Forewarned

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

---

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 tomind. She had embarked on a social adventure of no little magnitude ascompared with the accustomed seclusion and stagnation of her past life.At the age of twenty-eight she could look back on nothing more eventfulthan the daily round of her existence in her aunt's house atWebblehinton, a hamlet four and a half miles distant from a country townand about a quarter of a century removed from modern times. Theirneighbours had been elderly and few, not much given to socialintercourse, but helpful or politely sympathetic in times of illness.Newspapers of the ordinary kind were a rarity; those that Alethia sawregularly were devoted exclusively either to religion or to poultry, andthe world of politics was to her an unheeded unexplored region. Herideas on life in general had been acquired through the medium of popularrespectable novel-writers, and modified or emphasised by such knowledgeas her aunt, the vicar, and her aunt's housekeeper had put at herdisposal. And now, in her twenty-ninth year, her aunt's death had lefther, well provided for as regards income, but somewhat isolated in thematter of kith and kin and human companionship. She had some cousins whowere on terms of friendly, though infrequent, correspondence with her,but as they lived permanently in Ceylon, a locality about which she knewlittle, beyond the assurance contained in the missionary hymn that thehuman 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 somewherein the Midlands. She could hardly remember ever having met them, butonce or twice in the course of the last three or four years they hadexpressed a polite wish that she should pay them a visit; they hadprobably not been unduly depressed by the fact that her aunt's failinghealth had prevented her from accepting their invitation. The note ofcondolence that had arrived on the occasion of her aunt's death hadincluded a vague hope that Alethia would find time in the near future tospend a few days with her cousins, and after much deliberation and manyhesitations she had written to propose herself as a guest for a definitedate some week ahead. The family, she reflected with relief, was not alarge one; the two daughters were married and away, there was only oldMrs. Bludward and her son Robert at home. Mrs. Bludward was something ofan invalid, and Robert was a young man who had been at Oxford and wasgoing into Parliament. Further than that Alethia's information did notgo; her imagination, founded on her extensive knowledge of the people onemet in novels, had to supply the gaps. The mother was not difficult toplace; she would either be an ultra-amiable old lady, bearing her feeblehealth with uncomplaining fortitude, and having a kind word for thegardener's boy and a sunny smile for the chance visitor, or else shewould be cold and peevish, with eyes that pierced you like a gimlet, anda unreasoning idolatry of her son. Alethia's imagination rather inclinedher to the latter view. Robert was more of a problem. There were threedominant types of manhood to be taken into consideration in working outhis classification; there was Hugo, who was strong, good, and beautiful,a rare type and not very often met with; there was Sir Jasper, who wasutterly vile and absolutely unscrupulous, and there was Nevil, who wasnot really bad at heart, but had a weak mouth and usually required thelife-work of two good women to keep him from ultimate disaster. It wasprobable, Alethia considered, that Robert came into the last category, inwhich case she was certain to enjoy the companionship of one or twoexcellent women, and might possibly catch glimpses of undesirableadventuresses or come face to face with reckless admiration-seekingmarried women. It was altogether an exciting prospect, this suddenventure into an unexplored world of unknown human beings, and Alethiarather wished that she could have taken the vicar with her; she was not,however, rich or important enough to travel with a chaplain, as theMarquis of Moystoncleugh always did in the novel she had just beenreading, so she recognised that such a proceeding was out of thequestion. The train which carried Alethia towards her destination was a local one,with the wayside station habit strongly developed. At most of thestations no one seemed to want to get into the train or to leave it, butat one there were several market folk on the platform, and two men, ofthe farmer or small cattle-dealer class, entered Alethia's carriage.Apparently they had just foregathered, after a day's business, and theirconversation consisted of a rapid exchange of short friendly inquiries asto health, family, stock, and so forth, and some grumbling remarks on theweather. Suddenly, however, their talk took a dramatically interestingturn, 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 beashamed to look any decent man in the face. Send him to Parliament torepresent us--not much! He'd rob a poor man of his last shilling, hewould." "Ah, that he would. Tells a pack of lies to get our votes, that's allthat he's after, damn him. Did you see the way the _Argus_ showed him upthis week? Properly exposed him, hip and thigh, I tell you." And so on they ran, in their withering indictment. There could be nodoubt that it was Alethia's cousin and prospective host to whom they werereferring; the allusion to a Parliamentary candidature settled that. Whatcould Robert Bludward have done, what manner of man could he be, thatpeople 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 biblicalin the idea of Robert Bludward's neighbours and acquaintances hissing himfor very scorn. Lord Hereward Stranglath had been hissed, now Alethiacame to think of it, in the eighth chapter of _Matterby Towers_, while inthe act of opening a Wesleyan bazaar, because he was suspected (unjustlyas it turned out afterwards) of having beaten the German governess todeath. And in _Tainted Guineas_ Roper Squenderby had been deservedlyhissed, on the steps of the Jockey Club, for having handed a rival ownera forged telegram, containing false news of his mother's death, justbefore the start for an important race, thereby ensuring the withdrawalof his rival's horse. In placid Saxon-blooded England people did notdemonstrate their feelings lightly and without some strong compellingcause. What manner of evildoer was Robert Bludward? The train stopped at another small station, and the two