A British writer known by the pen name Saki 5 страница
“If you feel sure that you have a title,” said Jerton, “why not get hold of a peerage and go right through it?”
“I tried that. I skimmed through the list of the House of Lords in ‘Whitaker,’ but a mere printed string of names conveys awfully little to one, you know. If you were an army officer and had lost your identity you might pore over the Army List for months without finding out who you were. I’m going on another tack; I’m trying to find out by various little tests who I am NOT – that will narrow the range of uncertainty down a bit. You may have noticed, for instance, that I’m lunching principally off lobster Newburg.”
Jerton had not ventured to notice anything of the sort.
“It’s an extravagance, because it’s one of the most expensive dishes on the menu, but at any rate it proves that I’m not Lady Starping; she never touches shell-fish, and poor Lady Braddleshrub has no digestion at all; if I am HER I shall certainly die in agony in the course of the afternoon, and the duty of finding out who I am will devolve on the press and the police and those sort of people; I shall be past caring. Lady Knewford doesn’t know one rose from another and she hates men, so she wouldn’t have spoken to you in any case; and Lady Mousehilton flirts with every man she meets – I haven’t flirted with you, have I?”
Jerton hastily gave the required assurance.
“Well, you see,” continued the lady, “that knocks four off the list at once.”
“It’ll be rather a lengthy process bringing the list down to one,” said Jerton.
“Oh, but, of course, there are heaps of them that I couldn’t possibly be – women who’ve got grandchildren or sons old enough to have celebrated their coming of age. I’ve only got to consider the ones about my own age. I tell you how you might help me this afternoon, if you don’t mind; go through any of the back numbers of COUNTRY LIFE and those sort of papers that you can find in the smoking-room, and see if you come across my portrait with infant son or anything of that sort. It won’t take you ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the lounge about tea-time. Thanks awfully.”
And the Fair Unknown, having graciously pressed Jerton into the search for her lost identity, rose and left the room. As she passed the young man’s table she halted for a moment and whispered:
“Did you notice that I tipped the waiter a shilling? We can cross Lady Ulwight off the list; she would have died rather than do that.”
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At five o’clock Jerton made his way to the hotel lounge; he had spent a diligent but fruitless quarter of an hour among the illustrated weeklies in the smoking- room. His new acquaintance was seated at a small tea- table, with a waiter hovering in attendance.
“China tea or Indian?” she asked as Jerton came up.
“China, please, and nothing to eat. Have you discovered anything?”
“Only negative information. I’m not Lady Befnal. She disapproves dreadfully of any form of gambling, so when I recognised a well-known book maker in the hotel lobby I went and put a tenner on an unnamed filly by William the Third out of Mitrovitza for the three-fifteen race. I suppose the fact of the animal being nameless was what attracted me.”
“Did it win?” asked Jerton.
“No, came in fourth, the most irritating thing a horse can do when you’ve backed it win or place. Anyhow, I know now that I’m not Lady Befnal.”
“It seems to me that the knowledge was rather dearly bought,” commented Jerton.
“Well, yes, it has rather cleared me out,” admitted the identity-seeker; “a florin is about all I’ve got left on me. The lobster Newburg made my lunch rather an expensive one, and, of course, I had to tip that boy for what he did to the Kestrel-Smith locks. I’ve got rather a useful idea, though. I feel certain that I belong to the Pivot Club; I’ll go back to town and ask the hall porter there if there are any letters for me. He knows all the members by sight, and if there are any letters or telephone messages waiting for me of course that will solve the problem. If he says there aren’t any I shall say: ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ so I’ll find out anyway.”
The plan seemed a sound one; a difficulty in its execution suggested itself to Jerton.
“Of course,” said the lady, when he hinted at the obstacle, “there’s my fare back to town, and my bill here and cabs and things. If you’ll lend me three pounds that ought to see me through comfortably. Thanks ever so. Then there is the question of that luggage: I don’t want to be saddled with that for the rest of my life. I’ll have it brought down to the hall and you can pretend to mount guard over it while I’m writing a letter. Then I shall just slip away to the station, and you can wander off to the smoking-room, and they can do what they like with the things. They’ll advertise them after a bit and the owner can claim them.”
