Shock Tactics

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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On a late spring afternoon Ella McCarthy sat on a green-painted chair inKensington Gardens, staring listlessly at an uninteresting stretch ofpark landscape, that blossomed suddenly into tropical radiance as anexpected figure appeared in the middle distance. "Hullo, Bertie!" she exclaimed sedately, when the figure arrived at thepainted chair that was the nearest neighbour to her own, and dropped intoit 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 wereconcerned; until the arrival of Bertie the afternoon had been anythingbut perfect. Bertie made a suitable reply, in which a questioning note seemed tohover. "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, witha pout. "What was that?" asked Bertie anxiously, fearful that perhaps he hadchosen a size of handkerchief that was not within the correct femininelimit. "I should have liked to have written and thanked you for them as soon asI got them," said Ella, and Bertie's sky clouded at once. "You know what mother is," he protested; "she opens all my letters, andif she found I'd been giving presents to any one there'd have beensomething 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, "youmight be allowed to keep your correspondence private to yourself." "I ought to be, but things aren't always what they ought to be. Motheropens every letter that comes into the house, whoever it's for. Mysisters and I have made rows about it time and again, but she goes ondoing it." "I'd find some way to stop her if I were in your place," said Ellavaliantly, and Bertie felt that the glamour of his anxiously deliberatedpresent had faded away in the disagreeable restriction that hedged roundits acknowledgment. "Is anything the matter?" asked Bertie's friend Clovis when they met thatevening 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 littleelse. Didn't she like the handkerchiefs?" Bertie explained the situation. "It is rather galling, you know," he added, "when a girl has a lot ofthings she wants to write to you and can't send a letter except by someroundabout, 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 excusesfor not having written to people." "It's not a joking matter," said Bertie resentfully: "you wouldn't findit 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 everytime 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 themiddle of the night to hear you recite one of Blake's 'Poems ofInnocence,' you would get a far more respectful hearing for futureprotests. People yield more consideration to a mutilated mealtime or abroken night's rest, than ever they would to a broken heart." "Oh, dry up," said Bertie crossly, inconsistently splashing Clovis fromhead to foot as he plunged into the water. It was a day or two after the conversation in the swimming-bath that aletter 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 thoseempty-minded individuals to whom other people's affairs are perpetuallyinteresting. The more private they are intended to be the more acute isthe interest they arouse. She would have opened this particular letterin any case; the fact that it was marked "private," and diffused adelicate but penetrating aroma merely caused her to open it with headlonghaste rather than matter-of-course deliberation. The harvest ofsensation 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 diligentlyfor traces of possible dissipation or youthful entanglements, and at lastthe suspicions that had stimulated her inquisitorial zeal were justifiedby 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 allusionto the jewels. Mrs. Heasant could recall novels and dramas whereinjewels played an exciting and commanding role, and here, under her ownroof, before her very eyes as it were, her own son was carrying on anintrigue in which jewels were merely an interesting detail. Bertie wasnot due home for another hour, but his sisters were available for theimmediate unburdening of a scandal-laden mind. "Bertie is in the toils of an adventuress," she screamed; "her name isClotilde," she added, as if she thought they had better know the worst atonce. There are occasions when more harm than good is done by shieldingyoung girls from a knowledge of the more deplorable realities of life. By the time Bertie arrived his mother had discussed every possible andimprobable conjecture as to his guilty secret; the girls limitedthemselves to the opinion that their brother had been weak rather thanwicked. "Who is Clotilde?" was the question that confronted Bertie almost beforehe had got into the hall. His denial of any knowledge of such a personwas met with an outburst of bitter laughter. "How well you have learned your lesson!" exclaimed Mrs. Heasant. Butsatire gave way to furious indignation when she realised that Bertie didnot intend to throw any further light on her discovery. "You shan't have any dinner till you've confessed everything," shestormed. Bertie's reply took the form of hastily collecting material for animpromptu banquet from the larder and locking himself into his bedroom.His mother made frequent visits to the locked door and shouted asuccession of interrogations with the persistence of one who thinks thatif you ask a question often enough an answer will eventually result.Bertie did nothing to encourage the supposition. An hour had passed infruitless one-sided palaver when another letter addressed to Bertie andmarked "private" made its appearance in the letter-box. Mrs. Heasantpounced on it with the enthusiasm of a cat that has missed its mouse andto whom a second has been unexpectedly vouchsafed. If she hoped forfurther 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 waseasily surpassed as she raced upstairs and beat frantically at her son'sdoor. "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 ofan evening," sobbed Mrs. Heasant; "it's no use you trying to hide thingsfrom 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 yougo on like this I shall fetch a doctor; I've often enough been preachedat about nothing, but I've never had an imaginary harem dragged into thediscussion." "Are these letters imaginary?" screamed Mrs. Heasant; "what about thejewels, 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, andits contents brought Mrs. Heasant that enlightenment which had alreadydawned 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 wasnot difficult to read between the lines of his successful hoax. In achastened mood she rapped once more at Bertie's door. "A letter from Mr. Sangrail. It's all been a stupid hoax. He wrotethose 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 withyou. Of course it was all a hoax, but no person in his right mind couldhave believed all that rubbish about murder and suicide and jewels.You've been making enough noise to bring the house down for the last houror 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 chooseto excite yourself over other people's correspondence it's your ownfault. Anyhow, I'm going for a doctor." It was Bertie's great opportunity, and he knew it. His mother wasconscious of the fact that she would look rather ridiculous if the storygot about. She was willing to pay hush-money. "I'll never open your letters again," she promised. And Clovis has nomore devoted slave than Bertie Heasant.

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