men got out. Oneof them left behind him a copy of the _Argus_, the local paper to whichhe had made reference. Alethia pounced on it, in the expectation offinding a cultured literary endorsement of the censure which these roughfarming men had expressed in their homely, honest way. She had not farto look; "Mr. Robert Bludward, Swanker," was the title of one of theprincipal articles in the paper. She did not exactly know what a swankerwas, probably it referred to some unspeakable form of cruelty, but sheread enough in the first few sentences of the article to discover thather cousin Robert, the man at whose house she was about to stay, was anunscrupulous, unprincipled character, of a low order of intelligence, yetcunning withal, and that he and his associates were responsible for mostof the misery, disease, poverty, and ignorance with which the country wasafflicted; never, except in one or two of the denunciatory Psalms, whichshe had always supposed to have be written in a spirit of exaggeratedOriental imagery, had she read such an indictment of a human being. Andthis monster was going to meet her at Derrelton Station in a few shortminutes. She would know him at once; he would have the dark beetlingbrows, the quick, furtive glance, the sneering, unsavoury smile thatalways characterised the Sir Jaspers of this world. It was too late toescape; she must force herself to meet him with outward calm. It was a considerable shock to her to find that Robert was fair, with asnub nose, merry eye, and rather a schoolboy manner. "A serpent induckling's plumage," was her private comment; merciful chance hadrevealed him to her in his true colours. As they drove away from the station a dissipated-looking man of thelabouring class waved his hat in friendly salute. "Good luck to you, Mr.Bludward," he shouted; "you'll come out on top! We'll break oldChobham'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 bitof 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 ishis house away there among the trees on the right." So there was an upright man, possibly a very Hugo in character, who wasthwarting and defying the evildoer in his nefarious career, and there wasa dastardly plot afoot to break his neck! Possibly the attempt would bemade within the next few hours. He must certainly be warned. Alethiaremembered how Lady Sylvia Broomgate, in _Nightshade Court_, hadpretended to be bolted with by her horse up to the front door of athreatened county magnate, and had whispered a warning in his ear whichsaved him from being the victim of foul murder. She wondered if therewas a quiet pony in the stables on which she would be allowed to ride outalone. The chances were that she would be watched. Robert would comespurring after her and seize her bridle just as she was turning in at SirJohn's gates. A group of men that they passed in a village street gave them no veryfriendly looks, and Alethia thought she heard a furtive hiss; a momentlater they came upon an errand boy riding a bicycle. He had the frankopen countenance, neatly brushed hair and tidy clothes that betoken aclear conscience and a good mother. He stared straight at the occupantsof the car, and, after he had passed them, sang in his clear, boyishvoice: "We'll hang Bobby Bludward on the sour apple tree." Robert merely laughed. That was how he took the scorn and condemnationof his fellow-men. He had goaded them to desperation with his shamelessdepravity till they spoke openly of putting him to a violent death, andhe 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 herno help was to be expected. Alethia locked her door that night, andplaced such ramparts of furniture against it that the maid had greatdifficulty in breaking in with the early tea in the morning. After breakfast Alethia, on the pretext of going to look at an outlyingrose-garden, slipped away to the village through which they had passed onthe previous evening. She remembered that Robert had pointed out to hera public reading-room, and here she considered it possible that she mightmeet Sir John Chobham, or some one who knew him well and would carry amessage 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 paperslay upon the central table; the other tables were stacked for the mostpart with chess and draughts-boards, and wooden boxes of chessmen anddominoes. Listlessly she picked up one of the papers, the _Sentinel_,and glanced at its contents. Suddenly she started, and began to readwith breathless attention a prominently printed article, headed "A LittleLimelight on Sir John Chobham." The colour ebbed away from her face, alook of frightened despair crept into her eyes. Never, in any novel thatshe had read, had a defenceless young woman been confronted with asituation like this. Sir John, the Hugo of her imagination, was, ifanything, rather more depraved and despicable than Robert Bludward. Hewas mean, evasive, callously indifferent to his country's interests, acheat, a man who habitually broke his word, and who was responsible, withhis associates, for most of the poverty, misery, crime, and nationaldegradation with which the country was afflicted. He was also acandidate for Parliament, it seemed, and as there was only one seat inthis particular locality, it was obvious that the success of eitherRobert or Sir John would mean a check to the ambitions of the other,hence, no doubt, the rivalry and enmity between these otherwise kindredsouls. One was seeking to have his enemy done to death, the other wasapparently trying to stir up his supporters to an act of "Lynch law". Allthis in order that there might be an unopposed election, that one orother of the candidates might go into Parliament with honeyed eloquenceon his lips and blood on his heart. Were men really so vile? "I must go back to Webblehinton at once," Alethia informed her astonishedhostess at lunch time; "I have had a telegram. A friend is veryseriously ill and I have been sent for." It was dreadful to have to concoct lies, but it would be more dreadful tohave to spend another night under that roof. Alethia reads novels now with even greater appreciation than before. Shehas been herself in the world outside Webblehinton, the world where thegreat dramas of sin and villainy are played unceasingly. She had comeunscathed through it, but what might have happened if she had goneunsuspectingly to visit Sir John Chobham and warn him of his danger? Whatindeed! She had been saved by the fearless outspokenness of the localPress.

---

---