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WINSOME WINNIE
AND OTHER NEW
NONSENSE NOVELS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
THE HOHENZOLLERNS IN AMERICA
AND OTHER IMPOSSIBILITIES
LITERARY LAPSES
NONSENSE NOVELS
SUNSHINE SKETCHES OF A LITTLE
TOWN. With a Frontispiece by Cyrus Cuneo
BEHIND THE BEYOND AND OTHER
CONTRIBUTIONS TO HUMAN
KNOWLEDGE. With 17 Illustrations
by "FISH"
ARCADIAN ADVENTURES WITH
THE IDLE RICH
MOONBEAMS FROM THE LARGER
LUNACY
ESSAYS AND LITERARY STUDIES
FURTHER FOOLISHNESS: SKETCHES
AND SATIRES ON THE FOLLIES
OF THE DAY. With coloured Frontispiece
by "FISH" and 5 other Plates by
M. BLOOD.
FRENZIED FICTION
THE UNSOLVED RIDDLE OF SOCIAL
JUSTICE.
THE BODLEY HEAD
_WINSOME WINNIE
AND OTHER NEW
NONSENSE NOVELS_
_BY STEPHEN LEACOCK_
_LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXXI_
_Printed in Great Britain by R. Clay & Sons, Ltd., London and Bungay_
_CONTENTS_
CHAP.
I. WINSOME WINNIE; OR, TRIAL AND TEMPTATION
I. THROWN ON THE WORLD
II. A RENCOUNTER
III. FRIENDS IN DISTRESS
IV. A GAMBLING PARTY IN ST. JAMES'S CLOSE
V. THE ABDUCTION
VI. THE UNKNOWN
VII. THE PROPOSAL
VIII. WEDDED AT LAST
II. JOHN AND I; OR, HOW I NEARLY LOST MY HUSBAND
III. THE SPLIT IN THE CABINET; OR, THE FATE OF ENGLAND
IV. WHO DO YOU THINK DID IT? OR, THE MIXED-UP MURDER MYSTERY
I. HE DINED WITH ME LAST NIGHT
II. I MUST SAVE HER LIFE
III. I MUST BUY A BOOK ON BILLIARDS
IV. THAT IS NOT BILLIARD CHALK
V. HAS ANYBODY HERE SEEN KELLY?
VI. SHOW ME THE MAN WHO WORE THOSE BOOTS
VII. OH, MR. KENT, SAVE ME!
VIII. YOU ARE PETER KELLY
IX. LET ME TELL YOU THE STORY OF MY LIFE
X. SO DO I
V. BROKEN BARRIERS; OR, RED LOVE ON A BLUE ISLAND
VI. THE KIDNAPPED PLUMBER: A TALE OF THE NEW TIME
VII. THE BLUE AND THE GREY: A PRE-WAR WAR STORY
VIII. BUGGAM GRANGE: A GOOD OLD GHOST STORY
I
WINSOME WINNIE
OR, TRIAL AND TEMPTATION
(_Narrated after the best models of 1875_)
_I.--Winsome Winnie; or, Trial and Temptation._
CHAPTER I
THROWN ON THE WORLD
"Miss Winnifred," said the Old Lawyer, looking keenly over and through
his shaggy eyebrows at the fair young creature seated before him, "you
are this morning twenty-one."
Winnifred Clair raised her deep mourning veil, lowered her eyes and
folded her hands.
"This morning," continued Mr. Bonehead, "my guardianship is at an end."
There was a tone of something like emotion in the voice of the stern old
lawyer, while for a moment his eye glistened with something like a tear
which he hastened to remove with something like a handkerchief. "I have
therefore sent for you," he went on, "to render you an account of my
trust."
He heaved a sigh at her, and then, reaching out his hand, he pulled the
woollen bell-rope up and down several times.
An aged clerk appeared.
"Did the bell ring?" he asked.
"I think it did," said the Lawyer. "Be good enough, Atkinson, to fetch
me the papers of the estate of the late Major Clair defunct."
"I have them here," said the clerk, and he laid upon the table a bundle
of faded blue papers, and withdrew.
"Miss Winnifred," resumed the Old Lawyer, "I will now proceed to give
you an account of the disposition that has been made of your property.
This first document refers to the sum of two thousand pounds left to you
by your great uncle. It is lost."
Winnifred bowed.
"Pray give me your best attention and I will endeavour to explain to you
how I lost it."
"Oh, sir," cried Winnifred, "I am only a poor girl unskilled in the
ways of the world, and knowing nothing but music and French; I fear that
the details of business are beyond my grasp. But if it is lost, I gather
that it is gone."
"It is," said Mr. Bonehead. "I lost it in a marginal option in an
undeveloped oil company. I suppose that means nothing to you."
"Alas," sighed Winnifred, "nothing."
"Very good," resumed the Lawyer. "Here next we have a statement in
regard to the thousand pounds left you under the will of your maternal
grandmother. I lost it at Monte Carlo. But I need not fatigue you with
the details."
"Pray spare them," cried the girl.
"This final item relates to the sum of fifteen hundred pounds placed in
trust for you by your uncle. I lost it on a horse race. That horse,"
added the Old Lawyer with rising excitement, "ought to have won. He was
coming down the stretch like blue--but there, there, my dear, you must
forgive me if the recollection of it still stirs me to anger. Suffice it
to say the horse fell. I have kept for your inspection the score card
of the race, and the betting tickets. You will find everything in
order."
"Sir," said Winnifred, as Mr. Bonehead proceeded to fold up his papers,
"I am but a poor inadequate girl, a mere child in business, but tell me,
I pray, what is left to me of the money that you have managed?"
"Nothing," said the Lawyer. "Everything is gone. And I regret to say,
Miss Clair, that it is my painful duty to convey to you a further
disclosure of a distressing nature. It concerns your birth."
"Just Heaven!" cried Winnifred, with a woman's quick intuition. "Does it
concern my father?"
"It does, Miss Clair. Your father was not your father."
"Oh, sir," exclaimed Winnifred. "My poor mother! How she must have
suffered!"
"Your mother was not your mother," said the Old Lawyer gravely. "Nay,
nay, do not question me. There is a dark secret about your birth."
"Alas," said Winnifred, wringing her hands, "I am, then, alone in the
world and penniless."
"You are," said Mr. Bonehead, deeply moved. "You are, unfortunately,
thrown upon the world. But, if you ever find yourself in a position
where you need help and advice, do not scruple to come to me.
Especially," he added, "for advice. And meantime let me ask you in what
way do you propose to earn your livelihood?"
"I have my needle," said Winnifred.
"Let me see it," said the Lawyer.
Winnifred showed it to him.
"I fear," said Mr. Bonehead, shaking his head, "you will not do much
with that."
Then he rang the bell again.
"Atkinson," he said, "take Miss Clair out and throw her on the world."
CHAPTER II
A RENCOUNTER
As Winnifred Clair passed down the stairway leading from the Lawyer's
office, a figure appeared before her in the corridor, blocking the way.
It was that of a tall, aristocratic-looking man, whose features wore
that peculiarly saturnine appearance seen only in the English nobility.
The face, while entirely gentlemanly in its general aspect, was stamped
with all the worst passions of mankind.
Had the innocent girl but known it, the face was that of Lord Wynchgate,
one of the most contemptible of the greater nobility of Britain, and the
figure was his too.
"Ha!" exclaimed the dissolute Aristocrat, "whom have we here? Stay,
pretty one, and let me see the fair countenance that I divine behind
your veil."
"Sir," said Winnifred, drawing herself up proudly, "let me pass, I
pray."
"Not so," cried Wynchgate, reaching out and seizing his intended victim
by the wrist, "not till I have at least seen the colour of those eyes
and imprinted a kiss upon those fair lips."
With a brutal laugh, he drew the struggling girl towards him.
In another moment the aristocratic villain would have succeeded in
lifting the veil of the unhappy girl, when suddenly a ringing voice
cried, "Hold! stop! desist! begone! lay to! cut it out!"
With these words a tall, athletic young man, attracted doubtless by the
girl's cries, leapt into the corridor from the street without. His
figure was that, more or less, of a Greek god, while his face, although
at the moment inflamed with anger, was of an entirely moral and
permissible configuration.
"Save me! save me!" cried Winnifred.
"I will," cried the Stranger, rushing towards Lord Wynchgate with
uplifted cane.
But the cowardly Aristocrat did not await the onslaught of the unknown.
"You shall yet be mine!" he hissed in Winnifred's ear, and, releasing
his grasp, he rushed with a bound past the rescuer into the street.
