The Hen

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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"Dora Bittholz is coming on Thursday," said Mrs.Sangrail."This next Thursday? " asked ClovisHis mother nodded."You've rather done it, haven't you?" he chuckled;"Jane Martlet has only been here five days, and she neverstays less than a fortnight, even when she's askeddefinitely for a week. You'll never get her out of thehouse by Thursday.""Why should I?" asked Mrs. Sangrail; "she and Doraare good friends, aren't they? They used to be, as faras I remember.""They used to be; that's what makes them all themore bitter now. Each feels that she has nursed a viperin her bosom. Nothing fans the flame of human resentmentso much as the discovery that one's bosom has beenutilised as a snake sanatorium.""But what has happened? Has some one been makingmischief?""Not exactly," said Clovis; "a hen came betweenthem.""A hen? What hen?""It was a bronze Leghorn or some such exotic breed,and Dora sold it to Jane at a rather exotic price. Theyboth go in for prize poultry, you know, and Jane thoughtshe was going to get her money back in a large family ofpedigree chickens. The bird turned out to be anabstainer from the egg habit, and I'm told that theletters which passed between the two women were arevelation as to how much invective could be got on to asheet of notepaper.""How ridiculous!" said Mrs. Sangrail. "Couldn'tsome of their friends compose the quarrel?""People tried," said Clovis, "but it must have beenrather like composing the storm music of the `FliegendeHollander.' Jane was willing to take back some of hermost libellous remarks if Dora would take back the hen,but Dora said that would be owning herself in the wrong,and you know she'd as soon think of owning slum propertyin Whitechapel as do that.""It's a most awkward situation," said Mrs. Sangrail."Do you suppose they won't speak to one another?""On the contrary, the difficulty will be to get themto leave off. Their remarks on each other's conduct andcharacter have hitherto been governed by the fact thatonly four ounces of plain speaking can be sent throughthe post for a penny.""I can't put Dora off," said Mrs. Sangrail. "I'vealready postponed her visit once, and nothing short of amiracle would make Jane leave before her self-allottedfortnight is over.""Miracles are rather in my line," said Clovis. "Idon't pretend to be very hopeful in this case but I'll domy best.""As long as you don't drag me into it - " stipulatedhis mother.* * * *"Servants are a bit of a nuisance," muttered Clovis,as he sat in the smoking-room after lunch, talkingfitfully to Jane Martlet in the intervals of puttingtogether the materials of a cocktail, which he hadirreverently patented under the name of an Ella WheelerWilcox. It was partly compounded of old brandy andpartly of curacoa; there were other ingredients, but theywere never indiscriminately revealed."Servants a nuisance!" exclaimed Jane, bounding intothe topic with the exuberant plunge of a hunter when itleaves the high road and feels turf under its hoofs; "Ishould think they were! The trouble I've had in gettingsuited this year you would hardly believe. But I don'tsee what you have to complain of - your mother is sowonderfully lucky in her servants. Sturridge, forinstance - he's been with you for years, and I'm surehe's a paragon as butlers go.""That's just the trouble," said Clovis. "It's whenservants have been with you for years that they become areally serious nuisance. The 'here to-day and gone to-morrow' sort don't matter - you've simply got to replacethem; it's the stayers and the paragons that are the realworry.""But if they give satisfaction - ""That doesn't prevent them from giving trouble.Now, you've mentioned Sturridge - it was Sturridge I wasparticularly thinking of when I made the observationabout servants being a nuisance.""The excellent Sturridge a nuisance! I can'tbelieve it.""I know he's excellent, and we just couldn't getalong without him; he's the one reliable element in thisrather haphazard household. But his very orderliness hashad an effect on him. Have you ever considered what itmust be like to go on unceasingly doing the correct thingin the correct manner in the same surroundings for thegreater part of a lifetime? To know and ordain andsuperintend exactly what silver and glass and table linenshall be used and set out on what occasions, to havecellar and pantry and plate-cupboard under a minutelydevised and undeviating administration, to be noiseless,impalpable, omnipresent, and, as far as your owndepartment is concerned, omniscient?""I should go mad," said Jane with conviction."Exactly," said Clovis thoughtfully, swallowing hiscompleted Ella Wheeler Wilcox."But Sturridge hasn't gone mad," said Jane with aflutter of inquiry in her voice."On most points he's thoroughly sane and reliable,"said Clovis, "but at times he is subject to the mostobstinate delusions, and on those occasions he becomesnot merely a nuisance but a decided embarrassment.""What sort of delusions?""Unfortunately they usually centre round one of theguests of the house party, and that is where theawkwardness comes in. For instance, he took