ambush +on the crest of the hill, and wandered far down the steep slopes amid the +wild tangle of undergrowth, peering through the tree trunks and listening +through the whistling and skirling of the wind and the restless beating +of the branches for sight and sound of the marauders. If only on this +wild night, in this dark, lone spot, he might come across Georg Znaeym, +man to man, with none to witness—that was the wish that was uppermost in +his thoughts. And as he stepped round the trunk of a huge beech he came +face to face with the man he sought. + +The two enemies stood glaring at one another for a long silent moment. +Each had a rifle in his hand, each had hate in his heart and murder +uppermost in his mind. The chance had come to give full play to the +passions of a lifetime. But a man who has been brought up under the code +of a restraining civilisation cannot easily nerve himself to shoot down +his neighbour in cold blood and without word spoken, except for an +offence against his hearth and honour. And before the moment of +hesitation had given way to action a deed of Nature’s own violence +overwhelmed them both. A fierce shriek of the storm had been answered by +a splitting crash over their heads, and ere they could leap aside a mass +of falling beech tree had thundered down on them. Ulrich von Gradwitz +found himself stretched on the ground, one arm numb beneath him and the +other held almost as helplessly in a tight tangle of forked branches, +while both legs were pinned beneath the fallen mass. His heavy +shooting-boots had saved his feet from being crushed to pieces, but if +his fractures were not as serious as they might have been, at least it +was evident that he could not move from his present position till some +one came to release him. The descending twig had slashed the skin of his +face, and he had to wink away some drops of blood from his eyelashes +before he could take in a general view of the disaster. At his side, so +near that under ordinary circumstances he could almost have touched him, +lay Georg Znaeym, alive and struggling, but obviously as helplessly +pinioned down as himself. All round them lay a thick-strewn wreckage of +splintered branches and broken twigs. + +Relief at being alive and exasperation at his captive plight brought a +strange medley of pious thank-offerings and sharp curses to Ulrich’s +lips. Georg, who was nearly blinded with the blood which trickled across +his eyes, stopped his struggling for a moment to listen, and then gave a +short, snarling laugh. + +“So you’re not killed, as you ought to be, but you’re caught, anyway,” he +cried; “caught fast. Ho, what a jest, Ulrich von Gradwitz snared in his +stolen forest. There’s real justice for you!” + +And he laughed again, mockingly and savagely. + +“I’m caught in my own forest-land,” retorted Ulrich. “When my men come +to release us you will wish, perhaps, that you were in a better plight +than caught poaching on a neighbour’s land, shame on you.” + +Georg was silent for a moment; then he answered quietly: + +“Are you sure that your men will find much to release? I have men, too, +in the forest to-night, close behind me, and _they_ will be here first +and do the releasing. When they drag me out from under these damned +branches it won’t need much clumsiness on their part to roll this mass of +trunk right over on the top of you. Your men will find you dead under a +fallen beech tree. For form’s sake I shall send my condolences to your +family.” + +“It is a useful hint,” said Ulrich fiercely. “My men had orders to +follow in ten minutes time, seven of which must have gone by already, and +when they get me out—I will remember the hint. Only as you will have met +your death poaching on my lands I don’t think I can decently send any +message of condolence to your family.” + +“Good,” snarled Georg, “good. We fight this quarrel out to the death, +you and I and our foresters, with no cursed interlopers to come between +us. Death and damnation to you, Ulrich von Gradwitz.” + +“The same to you, Georg Znaeym, forest-thief, game-snatcher.” + +Both men spoke with the bitterness of possible defeat before them, for +each knew that it might be long before his men would seek him out or find +him; it was a bare matter of chance which party would arrive first on the +scene. + +Both had now given up the useless struggle to free themselves from the +mass of wood that held them down; Ulrich limited his endeavours to an +effort to bring his one partially free arm near enough to his outer +coat-pocket to draw out his wine-flask. Even when he had accomplished +that operation it was long before he could manage the unscrewing of the +stopper or get any of the liquid down his throat. But what a Heaven-sent +draught it seemed! It was an open winter, and little snow had fallen as +yet, hence the captives suffered less from the cold than might have been +the case at that season of the year; nevertheless, the wine was warming +and reviving to the wounded man, and he looked across with something like +a throb of pity to where his enemy lay, just keeping the groans of pain +and weariness from crossing his lips. + +“Could you reach this flask if I threw it over to you?” asked Ulrich +suddenly; “there is good wine in it, and one may as well be as +comfortable as one can. Let us drink, even if to-night one of us dies.” + +“No, I can scarcely see anything; there is so much blood caked round my +eyes,” said Georg, “and in any case I don’t drink wine with an enemy.” + +Ulrich was silent for a few minutes, and lay listening to the weary +screeching of the wind. An idea was slowly forming and growing in his +brain, an idea that gained strength every time that he looked across at +the man who was fighting so grimly against pain and exhaustion. In the +pain and languor that Ulrich himself was feeling the old fierce hatred +seemed to be dying down. + +“Neighbour,” he said presently, “do as you please if your men come first. +It was a fair compact. But as for me, I’ve changed my mind. If my men +are the first to come you shall be the first to be helped, as though you +were my guest. We have quarrelled like devils all our lives over this +stupid strip of forest, where the trees can’t even stand upright in a +breath of wind. Lying here to-night thinking I’ve come to think we’ve +been rather fools; there are better things in life than getting the +better of a boundary dispute. Neighbour, if you will help me to bury the +old quarrel I—I will ask you to be my friend.” + +Georg Znaeym was silent for so long that Ulrich thought, perhaps, he had +fainted with the pain of his injuries. Then he spoke slowly and in +jerks. + +“How the whole region would stare and gabble if we rode into the +market-square together. No one living can remember seeing a Znaeym and a +von Gradwitz talking to one another in friendship. And what peace there +would be among the forester folk if we ended our feud to-night. And if +we choose to make peace among our people there is none other to +interfere, no interlopers from outside . . . You would come and keep the +Sylvester night beneath my roof, and I would come and feast on some high +day at your castle . . . I would never fire a shot on your land, save +when you invited me as a guest; and you should come and shoot with me +down in the marshes where the wildfowl are. In all the countryside there +are none that could hinder if we willed to make peace. I never thought +to have wanted to do other than hate you all my life, but I think I have +changed my mind about things too, this last half-hour. And you offered +me your wine-flask . . . Ulrich von Gradwitz, I will be your friend.” + +For a space both men were silent, turning over in their minds the +wonderful changes that this dramatic reconciliation would bring about. +In the cold, gloomy forest, with the wind tearing in fitful gusts through +the naked branches and whistling round the tree-trunks, they lay and +waited for the help that would now bring release and succour to both +parties. And each prayed a private prayer that his men might be the +first to arrive, so that he might be the first to show honourable +attention to the enemy that had become a friend. + +Presently, as the wind dropped for a moment, Ulrich broke silence. + +“Let’s shout for help,” he said, “in this lull our voices may +carry a little way.” + +“They won’t carry far through the trees and undergrowth,” said Georg, +“but we can try. Together, then.” + +The two raised their voices in a prolonged hunting call. + +“Together again,” said Ulrich a few minutes later, after listening in +vain for an answering halloo. + +“I heard nothing but the pestilential wind,” said Georg hoarsely. + +There was silence again for some minutes, and then Ulrich gave a joyful +cry. + +“I can see figures coming through the wood. They are following in the +way I came down the hillside.” + +Both men raised their voices in as loud a shout as they could muster. + +“They hear us! They’ve stopped. Now they see us. They’re running down +the hill towards us,” cried Ulrich. + +“How many of them are there?” asked Georg. + +“I can’t see distinctly,” said Ulrich; “nine or ten,” + +“Then they are yours,” said Georg; “I had only seven out with me.” + +“They are making all the speed they can, brave lads,” said Ulrich gladly. + +“Are they your men?” asked Georg. “Are they your men?” he repeated +impatiently as Ulrich did not answer. + +“No,” said Ulrich with a laugh, the idiotic chattering laugh of a man +unstrung with hideous fear. + +“Who are they?” asked Georg quickly, straining his eyes to see what the +other would gladly not have seen. + +“_Wolves_.” + + + + +QUAIL SEED + + +“The outlook is not encouraging for us smaller businesses,” said Mr. +Scarrick to the artist and his sister, who had taken rooms over his +suburban grocery store. “These big concerns are offering all sorts of +attractions to the shopping public which we couldn’t afford to imitate, +even on a small scale—reading-rooms and play-rooms and gramophones and +Heaven knows what. People don’t care to buy half a pound of sugar +nowadays unless they can listen to Harry Lauder and have the latest +Australian cricket scores ticked off before their eyes. With the big +Christmas stock we’ve got in we ought to keep half a dozen assistants +hard at work, but as it is my nephew Jimmy and myself can pretty well +attend to it ourselves. It’s a nice stock of goods, too, if I could only +run it off in a few weeks time, but there’s no chance of that—not unless +the London line was to get snowed up for a fortnight before Christmas. I +did have a sort of idea of engaging Miss Luffcombe to give recitations +during afternoons; she made a great hit at the Post Office entertainment +with her rendering of ‘Little Beatrice’s Resolve’.” + +“Anything less likely to make your shop a fashionable shopping centre I +can’t imagine,” said the artist, with a very genuine shudder; “if I were +trying to decide between the merits of Carlsbad plums and confected figs +as a winter dessert it would infuriate me to have my train of thought +entangled with little Beatrice’s resolve to be an Angel of Light or a +girl scout. No,” he continued, “the desire to get something thrown in +for nothing is a ruling passion with the feminine shopper, but you can’t +afford to pander effectively to it. Why not appeal to another instinct; +which dominates not only the woman shopper but the male shopper—in fact, +the entire human race?” + +“What is that instinct, sir?” said the grocer. + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten had missed the 2.18 to Town, and as there +was not another train till 3.12 they thought that they might as well make +their grocery purchases at Scarrick’s. It would not be sensational, they +agreed, but it would still be shopping. + +For some minutes they had the shop almost to themselves, as far as +customers were concerned, but while they were debating the respective +virtues and blemishes of two competing brands of anchovy paste they were +startled by an order, given across the counter, for six pomegranates and +a packet of quail seed. Neither commodity was in general demand in that +neighbourhood. Equally unusual was the style and appearance of the +customer; about sixteen years old, with dark olive skin, large dusky +eyes, and thick, low-growing, blue-black hair, he might have made his +living as an artist’s model. As a matter of fact he did. The bowl of +beaten brass that he produced for the reception of his purchases was +distinctly the most astonishing variation on the string bag or marketing +basket of suburban civilisation that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen. +He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across the +counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might be +forthcoming. + +“The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday,” he said; “keep what is +over of the money for our future purchases.” + +“A very strange-looking boy?” said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to the +grocer as soon as his customer had left. + +“A foreigner, I believe,” said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that was +entirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner. + +“I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have,” said an +authoritative voice a moment or two later. The speaker was a tall, +authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable among +other things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in vogue in +early Assyria than in a London suburb of the present day. + +“Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?” he asked suddenly, +as the coffee was being weighed out to him. + +The two ladies almost jumped on hearing the grocer reply with an +unblushing negative. + +“We have a few pomegranates in stock,” he continued, “but there has been +no demand for them.” + +“My servant will fetch the coffee as usual,” said the purchaser, +producing a coin from a wonderful metal-work purse. As an apparent +afterthought he fired out the question: “Have you, perhaps, any quail +seed?” + +“No,” said the grocer, without hesitation, “we don’t stock it.” + +“What will he deny next?” asked Mrs. Greyes under her breath. What made +it seem so much worse was the fact that Mr. Scarrick had quite recently +presided at a lecture on Savonarola. + +Turning up the deep astrachan collar of his long coat, the stranger swept +out of the shop, with the air, Miss Fritten afterwards described it, of a +Satrap proroguing a Sanhedrim. Whether such a pleasant function ever +fell to a Satrap’s lot she was not quite certain, but the simile +faithfully conveyed her meaning to a large circle of acquaintances. + +“Don’t let’s bother about the 3.12,” said Mrs. Greyes; “let’s go and talk +this over at Laura Lipping’s. It’s her day.” + +When the dark-faced boy arrived at the shop next day with his brass +marketing bowl there was quite a fair gathering of customers, most of +whom seemed to be spinning out their purchasing operations with the air +of people who had very little to do with their time. In a voice that was +heard all over the shop, perhaps because everybody was intently +listening, he asked for a pound of honey and a packet of quail seed. + +“More quail seed!” said Miss Fritten. “Those quails must be voracious, +or else it isn’t quail seed at all.” + +“I believe it’s opium, and the bearded man is a detective,” said Mrs. +Greyes brilliantly. + +“I don’t,” said Laura Lipping; “I’m sure it’s something to do with the +Portuguese Throne.” + +“More likely to be a Persian intrigue on behalf of the ex-Shah,” said +Miss Fritten; “the bearded man belongs to the Government Party. The +quail-seed is a countersign, of course; Persia is almost next door to +Palestine, and quails come into the Old Testament, you know.” + +“Only as a miracle,” said her well-informed younger sister; “I’ve thought +all along it was part of a love intrigue.” + +The boy who had so much interest and speculation centred on him was on +the point of departing with his purchases when he was waylaid by Jimmy, +the nephew-apprentice, who, from his post at the cheese and bacon +counter, commanded a good view of the street. + +“We have some very fine Jaffa oranges,” he said hurriedly, pointing to a +corner where they were stored, behind a high rampart of biscuit tins. +There was evidently more in the remark than met the ear. The boy flew at +the oranges with the enthusiasm of a ferret finding a rabbit family at +home after a long day of fruitless subterranean research. Almost at the +same moment the bearded stranger stalked into the shop, and flung an +order for a pound of dates and a tin of the best Smyrna halva across the +counter. The most adventurous housewife in the locality had never heard +of halva, but Mr. Scarrick was apparently able to produce the best Smyrna +variety of it without a moment’s hesitation. + +“We might be living in the Arabian Nights,” said Miss Fritten, excitedly. + +“Hush! Listen,” beseeched Mrs. Greyes. + +“Has the dark-faced boy, of whom I spoke yesterday, been here to-day?” +asked the stranger. + +“We’ve had rather more people than usual in the shop to-day,” said Mr. +Scarrick, “but I can’t recall a boy such as you describe.” + +Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten looked round triumphantly at their friends. +It was, of course, deplorable that any one should treat the truth as an +article temporarily and excusably out of stock, but they felt gratified +that the vivid accounts they had given of Mr. Scarrick’s traffic in +falsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand. + +“I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about the +absence of colouring matter in the jam,” whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyes +tragically. + +The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly saw +a snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache and +upturned astrachan collar. After a cautious interval the seeker after +oranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed to +find any individual orange that satisfied his requirements. He, too, +took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel and +gossip laden customers. It was Emily Yorling’s “day”, and most of the +shoppers made their way to her drawing-room. To go direct from a +shopping expedition to a tea party was what was known locally as “living +in a whirl”. + +Two extra assistants had been engaged for the following afternoon, and +their services were in brisk demand; the shop was crowded. People bought +and bought, and never seemed to get to the end of their lists. Mr. +Scarrick had never had so little difficulty in persuading customers to +embark on new experiences in grocery wares. Even those women whose +purchases were of modest proportions dawdled over them as though they had +brutal, drunken husbands to go home to. The afternoon had dragged +uneventfully on, and there was a distinct buzz of unpent excitement when +a dark-eyed boy carrying a brass bowl entered the shop. The excitement +seemed to have communicated itself to Mr. Scarrick; abruptly deserting a +lady who was making insincere inquiries about the home life of the Bombay +duck, he intercepted the newcomer on his way to the accustomed counter +and informed him, amid a deathlike hush, that he had run out of quail +seed. + +The boy looked nervously round the shop, and turned hesitatingly to go. +He was again intercepted, this time by the nephew, who darted out from +behind his counter and said something about a better line of oranges. +The boy’s hesitation vanished; he almost scuttled into the obscurity of +the orange corner. There was an expectant turn of public attention +towards the door, and the tall, bearded stranger made a really effective +entrance. The aunt of Mrs. Greyes declared afterwards that she found +herself sub-consciously repeating “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on +the fold” under her breath, and she was generally believed. + +The newcomer, too, was stopped before he reached the counter, but not by +Mr. Scarrick or his assistant. A heavily veiled lady, whom no one had +hitherto noticed, rose languidly from a seat and greeted him in a clear, +penetrating voice. + +“Your Excellency does his shopping himself?” she said. + +“I order the things myself,” he explained; “I find it difficult to make +my servants understand.” + +In a lower, but still perfectly audible, voice the veiled lady gave him a +piece of casual information. + +“They have some excellent Jaffa oranges here.” Then with a tinkling +laugh she passed out of the shop. + +The man glared all round the shop, and then, fixing his eyes +instinctively on the barrier of biscuit tins, demanded loudly of the +grocer: “You have, perhaps, some good Jaffa oranges?” + +Every one expected an instant denial on the part of Mr. Scarrick of any +such possession. Before he could answer, however, the boy had broken +forth from his sanctuary. Holding his empty brass bowl before him he +passed out into the street. His face was variously described afterwards +as masked with studied indifference, overspread with ghastly pallor, and +blazing with defiance. Some said that his teeth chattered, others that +he went out whistling the Persian National Hymn. There was no mistaking, +however, the effect produced by the encounter on the man who had seemed +to force it. If a rabid dog or a rattlesnake had suddenly thrust its +companionship on him he could scarcely have displayed a greater access of +terror. His air of authority and assertiveness had gone, his masterful +stride had given way to a furtive pacing to and fro, as of an animal +seeking an outlet for escape. In a dazed perfunctory manner, always with +his eyes turning to watch the shop entrance, he gave a few random orders, +which the grocer made a show of entering in his book. Now and then he +walked out into the street, looked anxiously in all directions, and +hurried back to keep up his pretence of shopping. From one of these +sorties he did not return; he had dashed away into the dusk, and neither +he nor the dark-faced boy nor the veiled lady were seen again by the +expectant crowds that continued to throng the Scarrick establishment for +days to come. + + * * * * * + +“I can never thank you and your sister sufficiently,” said the grocer. + +“We enjoyed the fun of it,” said the artist modestly, “and as for the +model, it was a welcome variation on posing for hours for ‘The Lost +Hylas’.” + +“At any rate,” said the grocer, “I insist on paying for the hire of the +black beard.” + + + + +CANOSSA + + +Demosthenes Platterbaff, the eminent Unrest Inducer, stood on his trial +for a serious offence, and the eyes of the political world were focussed +on the jury. The offence, it should be stated, was serious for the +Government rather than for the prisoner. He had blown up the Albert Hall +on the eve of the great Liberal Federation Tango Tea, the occasion on +which the Chancellor of the Exchequer was expected to propound his new +theory: “Do partridges spread infectious diseases?” Platterbaff had +chosen his time well; the Tango Tea had been hurriedly postponed, but +there were other political fixtures which could not be put off under any +circumstances. The day after the trial there was to be a by-election at +Nemesis-on-Hand, and it had been openly announced in the division that if +Platterbaff were languishing in gaol on polling day the Government +candidate would be “outed” to a certainty. Unfortunately, there could be +no doubt or misconception as to Platterbaff’s guilt. He had not only +pleaded guilty, but had expressed his intention of repeating his escapade +in other directions as soon as circumstances permitted; throughout the +trial he was busy examining a small model of the Free Trade Hall in +Manchester. The jury could not possibly find that the prisoner had not +deliberately and intentionally blown up the Albert Hall; the question +was: Could they find any extenuating circumstances which would permit of +an acquittal? Of course any sentence which the law might feel compelled +to inflict would be followed by an immediate pardon, but it was highly +desirable, from the Government’s point of view, that the necessity for +such an exercise of clemency should not arise. A headlong pardon, on the +eve of a bye-election, with threats of a heavy voting defection if it +were withheld or even delayed, would not necessarily be a surrender, but +it would look like one. Opponents would be only too ready to attribute +ungenerous motives. Hence the anxiety in the crowded Court, and in the +little groups gathered round the tape-machines in Whitehall and Downing +Street and other affected centres. + +The jury returned from considering their verdict; there was a flutter, an +excited murmur, a deathlike hush. The foreman delivered his message: + +“The jury find the prisoner guilty of blowing up the Albert Hall. The +jury wish to add a rider drawing attention to the fact that a by-election +is pending in the Parliamentary division of Nemesis-on-Hand.” + +“That, of course,” said the Government Prosecutor, springing to his feet, +“is equivalent to an acquittal?” + +“I hardly think so,” said the Judge, coldly; “I feel obliged to sentence +the prisoner to a week’s imprisonment.” + +“And may the Lord have mercy on the poll,” a Junior Counsel exclaimed +irreverently. + +It was a scandalous sentence, but then the Judge was not on the +Ministerial side in politics. + +The verdict and sentence were made known to the public at twenty minutes +past five in the afternoon; at half-past five a dense crowd was massed +outside the Prime Minister’s residence