"Oh, sir," said Winnifred, clasping her hands and falling on her knees
in gratitude. "I am only a poor inadequate girl, but if the prayers of
one who can offer naught but her prayers to her benefactor can avail to
the advantage of one who appears to have every conceivable advantage
already, let him know that they are his."
"Nay," said the stranger, as he aided the blushing girl to rise, "kneel
not to me, I beseech. If I have done aught to deserve the gratitude of
one who, whoever she is, will remain for ever present as a bright memory
in the breast of one in whose breast such memories are all too few, he
is all too richly repaid. If she does that, he is blessed indeed."
"She does. He is!" cried Winnifred, deeply moved. "Here on her knees she
blesses him. And now," she added, "we must part. Seek not to follow me.
One who has aided a poor girl in the hour of need will respect her wish
when she tells him that, alone and buffeted by the world, her one
prayer is that he will leave her."
"He will!" cried the Unknown. "He will. He does."
"Leave me, yes, leave me," exclaimed Winnifred.
"I will," said the Unknown.
"Do, do," sobbed the distraught girl. "Yet stay, one moment more. Let
she, who has received so much from her benefactor, at least know his
name."
"He cannot! He must not!" exclaimed the Indistinguishable. "His birth is
such--but enough!"
He tore his hand from the girl's detaining clasp and rushed forth from
the place.
Winnifred Clair was alone.
CHAPTER III
FRIENDS IN DISTRESS
Winnifred was now in the humblest lodgings in the humblest part of
London. A simple bedroom and sitting-room sufficed for her wants. Here
she sat on her trunk, bravely planning for the future.
"Miss Clair," said the Landlady, knocking at the door, "do try to eat
something. You must keep up your health. See, I've brought you a
kippered herring."
Winnifred ate the herring, her heart filled with gratitude. With renewed
strength she sallied forth on the street to resume her vain search for
employment. For two weeks now Winnifred Clair had sought employment even
of the humblest character. At various dress-making establishments she
had offered, to no purpose, the services of her needle. They had looked
at it and refused it.
In vain she had offered to various editors and publishers the use of her
pen. They had examined it coldly and refused it.
She had tried fruitlessly to obtain a position of trust. The various
banks and trust companies to which she had applied declined her
services. In vain she had advertised in the newspapers offering to take
sole charge of a little girl. No one would give her one.
Her slender stock of money which she had in her purse on leaving Mr.
Bonehead's office was almost consumed.
Each night the unhappy girl returned to her lodging exhausted with
disappointment and fatigue.
Yet even in her adversity she was not altogether friendless.
Each evening, on her return home, a soft tap was heard at the door.
"Miss Clair," said the voice of the Landlady, "I have brought you a
fried egg. Eat it. You must keep up your strength."
Then one morning a terrible temptation had risen before her.
"Miss Clair," said the manager of an agency to which she had applied, "I
am glad to be able at last to make you a definite offer of employment.
Are you prepared to go upon the stage?"
The stage!
A flush of shame and indignation swept over the girl. Had it come to
this? Little versed in the world as Winnifred was, she knew but too well
the horror, the iniquity, the depth of degradation implied in the word.
"Yes," continued the agent, "I have a letter here asking me to recommend
a young lady of suitable refinement to play the part of Eliza in _Uncle
Tom's Cabin._ Will you accept?"
"Sir," said Winnifred proudly, "answer me first this question fairly. If
I go upon the stage, can I, as Eliza, remain as innocent, as simple as I
am now?"
"You can not," said the manager.
"Then, sir," said Winnifred, rising from her chair, "let me say this.
Your offer is doubtless intended to be kind. Coming from the class you
do, and inspired by the ideas you are, you no doubt mean well. But let a
poor girl, friendless and alone, tell you that rather than accept such a
degradation she will die."
"Very good," said the manager.
"I go forth," cried Winnifred, "to perish."
"All right," said the manager.
The door closed behind her. Winnifred Clair, once more upon the street,
sank down upon the steps of the building in a swoon.
But at this very juncture Providence, which always watches over the
innocent and defenceless, was keeping its eye direct upon Winnifred.
At that very moment when our heroine sank fainting upon the doorstep, a
handsome equipage, drawn by two superb black steeds, happened to pass
along the street.
Its appearance and character proclaimed it at once to be one of those
vehicles in which only the superior classes of the exclusive aristocracy
are privileged to ride. Its sides were emblazoned with escutcheons,
insignia and other paraphernalia. The large gilt coronet that appeared
up its panelling, surmounted by a bunch of huckleberries, quartered in a
field of potatoes, indicated that its possessor was, at least, of the
rank of marquis. A coachman and two grooms rode in front, while two
footmen, seated in the boot, or box at the rear, contrived, by the
immobility of their attitude and the melancholy of their faces, to
inspire the scene with an exclusive and aristocratic grandeur.
The occupants of the equipage--for we refuse to count the menials as
being such--were two in number, a lady and gentleman, both of advanced
years. Their snow-white hair and benign countenances indicated that they
belonged to that rare class of beings to whom rank and wealth are but an
incentive to nobler things. A gentle philanthropy played all over their
faces, and their eyes sought eagerly in the passing scene of the humble
street for new objects of benefaction.
Those acquainted with the countenances of the aristocracy would have
recognized at once in the occupants of the equipage the Marquis of
Muddlenut and his spouse, the Marchioness.
It was the eye of the Marchioness which first detected the form of
Winnifred Clair upon the doorstep.
"Hold! pause! stop!" she cried, in lively agitation.
The horses were at once pulled in, the brakes applied to the wheels, and
with the aid of a powerful lever, operated by three of the menials, the
carriage was brought to a standstill.
"See! Look!" cried the Marchioness. "She has fainted. Quick, William,
your flask. Let us hasten to her aid."
In another moment the noble lady was bending over the prostrate form of
Winnifred Clair, and pouring brandy between her lips.
Winnifred opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she asked feebly.
"She speaks!" cried the Marchioness. "Give her another flaskful."
After the second flask the girl sat up.
"Tell me," she cried, clasping her hands, "what has happened? Where am
I?"
"With friends!" answered the Marchioness. "But do not essay to speak.
Drink this. You must husband your strength. Meantime, let us drive you
to your home."
Winnifred was lifted tenderly by the menservants into the aristocratic
equipage. The brake was unset, the lever reversed, and the carriage
thrown again into motion.
On the way Winnifred, at the solicitation of the Marchioness, related
her story.
"My poor child!" exclaimed the lady, "how you must have suffered. Thank
Heaven it is over now. To-morrow we shall call for you and bring you
away with us to Muddlenut Chase."
Alas, could she but have known it, before the morrow should dawn, worse
dangers still were in store for our heroine. But what these dangers
were, we must reserve for another chapter.
CHAPTER IV
A GAMBLING PARTY IN ST. JAMES'S CLOSE
We must now ask our readers to shift the scene--if they don't mind doing
this for us--to the apartments of the Earl of Wynchgate in St. James's
Close. The hour is nine o'clock in the evening, and the picture before
us is one of revelry and dissipation so characteristic of the nobility
of England. The atmosphere of the room is thick with blue Havana smoke
such as is used by the nobility, while on the green baize table a litter
of counters and cards, in which aces, kings, and even two spots are
heaped in confusion, proclaim the reckless nature of the play.
Seated about the table are six men, dressed in the height of fashion,
each with collar and white necktie and broad white shirt, their faces
stamped with all, or nearly all, of the baser passions of mankind.
Lord Wynchgate--for he it was who sat at the head of the table--rose
with an oath, and flung his cards upon the table.
All turned and looked at him, with an oath. "Curse it, Dogwood," he
exclaimed, with another oath, to the man who sat beside him. "Take the
money. I play no more to-night. My luck is out."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Lord Dogwood, with a third oath, "your mind is not on
the cards. Who is the latest young beauty, pray, who so absorbs you? I
hear a whisper in town of a certain misadventure of yours----"
"Dogwood," said Wynchgate, clenching his fist, "have a care, man, or you
shall measure the length of my sword."
Both noblemen faced each other, their hands upon their swords.
"My lords, my lords!" pleaded a distinguished-looking man of more
advanced years, who sat at one side of the table, and in whose features
the habitués of diplomatic circles would have recognized the handsome
lineaments of the Marquis of Frogwater, British Ambassador to Siam, "let
us have no quarrelling. Come, Wynchgate, come, Dogwood," he continued,
with a mild oath, "put up your swords. It were a shame to waste time in
private quarrelling. They may be needed all too soon in Cochin China,
or, for the matter of that," he added sadly, "in Cambodia or in Dutch
Guinea."
"Frogwater," said young Lord Dogwood, with a generous flush, "I was
wrong. Wynchgate, your hand."
