The Unrest-Cure

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　0n the rack in the railway carriage immediately opposite Cloviswas a solidly wrought travelling-bag, with a carefully writtenlabel, on which was inscribed, "J. P. Huddle, The Warren,Tilfield, near Slowborough." Immediately below the rack sit thehuman embodiment of the label, a solid, sedate individual,sedately dressed, sedately conversational. Even without hisconversation (which was addressed to a friend seated by his side,and touched chiefly on such topics as the backwardness of Romanhyacinths and the prevalence of measles at the Rectory), one couldhave gauged fairly accurately the temperament and mental outlookof the travelling bag's owner. But he seemed unwilling to leaveanything to the imagination of a casual observer, and his talkgrew presently personal and introspective."I don't know how it is," he told his friend, "I'm not much overforty, but I seem to have settled down into a deep groove ofelderly middle-age. My sister shows the same tendency. We likeeverything to be exactly in its accustomed place; we like thingsto happen exactly at their appointed times; we like everything tobe usual, orderly, punctual, methodical, to a hair's breadth, to aminute. It distresses and upsets us if it is not so. Forinstance, to take a very trifling matter, a thrush has built itsnest year after year in the catkin-tree on the lawn; this year,for no obvious reason, it is building in the ivy on the gardenwall. We have said very little about it, but I think we both feelthat the change is unnecessary, and just a little irritating.""Perhaps," said the friend, "it is a different thrush.""We have suspected that," said J. P. Huddle, "and I think it givesus even more cause for annoyance. We don't feel that we want achange of thrush at our time of life; and yet, as I have said, wehave scarcely reached an age when these things should makethemselves seriously felt.""What you want," said the friend, "is an Unrest-cure.""An Unrest-cure? I've never heard of such a thing.""You've heard of Rest-cures for people who've broken down understress of too much worry and strenuous living; well, you'resuffering from overmuch repose and placidity, and you need theopposite kind of treatment.""But where would one go for such a thing?""Well, you might stand as an Orange candidate for Kilkenny, or doa course of district visiting in one of the Apache quarters ofParis, or give lectures in Berlin to prove that most of Wagner'smusic was written by Gambetta; and there's always the interior ofMorocco to travel in. But, to be really effective, the Unrest-cure ought to be tried in the home. How you would do it I haven'tthe faintest idea."It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis becamegalvanized into alert attention. After all, his two days' visitto an elderly relative at Slowborough did not promise muchexcitement. Before the train had stopped he had decorated hissinister shirt-cuff with the inscription, "J. P. Huddle, TheWarren, Tilfield, near Slowborough.". . . . . . . . .Two mornings later Mr. Huddle broke in on his sister's privacy asshe sat reading Country Life in the morning room. It was her dayand hour and place for reading Country Life, and the intrusion wasabsolutely irregular; but he bore in his hand a telegram, and inthat household telegrams were recognized as happening by the handof God. This particular telegram partook of the nature of athunderbolt. "Bishop examining confirmation class inneighbourhood unable stay rectory on account measles invokes yourhospitality sending secretary arrange.""I scarcely know the Bishop; I've only spoken to him once,"exclaimed J. P. Huddle, with the exculpating air of one whorealizes too late the indiscretion of speaking to strange Bishops.Miss Huddle was the first to rally; she disliked thunderbolts asfervently as her brother did, but the womanly instinct in her toldher that thunderbolts must be fed."We can curry the cold duck," she said. It was not the appointedday for curry, but the little orange envelope involved a certaindeparture from rule and custom. Her brother said nothing, but hiseyes thanked her for being brave."A young gentleman to see you," announced the parlour-maid."The secretary!" murmured the Huddles in unison; they instantlystiffened into a demeanour which proclaimed that, though they heldall strangers to be guilty, they were willing to hear anythingthey might have to say in their defence. The young gentleman, whocame into the room with a certain elegant haughtiness, was not atall Huddle's idea of a bishop's secretary; he had not supposedthat the episcopal establishment could have afforded such anexpensively upholstered article when there were so many otherclaims on its resources. The face was fleetingly familiar; if hehad bestowed more attention on the fellow-traveller sittingopposite him in the railway carriage two days before he might haverecognized Clovis in his present visitor."You are the Bishop's secretary?" asked Huddle, becomingconsciously deferential."His confidential secretary," answered Clovis. You may call meStanislaus; my other name doesn't matter. The Bishop and ColonelAlberti may be here to lunch. I shall be here in any case."It sounded rather like the programme of a Royal visit."The Bishop is examining a confirmation class in theneighbourhood, isn't he?" asked Miss Huddle."Ostensibly," was the dark reply, followed by a request for alarge-scale map of the locality.Clovis was still immersed in a seemingly profound study of the mapwhen another telegram arrived. It was addressed to "PrinceStanislaus, care of Huddle, The Warren, etc." Clovis glanced atthe contents and announced: "The Bishop and Alberti won't be heretill late in the afternoon." Then he returned to his scrutiny ofthe map.The luncheon was not a very festive function. The princelysecretary ate and drank with fair appetite, but severelydiscouraged conversation. At the finish of the meal he brokesuddenly into a radiant smile, thanked his hostess for a charmingrepast, and kissed her hand with deferential rapture.Miss Huddle was unable to decide in her mind whether the actionsavoured of Louis Quatorzian courtliness or the reprehensibleRoman attitude towards the Sabine women. It was not her day forhaving a headache, but she felt that the circumstances excusedher, and retired to her room to have