The Saki Megapack

by H. H. Munro

  ‘The amber dawn-drenched East with sun-shafts kissed,

  Stained sanguine apricot and amethyst,

  O’er the washed emerald of the mango groves

  Hangs in a mist of opalescent mauves,

  While painted parrot-flights impinge the haze

  With scarlet, chalcedon and chrysoprase.’”

  “I’ve never seen the dawn come up over the Brahma-putra river,” said Bertie, “so I can’t say if it’s a good description of the event, but it sounds more like an account of an extensive jewel robbery. Anyhow, the parrots give a good useful touch of local colour. I suppose you’ve introduced some tigers into the scenery? An Indian landscape would have rather a bare, unfinished look without a tiger or two in the middle distance.”

  “I’ve got a hen-tiger somewhere in the poem,” said Clovis, hunting through his notes. “Here she is:

  ‘The tawny tigress ‘mid the tangled teak

  Drags to her purring cubs’ enraptured ears

  The harsh death-rattle in the pea-fowl’s beak,

  A jungle lullaby of blood and tears.’”

  Bertie van Tahn rose hurriedly from his recumbent position and made for the glass door leading into the next compartment.

  “I think your idea of home life in the jungle is perfectly horrid,” he said. “The cobra was sinister enough, but the improvised rattle in the tiger-nursery is the limit. If you’re going to make me turn hot and cold all over I may as well go into the steam room at once.”

  “Just listen to this line,” said Clovis; “it would make the reputation of any ordinary poet:

  ‘and overhead

  The pendulum-patient Punkah, parent of stillborn breeze.’”

  “Most of your readers will think ‘punkah’ is a kind of iced drink or half-time at polo,” said Bertie, and disappeared into the steam.

  * * * *

  The Smoky Chimney duly published the “Recessional,” but it proved to be its swan song, for the paper never attained to another issue.

  Loona Bimberton gave up her intention of attending the Durbar and went into a nursing-home on the Sussex Downs. Nervous breakdown after a particularly strenuous season was the usually accepted explanation, but there are three or four people who know that she never really recovered from the dawn breaking over the Brahma-putra river.

  A MATTER OF SENTIMENT

  It was the eve of the great race, and scarcely a member of Lady Susan’s house-party had as yet a single bet on. It was one of those unsatisfactory years when one horse held a commanding market position, not by reason of any general belief in its crushing superiority, but because it was extremely difficult to pitch on any other candidate to whom to pin ones faith. Peradventure II was the favourite, not in the sense of being a popular fancy, but by virtue of a lack of confidence in any one of his rather undistinguished rivals. The brains of clubland were much exercised in seeking out possible merit where none was very obvious to the naked intelligence, and the house-party at Lady Susan’s was possessed by the same uncertainty and irresolution that infected wider circles.

  “It is just the time for bringing off a good coup,” said Bertie van Tahn.

  “Undoubtedly. But with what?” demanded Clovis for the twentieth time.

  The women of the party were just as keenly interested in the matter, and just as helplessly perplexed; even the mother of Clovis, who usually got good racing information from her dressmaker, confessed herself fancy free on this occasion. Colonel Drake, who was professor of military history at a minor cramming establishment, was the only person who had a definite selection for the event, but as his choice varied every three hours he was worse than useless as an inspired guide. The crowning difficulty of the problem was that it could only be fitfully and furtively discussed. Lady Susan disapproved of racing. She disapproved of many things; some people went as far as to say that she disapproved of most things. Disapproval was to her what neuralgia and fancy needlework are to many other women. She disapproved of early morning tea and auction bridge, of ski-ing and the two-step, of the Russian ballet and the Chelsea Arts Club ball, of the French policy in Morocco and the British policy everywhere. It was not that she was particularly strict or narrow in her views of life, but she had been the eldest sister of a large family of self-indulgent children, and her particular form of indulgence had consisted in openly disapproving of the foibles of the others. Unfortunately the hobby had grown up with her. As she was rich, influential, and very, very kind, most people were content to count their early tea as well lost on her behalf. Still, the necessity for hurriedly dropping the discussion of an enthralling topic, and suppressing all mention of it during her presence on the scene, was an affliction at a moment like the present, when time was slipping away and indecision was the prevailing note.

