Beasts and Super-Beasts
“Doesn’t he?” asked Clovis; “why not?”
“None of my children have been brought up to play card games,” said Mrs.
Eggelby; “draughts and halma and those sorts of games I encourage. Eric
is considered quite a wonderful draughts-player.”
“You are strewing dreadful risks in the path of your family,” said
Clovis; “a friend of mine who is a prison chaplain told me that among the
worst criminal cases that have come under his notice, men condemned to
death or to long periods of penal servitude, there was not a single
bridge-player. On the other hand, he knew at least two expert
draughts-players among them.”
“I really don’t see what my boys have got to do with the criminal
classes,” said Mrs. Eggelby resentfully. “They have been most carefully
brought up, I can assure you that.”
“That shows that you were nervous as to how they would turn out,” said
Clovis. “Now, my mother never bothered about bringing me up. She just
saw to it that I got whacked at decent intervals and was taught the
difference between right and wrong; there is some difference, you know,
but I’ve forgotten what it is.”
“Forgotten the difference between right and wrong!” exclaimed Mrs.
Eggelby.
“Well, you see, I took up natural history and a whole lot of other
subjects at the same time, and one can’t remember everything, can one? I
used to know the difference between the Sardinian dormouse and the
ordinary kind, and whether the wry-neck arrives at our shores earlier
than the cuckoo, or the other way round, and how long the walrus takes in
growing to maturity; I daresay you knew all those sorts of things once,
but I bet you’ve forgotten them.”
“Those things are not important,” said Mrs. Eggelby, “but—”
“The fact that we’ve both forgotten them proves that they are important,”
said Clovis; “you must have noticed that it’s always the important things
that one forgets, while the trivial, unnecessary facts of life stick in
one’s memory. There’s my cousin, Editha Clubberley, for instance; I can
never forget that her birthday is on the 12th of October. It’s a matter
of utter indifference to me on what date her birthday falls, or whether
she was born at all; either fact seems to me absolutely trivial, or
unnecessary—I’ve heaps of other cousins to go on with. On the other
hand, when I’m staying with Hildegarde Shrubley I can never remember the
important circumstance whether her first husband got his unenviable
reputation on the Turf or the Stock Exchange, and that uncertainty rules
Sport and Finance out of the conversation at once. One can never mention
travel, either, because her second husband had to live permanently
abroad.”
“Mrs. Shrubley and I move in very different circles,” said Mrs. Eggelby
stiffly.
“No one who knows Hildegarde could possibly accuse her of moving in a
circle,” said Clovis; “her view of life seems to be a non-stop run with
an inexhaustible supply of petrol. If she can get some one else to pay
for the petrol so much the better. I don’t mind confessing to you that
she has taught me more than any other woman I can think of.”
“What kind of knowledge?” demanded Mrs. Eggelby, with the air a jury
might collectively wear when finding a verdict without leaving the box.
“Well, among other things, she’s introduced me to at least four different
ways of cooking lobster,” said Clovis gratefully. “That, of course,
wouldn’t appeal to you; people who abstain from the pleasures of the
card-table never really appreciate the finer possibilities of the
dining-table. I suppose their powers of enlightened enjoyment get
atrophied from disuse.”
“An aunt of mine was very ill after eating a lobster,” said Mrs. Eggelby.
“I daresay, if we knew more of her history, we should find out that she’d
often been ill before eating the lobster. Aren’t you concealing the fact
that she’d had measles and influenza and nervous headache and hysteria,
and other things that aunts do have, long before she ate the lobster?
Aunts that have never known a day’s illness are very rare; in fact, I
don’t personally know of any. Of course if she ate it as a child of two
weeks old it might have been her first illness—and her last. But if that
was the case I think you should have said so.”
“I must be going,” said Mrs. Eggelby, in a tone which had been thoroughly
sterilised of even perfunctory regret.
Clovis rose with an air of graceful reluctance.
“I have so enjoyed our little talk about Eric,” he said; “I quite look
forward to meeting him some day.”
“Good-bye,” said Mrs. Eggelby frostily; the supplementary remark which
she made at the back of her throat was—
“I’ll take care that you never shall!”
A HOLIDAY TASK
Kenelm Jerton entered the dining-hall of the Golden Galleon Hotel in the
full crush of the luncheon hour. Nearly every seat was occupied, and
small additional tables had been brought in, where floor space permitted,
to accommodate latecomers, with the result that many of the tables were
almost touching each other. Jerton was beckoned by a waiter to the only
vacant table that was discernible, and took his seat with the
uncomfortable and wholly groundless idea that nearly every one in the
room was staring at him. He was a youngish man of ordinary appearance,
quiet of dress and unobtrusive of manner, and he could never wholly rid
himself of the idea that a fierce light of public scrutiny beat on him as
though he had been a notability or a super-nut. After he had ordered his
lunch there came the unavoidable interval of waiting, with nothing to do
but to stare at the flower-vase on his table and to be stared at (in
imagination) by several flappers, some maturer beings of the same sex,
and a satirical-looking Jew. In order to carry off the situation with
some appearance of unconcern he became spuriously interested in the
contents of the flower-vase.