as much headache as waspossible before the Bishop's arrival. Clovis, having asked theway to the nearest telegraph office, disappeared presently downthe carriage drive. Mr. Huddle met him in the hall some two hourslater, and asked when the Bishop would arrive."He is in the library with Alberti," was the reply."But why wasn't I told? I never knew he had come!" exclaimedHuddle."No one knows he is here," said Clovis; "the quieter we can keepmatters the better. And on no account disturb him in the library.Those are his orders.""But what is all this mystery about? And who is Alberti? Andisn't the Bishop going to have tea?""The Bishop is out for blood, not tea.""Blood!" gasped Huddle, who did not find that the thunderboltimproved on acquaintance."To-night is going to be a great night in the history ofChristendom," said Clovis. "We are going to massacre every Jew inthe neighbourhood.""To massacre the Jews!" said Huddle indignantly. "Do you mean totell me there's a general rising against them?""No, it's the Bishop's own idea. He's in there arranging all thedetails now.""But--the Bishop is such a tolerant, humane man.""That is precisely what will heighten the effect of his action.The sensation will be enormous."That at least Huddle could believe."He will be hanged!" he exclaimed with conviction."A motor is waiting to carry him to the coast, where a steam yachtis in readiness.""But there aren't thirty Jews in the whole neighbourhood,"protested Huddle, whose brain, under the repeated shocks of theday, was operating with the uncertainty of a telegraph wire duringearthquake disturbances."We have twenty-six on our list," said Clovis, referring to abundle of notes. "We shall be able to deal with them all the morethoroughly.""Do you mean to tell me that you are meditating violence against aman like Sir Leon Birberry," stammered Huddle; "he's one of themost respected men in the country.""He's down on our list," said Clovis carelessly; "after all, we'vegot men we can trust to do our job, so we shan't have to rely onlocal assistance. And we've got some Boy-scouts helping us asauxiliaries.""Boy-scouts!""Yes; when they understood there was real killing to be done theywere even keener than the men.""This thing will be a blot on the Twentieth Century!""And your house will be the blotting-pad. Have you realized thathalf the papers of Europe and the United States will publishpictures of it? By the way, I've sent some photographs of you andyour sister, that I found in the library, to the MATIN and DIEWOCHE; I hope you don't mind. Also a sketch of the staircase;most of the killing will probably be done on the staircase."The emotions that were surging in J. P. Huddle's brain were almosttoo intense to be disclosed in speech, but he managed to gasp out:"There aren't any Jews in this house.""Not at present," said Clovis."I shall go to the police," shouted Huddle with sudden energy."In the shrubbery," said Clovis, "are posted ten men who haveorders to fire on anyone who leaves the house without my signal ofpermission. Another armed picquet is in ambush near the frontgate. The Boy-scouts watch the back premises."At this moment the cheerful hoot of a motor-horn was heard fromthe drive. Huddle rushed to the hall door with the feeling of aman half awakened from a nightmare, and beheld Sir Leon Birberry,who had driven himself over in his car. "I got your telegram," hesaid what's up?"Telegram? It seemed to be a day of telegrams."Come here at once. Urgent. James Huddle," was the purport ofthe message displayed before Huddle's bewildered eyes."I see it all!" he exclaimed suddenly in a voice shaken withagitation, and with a look of agony in the direction of theshrubbery he hauled the astonished Birberry into the house. Teahad just been laid in the hall, but the now thoroughly panic-stricken Huddle dragged his protesting guest upstairs, and in afew minutes' time the entire household had been summoned to thatregion of momentary safety. Clovis alone graced the tea-tablewith his presence; the fanatics in the library were evidently tooimmersed in their monstrous machinations to dally with the solaceof teacup and hot toast. Once the youth rose, in answer to thesummons of the front-door bell, and admitted Mr. Paul Isaacs,shoemaker and parish councillor, who had also received a pressinginvitation to The Warren. With an atrocious assumption ofcourtesy, which a Borgia could hardly have outdone, the secretaryescorted this new captive of his net to the head of the stairway,where his involuntary host awaited him.And then ensued a long ghastly vigil of watching and waiting.Once or twice Clovis left the house to stroll across to theshrubbery, returning always to the library, for the purposeevidently of making a brief report. Once he took in the lettersfrom the evening postman, and brought them to the top of thestairs with punctilious politeness. After his next absence hecame half-way up the stairs to make an announcement."The Boy-scouts mistook my signal, and have killed the postman.I've had very little practice in this sort of thing, you see.Another time I shall do better."The housemaid, who was engaged to be married to the eveningpostman, gave way to clamorous grief."Remember that your mistress has a headache," said J. P. Huddle.(Miss Huddle's headache was worse.)Clovis hastened downstairs, and after a short visit to the libraryreturned with another message:"The Bishop is sorry to hear that Miss Huddle has a headache. Heis issuing orders that as far as possible no firearms shall beused near the house; any killing that is necessary on the premiseswill be done with cold steel. The Bishop does not see why a manshould not be a gentleman as well as a Christian."That was the last they saw of Clovis; it was nearly seven o'clock,and his elderly relative liked him to dress for dinner. But,though he had left them for ever, the lurking suggestion of hispresence haunted the lower regions of the house during the longhours of the wakeful night, and every creak of the stairway, everyrustle of wind through the shrubbery, was fraught with horriblemeaning. At about seven next morning the gardener's boy and theearly postman finally convinced the watchers that the TwentiethCentury was still unblotted."I don't suppose," mused Clovis, as an early train bore himtownwards, "that they will be in the least grateful for theUnrest-cure."