The two noblemen shook hands.
"My friends," said Lord Wynchgate, "in asking you to abandon our game, I
had an end in view. I ask your help in an affair of the heart."
"Ha! excellent!" exclaimed the five noblemen. "We are with you heart and
soul."
"I propose this night," continued Wynchgate, "with your help, to carry
off a young girl, a female!"
"An abduction!" exclaimed the Ambassador somewhat sternly. "Wynchgate, I
cannot countenance this."
"Mistake me not," said the Earl, "I intend to abduct her. But I propose
nothing dishonourable. It is my firm resolve to offer her marriage."
"Then," said Lord Frogwater, "I am with you."
"Gentlemen," concluded Wynchgate, "all is ready. The coach is below. I
have provided masks, pistols, and black cloaks. Follow me."
A few moments later, a coach, with the blinds drawn, in which were six
noblemen armed to the teeth, might have been seen, were it not for the
darkness, approaching the humble lodging in which Winnifred Clair was
sheltered.
But what it did when it got there, we must leave to another chapter.
CHAPTER V
THE ABDUCTION
The hour was twenty minutes to ten on the evening described in our last
chapter.
Winnifred Clair was seated, still fully dressed, at the window of the
bedroom, looking out over the great city.
A light tap came at the door.
"If it's a fried egg," called Winnifred softly, "I do not need it. I ate
yesterday."
"No," said the voice of the Landlady. "You are wanted below."
"I!" exclaimed Winnifred, "below!"
"You," said the Landlady, "below. A party of gentlemen have called for
you."
"Gentlemen," exclaimed Winnifred, putting her hand to her brow in
perplexity, "for me! at this late hour! Here! This evening! In this
house?"
"Yes," repeated the Landlady, "six gentlemen. They arrived in a closed
coach. They are all closely masked and heavily armed. They beg you will
descend at once."
"Just Heaven!" cried the Unhappy Girl. "Is it possible that they mean to
abduct me?"
"They do," said the Landlady. "They said so!"
"Alas!" cried Winnifred, "I am powerless. Tell them"--she
hesitated--"tell them I will be down immediately. Let them not come up.
Keep them below on any pretext. Show them an album. Let them look at the
goldfish. Anything, but not here! I shall be ready in a moment."
Feverishly she made herself ready. As hastily as possible she removed
all traces of tears from her face. She threw about her shoulders an
opera cloak, and with a light Venetian scarf half concealed the beauty
of her hair and features. "Abducted!" she murmured, "and by six of them!
I think she said six. Oh, the horror of it!" A touch of powder to her
cheeks and a slight blackening of her eyebrows, and the courageous girl
was ready.
Lord Wynchgate and his companions--for they it was, that is to say, they
were it--sat below in the sitting-room looking at the albums. "Woman,"
said Lord Wynchgate to the Landlady, with an oath, "let her hurry up. We
have seen enough of these. We can wait no longer."
"I am here," cried a clear voice upon the threshold, and Winnifred stood
before them. "My lords, for I divine who you are and wherefore you have
come, take me, do your worst with me, but spare, oh, spare this humble
companion of my sorrow."
"Right-oh!" said Lord Dogwood, with a brutal laugh.
"Enough," exclaimed Wynchgate, and seizing Winnifred by the waist, he
dragged her forth out of the house and out upon the street.
But something in the brutal violence of his behaviour seemed to kindle
for the moment a spark of manly feeling, if such there were, in the
breasts of his companions.
"Wynchgate," cried young Lord Dogwood, "my mind misgives me. I doubt if
this is a gentlemanly thing to do. I'll have no further hand in it."
A chorus of approval from his companions endorsed his utterance. For a
moment they hesitated.
"Nay," cried Winnifred, turning to confront the masked faces that stood
about her, "go forward with your fell design. I am here. I am helpless.
Let no prayers stay your hand. Go to it."
"Have done with this!" cried Wynchgate, with a brutal oath. "Shove her
in the coach."
But at the very moment the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard, and a
clear, ringing, manly, well-toned, vibrating voice cried, "Hold! Stop!
Desist! Have a care, titled villain, or I will strike you to the earth."
A tall aristocratic form bounded out of the darkness.
"Gentlemen," cried Wynchgate, releasing his hold upon the frightened
girl, "we are betrayed. Save yourselves. To the coach."
In another instant the six noblemen had leaped into the coach and
disappeared down the street.
Winnifred, still half inanimate with fright, turned to her rescuer, and
saw before her the form and lineaments of the Unknown Stranger, who had
thus twice stood between her and disaster. Half fainting, she fell
swooning into his arms.
"Dear lady," he exclaimed, "rouse yourself. You are safe. Let me restore
you to your home!"
"That voice!" cried Winnifred, resuming consciousness. "It is my
benefactor."
She would have swooned again, but the Unknown lifted her bodily up the
steps of her home and leant her against the door.
"Farewell," he said, in a voice resonant with gloom.
"Oh, sir!" cried the unhappy girl, "let one who owes so much to one who
has saved her in her hour of need at least know his name."
But the stranger, with a mournful gesture of farewell, had disappeared
as rapidly as he had come.
But, as to why he had disappeared, we must ask our reader's patience for
another chapter.
CHAPTER VI
THE UNKNOWN
The scene is now shifted, sideways and forwards, so as to put it at
Muddlenut Chase, and to make it a fortnight later than the events
related in the last chapter.
Winnifred is now at the Chase as the guest of the Marquis and
Marchioness. There her bruised soul finds peace.
The Chase itself was one of those typical country homes which are, or
were till yesterday, the glory of England. The approach to the Chase lay
through twenty miles of glorious forest, filled with fallow deer and
wild bulls. The house itself, dating from the time of the Plantagenets,
was surrounded by a moat covered with broad lilies and floating green
scum. Magnificent peacocks sunned themselves on the terraces, while
from the surrounding shrubberies there rose the soft murmur of doves,
pigeons, bats, owls and partridges.
Here sat Winnifred Clair day after day upon the terrace recovering her
strength, under the tender solicitude of the Marchioness.
Each day the girl urged upon her noble hostess the necessity of her
departure. "Nay," said the Marchioness, with gentle insistence, "stay
where you are. Your soul is bruised. You must rest."
"Alas," cried Winnifred, "who am I that I should rest? Alone, despised,
buffeted by fate, what right have I to your kindness?"
"Miss Clair," replied the noble lady, "wait till you are stronger. There
is something that I wish to say to you."
Then at last, one morning when Winnifred's temperature had fallen to
ninety-eight point three, the Marchioness spoke.
"Miss Clair," she said, in a voice which throbbed with emotion,
"Winnifred, if I may so call you, Lord Muddlenut and I have formed a
plan for your future. It is our dearest wish that you should marry our
son."
"Alas," cried Winnifred, while tears rose in her eyes, "it cannot be!"
"Say not so," cried the Marchioness. "Our son, Lord Mordaunt Muddlenut,
is young, handsome, all that a girl could desire. After months of
wandering he returns to us this morning. It is our dearest wish to see
him married and established. We offer you his hand."
"Indeed," replied Winnifred, while her tears fell even more freely, "I
seem to requite but ill the kindness that you show. Alas, my heart is no
longer in my keeping."
"Where is it?" cried the Marchioness.
"It is another's. One whose very name I do not know holds it in his
keeping."
But at this moment a blithe, gladsome step was heard upon the flagstones
of the terrace. A manly, ringing voice, which sent a thrill to
Winnifred's heart, cried "Mother!" and in another instant Lord Mordaunt
Muddlenut, for he it was, had folded the Marchioness to his heart.
Winnifred rose, her heart beating wildly. One glance was enough. The
newcomer, Lord Mordaunt, was none other than the Unknown, the
Unaccountable, to whose protection she had twice owed her life.
With a wild cry Winnifred Clair leaped across the flagstones of the
terrace and fled into the park.
CHAPTER VII
THE PROPOSAL
They stood beneath the great trees of the ancestral park, into which
Lord Mordaunt had followed Winnifred at a single bound. All about them
was the radiance of early June.
Lord Mordaunt knelt on one knee on the greensward, and with a touch in
which respect and reverence were mingled with the deepest and manliest
emotion, he took between his finger and thumb the tip of the girl's
gloved hand.
"Miss Clair," he uttered, in a voice suffused with the deepest
yearning, yet vibrating with the most profound respect, "Miss
Clair--Winnifred--hear me, I implore!"