“What is the name of these roses, d’you know?” he asked the waiter. The
waiter was ready at all times to conceal his ignorance concerning items
of the wine-list or menu; he was frankly ignorant as to the specific name
of the roses.
“_Amy Sylvester Partington_,” said a voice at Jerton’s elbow.
The voice came from a pleasant-faced, well-dressed young woman who was
sitting at a table that almost touched Jerton’s. He thanked her
hurriedly and nervously for the information, and made some inconsequent
remark about the flowers.
“It is a curious thing,” said the young woman, that, “I should be able to
tell you the name of those roses without an effort of memory, because if
you were to ask me my name I should be utterly unable to give it to you.”
Jerton had not harboured the least intention of extending his thirst for
name-labels to his neighbour. After her rather remarkable announcement,
however, he was obliged to say something in the way of polite inquiry.
“Yes,” answered the lady, “I suppose it is a case of partial loss of
memory. I was in the train coming down here; my ticket told me that I
had come from Victoria and was bound for this place. I had a couple of
five-pound notes and a sovereign on me, no visiting cards or any other
means of identification, and no idea as to who I am. I can only hazily
recollect that I have a title; I am Lady Somebody—beyond that my mind is
a blank.”
“Hadn’t you any luggage with you?” asked Jerton.
“That is what I didn’t know. I knew the name of this hotel and made up
my mind to come here, and when the hotel porter who meets the trains
asked if I had any luggage I had to invent a dressing-bag and
dress-basket; I could always pretend that they had gone astray. I gave
him the name of Smith, and presently he emerged from a confused pile of
luggage and passengers with a dressing-bag and dress-basket labelled
Kestrel-Smith. I had to take them; I don’t see what else I could have
done.”
Jerton said nothing, but he rather wondered what the lawful owner of the
baggage would do.
“Of course it was dreadful arriving at a strange hotel with the name of
Kestrel-Smith, but it would have been worse to have arrived without
luggage. Anyhow, I hate causing trouble.”
Jerton had visions of harassed railway officials and distraught
Kestrel-Smiths, but he made no attempt to clothe his mental picture in
words. The lady continued her story.
“Naturally, none of my keys would fit the things, but I told an
intelligent page boy that I had lost my key-ring, and he had the locks
forced in a twinkling. Rather too intelligent, that boy; he will
probably end in Dartmoor. The Kestrel-Smith toilet tools aren’t up to
much, but they are better than nothing.”
“If you feel sure that you have a title,” said Jerton, “why not get hold
of a peerage and go right through it?”
“I tried that. I skimmed through the list of the House of Lords in
‘Whitaker,’ but a mere printed string of names conveys awfully little to
one, you know. If you were an army officer and had lost your identity
you might pore over the Army List for months without finding out who your
were. I’m going on another tack; I’m trying to find out by various
little tests who I am _not_—that will narrow the range of uncertainty
down a bit. You may have noticed, for instance, that I’m lunching
principally off lobster Newburg.”
Jerton had not ventured to notice anything of the sort.
“It’s an extravagance, because it’s one of the most expensive dishes on
the menu, but at any rate it proves that I’m not Lady Starping; she never
touches shell-fish, and poor Lady Braddleshrub has no digestion at all;
if I am _her_ I shall certainly die in agony in the course of the
afternoon, and the duty of finding out who I am will devolve on the press
and the police and those sort of people; I shall be past caring. Lady
Knewford doesn’t know one rose from another and she hates men, so she
wouldn’t have spoken to you in any case; and Lady Mousehilton flirts with
every man she meets—I haven’t flirted with you, have I?”
Jerton hastily gave the required assurance.
“Well, you see,” continued the lady, “that knocks four off the list at
once.”
“It’ll be rather a lengthy process bringing the list down to one,” said
Jerton.
“Oh, but, of course, there are heaps of them that I couldn’t possibly
be—women who’ve got grandchildren or sons old enough to have celebrated
their coming of age. I’ve only got to consider the ones about my own
age. I tell you how you might help me this afternoon, if you don’t mind;
go through any of the back numbers of _Country Life_ and those sort of
papers that you can find in the smoking-room, and see if you come across
my portrait with infant son or anything of that sort. It won’t take you
ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the lounge about tea-time. Thanks
awfully.”
And the Fair Unknown, having graciously pressed Jerton into the search
for her lost identity, rose and left the room. As she passed the young
man’s table she halted for a moment and whispered:
“Did you notice that I tipped the waiter a shilling? We can cross Lady
Ulwight off the list; she would have died rather than do that.”
At five o’clock Jerton made his way to the hotel lounge; he had spent a
diligent but fruitless quarter of an hour among the illustrated weeklies
in the smoking-room. His new acquaintance was seated at a small
tea-table, with a waiter hovering in attendance.
“China tea or Indian?” she asked as Jerton came up.
“China, please, and nothing to eat. Have you discovered anything?”
“Only negative information. I’m not Lady Befnal. She disapproves
dreadfully of any form of gambling, so when I recognised a well-known
book maker in the hotel lobby I went and put a tenner on an unnamed filly
by William the Third out of Mitrovitza for the three-fifteen race. I
suppose the fact of the animal being nameless was what attracted me.”
“Did it win?” asked Jerton.