lustily singing, to the air of +“Trelawney”: + + “And should our Hero rot in gaol, + For e’en a single day, + There’s Fifteen Hundred Voting Men + Will vote the other way.” + +“Fifteen hundred,” said the Prime Minister, with a shudder; “it’s too +horrible to think of. Our majority last time was only a thousand and +seven.” + +“The poll opens at eight to-morrow morning,” said the Chief Organiser; +“we must have him out by 7 a.m.” + +“Seven-thirty,” amended the Prime Minister; “we must avoid any appearance +of precipitancy.” + +“Not later than seven-thirty, then,” said the Chief Organiser; “I have +promised the agent down there that he shall be able to display posters +announcing ‘Platterbaff is Out,’ before the poll opens. He said it was +our only chance of getting a telegram ‘Radprop is In’ to-night.” + +At half-past seven the next morning the Prime Minister and the Chief +Organiser sat at breakfast, making a perfunctory meal, and awaiting the +return of the Home Secretary, who had gone in person to superintend the +releasing of Platterbaff. Despite the earliness of the hour a small +crowd had gathered in the street outside, and the horrible menacing +Trelawney refrain of the “Fifteen Hundred Voting Men” came in a steady, +monotonous chant. + +“They will cheer presently when they hear the news,” said the Prime +Minister hopefully; “hark! They are booing some one now! That must be +McKenna.” + +The Home Secretary entered the room a moment later, disaster written on +his face. + +“He won’t go!” he exclaimed. + +“Won’t go? Won’t leave gaol?” + +“He won’t go unless he has a brass band. He says he never has left +prison without a brass band to play him out, and he’s not going to go +without one now.” + +“But surely that sort of thing is provided by his supporters and +admirers?” said the Prime Minister; “we can hardly be supposed to supply +a released prisoner with a brass band. How on earth could we defend it +on the Estimates?” + +“His supporters say it is up to us to provide the music,” said the Home +Secretary; “they say we put him in prison, and it’s our affair to see +that he leaves it in a respectable manner. Anyway, he won’t go unless he +has a band.” + +The telephone squealed shrilly; it was a trunk call from Nemesis. + +“Poll opens in five minutes. Is Platterbaff out yet? In Heaven’s name, +why—” + +The Chief Organiser rang off. + +“This is not a moment for standing on dignity,” he observed bluntly; +“musicians must be supplied at once. Platterbaff must have his band.” + +“Where are you going to find the musicians?” asked the Home Secretary +wearily; “we can’t employ a military band, in fact, I don’t think he’d +have one if we offered it, and there ain’t any others. There’s a +musicians’ strike on, I suppose you know.” + +“Can’t you get a strike permit?” asked the Organiser. + +“I’ll try,” said the Home Secretary, and went to the telephone. + +Eight o’clock struck. The crowd outside chanted with an increasing +volume of sound: + + “Will vote the other way.” + +A telegram was brought in. It was from the central committee rooms at +Nemesis. “Losing twenty votes per minute,” was its brief message. + +Ten o’clock struck. The Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the Chief +Organiser, and several earnest helpful friends were gathered in the inner +gateway of the prison, talking volubly to Demosthenes Platterbaff, who +stood with folded arms and squarely planted feet, silent in their midst. +Golden-tongued legislators whose eloquence had swayed the Marconi Inquiry +Committee, or at any rate the greater part of it, expended their arts of +oratory in vain on this stubborn unyielding man. Without a band he would +not go; and they had no band. + +A quarter past ten, half-past. A constant stream of telegraph boys +poured in through the prison gates. + +“Yamley’s factory hands just voted you can guess how,” ran a despairing +message, and the others were all of the same tenour. Nemesis was going +the way of Reading. + +“Have you any band instruments of an easy nature to play?” demanded the +Chief Organiser of the Prison Governor; “drums, cymbals, those sort of +things?” + +“The warders have a private band of their own,” said the Governor, “but +of course I couldn’t allow the men themselves—” + +“Lend us the instruments,” said the Chief Organiser. + +One of the earnest helpful friends was a skilled performer on the cornet, +the Cabinet Ministers were able to clash cymbals more or less in tune, +and the Chief Organiser has some knowledge of the drum. + +“What tune would you prefer?” he asked Platterbaff. + +“The popular song of the moment,” replied the Agitator after a moment’s +reflection. + +It was a tune they had all heard hundreds of times, so there was no +difficulty in turning out a passable imitation of it. To the improvised +strains of “I didn’t want to do it” the prisoner strode forth to freedom. +The word of the song had reference, it was understood, to the +incarcerating Government and not to the destroyer of the Albert Hall. + +The seat was lost, after all, by a narrow majority. The local Trade +Unionists took offence at the fact of Cabinet Ministers having personally +acted as strike-breakers, and even the release of Platterbaff failed to +pacify them. + +The seat was lost, but Ministers had scored a moral victory. They had +shown that they knew when and how to yield. + + + + +THE THREAT + + +Sir Lulworth Quayne sat in the lounge of his favourite restaurant, the +Gallus Bankiva, discussing the weaknesses of the world with his nephew, +who had lately returned from a much-enlivened exile in the wilds of +Mexico. It was that blessed season of the year when the asparagus and +the plover’s egg are abroad in the land, and the oyster has not yet +withdrawn into it’s summer entrenchments, and Sir Lulworth and his nephew +were in that enlightened after-dinner mood when politics are seen in +their right perspective, even the politics of Mexico. + +“Most of the revolutions that take place in this country nowadays,” said +Sir Lulworth, “are the product of moments of legislative panic. Take, +for instance, one of the most dramatic reforms that has been carried +through Parliament in the lifetime of this generation. It happened +shortly after the coal strike, of unblessed memory. To you, who have +been plunged up to the neck in events of a more tangled and tumbled +description, the things I am going to tell you of may seem of secondary +interest, but after all we had to live in the midst of them.” + +Sir Lulworth interrupted himself for a moment to say a few kind words to +the liqueur brandy he had just tasted, and them resumed his narrative. + +“Whether one sympathises with the agitation for female suffrage or not +one has to admit that its promoters showed tireless energy and +considerable enterprise in devising and putting into action new methods +for accomplishing their ends. As a rule they were a nuisance and a +weariness to the flesh, but there were times when they verged on the +picturesque. There was the famous occasion when they enlivened and +diversified the customary pageantry of the Royal progress to open +Parliament by letting loose thousands of parrots, which had been +carefully trained to scream ‘Votes for women,’ and which circled round +his Majesty’s coach in a clamorous cloud of green, and grey and scarlet. +It was really rather a striking episode from the spectacular point of +view; unfortunately, however, for its devisers, the secret of their +intentions had not been well kept, and their opponents let loose at the +same moment a rival swarm of parrots, which screeched ‘I _don’t_ think’ +and other hostile cries, thereby robbing the demonstration of the +unanimity which alone could have made it politically impressive. In the +process of recapture the birds learned a quantity of additional language +which unfitted them for further service in the Suffragette cause; some of +the green ones were secured by ardent Home Rule propagandists and trained +to disturb the serenity of Orange meetings by pessimistic reflections on +Sir Edward Carson’s destination in the life to come. In fact, the bird +in politics is a factor that seems to have come to stay; quite recently, +at a political gathering held in a dimly-lighted place of worship, the +congregation gave a respectful hearing for nearly ten minutes to a +jackdaw from Wapping, under the impression that they were listening to +the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who was late in arriving.” + +“But the Suffragettes,” interrupted the nephew; “what did they do next?” + +“After the bird fiasco,” said Sir Lulworth, “the militant section made a +demonstration of a more aggressive nature; they assembled in force on the +opening day of the Royal Academy Exhibition and destroyed some three or +four hundred of the pictures. This proved an even worse failure than the +parrot business; every one agreed that there were always far too many +pictures in the Academy Exhibition, and the drastic weeding out of a few +hundred canvases was regarded as a positive improvement. Moreover, from +the artists’ point of view it was realised that the outrage constituted a +sort of compensation for those whose works were persistently ‘skied’, +since out of sight meant also out of reach. Altogether it was one of the +most successful and popular exhibitions that the Academy had held for +many years. Then the fair agitators fell back on some of their earlier +methods; they wrote sweetly argumentative plays to prove that they ought +to have the vote, they smashed windows to show that they must have the +vote, and they kicked Cabinet Ministers to demonstrate that they’d better +have the vote, and still the coldly reasoned or unreasoned reply was that +they’d better not. Their plight might have been summed up in a +perversion of Gilbert’s lines— + + “Twenty voteless millions we, + Voteless all against our will, + Twenty years hence we shall be + Twenty voteless millions still.” + +And of course the great idea for their master-stroke of strategy came +from a masculine source. Lena Dubarri, who was the captain-general of +their thinking department, met Waldo Orpington in the Mall one afternoon, +just at a time when the fortunes of the Cause were at their lowest ebb. +Waldo Orpington is a frivolous little fool who chirrups at drawing-room +concerts and can recognise bits from different composers without +referring to the programme, but all the same he occasionally has ideas. +He didn’t care a twopenny fiddlestring about the Cause, but he rather +enjoyed the idea of having his finger in the political pie. Also it is +possible, though I should think highly improbable, that he admired Lena +Dubarri. Anyhow, when Lena gave a rather gloomy account of the existing +state of things in the Suffragette World, Waldo was not merely +sympathetic but ready with a practical suggestion. Turning his gaze +westward along the Mall, towards the setting sun and Buckingham Palace, +he was silent for a moment, and then said significantly, ‘You have +expended your energies and enterprise on labours of destruction; why has +it never occurred to you to attempt something far more terrific?’ + +“‘What do you mean?’ she asked him eagerly. + +“‘Create.’ + +“‘Do you mean create disturbances? We’ve been doing nothing else for +months,’ she said. + +“Waldo shook his head, and continued to look westward along the Mall. +He’s rather good at acting in an amateur sort of fashion. Lena followed +his gaze, and then turned to him with a puzzled look of inquiry. + +“‘Exactly,’ said Waldo, in answer to her look. + +“‘But—how can we create?’ she asked; ‘it’s been done already.’ + +“‘Do it _again_,’ said Waldo, ‘and again and again—’ + +“Before he could finish the sentence she had kissed him. She declared +afterwards that he was the first man she had ever kissed, and he declared +that she was the first woman who had ever kissed him in the Mall, so they +both secured a record of a kind. + +“Within the next day or two a new departure was noticeable in Suffragette +tactics. They gave up worrying Ministers and Parliament and took to +worrying their own sympathisers and supporters—for funds. The ballot-box +was temporarily forgotten in the cult of the collecting-box. The +daughters of the horseleech were not more persistent in their demands, +the financiers of the tottering _ancien régime_ were not more desperate +in their expedients for raising money than the Suffragist workers of all +sections at this juncture, and in one way and another, by fair means and +normal, they really got together a very useful sum. What they were going +to do with it no one seemed to know, not even those who were most active +in collecting work. The secret on this occasion had been well kept. +Certain transactions that leaked out from time to time only added to the +mystery of the situation. + +“‘Don’t you long to know what we are going to do with our treasure +hoard?’ Lena asked the Prime Minister one day when she happened to sit +next to him at a whist drive at the Chinese Embassy. + +“‘I was hoping you were going to try a little personal bribery,’ he +responded banteringly, but some genuine anxiety and curiosity lay behind +the lightness of his chaff; ‘of course I know,’ he added, ‘that you have +been buying up building sites in commanding situations in and around the +Metropolis. Two or three, I’m told, are on the road to Brighton, and +another near Ascot. You don’t mean to fortify them, do you?’ + +“‘Something more insidious than that,’ she said; ‘you could prevent us +from building forts; you can’t prevent us from erecting an exact replica +of the Victoria Memorial on each of those sites. They’re all private +property, with no building restrictions attached.’ + +“‘Which memorial?’ he asked; ‘not the one in front of Buckingham Palace? +Surely not that one?’ + +“‘That one,’ she said. + +“‘My dear lady,’ he cried, ‘you can’t be serious. It is a beautiful and +imposing work of art—at any rate one is getting accustomed to it, and +even if one doesn’t happen to admire it one can always look in another +direction. But imagine what life would be like if one saw that erection +confronting one wherever one went. Imagine the effect on people with +tired, harassed nerves who saw it three times on the way to Brighton and +three times on the way back. Imagine seeing it dominate the landscape at +Ascot, and trying to keep your eye off it on the Sandwich golf links. +What have your countrymen done to deserve such a thing?’ + +“‘They have refused us the vote,’ said Lena bitterly. + +“The Prime Minister always declared himself an opponent of anything +savouring of panic legislation, but he brought a Bill into Parliament +forthwith and successfully appealed to both Houses to pass it through all +its stages within the week. And that is how we got one of the most +glorious measures of the century.” + +“A measure conferring the vote on women?” asked the nephew. + +“Oh dear, no. An Act which made it a penal offence to erect +commemorative statuary anywhere within three miles of a public highway.” + + + + +EXCEPTING MRS. PENTHERBY + + +It was Reggie Bruttle’s own idea for converting what had threatened to be +an albino elephant into a beast of burden that should help him along the +stony road of his finances. “The Limes,” which had come to him by +inheritance without any accompanying provision for its upkeep, was one of +those pretentious, unaccommodating mansions which none but a man of +wealth could afford to live in, and which not one wealthy man in a +hundred would choose on its merits. It might easily languish in the +estate market for years, set round with noticeboards proclaiming it, in +the eyes of a sceptical world, to be an eminently desirable residence. + +Reggie’s scheme was to turn it into the headquarters of a prolonged +country-house party, in session during the months from October till the +end of March—a party consisting of young or youngish people of both +sexes, too poor to be able to do much hunting or shooting on a serious +scale, but keen on getting their fill of golf, bridge, dancing, and +occasional theatre-going. No one was to be on the footing of a paying +guest, but every one was to rank as a paying host; a committee would look +after the catering and expenditure, and an informal sub-committee would +make itself useful in helping forward the amusement side of the scheme. + +As it was only an experiment, there was to be a general agreement on the +part of those involved in it to be as lenient and mutually helpful to one +another as possible. Already a promising nucleus, including one or two +young married couples, had been got together, and the thing seemed to be +fairly launched. + +“With good management and a little unobtrusive hard work, I think the +thing ought to be a success,” said Reggie, and Reggie was one of those +people who are painstaking first and optimistic afterwards. + +“There is one rock on which you will unfailingly come to grief, manage +you never so wisely,” said Major Dagberry, cheerfully; “the women will +quarrel. Mind you,” continued this prophet of disaster, “I don’t say +that some of the men won’t quarrel too, probably they will; but the women +are bound to. You can’t prevent it; it’s in the nature of the sex. The +hand that rocks the cradle rocks the world, in a volcanic sense. A woman +will endure discomforts, and make sacrifices, and go without things to an +heroic extent, but the one luxury she will not go without is her +quarrels. No matter where she may be, or how transient her appearance on +a scene, she will instal her feminine feuds as assuredly as a Frenchman +would concoct soup in the waste of the Arctic regions. At the +commencement of a sea voyage, before the male traveller knows half a +dozen of his fellow passengers by sight, the average woman will have +started a couple of enmities, and laid in material for one or two +more—provided, of course, that there are sufficient women aboard to +permit quarrelling in the plural. If there’s no one else she will +quarrel with the stewardess. This experiment of yours is to run for six +months; in less than five weeks there will be war to the knife declaring +itself in half a dozen different directions.” + +“Oh, come, there are only eight women in the party; they won’t pick +quarrels quite so soon as that,” protested Reggie. + +“They won’t all originate quarrels, perhaps,” conceded the Major, “but +they will all take sides, and just as Christmas is upon you, with its +conventions of peace and good will, you will find yourself in for a +glacial epoch of cold, unforgiving hostility, with an occasional Etna +flare of open warfare. You can’t help it, old boy; but, at any rate, you +can’t say you were not warned.” + +The first five weeks of the venture falsified Major Dagberry’s prediction +and justified Reggie’s optimism. There were, of course, occasional small +bickerings, and the existence of certain jealousies might be detected +below the surface of everyday intercourse; but, on the whole, the +women-folk got on remarkably well together. There was, however, a +notable exception. It had not taken five weeks for Mrs. Pentherby to get +herself cordially disliked by the members of her own sex; five days had +been amply sufficient. Most of the women declared that they had detested +her the moment they set eyes on her; but that was probably an +afterthought. + +With the menfolk she got on well enough, without being of the type of +woman who can only bask in male society; neither was she lacking in the +general qualities which make an individual useful and desirable as a +member of a co-operative community. She did not try to “get the better +of” her fellow-hosts by snatching little advantages or cleverly evading +her just contributions; she was not inclined to be boring or snobbish in +the way of personal reminiscence. She played a fair game of bridge, and +her card-room manners were irreproachable. But wherever she came in +contact with her own sex the light of battle kindled at once; her talent +of arousing animosity seemed to border on positive genius. + +Whether the object of her attentions was thick-skinned or sensitive, +quick-tempered or good-natured, Mrs. Pentherby managed to achieve the +same effect. She exposed little weaknesses, she prodded sore places, she +snubbed enthusiasms, she was generally right in a matter of argument, or, +if wrong, she somehow contrived to make her adversary appear foolish and +opinionated. She did, and said, horrible things in a matter-of-fact +innocent way, and she did, and said, matter-of-fact innocent things in a +horrible way. In short, the unanimous feminine verdict on her was that +she was objectionable. + +There was no question of taking sides, as the Major had anticipated; in +fact, dislike of Mrs. Pentherby was almost a bond of union between the +other women, and more than one threatening disagreement had been rapidly +dissipated by her obvious and malicious attempts to inflame and extend +it; and the most irritating thing about her was her successful assumption +of unruffled composure at moments when the tempers of her adversaries +were with difficulty kept under control. She made her most scathing +remarks in the tone of a tube conductor announcing that the next station +is Brompton Road—the measured, listless tone of one who knows he is +right, but is utterly indifferent to the fact that he proclaims. + +On one occasion Mrs. Val Gwepton, who was not blessed with the most +reposeful of temperaments, fairly let herself go, and gave Mrs. Pentherby +a vivid and truthful _résumé_ of her opinion of her. The object of this +unpent storm of accumulated animosity waited patiently for a lull, and +then remarked quietly to the angry little woman— + +“And now, my dear Mrs. Gwepton, let me tell you something that I’ve been +wanting to say for the last two or three minutes, only you wouldn’t give +me a chance; you’ve got a hairpin dropping out on the left side. You +thin-haired women always find it difficult to keep your hairpins in.” + +“What can one do with a woman like that?” Mrs. Val demanded afterwards of +a sympathising audience. + +Of course, Reggie received numerous hints as to the unpopularity of this +jarring personality. His sister-in-law openly tackled him on the subject +of her many enormities. Reggie listened with the attenuated regret that +one bestows on an earthquake disaster in Bolivia or a crop failure in +Eastern Turkestan, events which seem so distant that one can almost +persuade oneself they haven’t happened. + +“That woman has got some hold over him,” opined his sister-in-law, +darkly; “either she is helping him to finance the show, and presumes on +the fact, or else, which Heaven forbid, he’s got some queer infatuation +for her. Men do take the most extraordinary fancies.” + +Matters never came exactly to a crisis. Mrs. Pentherby, as a source of +personal offence, spread herself over so wide an area that no one woman +of the party felt impelled to rise up and declare that she absolutely +refused to stay another week in the same house with her. What is +everybody’s tragedy is nobody’s tragedy. There was ever a certain +consolation in comparing notes as to specific acts of offence. Reggie’s +sister-in-law had the added interest of trying to discover the secret +bond which blunted his condemnation of Mrs. Pentherby’s long catalogue of +misdeeds. There was little to go on from his manner towards her in +public, but he remained obstinately unimpressed by anything that was said +against her in private. + +With the one exception of Mrs. Pentherby’s unpopularity, the house-party +scheme was a success on its first trial, and there was no difficulty +about reconstructing it on the same lines for another winter session. It +so happened that most of the women of the party, and two or three of the +men, would not be available on this occasion, but Reggie had laid his +plans well ahead and booked plenty of “fresh blood” for the departure. +It would be, if any thing, rather a larger party than before. + +“I’m so sorry I can’t join this winter,” said Reggie’s sister-in-law, +“but we must go to our cousins in Ireland; we’ve put them off so often. +What a shame! You’ll have none of the same women this time.” + +“Excepting Mrs. Pentherby,” said Reggie, demurely. + +“Mrs. Pentherby! _Surely_, Reggie, you’re not going to be so idiotic as +to have that woman again! She’ll set all the women’s backs up just as +she did this time. What _is_ this mysterious hold she’s go over you?” + +“She’s invaluable,” said Reggie; “she’s my official quarreller.” + +“Your—what did you say?” gasped his sister-in-law. + +“I introduced her into the house-party for the express purpose of +concentrating the feuds and quarrelling that would otherwise have broken +out in all directions among the womenkind. I didn’t need the advice and +warning of sundry friends to foresee that we shouldn’t get through six +months of close companionship without a certain amount of pecking and +sparring, so I thought the best thing was to localise and sterilise it in +one process. Of course, I made it well worth the lady’s while, and as +she didn’t know any of you from Adam, and you don’t even know her real +name, she didn’t mind getting herself disliked in a useful cause.” + +“You mean to say she was in the know all the time?” + +“Of course she was, and so were one or two of the men, so she was able to +have a good laugh with us behind the scenes when she’d done anything +particularly outrageous. And she really enjoyed herself. You see, she’s +in the position of poor relation in a rather pugnacious family, and her +life has been largely spent in smoothing over other people’s quarrels. +You can imagine the welcome relief of being able to go about saying and +doing perfectly exasperating things to a whole houseful of women—and all +in the cause of peace.” + +“I think you are the most odious person in the whole world,” said +Reggie’s sister-in-law. Which was not strictly true; more than anybody, +more than ever she disliked Mrs. Pentherby. It was impossible to +calculate how many quarrels that woman had done her out of. + + + + +MARK + + +Augustus Mellowkent was a novelist with a future; that is to say, a +limited but increasing number of people read his books, and there seemed +good reason to suppose that if he steadily continued to turn out novels +year by year a progressively increasing circle of readers would acquire +the Mellowkent habit, and demand his works from the libraries and +bookstalls. At the instigation of his publisher he had discarded the +baptismal Augustus and taken the front name of Mark. + +“Women like a name that suggests some one strong and silent, able but +unwilling to answer questions. Augustus merely suggests idle splendour, +but such a name as Mark Mellowkent, besides being alliterative, conjures +up a vision of some one strong and beautiful and good, a sort of blend of +Georges Carpentier and the Reverend What’s-his-name.” + +One morning in December Augustus sat in his writing-room, at work on the +third chapter of his eighth novel. He had described at some length, for +the benefit of those who could not imagine it, what a rectory garden +looks like in July; he was now engaged in describing at greater length +the feelings of a young girl, daughter of a long line of rectors and +archdeacons, when she discovers for the first time that the postman is +attractive. + +“Their eyes met, for a brief moment, as he handed her two circulars and +the fat wrapper-bound bulk of the _East Essex News_. Their eyes met, for +the merest fraction of a second, yet nothing could ever be quite the same +again. Cost what it might she felt that she must speak, must break the +intolerable, unreal silence that had fallen on them. ‘How is your +mother’s rheumatism?’ she said.” + +The author’s labours were cut short by the sudden intrusion of a +maidservant. + +“A gentleman to see you, sir,” said the maid, handing a card with the +name Caiaphas Dwelf inscribed on it; “says it’s important.” + +Mellowkent hesitated and yielded; the importance of the visitor’s mission +was probably illusory, but he had never met any one with the name +Caiaphas before. It would be at least a new experience. + +Mr. Dwelf was a man of indefinite age; his high, narrow forehead, cold +grey eyes, and determined manner bespoke an unflinching purpose. He had +a large book under his arm, and there seemed every probability that he +had left a package of similar volumes in the hall. He took a seat before +it had been offered him, placed the book on the table, and began to +address Mellowkent in the manner of an “open letter.” + +“You are a literary man, the author of several well-known books—” + +“I am engaged on a book at the present moment—rather busily engaged,” +said Mellowkent, pointedly. + +“Exactly,” said the intruder; “time with you is a commodity of +considerable importance. Minutes, even, have their value.” + +“They have,” agreed Mellowkent, looking at his watch. + +“That,” said Caiaphas, “is why this book that I am introducing to your +notice is not a book that you can afford to be without. _Right Here_ is +indispensable for the writing man; it is no ordinary encyclopædia, or I +should not trouble to show it to you. It is an inexhaustible mine of +concise information—” + +“On a shelf at my elbow,” said the author, “I have a row of reference +books that supply me with all the information I am likely to require.” + +“Here,” persisted the would-be salesman, “you have it all in one compact +volume. No matter what the subject may be which you wish to look up, or +the fact you desire to verify, _Right Here_ gives you all that you want +to know in the briefest and most enlightening form. Historical +reference, for instance; career of John Huss, let us say. Here we are: +‘Huss, John, celebrated religious reformer. Born 1369, burned at +Constance 1415. The Emperor Sigismund universally blamed.’” + +“If he had been burnt in these days every one would have suspected the +Suffragettes,” observed Mellowkent. + +“Poultry-keeping, now,” resumed Caiaphas, “that’s a subject that might +crop up in a novel dealing with English country life. Here we have all +about it: ‘The Leghorn as egg-producer. Lack of maternal instinct in the +Minorca. Gapes in chickens, its cause and cure. Ducklings for the early +market, how fattened.’ There, you see, there it all is, nothing +lacking.” + +“Except the maternal instinct in the Minorca, and that you could hardly +be expected to supply.” + +“Sporting records, that’s important, too; now how many men, sporting men +even, are there who can say off-hand what horse won the Derby in any +particular year? Now it’s just a little thing of that sort—” + +“My dear sir,” interrupted Mellowkent, “there are at least four men in my +club who can not only tell me what horse won in any given year, but what +horse ought to have won and why it didn’t. If your book could supply a +method for protecting one from information of that sort it would do more +than anything you have yet claimed for it.” + +“Geography,” said Caiaphas, imperturbably; “that’s a thing that a busy +man, writing at high pressure, may easily make a slip over. Only the +other day a well-known author made the Volga flow into the Black Sea +instead of the Caspian; now, with this book—” + +“On a polished rose-wood stand behind you there reposes a reliable and +up-to-date atlas,” said Mellowkent; “and now I must really ask you to be +going.” + +“An atlas,” said Caiaphas, “gives merely the chart of the river’s course, +and indicates the principal towns that it passes. Now _Right Here_ gives +you the scenery, traffic, ferry-boat charges, the prevalent types of +fish, boatmen’s slang terms, and hours of sailing of the principal river +steamers. If gives you—” + +Mellowkent sat and watched the hard-featured, resolute, pitiless +salesman, as he sat doggedly in the chair wherein he had installed +himself, unflinchingly extolling the merits of his undesired wares. A +spirit of wistful emulation took possession of the author; why could he +not live up to the cold stern name he had adopted? Why must he sit here +weakly and listen to this weary, unconvincing tirade, why could he not be +Mark Mellowkent for a few brief moments, and meet this man on level +terms? + +A sudden inspiration flashed across his. + +“Have you read my last book, _The Cageless Linnet_?” he asked. + +“I don’t read novels,” said Caiaphas tersely. + +“Oh, but you ought to read this one, every one ought to,” exclaimed +Mellowkent, fishing the book down from a shelf; “published at six +shillings, you can have it at four-and-six. There is a bit in chapter +five that I feel sure you would like, where Emma is alone in the birch +copse waiting for Harold Huntingdon—that is the man her family want her +to marry. She really wants to marry him, too, but she does not discover +that till chapter fifteen. Listen: ‘Far as the eye could stretch rolled +the mauve and purple billows of heather, lit up here and there with the +glowing yellow of gorse and broom, and edged round with the delicate +greys and silver and green of the young birch trees. Tiny blue and brown +butterflies fluttered above the fronds of heather, revelling in the +sunlight, and overhead the larks were singing as only larks can sing. It +was a day when all Nature—” + +“In _Right Here_ you have full information on all branches of Nature +study,” broke in the bookagent, with a tired note sounding in his voice +for the first time; “forestry, insect life, bird migration, reclamation +of waste lands. As I was saying, no man who has to deal with the varied +interests of life—” + +“I wonder if you would care for one of my earlier books, _The Reluctance +of Lady Cullumpton_,” said Mellowkent, hunting again through the +bookshelf; “some people consider it my best novel. Ah, here it is. I +see there are one or two spots on the cover, so I won’t ask more than +three-and-ninepence for it. Do let me read you how it opens: + +“‘Beatrice Lady Cullumpton entered the long, dimly-lit drawing-room, her +eyes blazing with a hope that she guessed to be groundless, her lips +trembling with a fear that she could not disguise. In her hand she +carried a small fan, a fragile toy of lace and satinwood. Something +snapped as she entered the room; she had crushed the fan into a dozen +pieces.’ + +“There, what do you think of that for an opening? It tells you at once +that there’s something afoot.” + +“I don’t read novels,” said Caiaphas sullenly. + +“But just think what a resource they are,” exclaimed the author, “on long +winter evenings, or perhaps when you are laid up with a strained ankle—a +thing that might happen to any one; or if you were staying in a +house-party with persistent wet weather and a stupid hostess and +insufferably dull fellow-guests, you would just make an excuse that you +had letters to write, go to your room, light a cigarette, and for +three-and-ninepence you could plunge into the society of Beatrice Lady +Cullumpton and her set. No one ought to travel without one or two of my +novels in their luggage as a stand-by. A friend of mine said only the +other day that he would as soon think of going into the tropics without +quinine as of going on a visit without a couple of Mark Mellowkents in +his kit-bag. Perhaps sensation is more in your line. I wonder if I’ve +got a copy of _The Python’s Kiss_.” + +Caiaphas did not wait to be tempted with selections from that thrilling +work of fiction. With a muttered remark about having no time to waste on +monkey-talk, he gathered up his slighted volume and departed. He made no +audible reply to Mellowkent’s cheerful “Good morning,” but the latter +fancied that a look of respectful hatred flickered in the cold grey eyes. + + + + +THE HEDGEHOG + + +A “Mixed Double” of young people were contesting a game of lawn tennis at +the Rectory garden party; for the past five-and-twenty years at least +mixed doubles of young people had done exactly the same thing on exactly +the same spot at about the same time of year. The young people changed +and made way for others in the course of time, but very little else +seemed to alter. The present players were sufficiently conscious of the +social nature of the occasion to be concerned about their clothes and +appearance, and sufficiently sport-loving to be keen on the game. Both +their efforts and their appearance came under the fourfold scrutiny of a +quartet of ladies sitting as official spectators on a bench immediately +commanding the court. It was one of the accepted conditions of the +Rectory garden party that four ladies, who usually knew very little about +tennis and a great deal about the players, should sit at that particular +spot and watch the game. It had also come to be almost a tradition that +two ladies should be amiable, and that the other two should be Mrs. Dole +and Mrs. Hatch-Mallard. + +“What a singularly unbecoming way Eva Jonelet has taken to doing her hair +in,” said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; “it’s ugly hair at the best of times, but +she needn’t make it look ridiculous as well. Some one ought to tell +her.” + +Eva Jonelet’s hair might have escaped Mrs. Hatch-Mallard’s condemnation +if she could have forgotten the more glaring fact that Eva was Mrs. +Dole’s favourite niece. It would, perhaps, have been a more comfortable +arrangement if Mrs. Hatch-Mallard and Mrs. Dole could have been asked to +the Rectory on separate occasions, but there was only one garden party in +the course of the year, and neither lady could have been omitted from the +list of invitations without hopelessly wrecking the social peace of the +parish. + +“How pretty the yew trees look at this time of year,” interposed a lady +with a soft, silvery voice that suggested a chinchilla muff painted by +Whistler. + +“What do you mean by this time of year?” demanded Mrs. Hatch-Mallard. +“Yew trees look beautiful at all times of the year. That is their great +charm.” + +“Yew trees never look anything but hideous under any circumstances or at +any time of year,” said Mrs. Dole, with the slow, emphatic relish of one +who contradicts for the pleasure of the thing. “They are only fit for +graveyards and cemeteries.” + +Mrs. Hatch-Mallard gave a sardonic snort, which, being translated, meant +that there were some people who were better fitted for cemeteries than +for garden parties. + +“What is the score, please?” asked the lady with the chinchilla voice. + +The desired information was given her by a young gentleman in spotless +white flannels, whose general toilet effect suggested solicitude rather +than anxiety. + +“What an odious young cub Bertie Dykson has become!” pronounced Mrs. +Dole, remembering suddenly that Bertie was a favourite with Mrs. +Hatch-Mallard. “The young men of to-day are not what they used to be +twenty years ago.” + +“Of course not,” said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; “twenty years ago Bertie Dykson +was just two years old, and you must expect some difference in appearance +and manner and conversation between those two periods.” + +“Do you know,” said Mrs. Dole, confidentially, “I shouldn’t be surprised +if that was intended to be clever.” + +“Have you any one interesting coming to stay with you, Mrs. Norbury?” +asked the chinchilla voice, hastily; “you generally have a house party at +this time of year.” + +“I’ve got a most interesting woman coming,” said Mrs. Norbury, who had +been mutely struggling for some chance to turn the conversation into a +safe channel; “an old acquaintance of mine, Ada Bleek—” + +“What an ugly name,” said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard. + +“She’s descended from the de la Bliques, an old Huguenot family of +Touraine, you know.” + +“There weren’t any Huguenots in Touraine,” said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard, who +thought she might safely dispute any fact that was three hundred years +old. + +“Well, anyhow, she’s coming to stay with me,” continued Mrs. Norbury, +bringing her story quickly down to the present day, “she arrives this +evening, and she’s highly clairvoyante, a seventh daughter of a seventh +daughter, you now, and all that sort of thing.” + +“How very interesting,” said the chinchilla voice; “Exwood is just the +right place for her to come to, isn’t it? There are supposed to be +several ghosts there.” + +“That is why she was so anxious to come,” said Mrs. Norbury; “she put off +another engagement in order to accept my invitation. She’s had visions +and dreams, and all those sort of things, that have come true in a most +marvellous manner, but she’s never actually seen a ghost, and she’s +longing to have that experience. She belongs to that Research Society, +you know.” + +“I expect she’ll see the unhappy Lady Cullumpton, the most famous of all +the Exwood ghosts,” said Mrs. Dole; “my ancestor, you know, Sir Gervase +Cullumpton, murdered his young bride in a fit of jealousy while they were +on a visit to Exwood. He strangled her in the stables with a stirrup +leather, just after they had come in from riding, and she is seen +sometimes at dusk going about the lawns and the stable yard, in a long +green habit, moaning and trying to get the thong from round her throat. +I shall be most interested to hear if your friend sees—” + +“I don’t know why she should be expected to see a trashy, traditional +apparition like the so-called Cullumpton ghost, that is only vouched for +by housemaids and tipsy stable-boys, when my uncle, who was the owner of +Exwood, committed suicide there under the most tragical circumstances, +and most certainly haunts the place.” + +“Mrs. Hatch-Mallard has evidently never read _Popple’s County History_,” +said Mrs. Dole icily, “or she would know that the Cullumpton ghost has a +wealth of evidence behind it—” + +“Oh, Popple!” exclaimed Mrs. Hatch-Mallard scornfully; “any rubbishy old +story is good enough for him. Popple, indeed! Now my uncle’s ghost was +seen by a Rural Dean, who was also a Justice of the Peace. I should +think that would be good enough testimony for any one. Mrs. Norbury, I +shall take it as a deliberate personal affront if your clairvoyante +friend sees any other ghost except that of my uncle.” + +“I daresay she won’t see anything at all; she never has yet, you know,” +said Mrs. Norbury hopefully. + +“It was a most unfortunate topic for me to have broached,” she lamented +afterwards to the owner of the chinchilla voice; “Exwood belongs to Mrs. +Hatch-Mallard, and we’ve only got it on a short lease. A nephew of hers +has been wanting to live there for some time, and if we offend her in any +way she’ll refuse to renew the lease. I sometimes think these +garden-parties are a mistake.” + +The Norburys played bridge for the next three nights till nearly one +o’clock; they did not care for the game, but it reduced the time at their +guest’s disposal for undesirable ghostly visitations. + +“Miss Bleek is not likely to be in a frame of mind to see ghosts,” said +Hugo Norbury, “if she goes to bed with her brain awhirl with royal spades +and no trumps and grand slams.” + +“I’ve talked to her for hours about Mrs. Hatch-Mallard’s uncle,” said his +wife, “and pointed out the exact spot where he killed himself, and +invented all sorts of impressive details, and I’ve found an old portrait +of Lord John Russell and put it in her room, and told her that it’s +supposed to be a picture of the uncle in middle age. If Ada does see a +ghost at all it certainly ought to be old Hatch-Mallard’s. At any rate, +we’ve done our best.” + +The precautions were in vain. On the third morning of her stay Ada Bleek +came down late to breakfast, her eyes looking very tired, but ablaze with +excitement, her hair done anyhow, and a large brown volume hugged under +her arm. + +“At last I’ve seen something supernatural!” she exclaimed, and gave Mrs. +Norbury a fervent kiss, as though in gratitude for the opportunity +afforded her. + +“A ghost!” cried Mrs. Norbury, “not really!” + +“Really and unmistakably!” + +“Was it an oldish man in the dress of about fifty years ago?” asked Mrs. +Norbury hopefully. + +“Nothing of the sort,” said Ada; “it was a white hedgehog.” + +“A white hedgehog!” exclaimed both the Norburys, in tones of disconcerted +astonishment. + +“A huge white hedgehog with baleful yellow eyes,” said Ada; “I was lying +half asleep in bed when suddenly I felt a sensation as of something +sinister and unaccountable passing through the room. I sat up and looked +round, and there, under the window, I saw an evil, creeping thing, a sort +of monstrous hedgehog, of a dirty white colour, with black, loathsome +claws that clicked and scraped along the floor, and narrow, yellow eyes +of indescribable evil. It slithered along for a yard or two, always +looking at me with its cruel, hideous eyes, then, when it reached the +second window, which was open it clambered up the sill and vanished. I +got up at once and went to the window; there wasn’t a sign of it +anywhere. Of course, I knew it must be something from another world, but +it was not till I turned up Popple’s chapter on local traditions that I +realised what I had seen.” + +She turned eagerly to the large brown volume and read: “’Nicholas +Herison, an old miser, was hung at Batchford in 1763 for the murder of a +farm lad who had accidentally discovered his secret hoard. His ghost is +supposed to traverse the countryside, appearing sometimes as a white owl, +sometimes as a huge white hedgehog.” + +“I expect you read the Popple story overnight, and that made you _think_ +you saw a hedgehog when you were only half awake,” said Mrs. Norbury, +hazarding a conjecture that probably came very near the truth. + +Ada scouted the possibility of such a solution of her apparition. + +“This must be hushed up,” said Mrs. Norbury quickly; “the servants—” + +“Hushed up!” exclaimed Ada, indignantly; “I’m writing a long report on it +for the Research Society.” + +It was then that Hugo Norbury, who is not naturally a man of brilliant +resource, had one of the really useful inspirations of his life. + +“It was very wicked of us, Miss Bleek,” he said, “but it would be a shame +to let it go further. That white hedgehog is an old joke of ours; +stuffed albino hedgehog, you know, that my father brought home from +Jamaica, where they grow to enormous size. We hide it in the room with a +string on it, run one end of the string through the window; then we pull +if from below and it comes scraping along the floor, just as you’ve +described, and finally jerks out of the window. Taken in heaps of +people; they all read up Popple and think it’s old Harry Nicholson’s +ghost; we always stop them from writing to the papers about it, though. +That would be carrying matters too far.” + +Mrs. Hatch-Mallard renewed the lease in due course, but Ada Bleek has +never renewed her friendship. + + + + +THE MAPPINED LIFE + + +“These Mappin Terraces at the Zoological Gardens are a great improvement +on the old style of wild-beast cage,” said Mrs. James Gurtleberry, +putting down an illustrated paper; “they give one the illusion of seeing +the animals in their natural surroundings. I wonder how much of the +illusion is passed on to the animals?” + +“That would depend on the animal,” said her niece; “a jungle-fowl, for +instance, would no doubt think its lawful jungle surroundings were +faithfully reproduced if you gave it a sufficiency of wives, a goodly +variety of seed food and ants’ eggs, a commodious bank of loose earth to +dust itself in, a convenient roosting tree, and a rival or two to make +matters interesting. Of course there ought to be jungle-cats and birds +of prey and other agencies of sudden death to add to the illusion of +liberty, but the bird’s own imagination is capable of inventing +those—look how a domestic fowl will squawk an alarm note if a rook or +wood pigeon passes over its run when it has chickens.” + +“You think, then, they really do have a sort of illusion, if you give +them space enough—” + +“In a few cases only. Nothing will make me believe that an acre or so of +concrete enclosure will make up to a wolf or a tiger-cat for the range of +night prowling that would belong to it in a wild state. Think of the +dictionary of sound and scent and recollection that unfolds before a real +wild beast as it comes out from its lair every evening, with the +knowledge that in a few minutes it will be hieing along to some distant +hunting ground where all the joy and fury of the chase awaits it; think +of the crowded sensations of the brain when every rustle, every cry, +every bent twig, and every whiff across the nostrils means something, +something to do with life and death and dinner. Imagine the satisfaction +of stealing down to your own particular drinking spot, choosing your own +particular tree to scrape your claws on, finding your own particular bed +of dried grass to roll on. Then, in the place of all that, put a +concrete promenade, which will be of exactly the same dimensions whether +you race or crawl across it, coated with stale, unvarying scents and +surrounded with cries and noises that have ceased to have the least +meaning or interest. As a substitute for a narrow cage the new +enclosures are excellent, but I should think they are a poor imitation of +a life of liberty.” + +“It’s rather depressing to think that,” said Mrs. Gurtleberry; “they look +so spacious and so natural, but I suppose a good deal of what seems +natural to us would be meaningless to a wild animal.” + +“That is where our superior powers of self-deception come in,” said the +niece; “we are able to live our unreal, stupid little lives on our +particular Mappin terrace, and persuade ourselves that we really are +untrammelled men and women leading a reasonable existence in a reasonable +sphere.” + +“But good gracious,” exclaimed the aunt, bouncing into an attitude of +scandalised defence, “we are leading reasonable existences! What on +earth do you mean by trammels? We are merely trammelled by the ordinary +decent conventions of civilised society.” + +“We are trammelled,” said the niece, calmly and pitilessly, “by +restrictions of income and opportunity, and above all by lack of +initiative. To some people a restricted income doesn’t matter a bit, in +fact it often seems to help as a means for getting a lot of reality out +of life; I am sure there are men and women who do their shopping in +little back streets of Paris, buying four carrots and a shred of beef for +their daily sustenance, who lead a perfectly real and eventful existence. +Lack of initiative is the thing that really cripples one, and that is +where you and I and Uncle James are so hopelessly shut in. We are just +so many animals stuck down on a Mappin terrace, with this difference in +our disfavour, that the animals are there to be looked at, while nobody +wants to look at us. As a matter of fact there would be nothing to look +at. We get colds in winter and hay fever in summer, and if a wasp +happens to sting one of us, well, that is the wasp’s initiative, not +ours; all we do is to wait for the swelling to go down. Whenever we do +climb into local fame and notice, it is by indirect methods; if it +happens to be a good flowering year for magnolias the neighbourhood +observes: ‘Have you seen the Gurtleberry’s magnolia? It is a perfect +mass of flowers,’ and we go about telling people that there are +fifty-seven blossoms as against thirty-nine the previous year.” + +“In Coronation year there were as many as sixty,” put in the aunt, “your +uncle has kept a record for the last eight years.” + +“Doesn’t it ever strike you,” continued the niece relentlessly, “that if +we moved away from here or were blotted out of existence our local claim +to fame would pass on automatically to whoever happened to take the house +and garden? People would say to one another, ‘Have you seen the +Smith-Jenkins’ magnolia? It is a perfect mass of flowers,’ or else +‘Smith-Jenkins tells me there won’t be a single blossom on their magnolia +this year; the east winds have turned all the buds black.’ Now if, when +we had gone, people still associated our names with the magnolia tree, no +matter who temporarily possessed it, if they said, ‘Ah, that’s the tree +on which the Gurtleberrys hung their cook because she sent up the wrong +kind of sauce with the asparagus,’ that would be something really due to +our own initiative, apart from anything east winds or magnolia vitality +might have to say in the matter.” + +“We should never do such a thing,” said the aunt. + +The niece gave a reluctant sigh. + +“I can’t imagine it,” she admitted. “Of course,” she continued, “there +are heaps of ways of leading a real existence without committing +sensational deeds of violence. It’s the dreadful little everyday acts of +pretended importance that give the Mappin stamp to our life. It would be +entertaining, if it wasn’t so pathetically tragic, to hear Uncle James +fuss in here in the morning and announce, ‘I must just go down into the +town and find out what the men there are saying about Mexico. Matters +are beginning to look serious there.’ Then he patters away into the +town, and talks in a highly serious voice to the tobacconist, +incidentally buying an ounce of tobacco; perhaps he meets one or two +others of the world’s thinkers and talks to them in a highly serious +voice, then he patters back here and announces with increased importance, +‘I’ve just been talking to some men in the town about the condition of +affairs in Mexico. They agree with the view that I have formed, that +things there will have to get worse before they get better.’ Of course +nobody in the town cared in the least little bit what his views about +Mexico were or whether he had any. The tobacconist wasn’t even fluttered +at his buying the ounce of tobacco; he knows that he purchases the same +quantity of the same sort of tobacco every week. Uncle James might just +as well have lain on his back in the garden and chattered to the lilac +tree about the habits of caterpillars.” + +“I really will not listen to such things about your uncle,” protested +Mrs. James Gurtleberry angrily. + +“My own case is just as bad and just as tragic,” said the niece, +dispassionately; “nearly everything about me is conventional +make-believe. I’m not a good dancer, and no one could honestly call me +good-looking, but when I go to one of our dull little local dances I’m +conventionally supposed to ‘have a heavenly time,’ to attract the ardent +homage of the local cavaliers, and to go home with my head awhirl with +pleasurable recollections. As a matter of fact, I’ve merely put in some +hours of indifferent dancing, drunk some badly-made claret cup, and +listened to an enormous amount of laborious light conversation. A +moonlight hen-stealing raid with the merry-eyed curate would be +infinitely more exciting; imagine the pleasure of carrying off all those +white minorcas that the Chibfords are always bragging about. When we had +disposed of them we could give the proceeds to a charity, so there would +be nothing really wrong about it. But nothing of that sort lies within +the Mappined limits of my life. One of these days somebody dull and +decorous and undistinguished will ‘make himself agreeable’ to me at a +tennis party, as the saying is, and all the dull old gossips of the +neighbourhood will begin to ask when we are to be engaged, and at last we +shall be engaged, and people will give us butter-dishes and +blotting-cases and framed pictures of young women feeding swans. Hullo, +Uncle, are you going out?” + +“I’m just going down to the town,” announced Mr. James Gurtleberry, with +an air of some importance: “I want to hear what people are saying about +Albania. Affairs there are beginning to take on a very serious look. +It’s my opinion that we haven’t seen the worst of things yet.” + +In this he was probably right, but there was nothing in the immediate or +prospective condition of Albania to warrant Mrs. Gurtleberry in bursting +into tears. + + + + +FATE + + +Rex Dillot was nearly twenty-four, almost good-looking and quite +penniless. His mother was supposed to make him some sort of an allowance +out of what her creditors allowed her, and Rex occasionally strayed into +the ranks of those who earn fitful salaries as secretaries or companions +to people who are unable to cope unaided with their correspondence or +their leisure. For a few months he had been assistant editor and +business manager of a paper devoted to fancy mice, but the devotion had +been all on one side, and the paper disappeared with a certain abruptness +from club reading-rooms and other haunts where it had made a gratuitous +appearance. Still, Rex lived with some air of comfort and well-being, as +one can live if one is born with a genius for that sort of thing, and a +kindly Providence usually arranged that his week-end invitations +coincided with the dates on which his one white dinner-waistcoat was in a +laundry-returned condition of dazzling cleanness. He played most games +badly, and was shrewd enough to recognise the fact, but he had developed +a marvellously accurate judgement in estimating the play and chances of +other people, whether in a golf match, billiard handicap, or croquet +tournament. By dint of parading his opinion of such and such a player’s +superiority with a sufficient degree of youthful assertiveness he usually +succeeded in provoking a wager at liberal odds, and he looked to his +week-end winnings to carry him through the financial embarrassments of +his mid-week existence. The trouble was, as he confided to Clovis +Sangrail, that he never had enough available or even prospective cash at +his command to enable him to fix the wager at a figure really worth +winning. + +“Some day,” he said, “I shall come across a really safe thing, a bet that +simply can’t go astray, and then I shall put it up for all I’m worth, or +rather for a good deal more than I’m worth if you sold me up to the last +button.” + +“It would be awkward if it didn’t happen to come off,” said Clovis. + +“It would be more than awkward,” said Rex; “it would be a tragedy. All +the same, it would be extremely amusing to bring it off. Fancy awaking +in the morning with about three hundred pounds standing to one’s credit. +I should go and clear out my hostess’s pigeon-loft before breakfast out +of sheer good-temper.” + +“Your hostess of the moment mightn’t have a pigeon-loft,” said Clovis. + +“I always choose hostesses that have,” said Rex; “a pigeon-loft is +indicative of a careless, extravagant, genial disposition, such as I like +to see around me. People who strew corn broadcast for a lot of feathered +inanities that just sit about cooing and giving each other the glad eye +in a Louis Quatorze manner are pretty certain to do you well.” + +“Young Strinnit is coming down this afternoon,” said Clovis reflectively; +“I dare say you won’t find it difficult to get him to back himself at +billiards. He plays a pretty useful game, but he’s not quite as good as +he fancies he is.” + +“I know one member of the party who can walk round him,” said Rex softly, +an alert look coming into his eyes; “that cadaverous-looking Major who +arrived last night. I’ve seen him play at St. Moritz. If I could get +Strinnit to lay odds on himself against the Major the money would be safe +in my pocket. This looks like the good thing I’ve been watching and +praying for.” + +“Don’t be rash,” counselled Clovis, “Strinnit may play up to his +self-imagined form once in a blue moon.” + +“I intend to be rash,” said Rex quietly, and the look on his face +corroborated his words. + +“Are you all going to flock to the billiard-room?” asked Teresa +Thundleford, after dinner, with an air of some disapproval and a good +deal of annoyance. “I can’t see what particular amusement you find in +watching two men prodding little ivory balls about on a table.” + +“Oh, well,” said her hostess, “it’s a way of passing the time, you know.” + +“A very poor way, to my mind,” said Mrs. Thundleford; “now I was going to +have shown all of you the photographs I took in Venice last summer.” + +“You showed them to us last night,” said Mrs. Cuvering hastily. + +“Those were the ones I took in Florence. These are quite a different +lot.” + +“Oh, well, some time to-morrow we can look at them. You can leave them +down in the drawing-room, and then every one can have a look.” + +“I should prefer to show them when you are all gathered together, as I +have quite a lot of explanatory remarks to make, about Venetian art and +architecture, on the same lines as my remarks last night on the +Florentine galleries. Also, there are some verses of mine that I should +like to read you, on the rebuilding of the Campanile. But, of course, if +you all prefer to watch Major Latton and Mr. Strinnit knocking balls +about on a table—” + +“They are both supposed to be first-rate players,” said the hostess. + +“I have yet to learn that my verses and my art _causerie_ are of +second-rate quality,” said Mrs. Thundleford with acerbity. “However, as +you all seem bent on watching a silly game, there’s no more to be said. +I shall go upstairs and finish some writing. Later on, perhaps, I will +come down and join you.” + +To one, at least, of the onlookers the game was anything but silly. It +was absorbing, exciting, exasperating, nerve-stretching, and finally it +grew to be tragic. The Major with the St. Moritz reputation was playing +a long way below his form, young Strinnit was playing slightly above his, +and had all the luck of the game as well. From the very start the balls +seemed possessed by a demon of contrariness; they trundled about +complacently for one player, they would go nowhere for the other. + +“A hundred and seventy, seventy-four,” sang out the youth who was +marking. In a game of two hundred and fifty up it was an enormous lead +to hold. Clovis watched the flush of excitement die away from Dillot’s +face, and a hard white look take its place. + +“How much have you go on?” whispered Clovis. The other whispered the sum +through dry, shaking lips. It was more than he or any one connected with +him could pay; he had done what he had said he would do. He had been +rash. + +“Two hundred and six, ninety-eight.” + +Rex heard a clock strike ten somewhere in the hall, then another +somewhere else, and another, and another; the house seemed full of +striking clocks. Then in the distance the stable clock chimed in. In +another hour they would all be striking eleven, and he would be listening +to them as a disgraced outcast, unable to pay, even in part, the wager he +had challenged. + +“Two hundred and eighteen, a hundred and three.” The game was as good as +over. Rex was as good as done for. He longed desperately for the +ceiling to fall in, for the house to catch fire, for anything to happen +that would put an end to that horrible rolling to and fro of red and +white ivory that was jostling him nearer and nearer to his doom. + +“Two hundred and twenty-eight, a hundred and seven.” + +Rex opened his cigarette-case; it was empty. That at least gave him a +pretext to slip away from the room for the purpose of refilling it; he +would spare himself the drawn-out torture of watching that hopeless game +played out to the bitter end. He backed away from the circle of absorbed +watchers and made his way up a short stairway to a long, silent corridor +of bedrooms, each with a guests’ name written in a little square on the +door. In the hush that reigned in this part of the house he could still +hear the hateful click-click of the balls; if he waited for a few minutes +longer he would hear the little outbreak of clapping and buzz of +congratulation that would hail Strinnit’s victory. On the alert tension +of his nerves there broke another sound, the aggressive, wrath-inducing +breathing of one who sleeps in heavy after-dinner slumber. The sound +came from a room just at his elbow; the card on the door bore the +announcement “Mrs. Thundleford.” The door was just slightly ajar; Rex +pushed it open an inch or two more and looked in. The august Teresa had +fallen asleep over an illustrated guide to Florentine art-galleries; at +her side, somewhat dangerously near the edge of the table, was a +reading-lamp. If Fate had been decently kind to him, thought Rex, +bitterly, that lamp would have been knocked over by the sleeper and would +have given them something to think of besides billiard matches. + +There are occasions when one must take one’s Fate in one’s hands. Rex +took the lamp in his. + +“Two hundred and thirty-seven, one hundred and fifteen.” Strinnit was at +the table, and the balls lay in good position for him; he had a choice of +two fairly easy shots, a choice which he was never to decide. A sudden +hurricane of shrieks and a rush of stumbling feet sent every one flocking +to the door. The Dillot boy crashed into the room, carrying in his arms +the vociferous and somewhat dishevelled Teresa Thundleford; her clothing +was certainly not a mass of flames, as the more excitable members of the +party afterwards declared, but the edge of her skirt and part of the +table-cover in which she had been hastily wrapped were alight in a +flickering, half-hearted manner. Rex flung his struggling burden on the +billiard table, and for one breathless minute the work of beating out the +sparks with rugs and cushions and playing on them with soda-water syphons +engrossed the energies of the entire company. + +“It was lucky I was passing when it happened,” panted Rex; “some one had +better see to the room, I think the carpet is alight.” + +As a matter of fact the promptitude and energy of the rescuer had +prevented any great damage being done, either to the victim or her +surroundings. The billiard table had suffered most, and had to be laid +up for repairs; perhaps it was not the best place to have chosen for the +scene of salvage operations; but then, as Clovis remarked, when one is +rushing about with a blazing woman in one’s arms one can’t stop to think +out exactly where one is going to put her. + + + + +THE BULL + + +Tom Yorkfield had always regarded his half-brother, Laurence, with a lazy +instinct of dislike, toned down, as years went on, to a tolerant feeling +of indifference. There was nothing very tangible to dislike him for; he +was just a blood-relation, with whom Tom had no single taste or interest +in common, and with whom, at the same time, he had had no occasion for +quarrel. Laurence had left the farm early in life, and had lived for a +few years on a small sum of money left him by his mother; he had taken up +painting as a profession, and was reported to be doing fairly well at it, +well enough, at any rate, to keep body and soul together. He specialised +in painting animals, and he was successful in finding a certain number of +people to buy his pictures. Tom felt a comforting sense of assured +superiority in contrasting his position with that of his half-brother; +Laurence was an artist-chap, just that and nothing more, though you might +make it sound more important by calling him an animal painter; Tom was a +farmer, not in a very big way, it was true, but the Helsery farm had been +in the family for some generations, and it had a good reputation for the +stock raised on it. Tom had done his best, with the little capital at +his command, to maintain and improve the standard of his small herd of +cattle, and in Clover Fairy he had bred a bull which was something rather +better than any that his immediate neighbours could show. It would not +have made a sensation in the judging-ring at an important cattle show, +but it was as vigorous, shapely, and healthy a young animal as any small +practical farmer could wish to possess. At the King’s Head on market +days Clover Fairy was very highly spoken of, and Yorkfield used to +declare that he would not part with him for a hundred pounds; a hundred +pounds is a lot of money in the small farming line, and probably anything +over eighty would have tempted him. + +It was with some especial pleasure that Tom took advantage of one of +Laurence’s rare visits to the farm to lead him down to the enclosure +where Clover Fairy kept solitary state—the grass widower of a grazing +harem. Tom felt some of his old dislike for his half-brother reviving; +the artist was becoming more languid in his manner, more unsuitably +turned-out in attire, and he seemed inclined to impart a slightly +patronising tone to his conversation. He took no heed of a flourishing +potato crop, but waxed enthusiastic over a clump of yellow-flowering weed +that stood in a corner by a gateway, which was rather galling to the +owner of a really very well weeded farm; again, when he might have been +duly complimentary about a group of fat, black-faced lambs, that simply +cried aloud for admiration, he became eloquent over the foliage tints of +an oak copse on the hill opposite. But now he was being taken to inspect +the crowning pride and glory of Helsery; however grudging he might be in +his praises, however backward and niggardly with his congratulations, he +would have to see and acknowledge the many excellences of that +redoubtable animal. Some weeks ago, while on a business journey to +Taunton, Tom had been invited by his half-brother to visit a studio in +that town, where Laurence was exhibiting one of his pictures, a large +canvas representing a bull standing knee-deep in some marshy ground; it +had been good of its kind, no doubt, and Laurence had seemed inordinately +pleased with it; “the best thing I’ve done yet,” he had said over and +over again, and Tom had generously agreed that it was fairly life-like. +Now, the man of pigments was going to be shown a real picture, a living +model of strength and comeliness, a thing to feast the eyes on, a picture +that exhibited new pose and action with every shifting minute, instead of +standing glued into one unvarying attitude between the four walls of a +frame. Tom unfastened a stout wooden door and led the way into a +straw-bedded yard. + +“Is he quiet?” asked the artist, as a young bull with a curly red coat +came inquiringly towards them. + +“He’s playful at times,” said Tom, leaving his half-brother to wonder +whether the bull’s ideas of play were of the catch-as-catch-can order. +Laurence made one or two perfunctory comments on the animal’s appearance +and asked a question or so as to his age and such-like details; then he +coolly turned the talk into another channel. + +“Do you remember the picture I showed you at Taunton?” he asked. + +“Yes,” grunted Tom; “a white-faced bull standing in some slush. Don’t +admire those Herefords much myself; bulky-looking brutes, don’t seem to +have much life in them. Daresay they’re easier to paint that way; now, +this young beggar is on the move all the time, aren’t you, Fairy?” + +“I’ve sold that picture,” said Laurence, with considerable complacency in +his voice. + +“Have you?” said Tom; “glad to hear it, I’m sure. Hope you’re pleased +with what you’ve got for it.” + +“I got three hundred pounds for it,” said Laurence. + +Tom turned towards him with a slowly rising flush of anger in his face. +Three hundred pounds! Under the most favourable market conditions that +he could imagine his prized Clover Fairy would hardly fetch a hundred, +yet here was a piece of varnished canvas, painted by his half-brother, +selling for three times that sum. It was a cruel insult that went home +with all the more force because it emphasised the triumph of the +patronising, self-satisfied Laurence. The young farmer had meant to put +his relative just a little out of conceit with himself by displaying the +jewel of his possessions, and now the tables were turned, and his valued +beast was made to look cheap and insignificant beside the price paid for +a mere picture. It was so monstrously unjust; the painting would never +be anything more than a dexterous piece of counterfeit life, while Clover +Fairy was the real thing, a monarch in his little world, a personality in +the countryside. After he was dead, even, he would still be something of +a personality; his descendants would graze in those valley meadows and +hillside pastures, they would fill stall and byre and milking-shed, their +good red coats would speckle the landscape and crowd the market-place; +men would note a promising heifer or a well-proportioned steer, and say: +“Ah, that one comes of good old Clover Fairy’s stock.” All that time the +picture would be hanging, lifeless and unchanging, beneath its dust and +varnish, a chattel that ceased to mean anything if you chose to turn it +with its back to the wall. These thoughts chased themselves angrily +through Tom Yorkfield’s mind, but he could not put them into words. When +he gave tongue to his feelings he put matters bluntly and harshly. + +“Some soft-witted fools may like to throw away three hundred pounds on a +bit of paintwork; can’t say as I envy them their taste. I’d rather have +the real thing than a picture of it.” + +He nodded towards the young bull, that was alternately staring at them +with nose held high and lowering its horns with a half-playful, +half-impatient shake of the head. + +Laurence laughed a laugh of irritating, indulgent amusement. + +“I don’t think the purchaser of my bit of paintwork, as you call it, need +worry about having thrown his money away. As I get to be better known +and recognised my pictures will go up in value. That particular one will +probably fetch four hundred in a sale-room five or six years hence; +pictures aren’t a bad investment if you know enough to pick out the work +of the right men. Now you can’t say your precious bull is going to get +more valuable the longer you keep him; he’ll have his little day, and +then, if you go on keeping him, he’ll come down at last to a few +shillingsworth of hoofs and hide, just at a time, perhaps, when my bull +is being bought for a big sum for some important picture gallery.” + +It was too much. The united force of truth and slander and insult put +over heavy a strain on Tom Yorkfield’s powers of restraint. In his right +hand he held a useful oak cudgel, with his left he made a grab at the +loose collar of Laurence’s canary-coloured silk shirt. Laurence was not +a fighting man; the fear of physical violence threw him off his balance +as completely as overmastering indignation had thrown Tom off his, and +thus it came to pass that Clover Fairy was regaled with the unprecedented +sight of a human being scudding and squawking across the enclosure, like +the hen that would persist in trying to establish a nesting-place in the +manger. In another crowded happy moment the bull was trying to jerk +Laurence over his left shoulder, to prod him in the ribs while still in +the air, and to kneel on him when he reached the ground. It was only the +vigorous intervention of Tom that induced him to relinquish the last item +of his programme. + +Tom devotedly and ungrudgingly nursed his half brother to a complete +recovery from his injuries, which consisted of nothing more serious than +a dislocated shoulder, a broken rib or two, and a little nervous +prostration. After all, there was no further occasion for rancour in the +young farmer’s mind; Laurence’s bull might sell for three hundred, or for +six hundred, and be admired by thousands in some big picture gallery, but +it would never toss a man over one shoulder and catch him a jab in the +ribs before he had fallen on the other side. That was Clover Fairy’s +noteworthy achievement, which could never be taken away from him. + +Laurence continues to be popular as an animal artist, but his subjects +are always kittens or fawns or lambkins—never bulls. + + + + +MORLVERA + + +The Olympic Toy Emporium occupied a conspicuous frontage in an important +West End street. It was happily named Toy Emporium, because one would +never have dreamed of according it the familiar and yet pulse-quickening +name of toyshop. There was an air of cold splendour and elaborate +failure about the wares that were set out in its ample windows; they were +the sort of toys that a tired shop-assistant displays and explains at +Christmas time to exclamatory parents and bored, silent children. The +animal toys looked more like natural history models than the comfortable, +sympathetic companions that one would wish, at a certain age, to take to +bed with one, and to smuggle into the bath-room. The mechanical toys +incessantly did things that no one could want a toy to do more than a +half a dozen times in its lifetime; it was a merciful reflection that in +any right-minded nursery the lifetime would certainly be short. + +Prominent among the elegantly-dressed dolls that filled an entire section +of the window frontage was a large hobble-skirted lady in a confection of +peach-coloured velvet, elaborately set off with leopard skin accessories, +if one may use such a conveniently comprehensive word in describing an +intricate feminine toilette. She lacked nothing that is to be found in a +carefully detailed fashion-plate—in fact, she might be said to have +something more than the average fashion-plate female possesses; in