SHORT STORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 45, 16 May 1927, Page 3

SHORT STORY

HIS SAVING GRACE BY C. D. LESLIE Arnofrl ?r" eford put the idea into sixth Li!, ! nBS . head ' lt was the andtho t f 11S , Vlsit at Ar kholt Hall, thf ift tenms ~ lawn , which earlier in courts t fnn°° n had seen three Brass U.A occ upied, was deserted tiUnUUU , Gilbe >' and himself, sitmhd fIU U cha * rs aud indulging in a stood* 1 hi? tlon ' Suddenly their hostess f ° re them ' resplendent in a pink dinner gown. “My dear Flora,” she said, “the SOns has didn’t you “Goodness! I must fly.” u.hii! ra M Skim T ? le(1 the sw ard like a bird, ured H K ref ° rd ’ stout > eood-nat-ured, and a born matchmaker, dropped mto the vacant chair and beamed n ..v nold P re P ar ing to follow. needn’t hurry, Mr. Twining, need jou. There s nearly half an hour.” Arnold affirmed his capability to get ln *°. h i S dinn . er clothes in 15 minutes. A dear girl, Flora, isn’t she? We all love her.” Miss Gilbey is very popular,” he agreed. Jack’s mother regarded him archly under pencilled eyebrows. iTou might do worse, Arnold,” she murmured confidentially. “She comes into quite a nice sum under her father’s will when she’s 21, and that’s to-morrow.” -Diffidence was not one of Mr. Twining’s failings—we are coming to the chief one directly—yet he was honestly surprised and flattered that Mrs. Hereford should suggest that he was an eligible husband for Flora Gilbey. He was, as he now hinted, the least, financially speaking, of the bachelors the Hall sheltered. There was Sir John Dory “He’s not a marrying man;” there was a note of finality in the matron’s voice; “and Jack has a girl, otherwise . . . and Tom Carr isn’t her sort, and she isn’t Captain Walker’s sort. Not horsey enough . . . Oh, there’s Barnes. I want to tell him about sweeping these walks. If you’re going in, say I want to speak to him.” Indubitably, Mrs. Hereford had given her son’s friend food for thought. Arnold chewed it, metaphorically speaking, while he dressed, and later at the dinner table banquetted on it while he ate and drank. It was quite true; none of the single men of the house party was seriously “after” Flora Gilbey. She was a popular young woman whose society the men sought, but not with matrimonial intentions. Why. then, shouldn’t he go in and win ? Mr. Twining was, so he told the world, confidential secretary to Frank South, the junior partner of South Bros., produce brokers in the city; but, truth to tell, his status was that of clerk, and if bad trade should impel the firm to reduce their staff he had no certainty that he was regarded as one of the indispensables. To succeed in the city a young man wanted a little capital behind him. No man realised that better than Arnold. A wife with money . . . He’d vaguely dreamed of acquiring one, and lo! the lady, thanks to Mrs. Hereford, had evolved out of dreamland into a member of the country house party. It <only needed enterprise to capture her. “Faint heart, etc.” In fact, ere dinner was over his mind was made up. Miss Gilbey was seated well away from him at table, invisible, thanks to the floral decorations, but listening to the conversation around her he picked up certain pertinent information. Flora wanted to return home at least for the morrow to spend her birthday with her mother, but the Herefords—Mrs. and Jack and Eva—absolutely vetoed it. Mrs. Gilbey could come over and lunch and dine at the Hall, and Flora’s brothers also, if at home, which was doubtful, as they were members of a holiday cricket touring team. And so it was settled. Arnold planned after dinner to take up the interrputed tete-a-tete with Flora, but Fate willed otherwise. There was some music and singing and round games in the drawing-room, instead of the usual patronage of the bil-liard-room, and Miss Gilbey’s would-be suitor found it impossible to get a word apart with her. Indeed, when they separated for the night he felt to his annoyance that he hadn’t got any “forarder.” And time was important; he’d been asked for a fortnight only, and his visit was half gone. The ladies had retired, and the men were having a final drink in the lounge when Jack Hereford, who had been called to the telephone, rejoined them. “The Askews are coming over tomorrow,” he told Arnold. “We’ll take them on—what?” A sudden inspiration came to Arnold. “If you don’t mind, old