  After a lunch-time of rather strangled and uneasy conversation, Clovis managed to get most of the party together at the further end of the kitchen gardens, on the pretext of admiring the Himalayan pheasants. He had made an important discovery. Motkin, the butler, who (as Clovis expressed it) had grown prematurely grey in Lady Susan’s service, added to his other excellent qualities an intelligent interest in matters connected with the Turf. On the subject of the forthcoming race he was not illuminating, except in so far that he shared the prevailing unwillingness to see a winner in Peradventure II. But where he outshone all the members of the house-party was in the fact that he had a second cousin who was head stable-lad at a neighbouring racing establishment, and usually gifted with much inside information as to private form and possibilities. Only the fact of her ladyship having taken it into her head to invite a house-party for the last week of May had prevented Mr. Motkin from paying a visit of consultation to his relative with respect to the big race; there was still time to cycle over if he could get leave of absence for the afternoon on some specious excuse.

  “Let’s jolly well hope he does,” said Bertie van Tahn; “under the circumstances a second cousin is almost as useful as second sight.”

  “That stable ought to know something, if knowledge is to be found anywhere,” said Mrs. Packletide hopefully.

  “I expect you’ll find he’ll echo my fancy for Motorboat,” said Colonel Drake.

  At this moment the subject had to be hastily dropped. Lady Susan bore down upon them, leaning on the arm of Clovis’s mother, to whom she was confiding the fact that she disapproved of the craze for Pekingese spaniels. It was the third thing she had found time to disapprove of since lunch, without counting her silent and permanent disapproval of the way Clovis’s mother did her hair.

  “We have been admiring the Himalayan pheasants,” said Mrs. Packletide suavely.

  “They went off to a bird-show at Nottingham early this morning,” said Lady Susan, with the air of one who disapproves of hasty and ill-considered lying.

  “Their house, I mean; such perfect roosting arrangements, and all so clean,” resumed Mrs. Packletide, with an increased glow of enthusiasm. The odious Bertie van Tahn was murmuring audible prayers for Mrs. Packletide’s ultimate estrangement from the paths of falsehood.

  “I hope you don’t mind dinner being a quarter of an hour late to-night,” said Lady Susan; “Motkin has had an urgent summons to go and see a sick relative this afternoon. He wanted to bicycle there, but I am sending him in the motor.”

  “How very kind of you! Of course we don’t mind dinner being put off.” The assurances came with unanimous and hearty sincerity.

  At the dinner-table that night an undercurrent of furtive curiosity directed itself towards Motkin’s impassive countenance. One or two of the guests almost expected to find a slip of paper concealed in their napkins, bearing the name of the second cousin’s selection. They had not long to wait. As the butler went round with the murmured question, “Sherry?” he added in an even lower tone the cryptic words, “Better not.” Mrs. Packletide gave a start of alarm, and refused the sherry; there seemed some sinister suggestion in the butler’s warning, as though her hostess had suddenly become
addicted to the Borgia habit. A moment later the explanation flashed on her that “Better Not” was the name of one of the runners in the big race. Clovis was already pencilling it on his cuff, and Colonel Drake, in his turn, was signalling to every one in hoarse whispers and dumb-show the fact that he had all along fancied “B.N.”

  Early next morning a sheaf of telegrams went Townward, representing the market commands of the house-party and servants’ hall.

  It was a wet afternoon, and most of Lady Susan’s guests hung about the hall, waiting apparently for the appearance of tea, though it was scarcely yet due. The advent of a telegram quickened every one into a flutter of expectancy; the page who brought the telegram to Clovis waited with unusual alertness to know if there might be an answer.

  Clovis read the message and gave an exclamation of annoyance.

  “No bad news, I hope,” said Lady Susan. Every one else knew that the news was not good.

  “It’s only the result of the Derby,” he blurted out; “Sadowa won; an utter outsider.”

