Through the shadows

Preface

“Oh, I only said that to cheer you up," said the unabashed Michael. “Nothing like a little judicious levity." — The Wrong Box.

“I didn’t say there was no’hing heller,^* the king replied; “I said there was nothing like it." — Alke through the Looking-Glass.

To those who accept the doctrine embodied in the above quotations it will, I hope, be needless to apologise for the existence of this book; those who do not accept it would be mollified by no apologies that I can offer.

C. A. A.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Baronet’s Move 1

II The Train of Events 21

Chapter I

THE BARONET’S MOVE De Taudace, de I’audace. . . . — Danton.

iR Richard Atherton laid down the letter which he had been reading with a prolonged sigh of satisfaction and helped himself liberally to marmalade. “That’s all right: they’re coming on Monday,” he observed to Captain England who, having already finished his breakfast, was deep in an arm-chair engaged in a study of the Times, The gallant Captain grunted as his only reply.

His host gazed at him, or at so much of him as was at the moment visible. There was a look in his eye which the Captain, if less occupied, would have recognised as dangerous; there was something furtive in the appraising glance; something ruthless in the decisive nod which marked a purpose formed.

But let US deal frankly with the reader. Sir Richard, though a baronet, could not fairly be described as a typical baronet of fiction. Bold he was, and his service with the Hussars in Mesopotamia had given reasonable proofs of the fact, but bad not even the most exacting of his instructors at Eton had ever called him. His mother had died when he was a child, and his father’s death during the war had caused him to leave the Army after the Armistice and establish himself in the family place in Shropshire where, as he described it, he “ploughed the fields and scattered” with considerable zest, though it is possible that the latter part of his labours had the greater attraction for him.

But it is not to be denied that on this particular morning there was an air of cunning in his eye which boded ill for his unconscious victim. Captain England continued to read the paper with the gloomy air of a sportsman in late August, when cricket had ceased to be interesting, and the student is fobbed off with the inglorious annals of lady players of croquet and boy players of lawn tennis.

“Any news, old chap.^” inquired the baronet, with a courtesy too marked not to be disingenuous.

THE

MOVE

The Captain grunted again. “Usual sort of rot,” he answered gloomily; “one silly old ass writes to say his son’s twice the man he was since he took to playing golf; another silly old ass has started to run to Birmingham and back: and that’s what we pay threepence fori”

“Silly old idiots!” responded his host. “Kent done anything?” he added after a moment, in the hope of finding a more cheerful topic.

“Rained all day: just like their lucki” growled the Captain.

“Rotten!” agreed the sycophantic baronet: and he resumed the perusal of his letters.

Captain England and he had been at Eton together, where they had been united, among other things, by a conunon taste for private theatricals. England, whose gloomy countenance had at once earned for him the name of “Smiler,” had been the star performer of his tutor’s troupe, and it was on record that he had beguiled one wet afternoon by visiting the school in the character of a Swedish professor. The adventure had led to a quarter of an hour’s fearful joy during an interview with the Librarian, who had been [3]

somewhat puzzled to reconcile his visitor’s zeal for information in the abstract with his obvious desire to bring the conversation to a close. Since leaving Eton he had served in the Army, and fate had brought the two friends together aggdn in Mesopotamia, before England was taken prisoner by the Turks. Two years’ imprisonment had not lessened the gloom of his appearance nor increased his chances of employment, so that when Atherton invited him to come and help him in his new duties, as secretary and general adviser, he had been glad to agree. “I’ve studied up the part all right,” Sir Richard had written, “and I think I can do it; but what I want is a chap to manage the entrances and exits and get the chorus off the stage and all that. I’m sure you’re just the man for it.” So far the duties had been hght: England had developed a talent for conciliating tenants and a surprising knowledge of fat cattle. He had also accompHshed the more difificult feat of persuading the local Constitutional Union that Sir Richard’s brand of Conservatism was precisely that which the county was most likely to appreciate if, as seemed likely, the sitting member should decide to retire. It was in his politi- ['4]

THE

MOVE cal capacity that he roused himself to exclaim, “By Jove, the old brute’s done it!”