it into hishead that Matilda Sheringham was the Prophet Elijah, andas all that he remembered about Elijah's history was theepisode of the ravens in the wilderness he absolutelydeclined to interfere with what he imagined to beMatilda's private catering arrangements, wouldn't allowany tea to be sent up to her in the morning, and if hewas waiting at table he passed her over altogether inhanding round the dishes.""How very unpleasant. Whatever did you do aboutit?""Oh, Matilda got fed, after a fashion, but it wasjudged to be best for her to cut her visit short. It wasreally the only thing to be done," said Clovis with someemphasis."I shouldn't have done that," said Jane, "I shouldhave humoured him in some way. I certainly shouldn'thave gone away."Clovis frowned."It is not always wise to humour people when theyget these ideas into their heads. There's no knowing towhat lengths they may go if you encourage them.""You don't mean to say he might be dangerous, doyou?" asked Jane with some anxiety."One can never be certain," said Clovis; "now andthen he gets some idea about a guest which might take anunfortunate turn. That is precisely what is worrying meat the present moment.""What, has he taken a fancy about some one herenow?" asked Jane excitedly; "how thrilling! Do tell mewho it is."You," said Clovis briefly."Me?"Clovis nodded."Who on earth does he think I am?""Queen Anne," was the unexpected answer."Queen Anne! What an idea. But, anyhow, there'snothing dangerous about her; she's such a colourlesspersonality.""What does posterity chiefly say about Queen Anne?"asked Clovis rather sternly."The only thing that I can remember about her," saidJane, "is the saying 'Queen Anne's dead.'""Exactly," said Clovis, staring at the glass thathad held the Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "dead.""Do you mean he takes me for the ghost of QueenAnne?" asked Jane."Ghost? Dear no. No one ever heard of a ghost thatcame down to breakfast and ate kidneys and toast andhoney with a healthy appetite. No, it's the fact of youbeing so very much alive and flourishing that perplexesand annoys him. All his life he has been accustomed tolook on Queen Anne as the personification of everythingthat is dead and done with, 'as dead as Queen Anne,' youknow; and now he has to fill your glass at lunch anddinner and listen to your accounts of the gay time youhad at the Dublin Horse Show, and naturally he feels thatsomething's very wrong with you.""But he wouldn't be downright hostile to me on thataccount, would he?" Jane asked anxiously."I didn't get really alarmed about it till lunch to-day," said Clovis; "I caught him glowering at you with avery sinister look and muttering: 'Ought to be dead longago, she ought, and some one should see to it.' That'swhy I mentioned the matter to you.""This is awful," said Jane; "your mother must betold about it at once.""My mother mustn't hear a word about it," saidClovis earnestly; "it would upset her dreadfully. Sherelies on Sturridge for everything.""But he might kill me at any moment," protestedJane."Not at any moment; he's busy with the silver allthe afternoon.""You'll have to keep a sharp look-out all the timeand be on your guard to frustrate any murderous attack,"said Jane, adding in a tone of weak obstinacy: "It's adreadful situation to be in, with a mad butler danglingover you like the sword of What's-his-name, but I'mcertainly not going to cut my visit short."Clovis swore horribly under his breath; the miraclewas an obvious misfire.It was in the hall the next morning after a latebreakfast that Clovis had his final inspiration as hestood engaged in coaxing rust spots from an old putter."Where is Miss Martlet?" he asked the butler, whowas at that moment crossing the hall."Writing letters in the morning-room, sir," saidSturridge, announcing a fact of which his questioner wasalready aware."She wants to copy the inscription on that oldbasket-hilted sabre," said Clovis, pointing to avenerable weapon hanging on the wall. "I wish you'd takeit to her; my hands are all over oil. Take it withoutthe sheath, it will be less trouble."The butler drew the blade, still keen and bright inits well-cared for old age, and carried it into themorning-room. There was a door near the writing-tableleading to a back stairway; Jane vanished through it withsuch lightning rapidity that the butler doubted whethershe had seen him come in. Half an hour later Clovis wasdriving her and her hastily-packed luggage to thestation."Mother will be awfully vexed when she comes backfrom her ride and finds you have gone," he observed tothe departing guest, "but I'll make up some story aboutan urgent wire having called you away. It wouldn't do toalarm her unnecessarily about Sturridge."Jane sniffed slightly at Clovis' ideas ofunnecessary alarm, and was almost rude to the young manwho came round with thoughtful inquiries as to luncheon-baskets.The miracle lost some of its usefulness from thefact that Dora wrote the same day postponing the date ofher visit, but, at any rate, Clovis holds the record asthe only human being who ever hustled Jane Martlet out ofthe time-table of her migrations.

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