"Alas," cried Winnifred, struggling in vain to disengage the tip of her
glove from the impetuous clasp of the young nobleman, "alas, whither can
I fly? I do not know my way through the wood, and there are bulls in all
directions. I am not used to them! Lord Mordaunt, I implore you, let the
tears of one but little skilled in the art of dissimulation----"
"Nay, Winnifred," said the Young Earl, "fly not. Hear me out!"
"Let me fly," begged the unhappy girl.
"You must not fly," pleaded Mordaunt. "Let me first, here upon bended
knee, convey to you the expression of a devotion, a love, as ardent and
as deep as ever burned in a human heart. Winnifred, be my bride!"
"Oh, sir," sobbed Winnifred, "if the knowledge of a gratitude, a
thankfulness from one whose heart will ever treasure as its proudest
memory the recollection of one who did for one all that one could have
wanted done for one--if this be some poor guerdon, let it suffice. But,
alas, my birth, the dark secret of my birth forbids----"
"Nay," cried Mordaunt, leaping now to his feet, "your birth is all
right. I have looked into it myself. It is as good--or nearly as
good--as my own. Till I knew this, my lips were sealed by duty. While I
supposed that you had a lower birth and I an upper, I was bound to
silence. But come with me to the house. There is one arrived with me who
will explain all."
Hand in hand the lovers, for such they now were, returned to the Chase.
There in the great hall the Marquis and the Marchioness were standing
ready to greet them.
"My child!" exclaimed the noble lady, as she folded Winnifred to her
heart. Then she turned to her son. "Let her know all!" she cried.
Lord Mordaunt stepped across the room to a curtain. He drew it aside,
and there stepped forth Mr. Bonehead, the old lawyer who had cast
Winnifred upon the world.
"Miss Clair," said the Lawyer, advancing and taking the girl's hand for
a moment in a kindly clasp, "the time has come for me to explain all.
You are not, you never were, the penniless girl that you suppose. Under
the terms of your father's will, I was called upon to act a part and to
throw you upon the world. It was my client's wish, and I followed it. I
told you, quite truthfully, that I had put part of your money into
options in an oil-well. Miss Clair, that well is now producing a million
gallons of gasolene a month!'
"A million gallons!" cried Winnifred. "I can never use it."
"Wait till you own a motor-car, Miss Winnifred," said the Lawyer.
"Then I am rich!" exclaimed the bewildered girl.
"Rich beyond your dreams," answered the Lawyer. "Miss Clair, you own in
your own right about half of the State of Texas--I think it is in Texas,
at any rate either Texas or Rhode Island, or one of those big states in
America. More than this, I have invested your property since your
father's death so wisely that even after paying the income tax and the
property tax, the inheritance tax, the dog tax and the tax on
amusements, you will still have one half of one per cent to spend."
Winnifred clasped her hands.
"I knew it all the time," said Lord Mordaunt, drawing the girl to his
embrace, "I found it out through this good man."
"We knew it too," said the Marchioness. "Can you forgive us, darling,
our little plot for your welfare? Had we not done this Mordaunt might
have had to follow you over to America and chase you all around Newport
and Narragansett at a fearful expense."
"How can I thank you enough?" cried Winnifred. Then she added eagerly,
"And my birth, my descent?"
"It is all right," interjected the Old Lawyer. "It is A 1. Your father,
who died before you were born, quite a little time before, belonged to
the very highest peerage of Wales. You are descended directly from
Claer-ap-Claer, who murdered Owen Glendower. Your mother we are still
tracing up. But we have already connected her with Floyd-ap-Floyd, who
murdered Prince Llewellyn."
"Oh, sir," cried the grateful girl. "I only hope I may prove worthy of
them!"
"One thing more," said Lord Mordaunt, and stepping over to another
curtain he drew it aside and there emerged Lord Wynchgate.
He stood before Winnifred, a manly contrition struggling upon features
which, but for the evil courses of he who wore them, might have been
almost presentable.
"Miss Clair," he said, "I ask your pardon. I tried to carry you off. I
never will again. But before we part let me say that my acquaintance
with you has made me a better man, broader, bigger and, I hope, deeper."
With a profound bow, Lord Wynchgate took his leave.
CHAPTER VIII
WEDDED AT LAST
Lord Mordaunt and his bride were married forthwith in the parish church
of Muddlenut Chase. With Winnifred's money they have drained the moat,
rebuilt the Chase, and chased the bulls out of the park. They have six
children, so far, and are respected, honoured and revered in the
countryside far and wide, over a radius of twenty miles in
circumference.
II
JOHN AND I
OR, HOW I NEARLY LOST MY HUSBAND
(_Narrated after the approved fashion of the best Heart and Home
Magazines_)
_II.--John and I; or, How I Nearly Lost My Husband._
It was after we had been married about two years that I began to feel
that I needed more air. Every time I looked at John across the
breakfast-table, I felt as if I must have more air, more space.
I seemed to feel as if I had no room to expand. I had begun to ask
myself whether I had been wise in marrying John, whether John was really
sufficient for my development. I felt cramped and shut in. In spite of
myself the question would arise in my mind whether John really
understood my nature. He had a way of reading the newspaper, propped up
against the sugar-bowl, at breakfast, that somehow made me feel as if
things had gone all wrong. It was bitter to realize that the time had
come when John could prefer the newspaper to his wife's society.
But perhaps I had better go back and tell the whole miserable story from
the beginning.
I shall never forget--I suppose no woman ever does--the evening when
John first spoke out his love for me. I had felt for some time past that
it was there. Again and again, he seemed about to speak. But somehow his
words seemed to fail him. Twice I took him into the very heart of the
little wood beside Mother's house, but it was only a small wood, and
somehow he slipped out on the other side. "Oh, John," I had said, "how
lonely and still it seems in the wood with no one here but ourselves! Do
you think," I said, "that the birds have souls?" "I don't know," John
answered, "let's get out of this." I was sure that his emotion was too
strong for him. "I never feel a bit lonesome where you are, John," I
said, as we made our way among the underbrush. "I think we can get out
down that little gully," he answered. Then one evening in June after tea
I led John down a path beside the house to a little corner behind the
garden where there was a stone wall on one side and a high fence right
in front of us, and thorn bushes on the other side. There was a little
bench in the angle of the wall and the fence, and we sat down on it.
"Minnie," John said, "there's something I meant to say----"
"Oh, John," I cried, and I flung my arms round his neck. It all came
with such a flood of surprise.
"All I meant, Minn----" John went on, but I checked him.
"Oh, don't, John, don't say anything more," I said. "It's just too
perfect." Then I rose and seized him by the wrist. "Come," I said, "come
to Mother," and I rushed him along the path.
As soon as Mother saw us come in hand in hand in this way, she guessed
everything. She threw both her arms round John's neck and fairly pinned
him against the wall. John tried to speak, but Mother wouldn't let him.
"I saw it all along, John," she said. "Don't speak. Don't say a word. I
guessed your love for Minn from the very start. I don't know what I
shall do without her, John, but she's yours now; take her." Then Mother
began to cry and I couldn't help crying too. "Take him to Father,"
Mother said, and we each took one of John's wrists and took him to
Father on the back verandah. As soon as John saw Father he tried to
speak again--"I think I ought to say," he began, but Mother stopped him.
"Father," she said, "he wants to take our little girl away. He loves her
very dearly, Alfred," she said, "and I think it our duty to let her go,
no matter how hard it is, and oh, please Heaven, Alfred, he'll treat her
well and not misuse her, or beat her," and she began to sob again.
Father got up and took John by the hand and shook it warmly.
"Take her, boy," he said. "She's all yours now, take her."
So John and I were engaged, and in due time our wedding day came and we
were married. I remember that for days and days before the wedding day
John seemed very nervous and depressed; I think he was worrying, poor
boy, as to whether he could really make me happy and whether he could
fill my life as it should be filled. But I told him that he was not to
worry, because I _meant_ to be happy, and was determined just to make
the best of everything.
Father stayed with John a good deal before the wedding day, and on the
wedding morning he went and fetched him to the church in a closed
carriage and had him there all ready when we came. It was a beautiful
day in September, and the church looked just lovely. I had a beautiful
gown of white organdie with _tulle_ at the throat, and I carried a great
bunch of white roses, and Father led John up the aisle after me.
I remember that Mother cried a good deal at the wedding, and told John
that he had stolen her darling and that he must never misuse me or beat
me. And I remember that the clergyman spoke very severely to John, and
told him he hoped he realized the responsibility he was taking and that
it was his duty to make me happy. A lot of our old friends were there,
and they all spoke quite sharply to John, and all the women kissed me
and said they hoped I would never regret what I had done, and I just
kept up my spirits by sheer determination, and told them that I had made
up my mind to be happy and that I was going to be so.