“Got to Birmingham, do you meanP” inquired Sir Richard, who had failed to follow his train of thought.

“No, old Jenkinson has resigned. Listen to this: ‘Mr. Thomas Jenkinson, M. P., has resigned his seat for the Drayworth Division of Shropshire. It is understood that the Coalitionists propose to invite Sir Richard Atherton, Bart., M. C., to contest the seat.’ Just our luck! You’ll have to be stumping the country, old man, instead of blazing at the partridges and philandering with the fair

Miss Here, steady on!” The sentence

broke off as a well-aimed scone struck the reader on the chest.

“Don’t be a silly idiot!” said his host coldly. “Does it say anything elseP”

‘ ‘I was just going to tell you if you hadn’t been in such a hurry, and now you’ll have to wait till I’ve cleaned this butter off my waistcoat. Now, let me see — ^here we are. ‘Sir Richard, who served with distinction in the war, is well known for his interest in agricultural problems, and is understood to advocate drastic economies in Government expenditure. The other parties have not [51 as yet selected a candidate, but the spendthrifts of the Coahtion are not in any case likely to find much support in this or any other constituency.’ You’ll be in for an Anti-Waste campaign, old chap, and that means a rare lot of talking. It’s a baddish look-out for your house party.”

The candidate-designate betrayed no signs of elation.

“Oh, confound it all,” he said, “they’ll have to wait a week or so. Sign of respect to the late member and all thatl I’m not going to spoil everything just for them. You must see them. Tommy, and talk to them like a mother.”

“Oh, all right,” said his friend, “I’ll see what I can do. I daresay I could keep your end up for you: you won’t want me here. Let me see: how would it read in the papers.^

“ ‘Sir nichard, who has only recently succeeded to a considerable estate, feels that his first duty is to his tenants. The first week of September is a time when every landlord should be among his own people. During his temporary absence his agent. Captain England, who has appeared on many platforms both in Europe and Asia, has taken charge of his elector^ interests. Those who [61

THE

MOVE are familiar with the two gentlemen are agreed that the constituency stands to gain by the exchange.’ That’s the line, I think!”

But the baronet showed no signs of responding to his friend’s humour.

‘T do wish you’d be serious for a minute, Smiler; it’s not nearly so simple as you think. Here, read that,” and he threw over a letter.

The Captain perused it. “Well, what’s the matter?” he asked.

“Have you read it?” inquired Sir Richard.

“Yes, it’s not very obscure:

Dear Sir Richard — My daughter and I are glad to accept your very kind invitation for August 31st. I shall much look forward to meeting your sister, Mrs. Howard, for though we have never met, I think we must have common friends in Norfolk. It will he a special pleasure also to have the chance of a talk with Professor Lapski after our interesting conversation of last week. My daughter joins in kind regards. Yours sincerely,

Pauline Branson.

Well, what’s the matter with that? She’s coming and the fair Diana is coming: what more do you want? Who’s this professor she seems so keen about.^”

Sir Richard had finished his breakfast and was lighting a cigarette. He felt a certain embarrassment, and his brief experience of the stage had shown him the value of that resource.

“Well, you see,” he answered, “Mrs. Branson is fearfully keen on thought-reading and spiritualism and all that, and I know she thinks I’m a fearful fool, and so, just to keep my end up, I pitched her no end of a yarn about this fellow Lapski and all he’d done. She swallowed it down like anything, and then I got a bit carried away with my subject, and I was awfully keen to get them here, and so I said if she’d come I’d ask him to meet her and — ^well, there you are, you seel” “Well, what about it?” asked Captain England . ‘ ‘Won’t he come ? ’ ’

The baronet approached his friend and laid a hand sympathetically on his shoulder. “My dear old chap,” he said, “there are times when your slowness positively makes me weep. There’s no such chap as Lapski in the wide world, or at least, if there is, I don’t know where to find him. ‘You can search me,’ as Ella Wheeler Wilcox or one of those high-souled American writers said in a moment of exaltationi”

THE

MOVE

The Captain whistled. “I see,” he said. “Well, all you can do is to tell them he’s prevented at the last moment: sudden illness of Mrs. Lapski — I suppose you told her he was married? Or he might be elected President of somewhere. Did you tell her he was a Pole or a Yugo-Slav or what?”

