The Unrest-Cure
On the rack in the railway carriage immediately opposite Clovis was a solidlywrought travelling bag, with a carefully written label, on which was inscribed,"J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near Slowborough." Immediately below therack sat the human embodiment of the label, a solid, sedate individual, sedatelydressed, sedately conversational. Even without his conversation (which wasaddressed to a friend seated by his side, and touched chiefly on such topics asthe backwardness of Roman hyacinths and the prevalence of measles at theRectory), one could have gauged fairly accurately the temperament and mentaloutlook of the travelling bag's owner. But he seemed unwilling to leave anythingto the imagination of a casual observer, and his talk grew presently personaland introspective."I don't know how it is," he told his friend, "I'm not much over forty, but Iseem to have settled down into a deep groove of elderly middle-age. My sistershows the same tendency. We like everything to be exactly in its accustomedplace; we like things to happen exactly at their appointed times; we likeeverything to be usual, orderly, punctual, methodical, to a hair's breadth, to aminute. It distresses and upsets us if it is not so. For instance, to take avery trifling matter, a thrush has built its nest year after year in the catkin-tree on the lawn; this year, for no obvious reason, it is building in the ivy onthe garden wall. 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 gives us even morecause for annoyance. We don't feel that we want a change of thrush at our timeof life; and yet, as I have said, we have scarcely reached an age when thesethings should make themselves 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 under stress of toomuch worry and strenuous living; well, you're suffering from overmuch repose andplacidity, and you need the opposite kind of treatment.""But where would one go for such a thing?""Well, you might stand as an Orange candidate for Kilkenny, or do a course ofdistrict visiting in one of the Apache quarters of Paris, or give lectures inBerlin to prove that most of Wagner's music was written by Gambetta; and there'salways the interior of Morocco to travel in. But, to be really effective, theUnrest-cure ought to be tried in the home. How you would do it I haven't thefaintest idea."It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis became galvanized intoalert attention. After all, his two days' visit to an elderly relative atSlowborough did not promise much excitement. Before the train had stopped he haddecorated his sinister shirt-cuff with the inscription, "J. P. Huddle, TheWarren, Tilfield, near Slowborough."Two mornings later Mr. Huddle broke in on his sister's privacy as she satreading Country Life in the morning room. It was her day and hour and place forreading Country Life, and the intrusion was absolutely irregular; but he bore inhis hand a telegram, and in that household telegrams were recognized ashappening by the hand of God. This particular telegram partook of the nature ofa thunderbolt. "Bishop examining confirmation class in neighbourhood unable stayrectory on account measles invokes your hospitality 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 who realizes too late the indiscretionof speaking to strange Bishops. Miss Huddle was the first to rally; she dislikedthunderbolts as fervently as her brother did, but the womanly instinct in hertold her that thunderbolts must be fed."We can curry the cold duck," she said. It was not the appointed day for curry,but the little orange envelope involved a certain departure from rule andcustom. Her brother said nothing, but his eyes thanked her for being brave."A young gentleman to see you," announced the parlour-maid."The secretary!" murmured the Huddles in unison; they instantly stiffened into ademeanour which proclaimed that, though they held all strangers to be guilty,they were willing to hear anything they might have to say in their defence. Theyoung gentleman, who came into the room with a certain elegant haughtiness, wasnot at all Huddle's idea of a bishop's secretary; he had not supposed that theepiscopal establishment could have afforded such an expensively upholsteredarticle when there were so many other claims on its resources. The face wasfleetingly familiar; if he had bestowed more attention on the fellow-travellersitting opposite him in the railway carriage two days before he might haverecognized Clovis in his present visitor."You are the Bishop's secretary?" asked Huddle, becoming consciouslydeferential."His confidential secretary," answered Clovis. "You may call me Stanislaus; myother name doesn't matter. The Bishop and Colonel Alberti 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 the neighbourhood, isn't he?"asked Miss Huddle."Ostensibly," was the dark reply, followed by a request for a large-scale map ofthe locality.Clovis was still immersed in a seemingly profound study of the map when anothertelegram arrived. It was addressed to "Prince Stanislaus, care of Huddle, TheWarren, etc." Clovis glanced at the contents and announced: "The Bishop andAlberti won't be here till late in the afternoon." Then he returned to hisscrutiny of the map.The luncheon was not a very festive function. The princely secretary ate anddrank with fair appetite, but severely discouraged conversation. At the finishof the meal he broke suddenly into a radiant smile, thanked his hostess for acharming repast, and kissed her hand with deferential rapture. Miss Huddle wasunable to decide in her mind whether the action savoured of Louis Quatorziancourtliness or the reprehensible Roman attitude towards the Sabine women. It wasnot her day for having a headache, but she felt that the circumstances excusedher, and retired to her room to have as much headache as was possible before theBishop's arrival. Clovis, having asked the way to