So presently it was all over and we were driven to the station and got
the afternoon train for New York, and when we sat down in the
compartment among all our bandboxes and flowers, John said, "Well, thank
God, that's over." And I said, "Oh, John, an oath! on our wedding day,
an oath!" John said, "I'm sorry, Minn, I didn't mean----" but I said,
"Don't, John, don't make it worse. Swear at me if you must, but don't
make it harder to bear."
* * * * *
We spent our honeymoon in New York. At first I had thought of going
somewhere to the great lonely woods, where I could have walked under the
great trees and felt the silence of nature, and where John should have
been my Viking and captured me with his spear, and where I should be
his and his alone and no other man should share me; and John had said
all right. Or else I had planned to go away somewhere to the seashore,
where I could have watched the great waves dashing themselves against
the rocks. I had told John that he should be my cave man, and should
seize me in his arms and carry me whither he would. I felt somehow that
for my development I wanted to get as close to nature as ever I
could--that my mind seemed to be reaching out for a great emptiness. But
I looked over all the hotel and steamship folders I could find and it
seemed impossible to get good accommodation, so we came to New York. I
had a great deal of shopping to do for our new house, so I could not be
much with John, but I felt it was not right to neglect him, so I drove
him somewhere in a taxi each morning and called for him again in the
evening. One day I took him to the Metropolitan Museum, and another day
I left him at the Zoo, and another day at the aquarium. John seemed very
happy and quiet among the fishes.
So presently we came back home, and I spent many busy days in fixing and
arranging our new house. I had the drawing-room done in blue, and the
dining-room all in dark panelled wood, and a boudoir upstairs done in
pink and white enamel to match my bedroom and dressing-room. There was a
very nice little room in the basement next to the coal cellar that I
turned into a "den" for John, so that when he wanted to smoke he could
go down there and do it. John seemed to appreciate his den at once, and
often would stay down there so long that I had to call to him to come
up.
When I look back on those days they seem very bright and happy. But it
was not very long before a change came. I began to realize that John was
neglecting me. I noticed it at first in small things. I don't know just
how long it was after our marriage that John began to read the newspaper
at breakfast. At first he would only pick it up and read it in little
bits, and only on the front page. I tried not to be hurt at it, and
would go on talking just as brightly as I could, without seeming to
notice anything. But presently he went on to reading the inside part of
the paper, and then one day he opened up the financial page and folded
the paper right back and leant it against the sugar-bowl.
I could not but wonder whether John's love for me was what it had been.
Was it cooling? I asked myself. And what was cooling it? It hardly
seemed possible, when I looked back to the wild passion with which he
had proposed to me on the garden bench, that John's love was waning. But
I kept noticing different little things. One day in the spring-time I
saw John getting out a lot of fishing tackle from a box and fitting it
together. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said that he was
going to fish. I went to my room and had a good cry. It seemed dreadful
that he could neglect his wife for a few worthless fish.
So I decided to put John to the test. It had been my habit every morning
after he put his coat on to go to the office to let John have one kiss,
just one weeny kiss, to keep him happy all day. So this day when he was
getting ready I bent my head over a big bowl of flowers and pretended
not to notice. I think John must have been hurt, as I heard him steal
out on tiptoe.
Well, I realized that things had come to a dreadful state, and so I sent
over to Mother, and Mother came, and we had a good cry together. I made
up my mind to force myself to face things and just to be as bright as
ever I could. Mother and I both thought that things would be better if I
tried all I could to make something out of John. I have always felt that
every woman should make all that she can out of her husband. So I did my
best first of all to straighten up John's appearance. I shifted the
style of collar he was wearing to a tighter kind that I liked better,
and I brushed his hair straight backward instead of forward, which gave
him a much more alert look. Mother said that John needed waking up, and
so we did all we could to wake him up. Mother came over to stay with me
a good deal, and in the evenings we generally had a little music or a
game of cards.
About this time another difficulty began to come into my married life,
which I suppose I ought to have foreseen--I mean the attentions of other
gentlemen. I have always called forth a great deal of admiration in
gentlemen, but I have always done my best to act like a lady and to
discourage it in every possible way. I had been innocent enough to
suppose that this would end with married life, and it gave me a dreadful
shock to realize that such was not the case. The first one I noticed was
a young man who came to the house, at an hour when John was out, for the
purpose, so he said at least, of reading the gas meter. He looked at me
in just the boldest way and asked me to show him the way to the cellar.
I don't know whether it was a pretext or not, but I just summoned all
the courage I had and showed him to the head of the cellar stairs. I had
determined that if he tried to carry me down with him I would scream for
the servants, but I suppose something in my manner made him desist, and
he went alone. When he came up he professed to have read the meter and
he left the house quite quietly. But I thought it wiser to say nothing
to John of what had happened.
There were others too. There was a young man with large brown eyes who
came and said he had been sent to tune the piano. He came on three
separate days, and he bent his ear over the keys in such a mournful way
that I knew he must have fallen in love with me. On the last day he
offered to tune my harp for a dollar extra, but I refused, and when I
asked him instead to tune Mother's mandoline he said he didn't know how.
Of course I told John nothing of all this.
Then there was Mr. McQueen, who came to the house several times to play
cribbage with John. He had been desperately in love with me years
before--at least I remember his taking me home from a hockey match once,
and what a struggle it was for him not to come into the parlour and see
Mother for a few minutes when I asked him; and, though he was married
now and with three children, I felt sure when he came to play cribbage
with John that it _meant_ something. He was very discreet and
honourable, and never betrayed himself for a moment, and I acted my
part as if there was nothing at all behind. But one night, when he came
over to play and John had had to go out, he refused to stay even for an
instant. He had got his overshoes off before I told him that John was
out, and asked him if he wouldn't come into the parlour and hear Mother
play the mandoline, but he just made one dive for his overshoes and was
gone. I knew that he didn't dare to trust himself.
Then presently a new trouble came. I began to suspect that John was
drinking. I don't mean for a moment that he was drunk, or that he was
openly cruel to me. But at times he seemed to act so queerly, and I
noticed that one night when by accident I left a bottle of raspberry
vinegar on the sideboard overnight, it was all gone in the morning. Two
or three times when McQueen and John were to play cribbage, John would
fetch home two or three bottles of bevo with him and they would sit
sipping all evening.
I think he was drinking bevo by himself, too, though I could never be
sure of it. At any rate he often seemed queer and restless in the
evenings, and instead of staying in his den he would wander all over the
house. Once we heard him--I mean Mother and I and two lady friends who
were with us that evening--quite late (after ten o'clock) apparently
moving about in the pantry. "John," I called, "is that you?" "Yes,
Minn," he answered, quietly enough, I admit. "What are you doing there?"
I asked. "Looking for something to eat," he said. "John," I said, "you
are forgetting what is due to me as your wife. You were fed at six. Go
back."
He went. But yet I felt more and more that his love must be dwindling to
make him act as he did. I thought it all over wearily enough and asked
myself whether I had done everything I should to hold my husband's love.
I had kept him in at nights. I had cut down his smoking. I had stopped
his playing cards. What more was there that I could do?
* * * * *
So at last the conviction came to me that I must go away. I felt that I
must get away somewhere and think things out. At first I thought of Palm
Beach, but the season had not opened and I felt somehow that I couldn't
wait. I wanted to get away somewhere by myself and just face things as
they were. So one morning I said to John, "John, I think I'd like to go
off somewhere for a little time, just to be by myself, dear, and I don't
want you to ask to come with me or to follow me, but just let me go."
John said, "All right, Minn. When are you going to start?" The cold
brutality of it cut me to the heart, and I went upstairs and had a good
cry and looked over steamship and railroad folders. I thought of Havana
for a while, because the pictures of the harbour and the castle and the
queer Spanish streets looked so attractive, but then I was afraid that
at Havana a woman alone by herself might be simply persecuted by
attentions from gentlemen. They say the Spanish temperament is something
fearful. So I decided on Bermuda instead. I felt that in a beautiful,
quiet place like Bermuda I could think everything all over and face
things, and it said on the folder that there were always at least two
English regiments in garrison there, and the English officers, whatever
their faults, always treat a woman with the deepest respect.
So I said nothing more to John, but in the next few days I got all my
arrangements made and my things packed. And when the last afternoon came
I sat down and wrote John a long letter, to leave on my boudoir table,
telling him that I had gone to Bermuda. I told him that I wanted to be
alone: I said that I couldn't tell when I would be back--that it might
be months, or it might be years, and I hoped that he would try to be as
happy as he could and forget me entirely, and to send me money on the
first of every month.