But Sir Richard was in no mood for badinage.

“Of com-se I thought of all that,” he answered, “but there’s no doubt she’ll be awfully disappointed. She’s quite likely to cut up rough and make inquiries, and then the whole thing will come out and a pretty sort of fool I shall look. No, old chap, I’ve thought it all out, and sorry as I am to have to say it, there’s only one thing for it, and that’s for you to be Lapski.”

The Captain uttered a shout of protest, but Sir Richard, now warming to his idea, waved his opposition aside and went on. “Yes, I’ve thought the whole thing out. It was last night it occurred to me. Tt can be done,’ I said to myself, ‘and England must do it,’ like that old Johnny in the National Gallery or somewhere who couldn’t find the North Pole or something. You know, old man, you’re rather a dab at thought-reading.

You’ve told me a lot of yarns you played off on those old Turks, and I’ll tell you a lot about every one in the house; and with a pair of spectacles and a wig — ^why, for a clever chap like you it’s as easy as backgammon! I know you won’t go back on a friend, old man.” (At this point Sir Richard’s manner became almost emotional — a fact which did the more credit to his histrionic powers as Captain England remained notably unimpressed.) ‘ ‘And now you know why, when I heard you talk about those speeches you’d go and make I just felt I couldn’t bear it. ‘What are two or three speeches on pohtical platforms to saving a friend’s honour.^’ I said to myself, ‘WTiat is pohtics compared to affection.^’ Or look at it another way. Here are you offering to represent me before a lot of yokels who don’t know the difference between Northcliffe and Southdown, and what am I offering you in exchanga^ ^Miy, a position of European importance! the chance of being one of the world’s great pioneers! (I tell you I pitched it in uncommon hot to the old lady.) The more I think of it, Smiler, old feUow,” he went on, ringing the bell as he spoke, “the clearer I am that I should be wrong to stand between 110]

THE

MOVE you and a really good opportunity. No, I won’t hear a word!” as Captain England endeavoured to make himself heard, ‘ ‘I know your self-denying nature. You’ll have the time of your hfe — artistic instinct long suppressed, and all that, finding a fair field at last! Wilson,” as the butler appeared, “will you please have Captain England’s things packed at once.^ he will be going away for a week.”

“Yes, Sir Richard. A telegram just come for you, sir!” Sir Richard read it and threw it over to Captain England.

“What a nuisance! Alice can’t come: one of her boys has got measles.”

“But if Mrs. Howard can’t come to act as hostess,” said the Captain with a gleam of hope fighting up his gloomy features, “the whole thing will have to be off. You can’t have a lot of ladies in a bachelor establishment like this. I may not be going away after all, Wilson,” he added, turning to the butler.

Sir Richard’s countenance had for the moment fallen, but his brow cleared, and turning to the butler with the air of a Napoleon rising to meet a crisis he said, “Get on to 1785 Gerrard, please.”

The telephone was just outside the door [11]

of the breakfast room, and the presence of Wilson acted as a bar to further intimate conversation.

Silence fell upon the two friends: Captain England gazed gloomily out of the window or made desperate efforts to read the financial pages of the Times, while his host walked up and down, whistling gently to himself, with an occasional chuckle as though his thoughts were not unpleasant. It was Captain England who broke the silence by growling out, ‘ ‘By the way, who are coming to this party of yours supposing it does come offP”

Sir Richard was all geniahty. “That’s right, old chap,” he said, “I’m so glad you’re beginning to sit up and take notice again. For a thought-reader there’s nothing like studying up your audience a bit beforehand. Well, there’s Uncle Bob: Aunt Ehzabeth can’t come, and I don’t think he’s brokenhearted. She’s got a religious craze on just now and is always running about to some new kind of service: rather rough on my old uncle, who only wants to be left in peace. ‘The godly and decent order of the Church of England’ is quite good enough for him. Then there’s one of the Ranby twins: you don’t know them, do youP Anyhow, I bet [121