place +of a vacant, expressionless stare she had character in her face. It must +be admitted that it was bad character, cold, hostile, inquisitorial, with +a sinister lowering of one eyebrow and a merciless hardness about the +corners of the mouth. One might have imagined histories about her by the +hour, histories in which unworthy ambition, the desire for money, and an +entire absence of all decent feeling would play a conspicuous part. + +As a matter of fact, she was not without her judges and biographers, even +in this shop-window stage of her career. Emmeline, aged ten, and Bert, +aged seven, had halted on the way from their obscure back street to the +minnow-stocked water of St. James’s Park, and were critically examining +the hobble-skirted doll, and dissecting her character in no very tolerant +spirit. There is probably a latent enmity between the necessarily +under-clad and the unnecessarily overdressed, but a little kindness and +good fellowship on the part of the latter will often change the sentiment +to admiring devotion; if the lady in peach-coloured velvet and leopard +skin had worn a pleasant expression in addition to her other elaborate +furnishings, Emmeline at least might have respected and even loved her. +As it was, she gave her a horrible reputation, based chiefly on a +secondhand knowledge of gilded depravity derived from the conversation of +those who were skilled in the art of novelette reading; Bert filled in a +few damaging details from his own limited imagination. + +“She’s a bad lot, that one is,” declared Emmeline, after a long +unfriendly stare; “’er ’usbind ’ates ’er.” + +“’E knocks ’er abart,” said Bert, with enthusiasm. + +“No, ’e don’t, cos ’e’s dead; she poisoned ’im slow and gradual, so that +nobody didn’t know. Now she wants to marry a lord, with ’eaps and ’eaps +of money. ’E’s got a wife already, but she’s going to poison ’er, too.” + +“She’s a bad lot,” said Bert with growing hostility. + +“’Er mother ’ates her, and she’s afraid of ’er, too, cos she’s got a +serkestic tongue; always talking serkesms, she is. She’s greedy, too; if +there’s fish going, she eats ’er own share and ’er little girl’s as well, +though the little girl is dellikit.” + +“She ’ad a little boy once,” said Bert, “but she pushed ’im into the +water when nobody wasn’t looking.” + +“No she didn’t,” said Emmeline, “she sent ’im away to be kep’ by poor +people, so ’er ’usbind wouldn’t know where ’e was. They ill-treat ’im +somethink cruel.” + +“Wot’s ’er nime?” asked Bert, thinking that it was time that so +interesting a personality should be labelled. + +“’Er nime?” said Emmeline, thinking hard, “’er nime’s Morlvera.” It was +as near as she could get to the name of an adventuress who figured +prominently in a cinema drama. There was silence for a moment while the +possibilities of the name were turned over in the children’s minds. + +“Those clothes she’s got on ain’t paid for, and never won’t be,” said +Emmeline; “she thinks she’ll get the rich lord to pay for ’em, but ’e +won’t. ’E’s given ’er jools, ’underds of pounds’ worth.” + +“’E won’t pay for the clothes,” said Bert, with conviction. Evidently +there was some limit to the weak good nature of wealthy lords. + +At that moment a motor carriage with liveried servants drew up at the +emporium entrance; a large lady, with a penetrating and rather hurried +manner of talking, stepped out, followed slowly and sulkily by a small +boy, who had a very black scowl on his face and a very white sailor suit +over the rest of him. The lady was continuing an argument which had +probably commenced in Portman Square. + +“Now, Victor, you are to come in and buy a nice doll for your cousin +Bertha. She gave you a beautiful box of soldiers on your birthday, and +you must give her a present on hers.” + +“Bertha is a fat little fool,” said Victor, in a voice that was as loud +as his mother’s and had more assurance in it. + +“Victor, you are not to say such things. Bertha is not a fool, and she +is not in the least fat. You are to come in and choose a doll for her.” + +The couple passed into the shop, out of view and hearing of the two +back-street children. + +“My, he is in a wicked temper,” exclaimed Emmeline, but both she and Bert +were inclined to side with him against the absent Bertha, who was +doubtless as fat and foolish as he had described her to be. + +“I want to see some dolls,” said the mother of Victor to the nearest +assistant; “it’s for a little girl of eleven.” + +“A fat little girl of eleven,” added Victor by way of supplementary +information. + +“Victor, if you say such rude things about your cousin, you shall go to +bed the moment we get home, without having any tea.” + +“This is one of the newest things we have in dolls,” said the assistant, +removing a hobble-skirted figure in peach-coloured velvet from the +window; “leopard skin toque and stole, the latest fashion. You won’t get +anything newer than that anywhere. It’s an exclusive design.” + +“Look!” whispered Emmeline outside; “they’ve bin and took Morlvera.” + +There was a mingling of excitement and a certain sense of bereavement in +her mind; she would have liked to gaze at that embodiment of overdressed +depravity for just a little longer. + +“I ’spect she’s going away in a kerridge to marry the rich lord,” +hazarded Bert. + +“She’s up to no good,” said Emmeline vaguely. + +Inside the shop the purchase of the doll had been decided on. + +“It’s a beautiful doll, and Bertha will be delighted with it,” asserted +the mother of Victor loudly. + +“Oh, very well,” said Victor sulkily; “you needn’t have it stuck into a +box and wait an hour while it’s being done up into a parcel. I’ll take +it as it is, and we can go round to Manchester Square and give it to +Bertha, and get the thing done with. That will save me the trouble of +writing: ‘For dear Bertha, with Victor’s love,’ on a bit of paper.” + +“Very well,” said his mother, “we can go to Manchester Square on our way +home. You must wish her many happy returns of to-morrow, and give her +the doll.” + +“I won’t let the little beast kiss me,” stipulated Victor. + +His mother said nothing; Victor had not been half as troublesome as she +had anticipated. When he chose he could really be dreadfully naughty. + +Emmeline and Bert were just moving away from the window when Morlvera +made her exit from the shop, very carefully in Victor’s arms. A look of +sinister triumph seemed to glow in her hard, inquisitorial face. As for +Victor, a certain scornful serenity had replaced the earlier scowls; he +had evidently accepted defeat with a contemptuous good grace. + +The tall lady gave a direction to the footman and settled herself in the +carriage. The little figure in the white sailor suit clambered in beside +her, still carefully holding the elegantly garbed doll. + +The car had to be backed a few yards in the process of turning. Very +stealthily, very gently, very mercilessly Victor sent Morlvera flying +over his shoulder, so that she fell into the road just behind the +retrogressing wheel. With a soft, pleasant-sounding scrunch the car went +over the prostrate form, then it moved forward again with another +scrunch. The carriage moved off and left Bert and Emmeline gazing in +scared delight at a sorry mess of petrol-smeared velvet, sawdust, and +leopard skin, which was all that remained of the hateful Morlvera. They +gave a shrill cheer, and then raced away shuddering from the scene of so +much rapidly enacted tragedy. + +Later that afternoon, when they were engaged in the pursuit of minnows by +the waterside in St. James’s Park, Emmeline said in a solemn undertone to +Bert— + +“I’ve bin finking. Do you know oo ’e was? ’E was ’er little boy wot +she’d sent away to live wiv poor folks. ’E come back and done that.” + + + + +SHOCK TACTICS + + +On a late spring afternoon Ella McCarthy sat on a green-painted chair in +Kensington Gardens, staring listlessly at an uninteresting stretch of +park landscape, that blossomed suddenly into tropical radiance as an +expected figure appeared in the middle distance. + +“Hullo, Bertie!” she exclaimed sedately, when the figure arrived at the +painted chair that was the nearest neighbour to her own, and dropped into +it eagerly, yet with a certain due regard for the set of its trousers; +“hasn’t it been a perfect spring afternoon?” + +The statement was a distinct untruth as far as Ella’s own feelings were +concerned; until the arrival of Bertie the afternoon had been anything +but perfect. + +Bertie made a suitable reply, in which a questioning note seemed to +hover. + +“Thank you ever so much for those lovely handkerchiefs,” said Ella, +answering the unspoken question; “they were just what I’ve been wanting. +There’s only one thing spoilt my pleasure in your gift,” she added, with +a pout. + +“What was that?” asked Bertie anxiously, fearful that perhaps he had +chosen a size of handkerchief that was not within the correct feminine +limit. + +“I should have liked to have written and thanked you for them as soon as +I got them,” said Ella, and Bertie’s sky clouded at once. + +“You know what mother is,” he protested; “she opens all my letters, and +if she found I’d been giving presents to any one there’d have been +something to talk about for the next fortnight.” + +“Surely, at the age of twenty—” began Ella. + +“I’m not twenty till September,” interrupted Bertie. + +“At the age of nineteen years and eight months,” persisted Ella, “you +might be allowed to keep your correspondence private to yourself.” + +“I ought to be, but things aren’t always what they ought to be. Mother +opens every letter that comes into the house, whoever it’s for. My +sisters and I have made rows about it time and again, but she goes on +doing it.” + +“I’d find some way to stop her if I were in your place,” said Ella +valiantly, and Bertie felt that the glamour of his anxiously deliberated +present had faded away in the disagreeable restriction that hedged round +its acknowledgment. + +“Is anything the matter?” asked Bertie’s friend Clovis when they met that +evening at the swimming-bath. + +“Why do you ask?” said Bertie. + +“When you wear a look of tragic gloom in a swimming-bath,” said Clovis, +“it’s especially noticeable from the fact that you’re wearing very little +else. Didn’t she like the handkerchiefs?” + +Bertie explained the situation. + +“It is rather galling, you know,” he added, “when a girl has a lot of +things she wants to write to you and can’t send a letter except by some +roundabout, underhand way.” + +“One never realises one’s blessings while one enjoys them,” said Clovis; +“now I have to spend a considerable amount of ingenuity inventing excuses +for not having written to people.” + +“It’s not a joking matter,” said Bertie resentfully: “you wouldn’t find +it funny if your mother opened all your letters.” + +“The funny thing to me is that you should let her do it.” + +“I can’t stop it. I’ve argued about it—” + +“You haven’t used the right kind of argument, I expect. Now, if every +time one of your letters was opened you lay on your back on the +dining-table during dinner and had a fit, or roused the entire family in +the middle of the night to hear you recite one of Blake’s ‘Poems of +Innocence,’ you would get a far more respectful hearing for future +protests. People yield more consideration to a mutilated mealtime or a +broken night’s rest, than ever they would to a broken heart.” + +“Oh, dry up,” said Bertie crossly, inconsistently splashing Clovis from +head to foot as he plunged into the water. + +It was a day or two after the conversation in the swimming-bath that a +letter addressed to Bertie Heasant slid into the letter-box at his home, +and thence into the hands of his mother. Mrs. Heasant was one of those +empty-minded individuals to whom other people’s affairs are perpetually +interesting. The more private they are intended to be the more acute is +the interest they arouse. She would have opened this particular letter +in any case; the fact that it was marked “private,” and diffused a +delicate but penetrating aroma merely caused her to open it with headlong +haste rather than matter-of-course deliberation. The harvest of +sensation that rewarded her was beyond all expectations. + + “Bertie, carissimo,” it began, “I wonder if you will have the nerve + to do it: it will take some nerve, too. Don’t forget the jewels. + They are a detail, but details interest me. + + “Yours as ever, + “CLOTILDE.” + + “Your mother must not know of my existence. If questioned swear you + never heard of me.” + +For years Mrs. Heasant had searched Bertie’s correspondence diligently +for traces of possible dissipation or youthful entanglements, and at last +the suspicions that had stimulated her inquisitorial zeal were justified +by this one splendid haul. That any one wearing the exotic name +“Clotilde” should write to Bertie under the incriminating announcement +“as ever” was sufficiently electrifying, without the astounding allusion +to the jewels. Mrs. Heasant could recall novels and dramas wherein +jewels played an exciting and commanding role, and here, under her own +roof, before her very eyes as it were, her own son was carrying on an +intrigue in which jewels were merely an interesting detail. Bertie was +not due home for another hour, but his sisters were available for the +immediate unburdening of a scandal-laden mind. + +“Bertie is in the toils of an adventuress,” she screamed; “her name is +Clotilde,” she added, as if she thought they had better know the worst at +once. There are occasions when more harm than good is done by shielding +young girls from a knowledge of the more deplorable realities of life. + +By the time Bertie arrived his mother had discussed every possible and +improbable conjecture as to his guilty secret; the girls limited +themselves to the opinion that their brother had been weak rather than +wicked. + +“Who is Clotilde?” was the question that confronted Bertie almost before +he had got into the hall. His denial of any knowledge of such a person +was met with an outburst of bitter laughter. + +“How well you have learned your lesson!” exclaimed Mrs. Heasant. But +satire gave way to furious indignation when she realised that Bertie did +not intend to throw any further light on her discovery. + +“You shan’t have any dinner till you’ve confessed everything,” she +stormed. + +Bertie’s reply took the form of hastily collecting material for an +impromptu banquet from the larder and locking himself into his bedroom. +His mother made frequent visits to the locked door and shouted a +succession of interrogations with the persistence of one who thinks that +if you ask a question often enough an answer will eventually result. +Bertie did nothing to encourage the supposition. An hour had passed in +fruitless one-sided palaver when another letter addressed to Bertie and +marked “private” made its appearance in the letter-box. Mrs. Heasant +pounced on it with the enthusiasm of a cat that has missed its mouse and +to whom a second has been unexpectedly vouchsafed. If she hoped for +further disclosures assuredly she was not disappointed. + + “So you have really done it!” the letter abruptly commenced; “Poor + Dagmar. Now she is done for I almost pity her. You did it very + well, you wicked boy, the servants all think it was suicide, and + there will be no fuss. Better not touch the jewels till after the + inquest. + + “CLOTILDE.” + +Anything that Mrs. Heasant had previously done in the way of outcry was +easily surpassed as she raced upstairs and beat frantically at her son’s +door. + +“Miserable boy, what have you done to Dagmar?” + +“It’s Dagmar now, is it?” he snapped; “it will be Geraldine next.” + +“That it should come to this, after all my efforts to keep you at home of +an evening,” sobbed Mrs. Heasant; “it’s no use you trying to hide things +from me; Clotilde’s letter betrays everything.” + +“Does it betray who she is?” asked Bertie; “I’ve heard so much about her, +I should like to know something about her home-life. Seriously, if you +go on like this I shall fetch a doctor; I’ve often enough been preached +at about nothing, but I’ve never had an imaginary harem dragged into the +discussion.” + +“Are these letters imaginary?” screamed Mrs. Heasant; “what about the +jewels, and Dagmar, and the theory of suicide?” + +No solution of these problems was forthcoming through the bedroom door, +but the last post of the evening produced another letter for Bertie, and +its contents brought Mrs. Heasant that enlightenment which had already +dawned on her son. + + “DEAR BERTIE,” it ran; “I hope I haven’t distracted your brain with + the spoof letters I’ve been sending in the name of a fictitious + Clotilde. You told me the other day that the servants, or somebody + at your home, tampered with your letters, so I thought I would give + any one that opened them something exciting to read. The shock might + do them good. + + “Yours, + “CLOVIS SANGRAIL.” + +Mrs. Heasant knew Clovis slightly, and was rather afraid of him. It was +not difficult to read between the lines of his successful hoax. In a +chastened mood she rapped once more at Bertie’s door. + +“A letter from Mr. Sangrail. It’s all been a stupid hoax. He wrote +those other letters. Why, where are you going?” + +Bertie had opened the door; he had on his hat and overcoat. + +“I’m going for a doctor to come and see if anything’s the matter with +you. Of course it was all a hoax, but no person in his right mind could +have believed all that rubbish about murder and suicide and jewels. +You’ve been making enough noise to bring the house down for the last hour +or two.” + +“But what was I to think of those letters?” whimpered Mrs. Heasant. + +“I should have known what to think of them,” said Bertie; “if you choose +to excite yourself over other people’s correspondence it’s your own +fault. Anyhow, I’m going for a doctor.” + +It was Bertie’s great opportunity, and he knew it. His mother was +conscious of the fact that she would look rather ridiculous if the story +got about. She was willing to pay hush-money. + +“I’ll never open your letters again,” she promised. And Clovis has no +more devoted slave than Bertie Heasant. + + + + +THE SEVEN CREAM JUGS + + +“I suppose we shall never see Wilfred Pigeoncote here now that he has +become heir to the baronetcy and to a lot of money,” observed Mrs. Peter +Pigeoncote regretfully to her husband. + +“Well, we can hardly expect to,” he replied, “seeing that we always +choked him off from coming to see us when he was a prospective nobody. I +don’t think I’ve set eyes on him since he was a boy of twelve.” + +“There was a reason for not wanting to encourage his acquaintanceship,” +said Mrs. Peter. “With that notorious failing of his he was not the sort +of person one wanted in one’s house.” + +“Well, the failing still exists, doesn’t it?” said her husband; “or do +you suppose a reform of character is entailed along with the estate?” + +“Oh, of course, there is still that drawback,” admitted the wife, “but +one would like to make the acquaintance of the future head of the family, +if only out of mere curiosity. Besides, cynicism apart, his being rich +will make a difference in the way people will look at his failing. When +a man is absolutely wealthy, not merely well-to-do, all suspicion of +sordid motive naturally disappears; the thing becomes merely a tiresome +malady.” + +Wilfrid Pigeoncote had suddenly become heir to his uncle, Sir Wilfrid +Pigeoncote, on the death of his cousin, Major Wilfrid Pigeoncote, who had +succumbed to the after-effects of a polo accident. (A Wilfrid Pigeoncote +had covered himself with honours in the course of Marlborough’s +campaigns, and the name Wilfrid had been a baptismal weakness in the +family ever since.) The new heir to the family dignity and estates was a +young man of about five-and-twenty, who was known more by reputation than +by person to a wide circle of cousins and kinsfolk. And the reputation +was an unpleasant one. The numerous other Wilfrids in the family were +distinguished one from another chiefly by the names of their residences +or professions, as Wilfrid of Hubbledown, and young Wilfrid the Gunner, +but this particular scion was known by the ignominious and expressive +label of Wilfrid the Snatcher. From his late schooldays onward he had +been possessed by an acute and obstinate form of kleptomania; he had the +acquisitive instinct of the collector without any of the collector’s +discrimination. Anything that was smaller and more portable than a +sideboard, and above the value of ninepence, had an irresistible +attraction for him, provided that it fulfilled the necessary condition of +belonging to some one else. On the rare occasions when he was included +in a country-house party, it was usual and almost necessary for his host, +or some member of the family, to make a friendly inquisition through his +baggage on the eve of his departure, to see if he had packed up “by +mistake” any one else’s property. The search usually produced a large +and varied yield. + +“This is funny,” said Peter Pigeoncote to his wife, some half-hour after +their conversation; “here’s a telegram from Wilfrid, saying he’s passing +through here in his motor, and would like to stop and pay us his +respects. Can stay for the night if it doesn’t inconvenience us. Signed +‘Wilfrid Pigeoncote.’ Must be the Snatcher; none of the others have a +motor. I suppose he’s bringing us a present for the silver wedding.” + +“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Peter, as a thought struck her; “this is +rather an awkward time to have a person with his failing in the house. +All those silver presents set out in the drawing-room, and others coming +by every post; I hardly know what we’ve got and what are still to come. +We can’t lock them all up; he’s sure to want to see them.” + +“We must keep a sharp look-out, that’s all,” said Peter reassuringly. + +“But these practised kleptomaniacs are so clever,” said his wife, +apprehensively, “and it will be so awkward if he suspects that we are +watching him.” + +Awkwardness was indeed the prevailing note that evening when the passing +traveller was being entertained. The talk flitted nervously and +hurriedly from one impersonal topic to another. The guest had none of +the furtive, half-apologetic air that his cousins had rather expected to +find; he was polite, well-assured, and, perhaps, just a little inclined +to “put on side”. His hosts, on the other hand, wore an uneasy manner +that might have been the hallmark of conscious depravity. In the +drawing-room, after dinner, their nervousness and awkwardness increased. + +“Oh, we haven’t shown you the silver-wedding presents,” said Mrs. Peter, +suddenly, as though struck by a brilliant idea for entertaining the +guest; “here they all are. Such nice, useful gifts. A few duplicates, +of course.” + +“Seven cream jugs,” put in Peter. + +“Yes, isn’t it annoying,” went on Mrs. Peter; “seven of them. We feel +that we must live on cream for the rest of our lives. Of course, some of +them can be changed.” + +Wilfrid occupied himself chiefly with such of the gifts as were of +antique interest, carrying one or two of them over to the lamp to examine +their marks. The anxiety of his hosts at these moments resembled the +solicitude of a cat whose newly born kittens are being handed round for +inspection. + +“Let me see; did you give me back the mustard-pot? This is its place +here,” piped Mrs. Peter. + +“Sorry. I put it down by the claret-jug,” said Wilfrid, busy with +another object. + +“Oh, just let me have the sugar-sifter again,” asked Mrs. Peter, dogged +determination showing through her nervousness; “I must label it who it +comes from before I forget.” + +Vigilance was not completely crowned with a sense of victory. After they +had said “Good-night” to their visitor, Mrs. Peter expressed her +conviction that he had taken something. + +“I fancy, by his manner, that there was something up,” corroborated her +husband; “do you miss anything?” + +Mrs. Peters hastily counted the array of gifts. + +“I can only make it thirty-four, and I think it should be thirty-five,” +she announced; “I can’t remember if thirty-five includes the Archdeacon’s +cruet-stand that hasn’t arrived yet.” + +“How on earth are we to know?” said Peter. “The mean pig hasn’t brought +us a present, and I’m hanged if he shall carry one off.” + +“To-morrow, when he’s having his bath,” said Mrs. Peter excitedly, “he’s +sure to leave his keys somewhere, and we can go through his portmanteau. +It’s the only thing to do.” + +On the morrow an alert watch was kept by the conspirators behind +half-closed doors, and when Wilfrid, clad in a gorgeous bath-robe, had +made his way to the bath-room, there was a swift and furtive rush by two +excited individuals towards the principal guest-chamber. Mrs. Peter kept +guard outside, while her husband first made a hurried and successful +search for the keys, and then plunged at the portmanteau with the air of +a disagreeably conscientious Customs official. The quest was a brief +one; a silver cream jug lay embedded in the folds of some zephyr shirts. + +“The cunning brute,” said Mrs. Peters; “he took a cream jug because there +were so many; he thought one wouldn’t be missed. Quick, fly down with it +and put it back among the others.” + +Wilfrid was late in coming down to breakfast, and his manner showed +plainly that something was amiss. + +“It’s an unpleasant thing to have to say,” he blurted out presently, “but +I’m afraid you must have a thief among your servants. Something’s been +taken out of my portmanteau. It was a little present from my mother and +myself for your silver wedding. I should