* * * * *
Well, it was just at that moment that one of those strange coincidences
happen, little things in themselves, but which seem to alter the whole
course of a person's life. I had nearly finished the letter to John that
I was to leave on the writing-desk, when just then the maid came up to
my room with a telegram. It was for John, but I thought it my duty to
open it and read it for him before I left. And I nearly fainted when I
saw that it was from a lawyer in Bermuda--of all places--and it said
that a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars had been left to John by
an uncle of his who had died there, and asking for instructions about
the disposition of it.
A great wave seemed to sweep over me, and all the wicked thoughts that
had been in my mind--for I saw now that they _were_ wicked--were driven
clean away. I thought how completely lost poor old John would feel if
all this money came to him and he didn't have to work any more and had
no one at his side to help and guide him in using it.
I tore up the wicked letter I had written, and I hurried as fast as I
could to pack up a valise with John's things (my own were packed
already, as I said). Then presently John came in, and I broke the news
to him as gently and as tenderly as I could about his uncle having left
him the money and having died. I told him that I had found out all
about the trains and the Bermuda steamer, and had everything all packed
and ready for us to leave at once. John seemed a little dazed about it
all, and kept saying that his uncle had taught him to play tennis when
he was a little boy, and he was very grateful and thankful to me for
having everything arranged, and thought it wonderful.
I had time to telephone to a few of my women friends, and they just
managed to rush round for a few minutes to say good-bye. I couldn't help
crying a little when I told them about John's uncle dying so far away
with none of us near him, and I told them about the legacy, and they
cried a little to hear of it all; and when I told them that John and I
might not come back direct from Bermuda, but might take a run over to
Europe first, they all cried some more.
We left for New York that evening, and after we had been to Bermuda and
arranged about a suitable monument for John's uncle and collected the
money, we sailed for Europe.
All through the happy time that has followed, I like to think that
through all our trials and difficulties affliction brought us safely
together at last.
III
THE SPLIT IN THE CABINET
OR, THE FATE OF ENGLAND
(_A political novel of the Days that Were_)
_III.--The Split in the Cabinet; or, The Fate of England._
CHAPTER I
"The fate of England hangs upon it," murmured Sir John Elphinspoon, as
he sank wearily into an armchair. For a moment, as he said "England,"
the baronet's eye glistened and his ears lifted as if in defiance, but
as soon as he stopped saying it his eye lost its brilliance and his ears
dropped wearily at the sides of his head.
Lady Elphinspoon looked at her husband anxiously. She could not conceal
from herself that his face, as he sank into his chair, seemed somehow
ten years older than it had been ten years ago.
"You are home early, John?" she queried.
"The House rose early, my dear," said the baronet.
"For the All England Ping-Pong match?"
"No, for the Dog Show. The Prime Minister felt that the Cabinet ought to
attend. He said that their presence there would help to bind the
colonies to us. I understand also that he has a pup in the show himself.
He took the Cabinet with him."
"And why not you?" asked Lady Elphinspoon.
"You forget, my dear," said the baronet, "as Foreign Secretary my
presence at a Dog Show might be offensive to the Shah of Persia. Had it
been a Cat Show----"
The baronet paused and shook his head in deep gloom.
"John," said his wife, "I feel that there is something more. Did
anything happen at the House?"
Sir John nodded.
"A bad business," he said. "The Wazuchistan Boundary Bill was read this
afternoon for the third time."
No woman in England, so it was generally said, had a keener political
insight than Lady Elphinspoon.
"The third time," she repeated thoughtfully, "and how many more will it
have to go?"
Sir John turned his head aside and groaned.
"You are faint," exclaimed Lady Elphinspoon, "let me ring for tea."
The baronet shook his head.
"An egg, John--let me beat you up an egg."
"Yes, yes," murmured Sir John, still abstracted, "beat it, yes, do beat
it."
Lady Elphinspoon, in spite of her elevated position as the wife of the
Foreign Secretary of Great Britain, held it not beneath her to perform
for her husband the plainest household service. She rang for an egg. The
butler broke it for her into a tall goblet filled with old sherry, and
the noble lady, with her own hands, beat the stuff out of it. For the
veteran politician, whose official duties rarely allowed him to eat, an
egg was a sovereign remedy. Taken either in a goblet of sherry or in a
mug of rum, or in half a pint of whisky, it never failed to revive his
energies.
The effect of the egg was at once visible in the brightening of his eye
and the lengthening of his ears.
"And now explain to me," said his wife, "what has happened. What _is_
this Boundary Bill?"
"We never meant it to pass," said Sir John. "It was introduced only as a
sop to public opinion. It delimits our frontier in such a way as to
extend our suzerainty over the entire desert of El Skrub. The Wazoos
have claimed that this is their desert. The hill tribes are restless. If
we attempt to advance the Wazoos will rise. If we retire it deals a blow
at our prestige."
Lady Elphinspoon shuddered. Her long political training had taught her
that nothing was so fatal to England as to be hit in the prestige.
"And on the other hand," continued Sir John, "if we move sideways, the
Ohulîs, the mortal enemies of the Wazoos, will strike us in our rear."
"In our rear!" exclaimed Lady Elphinspoon in a tone of pain. "Oh, John,
we must go forward. Take another egg."
"We cannot," groaned the Foreign Secretary. "There are reasons which I
cannot explain even to you, Caroline, reasons of State, which absolutely
prevent us from advancing into Wazuchistan. Our hands are tied. Meantime
if the Wazoos rise, it is all over with us. It will split the Cabinet."
"Split the Cabinet!" repeated Lady Elphinspoon in alarm. She well knew
that next to a blow in the prestige the splitting of the Cabinet was
about the worst thing that could happen to Great Britain. "Oh, John,
they _must_ be held together at all costs. Can nothing be done?"
"Everything is being done that can be. The Prime Minister has them at
the Dog Show at this moment. To-night the Chancellor is taking them to
moving pictures. And to-morrow--it is a State secret, my dear, but it
will be very generally known in the morning--we have seats for them all
at the circus. If we can hold them together all is well, but if they
split we are undone. Meantime our difficulties increase. At the very
passage of the Bill itself a question was asked by one of the new labour
members, a miner, my dear, a quite uneducated man----"
"Yes?" queried Lady Elphinspoon.
"He asked the Colonial Secretary"--Sir John shuddered--"to tell him
where Wazuchistan is. Worse than that, my dear," added Sir John, "he
defied him to tell him where it is."
"What did you do? Surely he has no right to information of that sort?"
"It was a close shave. Luckily the Whips saved us. They got the
Secretary out of the House and rushed him to the British Museum. When he
got back he said that he would answer the question a month from Friday.
We got a great burst of cheers, but it was a close thing. But stop, I
must speak at once with Powers. My despatch box, yes, here it is. Now
where is young Powers? There is work for him to do at once."
"Mr. Powers is in the conservatory with Angela," said Lady Elphinspoon.
"With Angela!" exclaimed Sir John, while a slight shade of displeasure
appeared upon his brow. "With Angela again! Do you think it quite
proper, my dear, that Powers should be so constantly with Angela?"
"John," said his wife, "you forget, I think, who Mr. Powers is. I am
sure that Angela knows too well what is due to her rank, and to herself,
to consider Mr. Powers anything more than an instructive companion. And
I notice that, since Mr. Powers has been your secretary, Angela's mind
is much keener. Already the girl has a wonderful grasp on foreign
policy. Only yesterday I heard her asking the Prime Minister at luncheon
whether we intend to extend our Senegambian protectorate over the
Fusees. He was delighted."
"Oh, very well, very well," said Sir John. Then he rang a bell for a
manservant.
"Ask Mr. Powers," he said, "to be good enough to attend me in the
library."
CHAPTER II
Angela Elphinspoon stood with Perriton Powers among the begonias of the
conservatory. The same news which had so agitated Sir John lay heavy on
both their hearts.
"Will the Wazoo rise?" asked Angela, clasping her hands before her,
while her great eyes sought the young man's face and found it. "Oh, Mr.
Powers! Tell me, will they rise? It seems too dreadful to contemplate.
Do you think the Wazoo will rise?"
"It is only too likely," said Powers. They stood looking into one
another's eyes, their thoughts all on the Wazoo.
Angelina Elphinspoon, as she stood there against the background of the
begonias, made a picture that a painter, or even a plumber, would have
loved. Tall and typically English in her fair beauty, her features, in
repose, had something of the hauteur and distinction of her mother, and
when in motion they recalled her father.
Perriton Powers was even taller than Angela. The splendid frame and
stern features of Sir John's secretary made him a striking figure. Yet
he was, quite frankly, sprung from the people, and made no secret of it.