THE

MOVE you wouldn’t know them apart! And old Montford, who used to be a beak at Eton: he’s an Archdeacon now and a topping good shot. He always was a pretty good shot with a hook,” he went on, chuckling. “Do you remember his dropping one on your head when you were asleep in five-o’clock school at the far end of the room.^^”

The Captain chuckled, and encouraged by this sign of appreciation. Sir Richard continued: “Then there’s his daughter. I’ve an idea Ranby is rather sweet on her, but I’m not sure: anyhow I haven’t told him she’s coming, so there’ll be no harm done. I just remember her when I was a boy: haven’t seen her since. That’s about all, I think — of course there was Alice, but now she’s off. — Well, what luck.^” he broke off as Wilson reappeared.

“You’re through, sir,” said Wilson, and Sir Richard went to the telephone.

It is never pleasant to hsten to the half of a conversation, and Captain England made desperate efforts to divert his mind; but the rain of the day before had sadly abbreviated the cricket news, and neither the rights of Silesia nor the wrongs of Ireland made a sufficiently intimate appeal. The thought [131 of his own future in the role of a thought-reader of uncertain nationahty, the impending sacrifice of his moustache (for the artist in him had reahsed its inevitable doom even while he was fighting against his fate) — all these things conspired to depress him, and his depression was increased by the idiotic snatches of conversation which reached him from time to time.

“Well, that is perfectly splendid of you — What? — No, they won’t have the least idea — What?” (a prolonged pause). “No, did she though? My word I I wonder what she’ll say to my uncle! he’s one himself, you know. — What? — ^yes, perhaps. — Well, thanks awfully — au revoir!”

The telephone was hung up and Sir Richard re-entered briskly. It was no longer the young Napoleon stung with the splendour of a sudden thought, but the conqueror entering in triumph with fresh laurels on his brow.

“She’ll do it,” he said. “That girl’s a topper!”

“I wonder if you mean that you’ve found some one to take the part of Madame Lapski,” said the Captain nervously, “because, if so, I’m bound to say there are limits ”

THE

MOVE

“Oh no, old chap, I don’t even believe there is one. Now I think of it. I’m pretty sure that I said he’d had most interesting talks with her spirit. I must try and remember. No, this is Mary Summers, my cousin, you know; I’ve asked her if she’ll come down and be hostess, and she says she will.”

“But she’s not married, is she? No, of course she can’t be, and that won’t make things any better.”

“Well, you see,” said Sir Richard a little guiltily, and yet with an air of conscious pride, “I’ve asked her if she’d come and be Alice, just for a bit, you know.”

‘ 'Be Alice! ” exclaimed the Captain; ‘ ‘what do you mean? ”

“Well, you see, Mrs. Branson’s never seen Alice: you saw she said so in that letter, so she’d never know. And after all they’re just about the same age, and she’s always been like a sister to me, and all that. Besides, they aren’t so awfully unlike, after all.”

“But my dear Dick, the thing’s absurd. Why, all the servants will know her and give the thing away.”

“I don’t believe they will — except Wilson, and he’s aU right: let’s ask him. Wilson,” he went on to the butler, who had reappeared [151 to clear away the breakfast, “how long is it since Miss Alice was here? some time, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir Richard; in fact I hardly think she’s been here since she was married. You see, what with the war and this house being shut up and used as a hospital and what not I couldn’t really say she’s been here since then, sir.”

“Then I suppose none of the servants have ever seen her? ”

“No, sir, no, I should say not: you see, sir, in these days, what with coming and going, there’s never been what you might call any servants of any standing.”

“There, Tommy, what did I tell you? I do hope that’ll be a lesson to you not to be always making difficulties. By the way, Wilson, Miss Ahce is coming here next week: you’ll find her a bit altered, I expect. Joy and sorrow, you know, Wilson, they change us all; but you’re a married man yourself and you understand what I mean. You’d better not say anything about it perhaps: it’s rather a delicate business — ^but there, you imderstand! ”

“I fancy I do, sir,” said the faithful Wilson. He glanced at Captain England with 116]

the BARONET’S MOVE

the ghost of a smile on his lips, but the expression of intensified gloom on the face of that hardened soldier froze it into nothing, and he resumed his task at the breakfast table.

