The Hedgehog

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　A "Mixed Double" of young people were contesting a game of lawn tennis atthe Rectory garden party; for the past five-and-twenty years at leastmixed doubles of young people had done exactly the same thing on exactlythe same spot at about the same time of year. The young people changedand made way for others in the course of time, but very little elseseemed to alter. The present players were sufficiently conscious of thesocial nature of the occasion to be concerned about their clothes andappearance, and sufficiently sport-loving to be keen on the game. Boththeir efforts and their appearance came under the fourfold scrutiny of aquartet of ladies sitting as official spectators on a bench immediatelycommanding the court. It was one of the accepted conditions of theRectory garden party that four ladies, who usually knew very little abouttennis and a great deal about the players, should sit at that particularspot and watch the game. It had also come to be almost a tradition thattwo ladies should be amiable, and that the other two should be Mrs. Doleand Mrs. Hatch-Mallard."What a singularly unbecoming way Eva Jonelet has taken to doing her hairin," said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; "it's ugly hair at the best of times, butshe needn't make it look ridiculous as well. Some one ought to tellher."Eva Jonelet's hair might have escaped Mrs. Hatch-Mallard's condemnationif she could have forgotten the more glaring fact that Eva was Mrs.Dole's favourite niece. It would, perhaps, have been a more comfortablearrangement if Mrs. Hatch-Mallard and Mrs. Dole could have been asked tothe Rectory on separate occasions, but there was only one garden party inthe course of the year, and neither lady could have been omitted from thelist of invitations without hopelessly wrecking the social peace of theparish."How pretty the yew trees look at this time of year," interposed a ladywith a soft, silvery voice that suggested a chinchilla muff painted byWhistler."What do you mean by this time of year?" demanded Mrs. Hatch-Mallard."Yew trees look beautiful at all times of the year. That is their greatcharm.""Yew trees never look anything but hideous under any circumstances or atany time of year," said Mrs. Dole, with the slow, emphatic relish of onewho contradicts for the pleasure of the thing. "They are only fit forgraveyards and cemeteries."Mrs. Hatch-Mallard gave a sardonic snort, which, being translated, meantthat there were some people who were better fitted for cemeteries thanfor garden parties."What is the score, please?" asked the lady with the chinchilla voice.The desired information was given her by a young gentleman in spotlesswhite flannels, whose general toilet effect suggested solicitude ratherthan anxiety."What an odious young cub Bertie Dykson has become!" pronounced Mrs.Dole, remembering suddenly that Bertie was a favourite with Mrs. Hatch-Mallard. "The young men of to-day are not what they used to be twentyyears ago.""Of course not," said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard; "twenty years ago Bertie Dyksonwas just two years old, and you must expect some difference in appearanceand manner and conversation between those two periods.""Do you know," said Mrs. Dole, confidentially, "I shouldn't be surprisedif that was intended to be clever.""Have you any one interesting coming to stay with you, Mrs. Norbury?"asked the chinchilla voice, hastily; "you generally have a house party atthis time of year.""I've got a most interesting woman coming," said Mrs. Norbury, who hadbeen mutely struggling for some chance to turn the conversation into asafe channel; "an old acquaintance of mine, Ada Bleek--""What an ugly name," said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard."She's descended from the de la Bliques, an old Huguenot family ofTouraine, you know.""There weren't any Huguenots in Touraine," said Mrs. Hatch-Mallard, whothought she might safely dispute any fact that was three hundred yearsold."Well, anyhow, she's coming to stay with me," continued Mrs. Norbury,bringing her story quickly down to the present day, "she arrives thisevening, and she's highly clairvoyante, a seventh daughter of a seventhdaughter, you now, and all that sort of thing.""How very interesting," said the chinchilla voice; "Exwood is just theright place for her to come to, isn't it? There are supposed to beseveral ghosts there.""That is why she was so anxious to come," said Mrs. Norbury; "she put offanother engagement in order to accept my invitation. She's had visionsand dreams, and all those sort of things, that have come true in a mostmarvellous manner, but she's never actually seen a ghost, and she'slonging to have that experience. She belongs to that Research Society,you know.""I expect she'll see the unhappy Lady Cullumpton, the most famous of allthe Exwood ghosts," said Mrs. Dole; "my ancestor, you know, Sir GervaseCullumpton, murdered his young bride in a fit of jealousy while they wereon a visit to Exwood. He strangled her in the stables with a stirrupleather, just after they had come in from riding, and she is seensometimes at dusk going about the lawns and the stable yard, in a longgreen habit, moaning and trying to get the thong from round her throat. Ishall be most interested to hear if your friend