have given it to you last night +after dinner, only it happened to be a cream jug, and you seemed annoyed +at having so many duplicates, so I felt rather awkward about giving you +another. I thought I’d get it changed for something else, and now it’s +gone.” + +“Did you say it was from your _mother_ and yourself?” asked Mr. and Mrs. +Peter almost in unison. The Snatcher had been an orphan these many +years. + +“Yes, my mother’s at Cairo just now, and she wrote to me at Dresden to +try and get you something quaint and pretty in the old silver line, and I +pitched on this cream jug.” + +Both the Pigeoncotes had turned deadly pale. The mention of Dresden had +thrown a sudden light on the situation. It was Wilfrid the Attache, a +very superior young man, who rarely came within their social horizon, +whom they had been entertaining unawares in the supposed character of +Wilfrid the Snatcher. Lady Ernestine Pigeoncote, his mother, moved in +circles which were entirely beyond their compass or ambitions, and the +son would probably one day be an Ambassador. And they had rifled and +despoiled his portmanteau! Husband and wife looked blankly and +desperately at one another. It was Mrs. Peter who arrived first at an +inspiration. + +“How dreadful to think there are thieves in the house! We keep the +drawing-room locked up at night, of course, but anything might be carried +off while we are at breakfast.” + +She rose and went out hurriedly, as though to assure herself that the +drawing-room was not being stripped of its silverware, and returned a +moment later, bearing a cream jug in her hands. + +“There are eight cream jugs now, instead of seven,” she cried; “this one +wasn’t there before. What a curious trick of memory, Mr. Wilfrid! You +must have slipped downstairs with it last night and put it there before +we locked up, and forgotten all about having done it in the morning.” + +“One’s mind often plays one little tricks like that,” said Mr. Peter, +with desperate heartiness. “Only the other day I went into the town to +pay a bill, and went in again next day, having clean forgotten that I’d—” + +“It is certainly the jug I bought for you,” said Wilfrid, looking closely +at it; “it was in my portmanteau when I got my bath-robe out this +morning, before going to my bath, and it was not there when I unlocked +the portmanteau on my return. Some one had taken it while I was away +from the room.” + +The Pigeoncotes had turned paler than ever. Mrs. Peter had a final +inspiration. + +“Get me my smelling-salts, dear,” she said to her husband; “I think +they’re in the dressing-room.” + +Peter dashed out of the room with glad relief; he had lived so long +during the last few minutes that a golden wedding seemed within +measurable distance. + +Mrs. Peter turned to her guest with confidential coyness. + +“A diplomat like you will know how to treat this as if it hadn’t +happened. Peter’s little weakness; it runs in the family.” + +“Good Lord! Do you mean to say he’s a kleptomaniac, like Cousin +Snatcher?” + +“Oh, not exactly,” said Mrs. Peter, anxious to whitewash her husband a +little greyer than she was painting him. “He would never touch anything +he found lying about, but he can’t resist making a raid on things that +are locked up. The doctors have a special name for it. He must have +pounced on your portmanteau the moment you went to your bath, and taken +the first thing he came across. Of course, he had no motive for taking a +cream jug; we’ve already got _seven_, as you know—not, of course, that we +don’t value the kind of gift you and your mother—hush here’s Peter +coming.” + +Mrs. Peter broke off in some confusion, and tripped out to meet her +husband in the hall. + +“It’s all right,” she whispered to him; “I’ve explained everything. +Don’t say anything more about it.” + +“Brave little woman,” said Peter, with a gasp of relief; “I could never +have done it.” + + * * * * * + +Diplomatic reticence does not necessarily extend to family affairs. +Peter Pigeoncote was never able to understand why Mrs. Consuelo van +Bullyon, who stayed with them in the spring, always carried two very +obvious jewel-cases with her to the bath-room, explaining them to any one +she chanced to meet in the corridor as her manicure and face-massage set. + + + + +THE OCCASIONAL GARDEN + + +“Don’t talk to me about town gardens,” said Elinor Rapsley; “which means, +of course, that I want you to listen to me for an hour or so while I talk +about nothing else. ‘What a nice-sized garden you’ve got,’ people said +to us when we first moved here. What I suppose they meant to say was +what a nice-sized site for a garden we’d got. As a matter of fact, the +size is all against it; it’s too large to be ignored altogether and +treated as a yard, and it’s too small to keep giraffes in. You see, if +we could keep giraffes or reindeer or some other species of browsing +animal there we could explain the general absence of vegetation by a +reference to the fauna of the garden: ‘You can’t have wapiti _and_ Darwin +tulips, you know, so we didn’t put down any bulbs last year.’ As it is, +we haven’t got the wapiti, and the Darwin tulips haven’t survived the +fact that most of the cats of the neighbourhood hold a parliament in the +centre of the tulip bed; that rather forlorn looking strip that we +intended to be a border of alternating geranium and spiræa has been +utilised by the cat-parliament as a division lobby. Snap divisions seem +to have been rather frequent of late, far more frequent than the geranium +blooms are likely to be. I shouldn’t object so much to ordinary cats, +but I do complain of having a congress of vegetarian cats in my garden; +they must be vegetarians, my dear, because, whatever ravages they may +commit among the sweet pea seedlings, they never seem to touch the +sparrows; there are always just as many adult sparrows in the garden on +Saturday as there were on Monday, not to mention newly-fledged additions. +There seems to have been an irreconcilable difference of opinion between +sparrows and Providence since the beginning of time as to whether a +crocus looks best standing upright with its roots in the earth or in a +recumbent posture with its stem neatly severed; the sparrows always have +the last word in the matter, at least in our garden they do. I fancy +that Providence must have originally intended to bring in an amending +Act, or whatever it’s called, providing either for a less destructive +sparrow or a more indestructible crocus. The one consoling point about +our garden is that it’s not visible from the drawing-room or the +smoking-room, so unless people are dinning or lunching with us they can’t +spy out the nakedness of the land. That is why I am so furious with +Gwenda Pottingdon, who has practically forced herself on me for lunch on +Wednesday next; she heard me offer the Paulcote girl lunch if she was up +shopping on that day, and, of course, she asked if she might come too. +She is only coming to gloat over my bedraggled and flowerless borders and +to sing the praises of her own detestably over-cultivated garden. I’m +sick of being told that it’s the envy of the neighbourhood; it’s like +everything else that belongs to her—her car, her dinner-parties, even her +headaches, they are all superlative; no one else ever had anything like +them. When her eldest child was confirmed it was such a sensational +event, according to her account of it, that one almost expected questions +to be asked about it in the House of Commons, and now she’s coming on +purpose to stare at my few miserable pansies and the gaps in my sweet-pea +border, and to give me a glowing, full-length description of the rare and +sumptuous blooms in her rose-garden.” + +“My dear Elinor,” said the Baroness, “you would save yourself all this +heart-burning and a lot of gardener’s bills, not to mention sparrow +anxieties, simply by paying an annual subscription to the O.O.S.A.” + +“Never heard of it,” said Elinor; “what is it?” + +“The Occasional-Oasis Supply Association,” said the Baroness; “it exists +to meet cases exactly like yours, cases of backyards that are of no +practical use for gardening purposes, but are required to blossom into +decorative scenic backgrounds at stated intervals, when a luncheon or +dinner-party is contemplated. Supposing, for instance, you have people +coming to lunch at one-thirty; you just ring up the Association at about +ten o’clock the same morning, and say ‘lunch garden’. That is all the +trouble you have to take. By twelve forty-five your yard is carpeted +with a strip of velvety turf, with a hedge of lilac or red may, or +whatever happens to be in season, as a background, one or two cherry +trees in blossom, and clumps of heavily-flowered rhododendrons filling in +the odd corners; in the foreground you have a blaze of carnations or +Shirley poppies, or tiger lilies in full bloom. As soon as the lunch is +over and your guests have departed the garden departs also, and all the +cats in Christendom can sit in council in your yard without causing you a +moment’s anxiety. If you have a bishop or an antiquary or something of +that sort coming to lunch you just mention the fact when you are ordering +the garden, and you get an old-world pleasaunce, with clipped yew hedges +and a sun-dial and hollyhocks, and perhaps a mulberry tree, and borders +of sweet-williams and Canterbury bells, and an old-fashioned beehive or +two tucked away in a corner. Those are the ordinary lines of supply that +the Oasis Association undertakes, but by paying a few guineas a year +extra you are entitled to its emergency E.O.N. service.” + +“What on earth is an E.O.N. service?” + +“It’s just a conventional signal to indicate special cases like the +incursion of Gwenda Pottingdon. It means you’ve got some one coming to +lunch or dinner whose garden is alleged to be ‘the envy of the +neighbourhood.’” + +“Yes,” exclaimed Elinor, with some excitement, “and what happens then?” + +“Something that sounds like a miracle out of the Arabian Nights. Your +backyard becomes voluptuous with pomegranate and almond trees, lemon +groves, and hedges of flowering cactus, dazzling banks of azaleas, +marble-basined fountains, in which chestnut-and-white pond-herons step +daintily amid exotic water-lilies, while golden pheasants strut about on +alabaster terraces. The whole effect rather suggests the idea that +Providence and Norman Wilkinson have dropped mutual jealousies and +collaborated to produce a background for an open-air Russian Ballet; in +point of fact, it is merely the background to your luncheon party. If +there is any kick left in Gwenda Pottingdon, or whoever your E.O.N. guest +of the moment may be, just mention carelessly that your climbing putella +is the only one in England, since the one at Chatsworth died last winter. +There isn’t such a thing as a climbing putella, but Gwenda Pottingdon and +her kind don’t usually know one flower from another without prompting.” + +“Quick,” said Elinor, “the address of the Association.” + +Gwenda Pottingdon did not enjoy her lunch. It was a simple yet elegant +meal, excellently cooked and daintily served, but the piquant sauce of +her own conversation was notably lacking. She had prepared a long +succession of eulogistic comments on the wonders of her town garden, with +its unrivalled effects of horticultural magnificence, and, behold, her +theme was shut in on every side by the luxuriant hedge of Siberian +berberis that formed a glowing background to Elinor’s bewildering +fragment of fairyland. The pomegranate and lemon trees, the terraced +fountain, where golden carp slithered and wriggled amid the roots of +gorgeous-hued irises, the banked masses of exotic blooms, the pagoda-like +enclosure, where Japanese sand-badgers disported themselves, all these +contributed to take away Gwenda’s appetite and moderate her desire to +talk about gardening matters. + +“I can’t say I admire the climbing putella,” she observed shortly, “and +anyway it’s not the only one of its kind in England; I happen to know of +one in Hampshire. How gardening is going out of fashion; I suppose +people haven’t the time for it nowadays.” + +Altogether it was quite one of Elinor’s most successful luncheon parties. + +It was distinctly an unforeseen catastrophe that Gwenda should have burst +in on the household four days later at lunch-time and made her way +unbidden into the dining-room. + +“I thought I must tell you that my Elaine has had a water-colour sketch +accepted by the Latent Talent Art Guild; it’s to be exhibited at their +summer exhibition at the Hackney Gallery. It will be the sensation of +the moment in the art world—Hullo, what on earth has happened to your +garden? It’s not there!” + +“Suffragettes,” said Elinor promptly; “didn’t you hear about it? They +broke in and made hay of the whole thing in about ten minutes. I was so +heart-broken at the havoc that I had the whole place cleared out; I shall +have it laid out again on rather more elaborate lines.” + +“That,” she said to the Baroness afterwards “is what I call having an +emergency brain.” + + + + +THE SHEEP + + +The enemy had declared “no trumps.” Rupert played out his ace and king +of clubs and cleared the adversary of that suit; then the Sheep, whom the +Fates had inflicted on him for a partner, took the third round with the +queen of clubs, and, having no other club to lead back, opened another +suit. The enemy won the remainder of the tricks—and the rubber. + +“I had four more clubs to play; we only wanted the odd trick to win the +rubber,” said Rupert. + +“But I hadn’t another club to lead you,” exclaimed the Sheep, with his +ready, defensive smile. + +“It didn’t occur to you to throw your queen away on my king and leave me +with the command of the suit,” said Rupert, with polite bitterness. + +“I suppose I ought to have—I wasn’t certain what to do. I’m awfully +sorry,” said the Sheep. + +Being awfully and uselessly sorry formed a large part of his occupation +in life. If a similar situation had arisen in a subsequent hand he would +have blundered just as certainly, and he would have been just as +irritatingly apologetic. + +Rupert stared gloomily across at him as he sat smiling and fumbling with +his cards. Many men who have good brains for business do not possess the +rudiments of a card-brain, and Rupert would not have judged and condemned +his prospective brother-in-law on the evidence of his bridge play alone. +The tragic part of it was that he smiled and fumbled through life just as +fatuously and apologetically as he did at the card-table. And behind the +defensive smile and the well-worn expressions of regret there shone a +scarcely believable but quite obvious self-satisfaction. Every sheep of +the pasture probably imagines that in an emergency it could become +terrible as an army with banners—one has only to watch how they stamp +their feet and stiffen their necks when a minor object of suspicion comes +into view and behaves meekly. And probably the majority of human sheep +see themselves in imagination taking great parts in the world’s more +impressive dramas, forming swift, unerring decisions in moments of +crisis, cowing mutinies, allaying panics, brave, strong, simple, but, in +spite of their natural modesty, always slightly spectacular. + +“Why in the name of all that is unnecessary and perverse should Kathleen +choose this man for her future husband?” was the question that Rupert +asked himself ruefully. There was young Malcolm Athling, as +nice-looking, decent, level-headed a fellow as any one could wish to +meet, obviously her very devoted admirer, and yet she must throw herself +away on this pale-eyed, weak-mouthed embodiment of self-approving +ineptitude. If it had been merely Kathleen’s own affair Rupert would +have shrugged his shoulders and philosophically hoped that she might make +the best of an undeniably bad bargain. But Rupert had no heir; his own +boy lay underground somewhere on the Indian frontier, in goodly company. +And the property would pass in due course to Kathleen and Kathleen’s +husband. The Sheep would live there in the beloved old home, rearing up +other little Sheep, fatuous and rabbit-faced and self-satisfied like +himself, to dwell in the land and possess it. It was not a soothing +prospect. + +Towards dusk on the afternoon following the bridge experience Rupert and +the Sheep made their way homeward after a day’s mixed shooting. The +Sheep’s cartridge bag was nearly empty, but his game bag showed no signs +of over-crowding. The birds he had shot at had seemed for the most part +as impervious to death or damage as the hero of a melodrama. And for +each failure to drop his bird he had some explanation or apology ready on +his lips. Now he was striding along in front of his host, chattering +happily over his shoulder, but obviously on the look-out for some belated +rabbit or woodpigeon that might haply be secured as an eleventh-hour +addition to his bag. As they passed the edge of a small copse a large +bird rose from the ground and flew slowly towards the trees, offering an +easy shot to the oncoming sportsmen. The Sheep banged forth with both +barrels, and gave an exultant cry. + +“Horray! I’ve shot a thundering big hawk!” + +“To be exact, you’ve shot a honey-buzzard. That is the hen bird of one +of the few pairs of honey-buzzards breeding in the United Kingdom. We’ve +kept them under the strictest preservation for the last four years; every +game-keeper and village gun loafer for twenty miles round has been warned +and bribed and threatened to respect their sanctity, and egg-snatching +agents have been carefully guarded against during the breeding season. +Hundreds of lovers of rare birds have delighted in seeing their +snap-shotted portraits in _Country Life_, and now you’ve reduced the hen +bird to a lump of broken feathers.” + +Rupert spoke quietly and evenly, but for a moment or two a gleam of +positive hatred shone in his eyes. + +“I say, I’m so sorry,” said the Sheep, with his apologetic smile. “Of +course I remember hearing about the buzzards, but somehow I didn’t +connect this bird with them. And it was such an east shot—” + +“Yes,” said Rupert; “that was the trouble.” + +Kathleen found him in the gun-room smoothing out the feathers of the dead +bird. She had already been told of the catastrophe. + +“What a horrid misfortune,” she said sympathetically. + +“It was my dear Robbie who first discovered them, the last time he was +home on leave. Don’t you remember how excited he was about them? Let’s +go and have some tea.” + +Both bridge and shooting were given a rest for the next two or three +weeks. Death, who enters into no compacts with party whips, had forced a +Parliamentary vacancy on the neighbourhood at the least convenient +season, and the local partisans on either side found themselves immersed +in the discomforts of a mid-winter election. Rupert took his politics +seriously and keenly. He belonged to that type of strangely but rather +happily constituted individuals which these islands seem to produce in a +fair plenty; men and women who for no personal profit or gain go forth +from their comfortable firesides or club card-rooms to hunt to and fro in +the mud and rain and wind for the capture or tracking of a stray vote +here and there on their party’s behalf—not because they think they ought +to, but because they want to. And his energies were welcome enough on +this occasion, for the seat was a closely disputed possession, and its +loss or retention would count for much in the present position of the +Parliamentary game. With Kathleen to help him, he had worked his corner +of the constituency with tireless, well-directed zeal, taking his share +of the dull routine work as well as of the livelier episodes. The +talking part of the campaign wound up on the eve of the poll with a +meeting in a centre where more undecided votes were supposed to be +concentrated than anywhere else in the division. A good final meeting +here would mean everything. And the speakers, local and imported, left +nothing undone to improve the occasion. Rupert was down for the +unimportant task of moving the complimentary vote to the chairman which +should close the proceedings. + +“I’m so hoarse,” he protested, when the moment arrived; “I don’t believe +I can make my voice heard beyond the platform.” + +“Let me do it,” said the Sheep; “I’m rather good at that sort of thing.” + +The chairman was popular with all parties, and the Sheep’s opening words +of complimentary recognition received a round of applause. The orator +smiled expansively on his listeners and seized the opportunity to add a +few words of political wisdom on his own account. People looked at the +clock or began to grope for umbrellas and discarded neckwraps. Then, in +the midst of a string of meaningless platitudes, the Sheep delivered +himself of one of those blundering remarks which travel from one end of a +constituency to the other in half an hour, and are seized on by the other +side as being more potent on their behalf than a ton of election +literature. There was a general shuffling and muttering across the +length and breadth of the hall, and a few hisses made themselves heard. +The Sheep tried to whittle down his remark, and the chairman +unhesitatingly threw him over in his speech of thanks, but the damage was +done. + +“I’m afraid I lost touch with the audience rather over that remark,” said +the Sheep afterwards, with his apologetic smile abnormally developed. + +“You lost us the election,” said the chairman, and he proved a true +prophet. + +A month or so of winter sport seemed a desirable pick-me-up after the +strenuous work and crowning discomfiture of the election. Rupert and +Kathleen hied them away to a small Alpine resort that was just coming +into prominence, and thither the Sheep followed them in due course, in +his role of husband-elect. The wedding had been fixed for the end of +March. + +It was a winter of early and unseasonable thaws, and the far end of the +local lake, at a spot where swift currents flowed into it, was decorated +with notices, written in three languages, warning skaters not to venture +over certain unsafe patches. The folly of approaching too near these +danger spots seemed to have a natural fascination for the Sheep. + +“I don’t see what possible danger there can be,” he protested, with his +inevitable smile, when Rupert beckoned him away from the proscribed area; +“the milk that I put out on my window-sill last night was frozen an inch +deep.” + +“It hadn’t got a strong current flowing through it,” said Rupert; “in any +case, there is not much sense in hovering round a doubtful piece of ice +when there are acres of good ice to skate over. The secretary of the +ice-committee has warned you once already.” + +A few minutes later Rupert heard a loud squeal of fear, and saw a dark +spot blotting the smoothness of the lake’s frozen surface. The Sheep was +struggling helplessly in an ice-hole of his own making. Rupert gave one +loud curse, and then dashed full tilt for the shore; outside a low stable +building on the lake’s edge he remembered having seen a ladder. If he +could slide it across the ice-hole before the Sheep went under the rescue +would be comparatively simple work. Other skaters were dashing up from a +distance, and, with the ladder’s help, they could get him out of his +death-trap without having to trust themselves on the margin of rotten +ice. Rupert sprang on to the surface of lumpy, frozen snow, and +staggered to where the ladder lay. He had already lifted it when the +rattle of a chain and a furious outburst of growls burst on his hearing, +and he was dashed to the ground by a mass of white and tawny fur. A +sturdy young yard-dog, frantic with the pleasure of performing his first +piece of active guardian service, was ramping and snarling over him, +rendering the task of regaining his feet or securing the ladder a matter +of considerable difficulty. When he had at last succeeded in both +efforts he was just by a hair’s-breadth too late to be of any use. The +Sheep had definitely disappeared under the ice-rift. + +Kathleen Athling and her husband stay the greater part of the year with +Rupert, and a small Robbie stands in some danger of being idolised by a +devoted uncle. But for twelve months of the year Rupert’s most +inseparable and valued companion is a sturdy tawny and white yard-dog. + + + + +THE OVERSIGHT + + +“It’s like a Chinese puzzle,” said Lady Prowche resentfully, staring at a +scribbled list of names that spread over two or three loose sheets of +notepaper on her writing-table. Most of the names had a pencil mark +running through them. + +“What is like a Chinese puzzle?” asked Lena Luddleford briskly; she +rather prided herself on being able to grapple with the minor problems of +life. + +“Getting people suitably sorted together. Sir Richard likes me to have a +house party about this time of year, and gives me a free hand as to whom +I should invite; all he asks is that it should be a peaceable party, with +no friction or unpleasantness.” + +“That seems reasonable enough,” said Lena. + +“Not only reasonable, my dear, but necessary. Sir Richard has his +literary work to think of; you can’t expect a man to concentrate on the +tribal disputes of Central Asian clansmen when he’s got social feuds +blazing under his own roof.” + +“But why should they blaze? Why should there be feuds at all within the +compass of a house party?” + +“Exactly; why should they blaze or why should they exist?” echoed Lady +Prowche; “the point is that they always do. We have been unlucky; +persistently unlucky, now that I come to look back on things. We have +always got people of violently opposed views under one roof, and the +result has been not merely unpleasantness but explosion.” + +“Do you mean people who disagree on matters of political opinion and +religious views?” asked Lena. + +“No, not that. The broader lines of political or religious difference +don’t matter. You can have Church of England and Unitarian and Buddhist +under the same roof without courting disaster; the only Buddhist I ever +had down here quarrelled with everybody, but that was on account of his +naturally squabblesome temperament; it had nothing to do with his +religion. And I’ve always found that people can differ profoundly about +politics and meet on perfectly good terms at breakfast. Now, Miss Larbor +Jones, who was staying here last year, worships Lloyd George as a sort of +wingless angel, while Mrs. Walters, who was down here at the same time, +privately considers him to be—an antelope, let us say.” + +“An antelope?” + +“Well, not an antelope exactly, but something with horns and hoofs and +tail.” + +“Oh, I see.” + +“Still, that didn’t prevent them from being the chummiest of mortals on +the tennis court and in the billiard-room. They did quarrel finally, +about a lead in a doubled hand of no-trumps, but that of course is a +thing that no account of judicious guest-grouping could prevent. Mrs. +Walters had got king, knave, ten, and seven of clubs—” + +“You were saying that there were other lines of demarcation that caused +the bother,” interrupted Lena. + +“Exactly. It is the minor differences and side-issues that give so much +trouble,” said Lady Prowche; “not to my dying day shall I forget last +year’s upheaval over the Suffragette question. Laura Henniseed left the +house in a state of speechless indignation, but before she had reached +that state she had used language that would not have been tolerated in +the Austrian Reichsrath. Intensive bear-gardening was Sir Richard’s +description of the whole affair, and I don’t think he exaggerated.” + +“Of course the Suffragette question is a burning one, and lets loose the +most dreadful ill-feeling,” said Lena; “but one can generally find out +beforehand what people’s opinions—” + +“My dear, the year before it was worse. It was Christian Science. +Selina Goobie is a sort of High Priestess of the Cult, and she put down +all opposition with a high hand. Then one evening, after dinner, Clovis +Sangrail put a wasp down her back, to see if her theory about the +non-existence of pain could be depended on in an emergency. The wasp was +small, but very efficient, and it had been soured in temper by being kept +in a paper cage all the afternoon. Wasps don’t stand confinement well, +at least this one didn’t. I don’t think I ever realised till that moment +what the word ‘invective’ could be made to mean. I sometimes wake in the +night and think I still hear Selina describing Clovis’s conduct and +general character. That was the year that Sir Richard was writing his +volume on ‘Domestic Life in Tartary.’ The critics all blamed it for a +lack of concentration.” + +“He’s engaged on a very important work this year, isn’t he?” asked Lena. + +“‘Land-tenure in Turkestan,’” said Lady Prowche; “he is just at work on +the final chapters and they require all the concentration he can give +them. That is why I am so very anxious not to have any unfortunate +disturbance this year. I have taken every precaution I can think of to +bring non-conflicting and harmonious elements together; the only two +people I am not quite easy about are the Atkinson man and Marcus Popham. +They are the two who will be down here longest together, and if they are +going to fall foul of one another about any burning question, well, there +will be more unpleasantness.” + +“Can’t you find out anything about them? About their opinions, I mean.” + +“Anything? My dear Lena, there’s scarcely anything that I haven’t found +out about them. They’re both of them moderate Liberal, Evangelical, +mildly opposed to female suffrage, they approve of the Falconer Report, +and the Stewards’ decision about Craganour. Thank goodness in this +country we don’t fly into violent passions about Wagner and Brahms and +things of that sort. There is only one thorny subject that I haven’t +been able to make sure about, the only stone that I have left unturned. +Are they unanimously anti-vivisectionist or do they both uphold the +necessity for scientific experiment? There has been a lot of +correspondence on the subject in our local newspapers of late, and the +vicar is certain to preach a sermon about it; vicars are dreadfully +provocative at times. Now, if you could only find out for me whether +these two men are divergently for or against—” + +“I!” exclaimed Lena; “how am I to find out? I don’t know either of them +to speak to.” + +“Still you might discover, in some roundabout way. Write to them, under +as assumed name of course, for subscriptions to one or other cause—or, +better still, send a stamped type-written reply postcard, with a request +for a declaration for or against vivisection; people who would hesitate +to commit themselves to a subscription will cheerfully write Yes or No on +a prepaid postcard. If you can’t manage it that way, try and meet them +at some one’s house and get into argument on the subject. I think Milly +occasionally has one or other of them at her at-homes; you might have the +luck to meet both of them there the same evening. Only it must be done +soon. My invitations ought to go out by Wednesday or Thursday at the +latest, and to-day is Friday. + +“Milly’s at-homes are not very amusing, as a rule,” said Lena, “and one +never gets a chance of talking uninterruptedly to any one for a couple of +minutes at a time; Milly is one of those restless hostesses who always +seem to be trying to see how you look in different parts of the room, in +fresh grouping effects. Even if I got to speak to Popham or Atkinson I +couldn’t plunge into a topic like vivisection straight away. No, I think +the postcard scheme would be more hopeful and decidedly less tiresome. +How would it be best to word them?” + +“Oh, something like this: ‘Are you in favour of experiments on living +animals for the purpose of scientific research—Yes or No?’ That is quite +simple and unmistakable. If they don’t answer it will at least be an +indication that they are indifferent about the subject, and that is all I +want to know.” + +“All right,” said Lena, “I’ll get my brother-in-law to let me have them +addressed to his office, and he can telephone the result of the +plebiscite direct to you.” + +“Thank you ever so much,” said Lady Prowche gratefully, “and be sure to +get the cards sent off as soon as possible.” + +On the following Tuesday the voice of an office clerk, speaking through +the telephone, informed Lady Prowche that the postcard poll showed +unanimous hostility to experiments on living animals. + +Lady Prowche thanked the office clerk, and in a louder and more fervent +voice she thanked Heaven. The two invitations, already sealed and +addressed, were immediately dispatched; in due course they were both +accepted. The house party of the halcyon hours, as the prospective +hostess called it, was auspiciously launched. + +Lena Luddleford was not included among the guests, having previously +committed herself to another invitation. At the opening day of a cricket +festival, however, she ran across Lady Prowche, who had motored over from +the other side of the county. She wore the air of one who is not +interested in cricket and not particularly interested in life. She shook +hands limply with Lena, and remarked that it was a beastly day. + +“The party, how has it gone off?” asked Lena quickly. + +“Don’t speak of it!” was the tragical answer; “why do I always have such +rotten luck?” + +“But what has happened?” + +“It has been awful. Hyænas could not have behaved with greater savagery. +Sir Richard said so, and he has been in countries where hyænas live, so +he ought to know. They actually came to blows!” + +“Blows?” + +“Blows and curses. It really might have been a scene from one of +Hogarth’s pictures. I never felt so humiliated in my life. What the +servants must have thought!” + +“But who were the offenders?” + +“Oh, naturally the very two that we took all the trouble about.” + +“I thought they agreed on every subject that one could violently disagree +about—religion, politics, vivisection, the Derby decision, the Falconer +Report; what else was there left to quarrel about?” + +“My dear, we were fools not to have thought of it. One of them was +Pro-Greek and the other Pro-Bulgar.” + + + + +HYACINTH + + +“The new fashion of introducing the candidate’s children into an election +contest is a pretty one,” said Mrs. Panstreppon; “it takes away something +from the acerbity of party warfare, and it makes an interesting +experience for children to look back on in after years. Still, if you +will listen to my advice, Matilda, you will not take Hyacinth with you +down to Luffbridge on election day.” + +“Not take Hyacinth!” exclaimed his mother; “but why not? Jutterly is +bringing his three children, and they are going to drive a pair of Nubian +donkeys about the town, to emphasise the fact that their father has been +appointed Colonial Secretary. We are making the demand for a strong Navy +a special feature in _our_ campaign, and it will be particularly +appropriate to have Hyacinth dressed in his sailor suit. He’ll look +heavenly.” + +“The question is, not how he’ll look, but how he’ll behave. He’s a +delightful child, of course, but there is a strain of unbridled pugnacity +in him that breaks out at times in a really alarming fashion. You may +have forgotten the affair of the little Gaffin children; I haven’t.” + +“I was in India at the time, and I’ve only a vague recollection of what +happened; he was very naughty, I know.” + +“He was in his goat-carriage, and met the Gaffins in their perambulator, +and he drove the goat full tilt at them and sent the perambulator +spinning. Little Jacky Gaffin was pinned down under the wreckage, and +while the nurse had her hands full with the goat Hyacinth was laying into +Jacky’s legs with his belt like a small fury.” + +“I’m not defending him,” said Matilda, “but they must have done something +to annoy him.” + +“Nothing intentionally, but some one had unfortunately told him that they +were half French—their mother was a Duboc, you know—and he had been +having a history lesson that morning, and had just heard of the final +loss of Calais by the English, and was furious about it. He said he’d +teach the little toads to go snatching towns from us, but we didn’t know +at the time that he was referring to the Gaffins. I told him afterwards +that all bad feeling between the two nations had died out long ago, and +that anyhow the Gaffins were only half French, and he said that it was +only the French half of Jacky that he had been hitting; the rest had been +buried under the perambulator. If the loss of Calais unloosed such fury +in him, I tremble to think what the possible loss of the election might +entail.” + +“All that happened when he was eight; he’s older now and knows better.” + +“Children with Hyacinth’s temperament don’t know better as they grow +older; they merely know more.” + +“Nonsense. He will enjoy the fun of the election, and in any case he’ll +be tired out by the time the poll is declared, and the new sailor suit +that I’ve had made for him is just in the right shade of blue for our +election colours, and it will exactly match the blue of his eyes. He +will be a perfectly charming note of colour.” + +“There is such a thing as letting one’s æsthetic sense override one’s +moral sense,” said Mrs. Panstreppon. “I believe you would have condoned +the South Sea Bubble and the persecution of the Albigenses if they had +been carried out in effective colour schemes. However, if anything +unfortunate should happen down at Luffbridge, don’t say it wasn’t +foreseen by one member of the family.” + +The election was keenly but decorously contested. The newly-appointed +Colonial Secretary was personally popular, while the Government to which +he adhered was distinctly unpopular, and there was some expectancy that +the majority of four hundred, obtained at the last election, would be +altogether wiped out. Both sides were hopeful, but neither could feel +confident. The children were a great success; the little Jutterlys drove +their chubby donkeys solemnly up and down the main streets, displaying +posters which advocated the claims of their father on the broad general +grounds that he was their father, while as for Hyacinth, his conduct +might have served as a model for any seraph-child that had strayed +unwittingly on to the scene of an electoral contest. Of his own accord, +and under the delighted eyes of half a dozen camera operators, he had +gone up to the Jutterly children and presented them with a packet of +butterscotch; “we needn’t be enemies because we’re wearing the opposite +colours,” he said with engaging friendliness, and the occupants of the +donkey-cart accepted his offering with polite solemnity. The grown-up +members of both political camps were delighted at the incident—with the +exception of Mrs. Panstreppon, who shuddered. + +“Never was Clytemnestra’s kiss sweeter than on the night she slew me,” +she quoted, but made the quotation to herself. + +The last hour of the poll was a period of unremitting labour for both +parties; it was generally estimated that not more than a dozen votes +separated the candidates, and every effort was made to bring up +obstinately wavering electors. It was with a feeling of relaxation and +relief that every one heard the clocks strike the hour for the close of +the poll. Exclamations broke out from the tired workers, and corks flew +out from bottles. + +“Well, if we haven’t won; we’ve done our level best.” “It has been a +clean straight fight, with no rancour.” “The children were quite a +charming feature, weren’t they?” + +The children? It suddenly occurred to everybody that they had seen +nothing of the children for the last hour. What had become of the three +little Jutterlys and their donkey-cart, and, for the matter of that, what +had become of Hyacinth. Hurried, anxious embassies went backwards and +forwards between the respective party headquarters and the various +committee-rooms, but there was blank ignorance everywhere as to the +whereabouts of the children. Every one had been too busy in the closing +moments of the poll to bestow a thought on them. Then there came a +telephone call at the Unionist Women’s Committee-rooms, and the voice of +Hyacinth was heard demanding when the poll would be declared. + +“Where are you, and where are the Jutterly children?” asked his mother. + +“I’ve just finished having high-tea at a pastry-cook’s,” came the answer, +“and they let me telephone. I’ve had a poached egg and a sausage roll +and four meringues.” + +“You’ll be ill. Are the little Jutterlys with you?” + +“Rather not. They’re in a pigstye.” + +“A pigstye? Why? What pigstye?” + +“Near the Crawleigh Road. I met them driving about a back road, and told +them they were to have tea with me, and put their donkeys in a yard that +I knew of. Then I took them to see an old sow that had got ten little +pigs. I got the sow into the outer stye by giving her bits of bread, +while the Jutterlys went in to look at the litter, then I bolted the door +and left them there.” + +“You wicked boy, do you mean to say you’ve left those poor children there +alone in the pigstye?” + +“They’re not alone, they’ve got ten little pigs in with them; they’re +jolly well crowded. They were pretty mad at being shut in, but not half +as mad as the old sow is at being shut out from her young ones. If she +gets in while they’re there she’ll bite them into mincemeat. I can get +them out by letting a short ladder down through the top window, and +that’s what I’m going to do _if we win_. If their blighted father gets +in, I’m just going to open the door for the sow, and let her do what she +dashed well likes to them. That’s why I want to know when the poll will +be declared.” + +Here the narrator rang off. A wild stampede and a frantic sending-off of +messengers took place at the other end of the telephone. Nearly all the +workers on either side had disappeared to their various club-rooms and +public-house bars to await the declaration of the poll, but enough local +information could be secured to determine the scene of Hyacinth’s +exploit. Mr. John Ball had a stable yard down near the Crawleigh Road, +up a short lane, and his sow was known to have a litter of ten young +ones. Thither went in headlong haste both the candidates, Hyacinth’s +mother, his aunt (Mrs. Panstreppon), and two or three hurriedly-summoned +friends. The two Nubian donkeys, contentedly munching at bundles of hay, +met their gaze as they entered the yard. The hoarse savage grunting of +an enraged animal and the shriller note of thirteen young voices, three +of them human, guided them to the stye, in the outer yard of which a huge +Yorkshire sow kept up a ceaseless raging patrol before a closed door. +Reclining on the broad ledge of an open window, from which point of +vantage he could reach down and shoot the bolt of the door, was Hyacinth, +his blue sailor-suit somewhat the worse of wear, and his angel smile +exchanged for a look of demoniacal determination. + +“If any of you come a step nearer,” he shouted, “the sow will be inside +in half a jiffy.” + +A storm of threatening, arguing, entreating expostulation broke from the +baffled rescue party, but it made no more impression on Hyacinth than the +squealing tempest that raged within the stye. + +“If Jutterly heads the poll I’m going to let the sow in. I’ll teach the +blighters to win elections from us.” + +“He means it,” said Mrs. Panstreppon; “I feared the worst when I saw that +butterscotch incident.” + +“It’s all right, my little man,” said Jutterly, with the duplicity to +which even a Colonial Secretary can sometimes stoop, “your father has +been elected by a large majority.” + +“Liar!” retorted Hyacinth, with the directness of speech that is not +merely excusable, but almost obligatory, in the political profession; +“the votes aren’t counted yet. You won’t gammon me as to the result, +either. A boy that I’ve palled with is going to fire a gun when the poll +is declared; two shots if we’ve won, one shot if we haven’t.” + +The situation began to look critical. “Drug the sow,” whispered +Hyacinth’s father. + +Some one went off in the motor to the nearest chemist’s shop and returned +presently with two large pieces of bread, liberally dosed with narcotic. +The bread was thrown deftly and unostentatiously into the stye, but +Hyacinth saw through the manœuvre. He set up a piercing imitation of a +small pig in Purgatory, and the infuriated mother ramped round and round +the stye; the pieces of bread were trampled into slush. + +At any moment now the poll might be declared. Jutterly flew back to the +Town Hall, where the votes were being counted. His agent met him with a +smile of hope. + +“You’re eleven ahead at present, and only about eighty more to be +counted; you’re just going to squeak through.” + +“I mustn’t squeak through,” exclaimed Jutterly, hoarsely. “You must +object to every doubtful vote on our side that can possibly be +disallowed. I must _not_ have the majority.” + +Then was seen the unprecedented sight of a party agent challenging the +votes on his own side with a captiousness that his opponents would have +hesitated to display. One or two votes that would have certainly passed +muster under ordinary circumstances were disallowed, but even so Jutterly +was six ahead with only thirty more to be counted. + +To the watchers by the stye the moments seemed intolerable. As a last +resort some one had been sent for a gun with which to shoot the sow, +though Hyacinth would probably draw the bolt the moment such a weapon was +brought into the yard. Nearly all the men were away from their homes, +however, on election night, and the messenger had evidently gone far +afield in his search. It must be a matter of minutes now to the +declaration of the poll. + +A sudden roar of shouting and cheering was heard from the direction of +the Town Hall. Hyacinth’s father clutched a pitchfork and prepared to +dash into the stye in the forlorn hope of being in time. + +A shot rang out in the evening air. Hyacinth stooped down from his perch +and put his finger on the bolt. The sow pressed furiously against the +door. + +“Bang,” came another shot. + +Hyacinth wriggled back, and sent a short ladder down through the window +of the inner stye. + +“Now you can come up, you unclean little blighters,” he sang out; “my +daddy’s got in, not yours. Hurry up, I can’t keep the sow waiting much +longer. And don’t you jolly well come butting into any election again +where I’m on the job.” + +In the reaction that set in after the deliverance furious recrimination +were indulged in by the lately opposed candidates, their women folk, +agents, and party helpers. A recount was demanded, but failed to +establish the fact that the Colonial Secretary had obtained a majority. +Altogether the election left a legacy of soreness behind it, apart from +any that was experienced by Hyacinth in person. + +“It is the last time I shall let him go to an election,” exclaimed his +mother. + +“There I think you are going to extremes,” said Mrs. Panstreppon; “if +there should be a general election in Mexico I think you might safely let +him go there, but I doubt whether our English politics are suited to the +rough and tumble of an angel-child.” + + + + +THE IMAGE OF THE LOST SOUL + + +There were a number of carved stone figures placed at intervals along the +parapets of the old Cathedral; some of them represented angels, others +kings and bishops, and nearly all were in attitudes of pious exaltation +and composure. But one figure, low down on the cold north side of the +building, had neither crown, mitre, not nimbus, and its face was hard and +bitter and downcast; it must be a demon, declared the fat blue pigeons +that roosted and sunned themselves all day on the ledges of the parapet; +but the old belfry jackdaw, who was an authority on ecclesiastical +architecture, said it was a lost soul. And there the matter rested. + +One autumn day there fluttered on to the Cathedral roof a slender, +sweet-voiced bird that had wandered away from the bare fields and +thinning hedgerows in search of a winter roosting-place. It tried to +rest its tired feet under the shade of a great angel-wing or to nestle in +the sculptured folds of a kingly robe, but the fat pigeons hustled it +away from wherever it settled, and the noisy sparrow-folk drove it off +the ledges. No respectable bird sang with so much feeling, they cheeped +one to another, and the wanderer had to move on. + +Only the effigy of the Lost Soul offered a place of refuge. The pigeons +did not consider it safe to perch on a projection that leaned so much out +of the perpendicular, and was, besides, too much in the shadow. The +figure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other graven +dignitaries, but its arms were folded as in defiance and their angle made +a snug resting-place for the little bird. Every evening it crept +trustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image, and the +darkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers. The lonely bird +grew to love its lonely protector, and during the day it would sit from +time to time on some rainshoot or other abutment and trill forth its +sweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter. And, it may +have been the work of wind and weather, or some other influence, but the +wild drawn face seemed gradually to lose some of its hardness and +unhappiness. Every day, through the long monotonous hours, the song of +his little guest would come up in snatches to the lonely watcher, and at +evening, when the vesper-bell was ringing and the great grey bats slid +out of their hiding-places in the belfry roof, the bright-eyed bird would +return, twitter a few sleepy notes, and nestle into the arms that were +waiting for him. Those were happy days for the Dark Image. Only the +great bell of the Cathedral rang out daily its mocking message, “After +joy . . . sorrow.” + +The folk in the verger’s lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting about +the Cathedral precincts, and admired its beautiful singing. “But it is a +pity,” said they, “that all that warbling should be lost and wasted far +out of hearing up on the parapet.” They were poor, but they understood +the principles of political economy. So they caught the bird and put it +in a little wicker cage outside the lodge door. + +That night the little songster was missing from its accustomed haunt, and +the Dark Image knew more than ever the bitterness of loneliness. Perhaps +his little friend had been killed by a prowling cat or hurt by a stone. +Perhaps . . . perhaps he had flown elsewhere. But when morning came +there floated up to him, through the noise and bustle of the Cathedral +world, a faint heart-aching message from the prisoner in the wicker cage +far below. And every day, at high noon, when the fat pigeons were +stupefied into silence after their midday meal and the sparrows were +washing themselves in the street-puddles, the song of the little bird +came up to the parapets—a song of hunger and longing and hopelessness, a +cry that could never be answered. The pigeons remarked, between +mealtimes, that the figure leaned forward more than ever out of the +perpendicular. + +One day no song came up from the little wicker cage. It was the coldest +day of the winter, and