“Well, well, now that’s settled, let’s come out and smoke on the terrace,” said Sir Richard.

Captain England followed hm through the French window: he was meditating deeply, and to judge by the muttered words that escaped him his meditations were anything but pleasant. His host smoked cheerfully, glancing at him now and then with ill-concealed amusement.

“By the way,” said Captain England suddenly, “what was that about your uncle? When you were telephoning, I mean, there seemed to be some difficulty about him — not that a difficulty more or less matters in this infernal folly!”

“Oh that!” answered Sir Richard airily; “well, he’s a brewer, you see.”

“And why shouldn’t he be?”

“Well, it so happens Mrs. Branson is a pussyfoot: I didn’t quite know how bad it was, but Mary tells me there was rather a nasty scene at the Winterbottoms the other night when she went for a harmless old [17]

beggar who was a brewer and cursed him up and down. Jolly lucky I heard about it. I don’t want to have her making things nasty for poor old Uncle Bob.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked England sarcastically; “tell him to say he’s Carpentier, I suppose?”

Sir Richard’s serenity was unimpaired. “Well, as you ask me,” said he, “I was thinking of asking him to say he was a retired Indian Civilian. She can’t have any objection to them.”

“And what about his objections?” asked the destined impersonator of the Professor of thought-reading; “does it ever occm* to you that people mayn’t like being made fools of just to please you? How do you suppose I like it? And now the whole blessed house is going to be full of people who aren’t what they pretend to bel You’ll get into trouble, young man, and so I tell you, and if it gets out that you’re conducting a performing circus like this you can whistle for your seat in Parliament!”

Sir Richard was unmoved by this outburst. He whistled an air from Pinafore which the exasperated ear of his friend identified as being “Things are seldom what they seem.”

the BARONET’S MOVE

and it was with an almost paternal kindliness that he addressed his assailant.

“My dear old chap,” he said, “I do wish you wouldn’t try and look on the dark side of things: it’s not right, you know, it’s not right I Old Pocock sadd so last week at that bazaar when there wasn’t any milk for the tea and the dog had eaten all the cake, and I did think it was so wise of him. Here am I working my heart out for you and what do I get for it? Do try and just look at it like a reasonable man. You’re to be a thought-reader, aren’t you? Well, what’s the chief difficulty of a thought-reader? To find out what people are really thinking of, isn’t it? especially when they don’t look it, eh? And here I am presenting you with two absolutely sitting shots and all you do is to curse and swear like a trooper! Why, if you play your cards right your fortune’s simply made. You’ll be a howling success — the feature of the next London season! Do be a reasonable chap and show a httle decent gratitude. Now I’ve got a lot to think about: you come along and practise reading my thoughts — or you might try on Wilson, I bet he’s got some worth knowing.”

And, stiU talking, the irrepressible baronet [191

TEH ROUGH THE SHADOWS

drove his ill-fated friend into the house, pausing for a moment to declaim with a theatrical passion which deserved a more sympathetic audience:

Nought shall make us rue If England to himself will be but true!

Chapter II

THE TRAIN OF EVENTS . . . et toujours de I’audace. — Danton.