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Jerton acquiesced in the manoeuvre, and duly mounted guard over the luggage while its temporary owner slipped unobtrusively out of the hotel. Her departure was not, however, altogether unnoticed. Two gentlemen were strolling past Jerton, and one of them remarked to the other:
“Did you see that tall young woman in grey who went out just now? She is the Lady –”
His promenade carried him out of earshot at the critical moment when he was about to disclose the elusive identity. The Lady Who? Jerton could scarcely run after a total stranger, break into his conversation, and ask him for information concerning a chance passer-by. Besides, it was desirable that he should keep up the appearance of looking after the luggage. In a minute or two, however, the important personage, the man who knew, came strolling back alone. Jerton summoned up all his courage and waylaid him.
“I think I heard you say you knew the lady who went out of the hotel a few minutes ago, a tall lady, dressed in grey. Excuse me for asking if you could tell me her name; I’ve been talking to her for half an hour; she – er – she knows all my people and seems to know me, so I suppose I’ve met her somewhere before, but I’m blest if I can put a name to her. Could you –?”
“Certainly. She’s a Mrs. Stroope.”
“MRS.?” queried Jerton.
“Yes, she’s the Lady Champion at golf in my part of the world. An awful good sort, and goes about a good deal in Society, but she has an awkward habit of losing her memory every now and then, and gets into all sorts of fixes. She’s furious, too, if you make any allusion to it afterwards. Good day, sir.”
The stranger passed on his way, and before Jerton had had time to assimilate his information he found his whole attention centred on an angry-looking lady who was making loud and fretful-seeming inquiries of the hotel clerks.
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“Has any luggage been brought here from the station by mistake, a dress-basket and dressing-case, with the name Kestrel-Smith? It can’t be traced anywhere. I saw it put in at Victoria, that I’ll swear. Why – there is my luggage! and the locks have been tampered with!”
Jerton heard no more. He fled down to the Turkish bath, and stayed there for hours.
A SHOT IN THE DARK
Philip Sletherby settled himself down in an almost empty railway carriage, with the pleasant consciousness of being embarked on an agreeable and profitable pilgrimage. He was bound for Brill Manor, the country residence of his newly achieved acquaintance, Mrs. Saltpen-Jago. Honoria Saltpen-Jago was a person of some social importance in London, of considerable importance and influence in the county of Chalkshire. The county of Chalkshire, or, at any rate, the eastern division of it, was of immediate personal interest to Philip Sletherby; it was held for the Government in the present Parliament by a gentleman who did not intend to seek re-election, and Sletherby was under serious consideration by the party managers as his possible successor. The majority was not a large one, and the seat could not be considered safe for a Ministerial candidate, but there was an efficient local organisation, and with luck the seat might be held. The Saltpen-Jago influence was not an item which could be left out of consideration, and the political aspirant had been delighted at meeting Honoria at a small and friendly luncheon-party, still more gratified when she had asked him down to her country house for the following Friday-to-Tuesday. He was obviously “on approval”, and if he could secure the goodwill of his hostess he might count on the nomination as an assured thing. If he failed to find favour in her eyes – well, the local leaders would probably cool off in their embryo enthusiasm for him.
Among the passengers dotted about on the platform, awaiting their respective trains, Sletherby espied a club acquaintance, and beckoned him up to the carriage-window for a chat.
“Oh, you’re staying with Mrs. Saltpen-Jago for the week-end, are you? I expect you’ll have a good time; she has the reputation of being an excellent hostess. She’ll be useful to you, too, if that Parliamentary project – hullo, you’re off. Good-bye.”
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Sletherby waved good-bye to his friend, pulled up the window, and turned his attention to the magazine lying on his lap. He had scarcely glanced at a couple of pages, however, when a smothered curse caused him to glance hastily at the only other occupant of the carriage. His travelling companion was a young man of about two-and-twenty, with dark hair, fresh complexion, and the blend of smartness and disarray that marks the costume of a “nut” who is bound on a rustic holiday. He was engaged in searching furiously and ineffectually for some elusive or non-existent object; from time to time he dug a sixpenny bit out of a waistcoat pocket and stared at it ruefully, then recommenced the futile searching operations. A cigarette-case, matchbox, latchkey, silver pencil case, and railway ticket were turned out on to the seat beside him, but none of these articles seemed to afford him satisfaction; he cursed again, rather louder than before.