His father had been simply a well-to-do London surgeon, who had been
knighted for some mere discoveries in science. His grandfather, so it
was whispered, had been nothing more than a successful banker who had
amassed a fortune simply by successful banking. Yet at Oxford young
Powers had carried all before him. He had occupied a seat, a front seat,
in one of the boats, had got his blue and his pink, and had taken a
double final in Sanscrit and Arithmetic.
He had already travelled widely in the East, spoke Urdu and Hoodoo with
facility, while as secretary to Sir John Elphinspoon, with a seat in the
House in prospect, he had his foot upon the ladder of success.
"Yes," repeated Powers thoughtfully, "they may rise. Our confidential
despatches tell us that for some time they have been secretly passing
round packets of yeast. The whole tribe is in a ferment."
"But our sphere of influence is at stake," exclaimed Angela.
"It is," said Powers. "As a matter of fact, for over a year we have been
living on a mere _modus vivendi_."
"Oh, Mr. Powers," cried Angela, "what a way to live."
"We have tried everything," said the secretary. "We offered the Wazoo a
condominium over the desert of El Skrub. They refused it."
"But it's our desert," said Angela proudly.
"It is. But what can we do? The best we can hope is that El Boob will
acquiesce in the _status quo_."
At that moment a manservant appeared in the doorway of the conservatory.
"Mr. Powers, sir," he said, "Sir John desires your attendance, sir, in
the library, sir."
Powers turned to Angela, a new seriousness upon his face.
"Miss Elphinspoon," he said, "I think I know what is coming. Will you
wait for me here? I shall be back in half an hour."
"I will wait," said the girl. She sat down and waited among the
begonias, her mind still on the Wazoo, her whole intense nature strung
to the highest pitch. "Can the _modus vivendi_ hold?" she murmured.
In half an hour Powers returned. He was wearing now his hat and light
overcoat, and carried on a strap round his neck a tin box with a white
painted label, "_British Foreign Office. Confidential Despatches. This
Side Up With Care._"
"Miss Elphinspoon," he said, and there was a new note in his voice,
"Angela, I leave England to-night----"
"To-night!" gasped Angela.
"On a confidential mission."
"To Wazuchistan!" exclaimed the girl.
Powers paused a moment. "To Wazuchistan," he said, "yes. But it must not
be known. I shall return in a month--or never. If I fail"--he spoke with
an assumed lightness--"it is only one more grave among the hills. If I
succeed, the Cabinet is saved, and with it the destiny of England."
"Oh, Mr. Powers," cried Angela, rising and advancing towards him, "how
splendid! How noble! No reward will be too great for you."
"My reward," said Powers, and as he spoke he reached out and clasped
both of the girl's hands in his own, "yes, my reward. May I come and
claim it here?"
For a moment he looked straight into her eyes. In the next he was gone,
and Angela was alone.
"His reward!" she murmured. "What could he have meant? His reward that
he is to claim. What can it be?"
But she could not divine it. She admitted to herself that she had not
the faintest idea.
CHAPTER III
In the days that followed all England was thrilled to its base as the
news spread that the Wazoo might rise at any moment.
"Will the Wazoos rise?" was the question upon every lip.
In London men went to their offices with a sense of gloom. At lunch they
could hardly eat. A feeling of impending disaster pervaded all ranks.
Sir John as he passed to and fro to the House was freely accosted in the
streets.
"Will the Wazoos rise, sir?" asked an honest labourer. "Lord help us
all, sir, if they do."
Sir John, deeply touched, dropped a shilling in the honest fellow's hat,
by accident.
At No. 10 Downing Street, women of the working class, with children in
their arms, stood waiting for news.
On the Exchange all was excitement. Consols fell two points in
twenty-four hours. Even raising the Bank rate and shutting the door
brought only a temporary relief.
Lord Glump, the greatest financial expert in London, was reported as
saying that if the Wazoos rose England would be bankrupt in forty-eight
hours.
Meanwhile, to the consternation of the whole nation, the Government did
nothing. The Cabinet seemed to be paralysed.
On the other hand the Press became all the more clamorous. The London
_Times_ urged that an expedition should be sent at once. Twenty-five
thousand household troops, it argued, should be sent up the Euphrates or
up the Ganges or up something without delay. If they were taken in flat
boats, carried over the mountains on mules, and lifted across the rivers
in slings, they could then be carried over the desert on jackasses. They
could reach Wazuchistan in two years. Other papers counselled
moderation. The _Manchester Guardian_ recalled the fact that the Wazoos
were a Christian people. Their leader, El Boob, so it was said, had
accepted Christianity with childlike simplicity and had asked if there
was any more of it. The _Spectator_ claimed that the Wazoos, or more
properly the Wazi, were probably the descendants of an Iranic or perhaps
Urgumic stock. It suggested the award of a Rhodes Scholarship. It looked
forward to the days when there would be Wazoos at Oxford. Even the
presence of a single Wazoo, or, more accurately, a single Wooz, would
help.
With each day the news became more ominous. It was reported in the Press
that a Wazoo, inflamed apparently with _ghee_, or perhaps with _bhong_,
had rushed up to the hills and refused to come down. It was said that
the Shriek-el-Foozlum, the religious head of the tribe, had torn off his
suspenders and sent them to Mecca.
That same day the _Illustrated London News_ published a drawing "Wazoo
Warriors Crossing a River and Shouting, Ho!" and the general
consternation reached its height.
Meantime, for Sir John and his colleagues, the question of the hour
became, "Could the Cabinet be held together?" Every effort was made. The
news that the Cabinet had all been seen together at the circus, for a
moment reassured the nation. But the rumour spread that the First Lord
of the Admiralty had said that the clowns were a bum lot. The Radical
Press claimed that if he thought so he ought to resign.
On the fatal Friday the question already referred to was scheduled for
its answer. The friends of the Government counted on the answer to
restore confidence. To the consternation of all, the expected answer was
not forthcoming. The Colonial Secretary rose in his place, visibly
nervous. Ministers, he said, had been asked where Wazuchistan was. They
were not prepared, at the present delicate stage of negotiations, to
say. More hung upon the answer than Ministers were entitled to divulge.
They could only appeal to the patriotism of the nation. He could only
say this, that _wherever_ it was, and he used the word _wherever_ with
all the emphasis of which he was capable, the Government would accept
the full responsibility for its being where it was.
The House adjourned in something like confusion.
Among those seated behind the grating of the Ladies' Gallery was Lady
Elphinspoon. Her quick instinct told her the truth. Driving home, she
found her husband seated, crushed, in his library.
"John," she said, falling on her knees and taking her husband's hands
in hers, "is this true? Is this the dreadful truth?"
"I see you have divined it, Caroline," said the statesman sadly. "It is
the truth. We don't know where Wazuchistan is."
For a moment there was silence.
"But, John, how could it have happened?"
"We thought the Colonial Office knew. We were confident that they knew.
The Colonial Secretary had stated that he had been there. Later on it
turned out that he meant Saskatchewan. Of course they thought _we_ knew.
And we both thought that the Exchequer must know. We understood that
they had collected a hut tax for ten years."
"And hadn't they?"
"Not a penny. The Wazoos live in tents."
"But, surely," pleaded Lady Elphinspoon, "you could find out. Had you no
maps?"
Sir John shook his head.
"We thought of that at once, my dear. We've looked all through the
British Museum. Once we thought we had succeeded. But it turned out to
be Wisconsin."
"But the map in the _Times_? Everybody saw it."
Again the baronet shook his head. "Lord Southcliff had it made in the
office," he said. "It appears that he always does. Otherwise the
physical features might not suit him."
"But could you not send some one to see?"
"We did. We sent Perriton Powers to find out where it was. We had a
month to the good. It was barely time, just time. Powers has failed and
we are lost. To-morrow all England will guess the truth and the
Government falls."
CHAPTER IV
The crowd outside of No. 10 Downing Street that evening was so dense
that all traffic was at a standstill. But within the historic room where
the Cabinet were seated about the long table all was calm. Few could
have guessed from the quiet demeanour of the group of statesmen that the
fate of an Empire hung by a thread.
Seated at the head of the table, the Prime Minister was quietly looking
over a book of butterflies, while waiting for the conference to begin.
Beside him the Secretary for Ireland was fixing trout flies, while the
Chancellor of the Exchequer kept his serene face bent over upon his
needlework. At the Prime Minister's right, Sir John Elphinspoon, no
longer agitated, but sustained and dignified by the responsibility of
his office, was playing spillikins.
The little clock on the mantel chimed eight.
The Premier closed his book of butterflies.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I fear our meeting will not be a protracted
one. It seems we are hopelessly at variance. You, Sir Charles," he
continued, turning to the First Sea Lord, who was in attendance, "are
still in favour of a naval expedition?"