sees--""I don't know why she should be expected to see a trashy, traditionalapparition like the so-called Cullumpton ghost, that is only vouched forby housemaids and tipsy stable-boys, when my uncle, who was the owner ofExwood, committed suicide there under the most tragical circumstances,and most certainly haunts the place.""Mrs. Hatch-Mallard has evidently never read _Popple's County History_,"said Mrs. Dole icily, "or she would know that the Cullumpton ghost has awealth of evidence behind it--""Oh, Popple!" exclaimed Mrs. Hatch-Mallard scornfully; "any rubbishy oldstory is good enough for him. Popple, indeed! Now my uncle's ghost wasseen by a Rural Dean, who was also a Justice of the Peace. I shouldthink that would be good enough testimony for any one. Mrs. Norbury, Ishall take it as a deliberate personal affront if your clairvoyantefriend sees any other ghost except that of my uncle.""I daresay she won't see anything at all; she never has yet, you know,"said Mrs. Norbury hopefully."It was a most unfortunate topic for me to have broached," she lamentedafterwards to the owner of the chinchilla voice; "Exwood belongs to Mrs.Hatch-Mallard, and we've only got it on a short lease. A nephew of hershas been wanting to live there for some time, and if we offend her in anyway she'll refuse to renew the lease. I sometimes think these garden-parties are a mistake."The Norburys played bridge for the next three nights till nearly oneo'clock; they did not care for the game, but it reduced the time at theirguest's disposal for undesirable ghostly visitations."Miss Bleek is not likely to be in a frame of mind to see ghosts," saidHugo Norbury, "if she goes to bed with her brain awhirl with royal spadesand no trumps and grand slams.""I've talked to her for hours about Mrs. Hatch-Mallard's uncle," said hiswife, "and pointed out the exact spot where he killed himself, andinvented all sorts of impressive details, and I've found an old portraitof Lord John Russell and put it in her room, and told her that it'ssupposed to be a picture of the uncle in middle age. If Ada does see aghost at all it certainly ought to be old Hatch-Mallard's. At any rate,we've done our best."The precautions were in vain. On the third morning of her stay Ada Bleekcame down late to breakfast, her eyes looking very tired, but ablaze withexcitement, her hair done anyhow, and a large brown volume hugged underher arm."At last I've seen something supernatural!" she exclaimed, and gave Mrs.Norbury a fervent kiss, as though in gratitude for the opportunityafforded her."A ghost!" cried Mrs. Norbury, "not really!""Really and unmistakably!""Was it an oldish man in the dress of about fifty years ago?" asked Mrs.Norbury hopefully."Nothing of the sort," said Ada; "it was a white hedgehog.""A white hedgehog!" exclaimed both the Norburys, in tones of disconcertedastonishment."A huge white hedgehog with baleful yellow eyes," said Ada; "I was lyinghalf asleep in bed when suddenly I felt a sensation as of somethingsinister and unaccountable passing through the room. I sat up and lookedround, and there, under the window, I saw an evil, creeping thing, a sortof monstrous hedgehog, of a dirty white colour, with black, loathsomeclaws that clicked and scraped along the floor, and narrow, yellow eyesof indescribable evil. It slithered along for a yard or two, alwayslooking at me with its cruel, hideous eyes, then, when it reached thesecond window, which was open it clambered up the sill and vanished. Igot up at once and went to the window; there wasn't a sign of itanywhere. Of course, I knew it must be something from another world, butit was not till I turned up Popple's chapter on local traditions that Irealised what I had seen."She turned eagerly to the large brown volume and read: "'NicholasHerison, an old miser, was hung at Batchford in 1763 for the murder of afarm lad who had accidentally discovered his secret hoard. His ghost issupposed to traverse the countryside, appearing sometimes as a white owl,sometimes as a huge white hedgehog.""I expect you read the Popple story overnight, and that made you _think_you saw a hedgehog when you were only half awake," said Mrs. Norbury,hazarding a conjecture that probably came very near the truth.Ada scouted the possibility of such a solution of her apparition."This must be hushed up," said Mrs. Norbury quickly; "the servants--""Hushed up!" exclaimed Ada, indignantly; "I'm writing a long report on itfor the Research Society."It was then that Hugo Norbury, who is not naturally a man of brilliantresource, had one of the really useful inspirations of his life."It was very wicked of us, Miss Bleek," he said, "but it would be a shameto let it go further. That white hedgehog is an old joke of ours;stuffed albino hedgehog, you know, that my father brought home fromJamaica, where they grow to enormous size. We hide it in the room with astring on it, run one end of the string through the window; then we pullif from below and it comes scraping along the floor, just as you'vedescribed, and finally jerks out of the window. Taken in heaps ofpeople; they all read up Popple and think it's old Harry Nicholson'sghost; we always stop them from writing to the papers about it, though.That would be carrying matters too far."Mrs. Hatch-Mallard renewed the lease in due course, but Ada Bleek hasnever renewed her friendship.