  “Sadowa!” exclaimed Lady Susan; “you don’t say so! How remarkable! It’s the first time I’ve ever backed a horse; in fact I disapprove of horse-racing, but just for once in a way I put money on this horse, and it’s gone and won.”

  “May I ask,” said Mrs. Packletide, amid the general silence, “why you put your money on this particular horse. None of the sporting prophets mentioned it as having an outside chance.”

  “Well,” said Lady Susan, “you may laugh at me, but it was the name that attracted me. You see, I was always mixed up with the Franco-German war; I was married on the day that the war was declared, and my eldest child was born the day that peace was signed, so anything connected with the war has always interested me. And when I saw there was a horse running in the Derby called after one of the battles in the Franco-German war, I said I must put some money on it, for once in a way, though I disapprove of racing. And it’s actually won.”

  There was a general groan. No one groaned more deeply than the professor of military history.

  THE SECRET SIN OF SEPTIMUS BROPE

  “Who and what is Mr. Brope?” demanded the aunt of Clovis suddenly.

  Mrs. Riversedge, who had been snipping off the heads of defunct roses, and thinking of nothing in particular, sprang hurriedly to mental attention. She was one of those old-fashioned hostesses who consider that one ought to know something about one’s guests, and that the something ought to be to their credit.

  “I believe he comes from Leighton Buzzard,” she observed by way of preliminary explanation.

  “In these days of rapid and convenient travel,” said Clovis, who was dispersing a colony of green-fly with visitations of cigarette smoke, “to come from Leighton Buzzard does not necessarily denote any great strength of character. It might only mean mere restlessness. Now if he had left it under a cloud, or as a protest against the incurable and heartless frivolity of its inhabitants, that would tell us something about the man and his mission in life.”

  “What does he do?” pursued Mrs. Troyle magisterially.

  “He edits the Cathedral Monthly,” said her hostess, “and he’s enormously learned about memorial brasses and transepts and the influence of Byzantine worship on modern liturgy, and all those sort of things. Perhaps he is just a little bit heavy and immersed in one range of subjects, but it takes all sorts to make a good house-party, you know. You don’t find him too dull, do you?”

  “Dullness I could overlook,” said the aunt of Clovis; “what I cannot forgive is his making love to my maid.”

  “My dear Mrs. Troyle,” gasped the hostess, “what an extraordinary idea! I assure you Mr. Brope would not dream of doing such a thing.”

  “His dreams are a matter of indifference to me; for all I care his slumbers may be one long indiscretion of unsuitable erotic advances, in which the entire servants’ hall may be involved. But in his waking hours he shall not make love to my maid. It’s no use arguing about it, I’m firm on the point.”

  “But you must be mistaken,” persisted Mrs. Riversedge; “Mr. Brope would be the last person to do such a thing.”

  “He is the first person to do such a thing, as far as my information goes, and if I have any voice in the matter he certainly shall be the last. Of course, I am not referring to respectably-intentioned lovers.”

  “I simply cannot think that a man who writes so charmingly and informingly about transepts and Byzantine influences would behave in such an unprincipled manner,” said Mrs. Riversedge; “what evidence have you that he’s doing anything of the sort? I don’t want to doubt your word, of course, but we mustn’t be too ready to condemn him unheard, must we?”

  “Whether we condemn him or not, he has certainly not been unheard. He has the room next to my dressing-room, and on two occasions, when I dare say he thought I was absent, I have plainly heard him announcing through the wall, ‘I love you, Florrie.’ Those partition walls upstairs are very thin; one can almost hear a watch ticking in the next room.”

  “Is your maid called Florence?”

  “Her name is Florinda.”

  “What an extraordinary name to give a maid!”

  “I did not give it to her; she arrived in my service already christened.”

  “What I mean is,” said Mrs. Riversedge, “that when I get maids with unsuitable names I call them Jane; they soon get used to it.”

  “An excellent plan,” said the aunt of Clovis coldly; “unfortunately I have got used to being called Jane myself. It happens to be my name.”