the pigeons and sparrows on the Cathedral roof +looked anxiously on all sides for the scraps of food which they were +dependent on in hard weather. + +“Have the lodge-folk thrown out anything on to the dust-heap?” inquired +one pigeon of another which was peering over the edge of the north +parapet. + +“Only a little dead bird,” was the answer. + +There was a crackling sound in the night on the Cathedral roof and a +noise as of falling masonry. The belfry jackdaw said the frost was +affecting the fabric, and as he had experienced many frosts it must have +been so. In the morning it was seen that the Figure of the Lost Soul had +toppled from its cornice and lay now in a broken mass on the dust-heap +outside the verger’s lodge. + +“It is just as well,” cooed the fat pigeons, after they had peered at the +matter for some minutes; “now we shall have a nice angel put up there. +Certainly they will put an angel there.” + +“After joy . . . sorrow,” rang out the great bell. + + + + +THE PURPLE OF THE BALKAN KINGS + + +Luitpold Wolkenstein, financier and diplomat on a small, obtrusive, +self-important scale, sat in his favoured cafe in the world-wise Habsburg +capital, confronted with the _Neue Freie Presse_ and the cup of +cream-topped coffee and attendant glass of water that a sleek-headed +piccolo had just brought him. For years longer than a dog’s lifetime +sleek-headed piccolos had placed the _Neue Freie Presse_ and a cup of +cream-topped coffee on his table; for years he had sat at the same spot, +under the dust-coated, stuffed eagle, that had once been a living, +soaring bird on the Styrian mountains, and was now made monstrous and +symbolical with a second head grafted on to its neck and a gilt crown +planted on either dusty skull. To-day Luitpold Wolkenstein read no more +than the first article in his paper, but read it again and again. + +“The Turkish fortress of Kirk Kilisseh has fallen . . . The Serbs, it is +officially announced, have taken Kumanovo . . . The fortress of Kirk +Kilisseh lost, Kumanovo taken by the Serbs, these are tiding for +Constantinople resembling something out of Shakspeare’s tragedies of the +kings . . . The neighbourhood of Adrianople and the Eastern region, +where the great battle is now in progress, will not reveal merely the +future of Turkey, but also what position and what influence the Balkan +States are to have in the world.” + +For years longer than a dog’s lifetime Luitpold Wolkenstein had disposed +of the pretensions and strivings of the Balkan States over the cup of +cream-topped coffee that sleek-headed piccolos had brought him. Never +travelling further eastward than the horse-fair at Temesvar, never +inviting personal risk in an encounter with anything more potentially +desperate than a hare or partridge, he had constituted himself the +critical appraiser and arbiter of the military and national prowess of +the small countries that fringed the Dual Monarchy on its Danube border. +And his judgment had been one of unsparing contempt for small-scale +efforts, of unquestioning respect for the big battalions and full purses. +Over the whole scene of the Balkan territories and their troubled +histories had loomed the commanding magic of the words “the Great +Powers”—even more imposing in their Teutonic rendering, “Die +Grossmächte.” + +Worshipping power and force and money-mastery as an elderly nerve-ridden +woman might worship youthful physical energy, the comfortable, +plump-bodied cafe-oracle had jested and gibed at the ambitions of the +Balkan kinglets and their peoples, had unloosed against them that battery +of strange lip-sounds that a Viennese employs almost as an auxiliary +language to express the thoughts when his thoughts are not complimentary. +British travellers had visited the Balkan lands and reported high things +of the Bulgarians and their future, Russian officers had taken peeps at +their army and confessed “this is a thing to be reckoned with, and it is +not we who have created it, they have done it by themselves.” But over +his cups of coffee and his hour-long games of dominoes the oracle had +laughed and wagged his head and distilled the worldly wisdom of his +castle. The Grossmächte had not succeeded in stifling the roll of the +war-drum, that was true; the big battalions of the Ottoman Empire would +have to do some talking, and then the big purses and big threatenings of +the Powers would speak and the last word would be with them. In +imagination Luitpold heard the onward tramp of the red-fezzed bayonet +bearers echoing through the Balkan passes, saw the little sheepskin-clad +mannikins driven back to their villages, saw the augustly chiding +spokesman of the Powers dictating, adjusting, restoring, settling things +once again in their allotted places, sweeping up the dust of conflict, +and now his ears had to listen to the war-drum rolling in quite another +direction, had to listen to the tramp of battalions that were bigger and +bolder and better skilled in war-craft than he had deemed possible in +that quarter; his eyes had to read in the columns of his accustomed +newspaper a warning to the Grossmächte that they had something new to +learn, something new to reckon with, much that was time-honoured to +relinquish. “The Great Powers will have not little difficulty in +persuading the Balkan States of the inviolability of the principle that +Europe cannot permit any fresh partition of territory in the East without +her approval. Even now, while the campaign is still undecided, there are +rumours of a project of fiscal unity, extending over the entire Balkan +lands, and further of a constitutional union in imitation of the German +Empire. That is perhaps only a political straw blown by the storm, but +it is not possible to dismiss the reflection that the Balkan States +leagued together command a military strength with which the Great Powers +will have to reckon . . . The people who have poured out their blood on +the battlefields and sacrificed the available armed men of an entire +generation in order to encompass a union with their kinsfolk will not +remain any longer in an attitude of dependence on the Great Powers or on +Russia, but will go their own ways . . . The blood that has been poured +forth to-day gives for the first time a genuine tone to the purple of the +Balkan Kings. The Great Powers cannot overlook the fact that a people +that has tasted victory will not let itself be driven back again within +its former limits. Turkey has lost to-day not only Kirk Kilisseh and +Kumanovo, but Macedonia also.” + +Luitpold Wolkenstein drank his coffee, but the flavour had somehow gone +out of it. His world, his pompous, imposing, dictating world, had +suddenly rolled up into narrower dimensions. The big purses and the big +threats had been pushed unceremoniously on one side; a force that he +could not fathom, could not comprehend, had made itself rudely felt. The +august Cæsars of Mammon and armament had looked down frowningly on the +combat, and those about to die had not saluted, had no intention of +saluting. A lesson was being imposed on unwilling learners, a lesson of +respect for certain fundamental principles, and it was not the small +struggling States who were being taught the lesson. + +Luitpold Wolkenstein did not wait for the quorum of domino players to +arrive. They would all have read the article in the _Freie Presse_. And +there are moments when an oracle finds its greatest salvation in +withdrawing itself from the area of human questioning. + + + + +THE CUPBOARD OF THE YESTERDAYS + + +“War is a cruelly destructive thing,” said the Wanderer, dropping his +newspaper to the floor and staring reflectively into space. + +“Ah, yes, indeed,” said the Merchant, responding readily to what seemed +like a safe platitude; “when one thinks of the loss of life and limb, the +desolated homesteads, the ruined—” + +“I wasn’t thinking of anything of the sort,” said the Wanderer; “I was +thinking of the tendency that modern war has to destroy and banish the +very elements of picturesqueness and excitement that are its chief excuse +and charm. It is like a fire that flares up brilliantly for a while and +then leaves everything blacker and bleaker than before. After every +important war in South-East Europe in recent times there has been a +shrinking of the area of chronically disturbed territory, a stiffening of +frontier lines, an intrusion of civilised monotony. And imagine what may +happen at the conclusion of this war if the Turk should really be driven +out of Europe.” + +“Well, it would be a gain to the cause of good government, I suppose,” +said the Merchant. + +“But have you counted the loss?” said the other. “The Balkans have long +been the last surviving shred of happy hunting-ground for the +adventurous, a playground for passions that are fast becoming atrophied +for want of exercise. In old bygone days we had the wars in the Low +Countries always at our doors, as it were; there was no need to go far +afield into malaria-stricken wilds if one wanted a life of boot and +saddle and licence to kill and be killed. Those who wished to see life +had a decent opportunity for seeing death at the same time.” + +“It is scarcely right to talk of killing and bloodshed in that way,” said +the Merchant reprovingly; “one must remember that all men are brothers.” + +“One must also remember that a large percentage of them are younger +brothers; instead of going into bankruptcy, which is the usual tendency +of the younger brother nowadays, they gave their families a fair chance +of going into mourning. Every bullet finds a billet, according to a +rather optimistic proverb, and you must admit that nowadays it is +becoming increasingly difficult to find billets for a lot of young +gentlemen who would have adorned, and probably thoroughly enjoyed, one of +the old-time happy-go-lucky wars. But that is not exactly the burden of +my complaint. The Balkan lands are especially interesting to us in these +rapidly-moving days because they afford us the last remaining glimpse of +a vanishing period of European history. When I was a child one of the +earliest events of the outside world that forced itself coherently under +my notice was a war in the Balkans; I remember a sunburnt, soldierly man +putting little pin-flags in a war-map, red flags for the Turkish forces +and yellow flags for the Russians. It seemed a magical region, with its +mountain passes and frozen rivers and grim battlefields, its drifting +snows, and prowling wolves; there was a great stretch of water that bore +the sinister but engaging name of the Black Sea—nothing that I ever +learned before or after in a geography lesson made the same impression on +me as that strange-named inland sea, and I don’t think its magic has ever +faded out of my imagination. And there was a battle called Plevna that +went on and on with varying fortunes for what seemed like a great part of +a lifetime; I remember the day of wrath and mourning when the little red +flag had to be taken away from Plevna—like other maturer judges, I was +backing the wrong horse, at any rate the losing horse. And now to-day we +are putting little pin-flags again into maps of the Balkan region, and +the passions are being turned loose once more in their playground.” + +“The war will be localised,” said the Merchant vaguely; “at least every +one hopes so.” + +“It couldn’t wish for a better locality,” said the Wanderer; “there is a +charm about those countries that you find nowhere else in Europe, the +charm of uncertainty and landslide, and the little dramatic happenings +that make all the difference between the ordinary and the desirable.” + +“Life is held very cheap in those parts,” said the Merchant. + +“To a certain extent, yes,” said the Wanderer. “I remember a man at +Sofia who used to teach me Bulgarian in a rather inefficient manner, +interspersed with a lot of quite wearisome gossip. I never knew what his +personal history was, but that was only because I didn’t listen; he told +it to me many times. After I left Bulgaria he used to send me Sofia +newspapers from time to time. I felt that he would be rather tiresome if +I ever went there again. And then I heard afterwards that some men came +in one day from Heaven knows where, just as things do happen in the +Balkans, and murdered him in the open street, and went away as quietly as +they had come. You will not understand it, but to me there was something +rather piquant in the idea of such a thing happening to such a man; after +his dullness and his long-winded small-talk it seemed a sort of brilliant +_esprit d’esalier_ on his part to meet with an end of such ruthlessly +planned and executed violence.” + +The Merchant shook his head; the piquancy of the incident was not within +striking distance of his comprehension. + +“I should have been shocked at hearing such a thing about any one I had +known,” he said. + +“The present war,” continued his companion, without stopping to discuss +two hopelessly divergent points of view, “may be the beginning of the end +of much that has hitherto survived the resistless creeping-in of +civilisation. If the Balkan lands are to be finally parcelled out +between the competing Christian Kingdoms and the haphazard rule of the +Turk banished to beyond the Sea of Marmora, the old order, or disorder if +you like, will have received its death-blow. Something of its spirit +will linger perhaps for a while in the old charmed regions where it bore +sway; the Greek villagers will doubtless be restless and turbulent and +unhappy where the Bulgars rule, and the Bulgars will certainly be +restless and turbulent and unhappy under Greek administration, and the +rival flocks of the Exarchate and Patriarchate will make themselves +intensely disagreeable to one another wherever the opportunity offers; +the habits of a lifetime, of several lifetimes, are not laid aside all at +once. And the Albanians, of course, we shall have with us still, a +troubled Moslem pool left by the receding wave of Islam in Europe. But +the old atmosphere will have changed, the glamour will have gone; the +dust of formality and bureaucratic neatness will slowly settle down over +the time-honoured landmarks; the Sanjak of Novi Bazar, the Muersteg +Agreement, the Komitadje bands, the Vilayet of Adrianople, all those +familiar outlandish names and things and places, that we have known so +long as part and parcel of the Balkan Question, will have passed away +into the cupboard of yesterdays, as completely as the Hansa League and +the wars of the Guises. + +“They were the heritage that history handed down to us, spoiled and +diminished no doubt, in comparison with yet earlier days that we never +knew, but still something to thrill and enliven one little corner of our +Continent, something to help us to conjure up in our imagination the days +when the Turk was thundering at the gates of Vienna. And what shall we +have to hand down to our children? Think of what their news from the +Balkans will be in the course of another ten or fifteen years. Socialist +Congress at Uskub, election riot at Monastir, great dock strike at +Salonika, visit of the Y.M.C.A. to Varna. Varna—on the coast of that +enchanted sea! They will drive out to some suburb to tea, and write home +about it as the Bexhill of the East. + +“War is a wickedly destructive thing.” + +“Still, you must admit—” began the Merchant. But the Wanderer was not in +the mood to admit anything. He rose impatiently and walked to where the +tape-machine was busy with the news from Adrianople. + + + + +FOR THE DURATION OF THE WAR + + +The Rev. Wilfrid Gaspilton, in one of those clerical migrations +inconsequent-seeming to the lay mind, had removed from the moderately +fashionable parish of St. Luke’s, Kensingate, to the immoderately rural +parish of St. Chuddocks, somewhere in Yondershire. There were doubtless +substantial advantages connected with the move, but there were certainly +some very obvious drawbacks. Neither the migratory clergyman nor his +wife were able to adapt themselves naturally and comfortably to the +conditions of country life. Beryl, Mrs. Gaspilton, had always looked +indulgently on the country as a place where people of irreproachable +income and hospitable instincts cultivated tennis-lawns and rose-gardens +and Jacobean pleasaunces, wherein selected gatherings of interested +week-end guests might disport themselves. Mrs. Gaspilton considered +herself as distinctly an interesting personality, and from a limited +standpoint she was doubtless right. She had indolent dark eyes and a +comfortable chin, which belied the slightly plaintive inflection which +she threw into her voice at suitable intervals. She was tolerably well +satisfied with the smaller advantages of life, but she regretted that +Fate had not seen its way to reserve for her some of the ampler successes +for which she felt herself well qualified. She would have liked to be +the centre of a literary, slightly political salon, where discerning +satellites might have recognised the breadth of her outlook on human +affairs and the undoubted smallness of her feet. As it was, Destiny had +chosen for her that she should be the wife of a rector, and had now +further decreed that a country rectory should be the background to her +existence. She rapidly made up her mind that her surroundings did not +call for exploration; Noah had predicted the Flood, but no one expected +him to swim about in it. Digging in a wet garden or trudging through +muddy lanes were exertions which she did not propose to undertake. As +long as the garden produced asparagus and carnations at pleasingly +frequent intervals Mrs. Gaspilton was content to approve of its expense +and otherwise ignore its existence. She would fold herself up, so to +speak, in an elegant, indolent little world of her own, enjoying the +minor recreations of being gently rude to the doctor’s wife and +continuing the leisurely production of her one literary effort, _The +Forbidden Horsepond_, a translation of Baptiste Leopoy’s _L’Abreuvoir +interdit_. It was a labour which had already been so long drawn-out that +it seemed probable that Baptiste Lepoy would drop out of vogue before her +translation of his temporarily famous novel was finished. However, the +languid prosecution of the work had invested Mrs. Gaspilton with a +certain literary dignity, even in Kensingate circles, and would place her +on a pinnacle in St. Chuddocks, where hardly any one read French, and +assuredly no one had heard of _L’Abreuvoir interdit_. + +The Rector’s wife might be content to turn her back complacently on the +country; it was the Rector’s tragedy that the country turned its back on +him. With the best intention in the world and the immortal example of +Gilbert White before him, the Rev. Wilfrid found himself as bored and ill +at ease in his new surroundings as Charles II would have been at a modern +Wesleyan Conference. The birds that hopped across his lawn hopped across +it as though it were their lawn, and not his, and gave him plainly to +understand that in their eyes he was infinitely less interesting than a +garden worm or the rectory cat. The hedgeside and meadow flowers were +equally uninspiring; the lesser celandine seemed particularly unworthy of +the attention that English poets had bestowed on it, and the Rector knew +that he would be utterly miserable if left alone for a quarter of an hour +in its company. With the human inhabitants of his parish he was no +better off; to know them was merely to know their ailments, and the +ailments were almost invariably rheumatism. Some, of course, had other +bodily infirmities, but they always had rheumatism as well. The Rector +had not yet grasped the fact that in rural cottage life not to have +rheumatism is as glaring an omission as not to have been presented at +Court would be in more ambitious circles. And with all this death of +local interest there was Beryl shutting herself off with her ridiculous +labours on _The Forbidden Horsepond_. + +“I don’t see why you should suppose that any one wants to read Baptiste +Lepoy in English,” the Reverend Wilfrid remarked to his wife one morning, +finding her surrounded with her usual elegant litter of dictionaries, +fountain pens, and scribbling paper; “hardly any one bothers to read him +now in France.” + +“My dear,” said Beryl, with an intonation of gentle weariness, “haven’t +two or three leading London publishers told me they wondered no one had +ever translated _L’Abreuvoir interdit_, and begged me—” + +“Publishers always clamour for the books that no one has ever written, +and turn a cold shoulder on them as soon as they’re written. If St. Paul +were living now they would pester him to write an Epistle to the +Esquimaux, but no London publisher would dream of reading his Epistle to +the Ephesians.” + +“Is there any asparagus in the garden?” asked Beryl; “because I’ve told +cook—” + +“Not anywhere in the garden,” snapped the Rector, “but there’s no doubt +plenty in the asparagus-bed, which is the usual place for it.” + +And he walked away into the region of fruit trees and vegetable beds to +exchange irritation for boredom. It was there, among the gooseberry +bushes and beneath the medlar trees, that the temptation to the +perpetration of a great literary fraud came to him. + +Some weeks later the _Bi-Monthly Review_ gave to the world, under the +guarantee of the Rev. Wilfrid Gaspilton, some fragments of Persian verse, +alleged to have been unearthed and translated by a nephew who was at +present campaigning somewhere in the Tigris valley. The Rev. Wilfrid +possessed a host of nephews, and it was of course, quite possible that +one or more of them might be in military employ in Mesopotamia, though no +one could call to mind any particular nephew who could have been +suspected of being a Persian scholar. + +The verses were attributed to one Ghurab, a hunter, or, according to +other accounts, warden of the royal fishponds, who lived, in some +unspecified century, in the neighbourhood of Karmanshah. They breathed a +spirit of comfortable, even-tempered satire and philosophy, disclosing a +mockery that did not trouble to be bitter, a joy in life that was not +passionate to the verge of being troublesome. + + “A Mouse that prayed for Allah’s aid + Blasphemed when no such aid befell: + A Cat, who feasted on that mouse, + Thought Allah managed vastly well. + + Pray not for aid to One who made + A set of never-changing Laws, + But in your need remember well + He gave you speed, or guile—or claws. + + Some laud a life of mild content: + Content may fall, as well as Pride. + The Frog who hugged his lowly Ditch + Was much disgruntled when it dried. + + ‘You are not on the Road to Hell,’ + You tell me with fanatic glee: + Vain boaster, what shall that avail + If Hell is on the road to thee? + + A Poet praised the Evening Star, + Another praised the Parrot’s hue: + A Merchant praised his merchandise, + And he, at least, praised what he knew.” + +It was this verse which gave the critics and commentators some clue as to +the probable date of the composition; the parrot, they reminded the +public, was in high vogue as a type of elegance in the days of Hafiz of +Shiraz; in the quatrains of Omar it makes no appearance. + +The next verse, it was pointed out, would apply to the political +conditions of the present day as strikingly as to the region and era for +which it was written— + + “A Sultan dreamed day-long of Peace, + The while his Rivals’ armies grew: + They changed his Day-dreams into sleep + —The Peace, methinks, he never knew.” + +Woman appeared little, and wine not at all in the verse of the +hunter-poet, but there was at least one contribution to the +love-philosophy of the East— + + “O Moon-faced Charmer, and Star-drownèd Eyes, + And cheeks of soft delight, exhaling musk, + They tell me that thy charm will fade; ah well, + The Rose itself grows hue-less in the Dusk.” + +Finally, there was a recognition of the Inevitable, a chill breath +blowing across the poet’s comfortable estimate of life— + + “There is a sadness in each Dawn, + A sadness that you cannot rede: + The joyous Day brings in its train + The Feast, the Loved One, and the Steed. + + Ah, there shall come a Dawn at last + That brings no life-stir to your ken, + A long, cold Dawn without a Day, + And ye shall rede its sadness then.” + +The verses of Ghurab came on the public at a moment when a comfortable, +slightly quizzical philosophy was certain to be welcome, and their +reception was enthusiastic. Elderly colonels, who had outlived the love +of truth, wrote to the papers to say that they had been familiar with the +works of Ghurab in Afghanistan, and Aden, and other suitable localities a +quarter of a century ago. A Ghurab-of-Karmanshah Club sprang into +existence, the members of which alluded to each other as Brother +Ghurabians on the slightest provocation. And to the flood of inquiries, +criticisms, and requests for information, which naturally poured in on +the discoverer, or rather the discloser, of this long-hidden poet, the +Rev. Wilfrid made one effectual reply: Military considerations forbade +any disclosures which might throw unnecessary light on his nephew’s +movements. + +After the war the Rector’s position will be one of unthinkable +embarrassment, but for the moment, at any rate, he has driven _The +Forbidden Horsepond_ out of the field. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TOYS OF PEACE*** + + +******* This file should be named 1477-0.txt or 1477-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/7/1477 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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