R. Walton settled himself down in a first-class carriage with a feeling of undisguised content. He had the carriage to himself, and he was enough of a connoisseur in railway travelling to appreciate the comfort of two or three hours in a Great Western express. He was looking forward to his visit: Richard Atherton was his favourite nephew: the house was comfortable and he was glad to be visiting it again after the long interruption of the war: birds were reported to be plentiful, and the shooting he knew to be of the old-fashioned kind which he had learnt to enjoy in his youth. Anyhow he was free from work for a fortnight or so, and, successful man of business though he was, he was not above revelling in a holiday. Nor can it be denied that he bore the prospect of 1211 a brief separation from his wife with a cheerfulness worthy of a better cause. Mrs. Walton, to whom he was sincerely attached, had recently shown a tendency towards ritual and ritualists with which he found it hard to sympathise: “Life and Liberty” had been all very well: his drawing-room had always been at the service of its advocates, and he had spent many hours listening, not without edification, to denunciations of existing abuses in the Church and exhortations to the laity to rise in their thousands and abolish them. This was a matter of sound common sense, and Mr. Walton had all the Englishman’s desire to see conunon sense apphed to Church finance and Church affairs generally. But the tack on which his wife (at the instigation of one of the more eloquent of his former alhes) had recently gone seemed to him far from being sensible: he could only hope that it was equally far from being common. New phrases were swimming into his ken, and Mr. Walton, though he prided himself on being that rara avis a Libered brewer, was a strict Conservative in matters affecting the Enghsh language. He disfiked the word Mass: he held strong views on the pronunciation of the word Cathohc: he was [22]

unable to believe that the verb “to communicate” could be used transitively. He had no idea what the service of Benediction meant, and had shown unmistakably that he did not want to learn.

Enough has perhaps been said to explain in some measure the sigh of contentment with which he heard the guard’s v/histle blow and felt the train ghde slowly out under the ugliest bridge in Europe.

He drew a letter from his pocket and read it again.

Dear Uncle Bob (it began) — I’m awfully glad that you’re coming to-morrow and hope we shall have some decent sport. I think you’ll like the party. Alice is coming to look after you: she says you haven’t met for five years and she hardly thinks you’ll know her again. Then there’s Montford, who used to be at Eton, and his daughter, and young Ranby (the twin, you know). And I’ve got a Mrs. Branson and her daughter staying for a few days: they’re Americans. I met them in Paris last Spring. Oh, by the way, I do hope you won’t mind awfully, but she’s a fearful pussyfoot (Mrs. B. of course, I mean; her daughter’s quite different), and I was so afraid she might have a row with you and I let her think you were an Indian Civilian [23]

— retired, you know — just to save trouble.

She won’t know anything about India and you

won’t have to say anything, but it would have

been sickening to have a row, wouldn’t it?

I do hope you won’t think I’ve let you in, but

I was in an awful fright when she began lashing

out about beer, and saying she hoped none of

my relatives were in that devilish business. So

I just didn’t see what I could say, and India

seemed the simplest thing: I suppose it was

Uncle Arthur’s being there made me think

about it. So do forgive me, and after all, I

daresay it won’t come up at all. We’ll send in

to meet the 6.52. I’m so sorry Aunt Elizabeth

can’t come: please give her my love. Your aff.

nephew, *

Hichard Atherton.

P.S, — By the way, perhaps it’s rather lucky about Aunt Elizabeth after all: she mightn’t quite understand about India.

P.P.S, — It’s just occurred to me that you might like to say you were Uncle Arthur: but then there might be more difficulties, so please do just as you think best. — R. A.

No doubt it was the pleasant circumstances in which this letter was read which caused Mr. Walton to accept it with surprising equanimity: it is just possible too that the first postscript contributed to his readiness to [24]

play the part so audaciously thrust upon him. It was quite true that Aunt Elizabeth would have been very far from “understanding about India,” whatever that noble phrase might he taken to involve. There is something in sharing a secret, even though it be a rather discreditable one, and the fact remains that Mr. Walton, after shaking his head and muttering, “Confound the young brute!” chuckled gently to himself as he replaced the letter in his pocket.

From High Wycombe to Leamington he slept the sleep of the just: at Leamington and Birmingham his luck still held good and his privacy was undistiu*bed, and he felt that he had no cause of complaint when at Wolverhampton two intruders entered his carriage. The first, who established himself in the seat opposite him, was a stout gentleman whose gold watch-chain revelled in its opportunities for display: the second, a cherubic young man in a grey flannel suit and dark tie who settled down in the other corner. His portable luggage consisted of a gun-case, and the porter who put it in appeared to know him well. He was soon deep in a perusal of the Field,