The vigorous pantomime did not draw forth any remark from Sletherby, who resumed his scrutiny of the magazine.
“I say!” exclaimed a young voice presently, “didn’t I hear you say you were going down to stay with Mrs. Saltpen-Jago at Brill Manor? What a coincidence! My mater, you know. I’m coming on there on Monday evening, so we shall meet. I’m quite a stranger; haven’t seen the mater for six months at least. I was away yachting last time she was in Town. I’m Bertie, the second son, you know. I say, it’s an awfully lucky coincidence that I should run across someone who knows the mater just at this particular moment. I’ve done an damned awkward thing.”
“You’ve lost something, haven’t you?” said Sletherby
“Not exactly, but left behind, which is almost as bad; just as inconvenient, anyway. I’ve come away without my sovereign-purse, with four quid in it, all my worldly wealth for the moment. It was in my pocket all right, just before I was starting, and then I wanted to seal a letter, and the sovereign-purse happens to have my crest on it, so I whipped it out to stamp the seal with, and, like a double-distilled idiot, I must have left it on the table. I had some silver loose in my pocket, but after I’d paid for a taxi and my ticket I’d only got this forlorn little sixpence left. I’m stopping at a little country inn near Brondquay for three days’ fishing; not a soul knows me there, and my week-end bill, and tips, and cab to and from the station, and my ticket on to Brill, that will mount up to two or three quid, won’t it? If you wouldn’t mind lending me two pound ten, or three for preference, I shall be awfully obliged. It will pull me out of no end of a hole.”
“I think I can manage that,” said Sletherby, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Thanks awfully. It’s jolly good of you. What a lucky thing for me that I should have chanced across one of the mater’s friends. It will be a lesson to me not to leave my exchequer lying about anywhere, when it ought to be in my pocket. I suppose the moral of the whole thing is don’t try and convert things to purposes for which they weren’t intended. Still, when a sovereign-purse has your crest on it –”
“What is your crest, by the way?” Sletherby asked, carelessly.
“Not a very common one,” said the youth; “a demi-lion holding a cross-crosslet in its paw.”
“When your mother wrote to me, giving me a list of trains, she had, if I remember rightly, a greyhound courant on her notepaper,” observed Sletherby. There was a tinge of coldness in his voice.
“That is the Jago crest,” responded the youth promptly; “the demi-lion is the Saltpen crest. We have the right to use both, but I always use the demi-lion, because, after all, we are really Saltpens.”
There was silence for a moment or two, and the young man began to collect his fishing tackle and other belongings from the rack.
“My station is the next one,” he announced.
“I’ve never met your mother,” said Sletherby suddenly, “though we’ve corresponded several times. My introduction to her was through political friends. Does she resemble you at all in feature? I should rather like to be able to pick her out if she happened to be on the platform to meet me.”
“She’s supposed to be like me. She has the same dark brown hair and high colour; it runs in her family. I say, this is where I get out.”
“Good-bye,” said Sletherby.
“You’ve forgotten the three quid,” said the young man, opening the carriage-door and pitching his suit-case on to the platform.
“I’ve no intention of lending you three pounds, or three shillings,” said Sletherby severely.
“But you said –”
“I know I did. My suspicions hadn’t been roused then, though I hadn’t necessarily swallowed your story. The discrepancy about the crests put me on my guard, notwithstanding the really brilliant way in which you accounted for it. Then I laid a trap for you; I told you that I had never met Mrs. Saltpen-Jago. As a matter of fact I met her at lunch on Monday last. She is a pronounced blonde.”
The train moved on, leaving the soi-disant cadet of the Saltpen-Jago family cursing furiously on the platform.
“Well, he hasn’t opened his fishing expedition by catching a flat,” chuckled Sletherby. He would have an entertaining story to recount at dinner that evening, and his clever little trap would earn him applause as a man of resource and astuteness. He was still telling his adventure in imagination to an attentive audience of dinner guests when the train drew up at his destination. On the platform he was greeted sedately by a tall footman, and noisily by Claude People, K.C., who had apparently travelled down by the same train.