  She cut short Mrs. Riversedge’s flood of apologies by abruptly remarking:

  “The question is not whether I’m to call my maid Florinda, but whether Mr. Brope is to be permitted to call her Florrie. I am strongly of opinion than he shall not.”

  “He may have been repeating the words of some song,” said Mrs. Riversedge hopefully; “there are lots of those sorts of silly refrains with girls’ names,” she continued, turning to Clovis as a possible authority on the subject. “‘You mustn’t call me Mary—’”

  “I shouldn’t think of doing so,” Clovis assured her; “in the first place, I’ve always understood that your name was Henrietta; and then I hardly know you well enough to take such a liberty.”

  “I mean there’s a song with that refrain,” hurriedly explained Mrs. Riversedge, “and there’s ‘Rhoda, Rhoda kept a pagoda,’ and ‘Maisie is a daisy,’ and heaps of others. Certainly it doesn’t sound like Mr. Brope to be singing such songs, but I think we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I had already done so,” said Mrs. Troyle, “until further evidence came my way.”

  She shut her lips with the resolute finality of one who enjoys the blessed certainty of being implored to open them again.

  “Further evidence!” exclaimed her hostess; “do tell me!”

  “As I was coming upstairs after breakfast Mr. Brope was just passing my room. In the most natural way in the world a piece of paper dropped out of a packet that he held in his hand and fluttered to the ground just at my door. I was going to call out to him ‘You’ve dropped something,’ and then for some reason I held back and didn’t show myself till he was safely in his room. You see it occurred to me that I was very seldom in my room just at that hour, and that Florinda was almost always there tidying up things about that time. So I picked up that innocent-looking piece of paper.”

  Mrs. Troyle paused again, with the self-applauding air of one who has detected an asp lurking in an apple-charlotte.

  Mrs. Riversedge snipped vigorously at the nearest rose bush, incidentally decapitating a Viscountess Folkestone that was just coming into bloom.

  “What was on the paper?” she asked.

  “Just the words in pencil, ‘I love you, Florrie,’ and then underneath, crossed out with a faint line, but perfectly plain to read, ‘Meet me in the garden by the yew.’”

  “There is a yew tree at the bottom of the garden,” admitted Mrs. Riversedge.

&nbs
p; “At any rate he appears to be truthful,” commented Clovis.

  “To think that a scandal of this sort should be going on under my roof!” said Mrs. Riversedge indignantly.

  “I wonder why it is that scandal seems so much worse under a roof,” observed Clovis; “I’ve always regarded it as a proof of the superior delicacy of the cat tribe that it conducts most of its scandals above the slates.”

  “Now I come to think of it,” resumed Mrs. Riversedge, “there are things about Mr. Brope that I’ve never been able to account for. His income, for instance: he only gets two hundred a year as editor of the Cathedral Monthly, and I know that his people are quite poor, and he hasn’t any private means. Yet he manages to afford a flat somewhere in Westminster, and he goes abroad to Bruges and those sorts of places every year, and always dresses well, and gives quite nice luncheon-parties in the season. You can’t do all that on two hundred a year, can you?”

  “Does he write for any other papers?” queried Mrs. Troyle.

  “No, you see he specializes so entirely on liturgy and ecclesiastical architecture that his field is rather restricted. He once tried the Sporting and Dramatic with an article on church edifices in famous fox-hunting centres, but it wasn’t considered of sufficient general interest to be accepted. No, I don’t see how he can support himself in his present style merely by what he writes.”

  “Perhaps he sells spurious transepts to American enthusiasts,” suggested Clovis.

  “How could you sell a transept?” said Mrs. Riversedge; “such a thing would be impossible.”

  “Whatever he may do to eke out his income,” interrupted Mrs. Troyle, “he is certainly not going to fill in his leisure moments by making love to my maid.”

  “Of course not,” agreed her hostess; “that must be put a stop to at once. But I don’t quite know what we ought to do.”

  “You might put a barbed wire entanglement round the yew tree as a precautionary measure,” said Clovis.

  “I don’t think that the disagreeable situation that has arisen is improved by flippancy,” said Mrs. Riversedge; “a good maid is a treasure—”