"Send it up at once," said Sir Charles.
"Up where?" asked the Premier.
"Up anything," answered the Old Sea Dog, "it will get there."
Voices of dissent were raised in undertones around the table.
"I strongly deprecate any expedition," said the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, "I favour a convention with the Shriek. Let the Shriek sign a
convention recognizing the existence of a supreme being and receiving
from us a million sterling in acknowledgment."
"And where will you _find_ the Shriek?" said the Prime Minister. "Come,
come, gentlemen, I fear that we can play this comedy no longer. The
truth is," he added with characteristic nonchalance, "we don't know
where the bally place is. We can't meet the House to-morrow. We are
hopelessly split. Our existence as a Government is at an end."
But, at that very moment, a great noise of shouting and clamour rose
from the street without. The Prime Minister lifted his hand for silence.
"Listen," he said. One of the Ministers went to a window and opened it,
and the cries outside became audible. "A King's Messenger! Make way for
the King's Messenger!"
The Premier turned quietly to Sir John.
"Perriton Powers," he said.
In another moment Perriton Powers stood before the Ministers.
Bronzed by the tropic sun, his face was recognizable only by the assured
glance of his eye. An Afghan _bernous_ was thrown back from his head and
shoulders, while his commanding figure was draped in a long _chibuok_. A
pair of pistols and a curved _yasmak_ were in his belt.
"So you got to Wazuchistan all right," said the Premier quietly.
"I went in by way of the Barooda," said Powers. "For many days I was
unable to cross it. The waters of the river were wild and swollen with
rains. To cross it seemed certain death----"
"But at last you got over," said the Premier, "and then----"
"I struck out over the Fahuri desert. For days and days, blinded by the
sun, and almost buried in sand, I despaired."
"But you got through it all right. And after that?"
"My first care was to disguise myself. Staining myself from head to
foot with betel nut----"
"To look like a beetle," said the Premier. "Exactly. And so you got to
Wazuchistan. Where is it and what is it?"
"My lord," said Powers, drawing himself up and speaking with emphasis,
"I got to where it was thought to be. There is no such place!"
The whole Cabinet gave a start of astonishment.
"No such place!" they repeated.
"What about El Boob?" asked the Chancellor.
"There is no such person."
"And the Shriek-el-Foozlum?"
Powers shook his head.
"But do you mean to say," said the Premier in astonishment, "that there
are no Wazoos? There you _must_ be wrong. True we don't just know where
they are. But our despatches have shown too many signs of active trouble
traced directly to the Wazoos to disbelieve in them. There are Wazoos
somewhere, there--there _must_ be."
"The Wazoos," said Powers, "are there. But they are Irish. So are the
Ohulîs. They are both Irish."
"But how the devil did they get out there?" questioned the Premier. "And
why did they make the trouble?"
"The Irish, my lord," interrupted the Chief Secretary for Ireland, "are
everywhere, and it is their business to make trouble."
"Some years ago," continued Powers, "a few Irish families settled out
there. The Ohulîs should be properly called the O'Hooleys. The word
Wazoo is simply the Urdu for McGinnis. El Boob is the Urdu for the
Arabic El Papa, the Pope. It was my knowledge of Urdu, itself an
agglutinative language----"
"Precisely," said the Premier. Then he turned to his Cabinet. "Well,
gentlemen, our task is now simplified. If they are Irish, I think we
know exactly what to do. I suppose," he continued, turning to Powers,
"that they want some kind of Home Rule."
"They do," said Powers.
"Separating, of course, the Ohulî counties from the Wazoo?"
"Yes," said Powers.
"Precisely; the thing is simplicity itself. And what contribution will
they make to the Imperial Exchequer?"
"None."
"And will they pay their own expenses?"
"They refuse to."
"Exactly. All this is plain sailing. Of course they must have a
constabulary. Lord Edward," continued the Premier, turning now to the
Secretary of War, "how long will it take to send in a couple of hundred
constabulary? I think they'll expect it, you know. It's their right."
"Let me see," said Lord Edward, calculating quickly, with military
precision, "sending them over the Barooda in buckets and then over the
mountains in baskets--I think in about two weeks."
"Good," said the Premier. "Gentlemen, we shall meet the House to-morrow.
Sir John, will you meantime draft us an annexation bill? And you, young
man, what you have done is really not half bad. His Majesty will see you
to-morrow. I am glad that you are safe."
"On my way home," said Powers, with quiet modesty, "I was attacked by a
lion----"
"But you beat it off," said the Premier. "Exactly. Good night."
CHAPTER V
It was on the following afternoon that Sir John Elphinspoon presented
the Wazoo Annexation Bill to a crowded and breathless House.
Those who know the House of Commons know that it has its moods. At times
it is grave, earnest, thoughtful. At other times it is swept with
emotion which comes at it in waves. Or at times, again, it just seems to
sit there as if it were stuffed.
But all agreed that they had never seen the House so hushed as when Sir
John Elphinspoon presented his Bill for the Annexation of Wazuchistan.
And when at the close of a splendid peroration he turned to pay a
graceful compliment to the man who had saved the nation, and thundered
forth to the delighted ears of his listeners--
_Arma virumque cano Wazoo qui primus ab oris_,
and then, with the words "England, England," still on his lips, fell
over backwards and was carried out on a stretcher, the House broke into
wild and unrestrained applause.
CHAPTER VI
The next day Sir Perriton Powers--for the King had knighted him after
breakfast--stood again in the conservatory of the house in Carlton
Terrace.
"I have come for my reward," he said. "Do I get it?"
"You do," said Angela.
Sir Perriton clasped her in his arms.
"On my way home," he said, "I was attacked by a lion. I tried to beat
it----"
"Hush, dearest," she whispered, "let me take you to father."
IV
WHO DO YOU THINK DID IT?
OR, THE MIXED-UP MURDER MYSTERY
(_Done after the very latest fashion in this sort of thing_)
_IV.--Who Do You Think Did It? or, The Mixed-Up Murder Mystery._
_NOTE.--Any reader who guesses correctly who did it is entitled (in all
fairness) to a beautiful gold watch and chain._
CHAPTER I
HE DINED WITH ME LAST NIGHT
The afternoon edition of the _Metropolitan Planet_ was going to press.
Five thousand copies a minute were reeling off its giant cylinders. A
square acre of paper was passing through its presses every hour. In the
huge _Planet_ building, which dominated Broadway, employés, compositors,
reporters, advertisers, surged to and fro. Placed in a single line
(only, of course, they wouldn't be likely to consent to it) they would
have reached across Manhattan Island. Placed in two lines, they would
probably have reached twice as far. Arranged in a procession they would
have taken an hour in passing a saloon: easily that.
In the whole vast building all was uproar. Telephones, megaphones and
gramophones were ringing throughout the building. Elevators flew up and
down, stopping nowhere.
Only in one place was quiet--namely, in the room where sat the big man
on whose capacious intellect the whole organization depended.
Masterman Throgton, the general manager of the _Planet_, was a man in
middle life. There was something in his massive frame which suggested
massiveness, and a certain quality in the poise of his great head which
indicated a balanced intellect. His face was impenetrable and his
expression imponderable.
The big chief was sitting in his swivel chair with ink all round him.
Through this man's great brain passed all the threads and filaments that
held the news of a continent. Snap one, and the whole continent would
stop.
At the moment when our story opens (there was no sense in opening it
sooner), a written message had just been handed in.
The Chief read it. He seemed to grasp its contents in a flash.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. It was the strongest expression that this
solid, self-contained, semi-detached man ever allowed himself. Anything
stronger would have seemed too near to profanity. "Good God!" he
repeated, "Kivas Kelly murdered! In his own home! Why, he dined with me
last night! I drove him home!"
For a brief moment the big man remained plunged in thought. But with
Throgton the moment of musing was short. His instinct was to act.
"You may go," he said to the messenger. Then he seized the telephone
that stood beside him (this man could telephone almost without stopping
thinking) and spoke into it in quiet, measured tones, without wasting a
word.
"Hullo, operator! Put me through to two, two, two, two, two. Is that
two, two, two, two, two? Hullo, two, two, two, two, two; I want
Transome Kent. Kent speaking? Kent, this is Throgton speaking. Kent, a
murder has been committed at the Kelly residence, Riverside Drive. I
want you to go and cover it. Get it all. Don't spare expense. The
_Planet_ is behind you. Have you got car-fare? Right."
In another moment the big chief had turned round in his swivel chair (at
least forty degrees) and was reading telegraphic despatches from
Jerusalem. That was the way he did things.