“Hullo, Sletherby! You spending the week-end at Brill? Good. Excellent. We’ll have a round of golf together to-morrow; I’ll give you your revenge for Hoylake. Not a bad course here, as inland courses go. Ah, here we are; here’s the car waiting for us, and very nice, too!”
The car which won the K.C.’s approval was a sumptuous-looking vehicle, which seemed to embody the last word in elegance, comfort, and locomotive power. Its graceful lines and symmetrical design masked the fact that it was an enormous wheeled structure, combining the features of a hotel lounge and an engine-room.
“Different sort of vehicle to the post-chaise in which our grandfathers used to travel, eh?” exclaimed the lawyer appreciatively. And for Sletherby’s benefit he began running over the chief points of perfection in the fitting and mechanism of the car.
Sletherby heard not a single word, noted not one of the details that were being expounded to him. His eyes were fixed on the door panel, on which were displayed two crests: a greyhound courant and a demi-lion holding in its paw a cross-crosslet.
The K.C. was not the sort of man to notice an absorbed silence on the part of a companion. He had been silent himself for nearly an hour in the train, and his tongue was making up for lost time. Political gossip, personal anecdote, and general observation flowed from him in an uninterrupted stream as the car sped along the country roads; from the inner history of the Dublin labour troubles and the private life of the Prince Designate of Albania he progressed with an easy volubility to an account of an alleged happening at the ninth hole at Sandwich, and a verbatim report of a remark made by the Duchess of Pathshire at a Tango tea. Just as the car turned in at the Brill entrance gates the K.C. captured Sletherby’s attention by switching his remarks to the personality of their hostess.
“Brilliant woman, level-headed, a clear thinker, knows exactly when to take up an individual or a cause, exactly when to let him or it drop. Influential woman, but spoils herself and her chances by being too restless. No repose. Good appearance, too, till she made that idiotic change.”
“Change?” queried Sletherby, “what change?”
“What change? You don’t mean to say – Oh, of course, you’ve only known her just lately. She used to have beautiful dark brown hair, which went very well with her fresh complexion; then one day, about five weeks ago, she electrified everybody by appearing as a brilliant blonde. Quite ruined her looks. Here we are. I say, what’s the matter with you? You look rather ill.”
A SACRIFICE TO NECESSITY
Alicia Pevenly sat on a garden seat in the rose-walk at Chopehanger, enjoying the valedictory mildness of a warm October morning, and experiencing the atmosphere of mental complacency that descends on a woman who has breakfasted well, is picturesquely dressed, and has reached forty-two in pleasant insidious stages. The loss of her husband some ten years ago had woven a thread of tender regret into her life-pattern, but for the most part she looked on the world and its ways with placid acquiescent amiability. The income on which she and her seventeen-year-old daughter lived and kept up appearances was small, almost inconveniently small, perhaps, but with due management and a little forethought it sufficed. Contriving and planning gained a certain amount of zest from the fact that there was only such a slender margin of shillings to be manipulated.
“There is all the difference in the world,” Mrs. Pevenly would say to herself, “between being badly off and merely having to be careful.”
Regarding her own personal affairs with a measured tranquillity, she did not let the larger events of the world disturb her peace of mind. She took a warm, but quite impersonal interest, in the marriage of Prince Arthur of Connaught, thereby establishing her claim to be considered a woman with broad sympathies and intelligently in touch with the age in which she lived. On the other hand, she was not greatly stirred by the question whether Ireland should or should not be given Home Rule, and she was absolutely indifferent as to where the southern frontier of Albania should be drawn or whether it should be drawn at all; if there had ever been a combative strain in her nature it had never been developed.
Mrs. Pevenly had finished her breakfast at about half-past nine, by which time her daughter had not put in an appearance; as the hostess and most of the members of the house-party were equally late, Beryl’s slackness could not be regarded as a social sin, but her mother thought it was a pity to lose so much of the fine October morning. Beryl Pevenly had been described by someone as the “Flapper incarnate”, and the label summed her up accurately. Her mother already recognised that she was disposed to be a law unto herself; what she did not yet realise was that Beryl was extremely likely to be a law-giver to any weaker character with whom she might come into contact.
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