the nearest telegraph office,disappeared presently down the carriage drive. Mr. Huddle met him in the hallsome two hours later, 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!" exclaimed Huddle."No one knows he is here," said Clovis; "the quieter we can keep matters thebetter. And on no account disturb him in the library. Those are his orders.""But what is all this mystery about? And who is Alberti? And isn't the Bishopgoing to have tea?""The Bishop is out for blood, not tea.""Blood!" gasped Huddle, who did not find that the thunderbolt improved onacquaintance."Tonight is going to be a great night in the history of Christendom," saidClovis. "We are going to massacre every Jew in the neighbourhood.""To massacre the Jews!" said Huddle indignantly. "Do you mean to tell me there'sa general rising against them?""No, it's the Bishop's own idea. He's in there arranging all the details now.""But - the Bishop is such a tolerant, humane man.""That is precisely what will heighten the effect of his action. The sensationwill 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 yacht is inreadiness.""But there aren't thirty Jews in the whole neighbourhood," protested Huddle,whose brain, under the repeated shocks of the day, was operating with theuncertainty of a telegraph wire during earthquake disturbances."We have twenty-six on our list," said Clovis, referring to a bundle of notes."We shall be able to deal with them all the more thoroughly.""Do you mean to tell me that you are meditating violence against a man like SirLeon Birberry," stammered Huddle; "he's one of the most respected men in thecountry.""He's down on our list," said Clovis carelessly; "after all, we've got men wecan trust to do our job, so we shan't have to rely on local assistance. Andwe've got some Boy-scouts helping us as auxiliaries.""Boy-scouts!""Yes; when they understood there was real killing to be done they were evenkeener than the men.""This thing will be a blot on the Twentieth Century!""And your house will be the blotting-pad. Have you realized that half the papersof Europe and the United States will publish pictures of it? By the way, I'vesent some photographs of you and your sister, that I found in the library, tothe Matin and Die Woche; 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 almost too intenseto be disclosed in speech, but he managed to gasp out: "There aren't any Jews inthis 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 have orders to fire onany one who leaves the house without my signal of permission. Another armedpicquet is in ambush near the front gate. The Boy-scouts watch the backpremises."At this moment the cheerful hoot of a motor-horn was heard from the drive.Huddle rushed to the hall door with the feeling of a man half-awakened from anightmare, and beheld Sir Leon Birberry, who had driven himself over in his car."I got your telegram," he said; "what's up?"Telegram? It seemed to be a day of telegrams."Come here at once. Urgent. James Huddle," was the purport of the messagedisplayed before Huddle's bewildered eyes."I see it all!" he exclaimed suddenly in a voice shaken with agitation, and witha look of agony in the direction of the shrubbery he hauled the astonishedBirberry into the house. Tea had just been laid in the hall, but the nowthoroughly panic-stricken Huddle dragged his protesting guest upstairs, and in afew minutes' time the entire household had been summoned to that region ofmomentary safety. Clovis alone graced the tea-table with his presence; thefanatics in the library were evidently too immersed in their monstrousmachinations to dally with the solace of teacup and hot toast. Once the youthrose, in answer to the summons of the front-door bell, and admitted Mr. PaulIsaacs, shoemaker and parish councillor, who had also received a pressinginvitation to The Warren. With an atrocious assumption of courtesy, which aBorgia could hardly have outdone, the secretary escorted this new captive of hisnet 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 twiceClovis left the house to stroll across to the shrubbery, returning always to thelibrary, for the purpose evidently of making a brief report. Once he took in theletters from the evening postman, and brought them to the top of the stairs withpunctilious politeness. After his next absence he came half-way up the stairs tomake an announcement."The Boy-scouts mistook my signal, and have killed the postman. I've had verylittle practice in this sort of thing, you see. Another time I shall do better."The housemaid, who was engaged to be married to the evening postman, gave way toclamorous grief."Remember that your mistress has a headache," said J. P. Huddle. (Miss Huddle'sheadache was worse.)Clovis hastened downstairs, and after a short visit to the library returned withanother message:"The Bishop is sorry to hear that Miss Huddle has a headache. He is issuingorders that as far as possible no firearms shall be used near the house; anykilling that is necessary on the premises will be done with cold steel. TheBishop does not see why a man should not be a gentleman as well as a Christian."That was the last they saw of Clovis; it was nearly seven o'clock, and hiselderly relative liked him to dress for dinner. But, though he had left them forever, the lurking suggestion of his presence haunted the lower regions of thehouse during the long hours of the wakeful night, and every creak of thestairway, every rustle of wind through the shrubbery, was fraught with horriblemeaning. At about seven next morning the gardener's boy and the early postmanfinally convinced the watchers that the Twentieth Century was still unblotted."I don't suppose," mused Clovis, as an early train bore him townwards, "thatthey will be in the least grateful for the Unrest-cure."
The Unrest-Cure was featured as
TheShort Story of the Day on
Fri, Jul 05, 2013
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