thing, I’d rather scratch . . . want to rest that leg muscle. I heard you say you must send the Wessex into Brighton to have the ignition looked to. I thought I’d “All right,” returned the other. “I’ll get Dory. But it’s damned bad luck. I’d have liked to wipe their eye; I believe you and I could.” They were tennis enthusiasts at Arkholt Hall, and Arnold, who was very near Wimbledon form, had been asked down for his tennis. Jack and he in doubles had beaten all comers inside a ten-mile radius, but bis defection on the morrow now that the famous Askew brothers were coming would probably mean that Arkholt Hall would lose its unbeaten record. Jack was annoyed, but not, of course, with Arnold. “I think I need one or two days’ rest,” said the visitor as they parted, “and if you and Dory are beaten tomorrow fix up a return and I’ll promise to play in it.” And Jack, after insisting on bringing to Arnold’s room the special brand of embrocation he swore by, presently left him. The illuminating idea which had sprung into Arnold’s brain was: birthday present. That women are won with gifts both history and legend agree. Thus did Faust win Marguerite, and though the story is apocryphal, the wise suitor knows that pretty gifts as well as speeches go a long way toward winning a girl’s heart. “I’ll buy her a really handsome birthday present in Brighton,” decided Arnold; “it’ll be a sort of delicate hint I’m serious.” In pursuance of his plan he rose early and breakfasted before the rest of the house party were down, and was away on the 25-mile run to Brighton, which he reached by 10 o’clock. An expert in the Wessex depot put the ignition trouble right very quickly, and Arnold found plenty of time to buy his present and get back to the hall, as he intended, ere lunch time. And now he was confronted with a serious difficulty. What was he to buy Miss Gilbey? A piece of jewellery was the obvious answer and Brighton jewellers offered plenty of choice —a variety so super-abundant that decision was baulked. And the prices appalled Arnold. He knew instinctively that nothing glittering and cheap would do; the present was for a young woman of taste and discernment —not a nursery maid of unsophisticated schoolgirl. It has been hinted earlier that Arnold had a fault, he was temperamentally, if not miserly, at least "near.” In short, though neither a Jew nor a Scotsman, he hated spending money, or, as he put it, unnecessary money. He now began to think his idea of an expensive present unwise. On so short an acquaintance it might be regarded as bad form by Miss Gilbey. Thus, after half an hour’s acute doubt, he went into a book shop and bought a volurn- of rooms by some v rson ' 'cl i never heard of, but whose poetry lie

remembered Flora saying she liked. A few miles out of the town in a narrow lane he had to pull up to allow a flock of sheep to pass, and he did not immediately restart when the road was clear. There was plenty of time, and having breakfasted early he had purchased some fruit and biscuits in Brighton in case he felt hungry. The day was warm, the road lonely, it semed a propitious moment for a light al fresco meal. In the middle of it a slight snuffing sound made him look down, and he saw the quaint dome head and retrousse nose of a Pekingese spaniel, its fore paws on the step, regarding him. It must be the dog he heard barking when the sheep went by. He noticed he was alongside a rather attractive house of moderate size; glimpses of it were just visible behind shrubs and a high privet hedge; an open garden gate showed how the dog had escaped. Arnold gave it a piece of biscuit, and the little creature sat down on the roadside to enjoy it. For a moment Arnold idly regarded the dog. The Hall was a doggy house, but kept no Pekingese. Who had recently been talking of them? Then he remembered Flora had said she loved them, and that her mother was crazy about them. Mrs. Gilbey kept nearly a dozen, exhibiting them at the principal shows, and owned, what was it? Champion Ah Sin, who had won 15 cups. A dog! That was what he ought to have bought Flora. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier? Much better than jewellery. For 10 guineas a nice puppy could be . . . but why buy one. Behold, at his feet, a strayed dog, simply asking for a kind home. Opportunity, it has been profoundly remarked, makes the thief. Arnold looked up and down the empty road, stared at the practically invisible house, and the temptation became irresistible. Here was a handsome present, one that would specially appeal to the lady he desired to please—and it wouldn’t cost him a penny. He acted swiftly. He jumped down, picked up the dog, deposited it in the seat, sprang in, released the clutch, and with a whirr the car buzzed forward; two minutes later he was half a mile away. The abducted canine accepted the situation with the philosophy of the Hast, where its ancestors came from. But Pekes are notoriously apathetic; generations of petting and overfeeding have made them so. Evidently accustomed to motoring, it posed itself like a miniature lion on the cushion and sniffed the air as if it owned the car. Arnold looked it over with a thoughtful eye as he drove, delving ’uto his knowledge of the breed; it seemed to have all the points of a first-class Pekingese. Indubitably Flora would be pleased with it. He was back at the Hall before the luncheon hour, and fortune favoured him in that he spied Miss Gilbey in the garden gathering flowers. Tucking the dog under his arm he went to meet her. “Oh,” she cried as he approached, “where did you get that?” “It’s a birthday present for you. I bought it in Brighton.” Sometoing ceremonious in the way of good wishes he essayed to add, but the speech rambled to nothingness, for Miss Gilbey was not listening; she was giving all her attention to the dog, who, on his part, seemed quite disposed to be friendly; and then the voice of Eva at the gate broke in. “Flora, you’re wanted.” Miss Gilbey, the dog tucked under her arm, obeyed the summons. Arnold felt that Jiis gift had fallen rather flat. Why, she hadn’t even thanked him. There was, too, something peculiar in her manner as she departed; an air of puzzledom, bewilderment, as if she couldn’t find words. Did she deem him too presumptuous in buying her a valuable dog? Perhaps she didn’t feel sure that she could accept it. Then it occurred to him that the dog ought to have a pedigree; he must get one, fake one somehow, and have a story ready of how he bought it. The matter was a little more complicated than he thought. Yes, he must have a yarn pat of bow he bought the dog; he would certainly be asked for details, probably at the luncheon table. Slowly, methodically, while washing his hands in his room, he evolved a circumstantial history out of his inner consciousness. It took time, the luncheon bell had long gone when he descended the stairs and the meal, an informal one, half over, but he was fully armed, and - prepared to answer all questions. It was, of course, a coincidence that the loud buzz of conversation that fell on his ear as he entered ceased directly he was observed. Jack, from the foot of the table, called a question about the car; and it was in a deathlike silence that the newcomer briefly answered. And then, as he began to eat, discussion about a dance that evening arose, and silent, amid the babble of talk, he fell upon his belated lunch. Five minutes later, as the servant removed his plate, Flora, speaking from her end of the table, said: “Mr. Twining, where did you buy the dog you gave me just before lunch?” Like an actor taking a cue, Arnold began to tell how on the front he had met a famiilar face, an old family servant who had left years ago to get married. Returning with her to her humble house, he found it in confusion, husband and wife were giving up their house and returning to service—excellent appointments in a private hydro in the Midlands. And this necessitated their parting with their adored “Nankipoo,” whom they had had since a puppy two years before. And, remembering it was Miss Gilbey’s birthday, and that she adored Pekes —the tale flowed on quite naturally. He was slightly surprised at the profound silence with which it was received and the universal interest which seemed to be taken in the story; noticed also for the first time two strangers at the table, one a middleaged lady who sat beside Flora, and the other a young man in a cricket blazer. He remembered seeing the latter from his bedroom window, as he was washing his hands, ride up on a bicycle. When he ceased. Flora began to talk to Mrs. Hereford about something else, not a word of thanks or comment did she bestow on Arnold. And was it imagination that the strange lady regarded him with a fixed malevolent stare? “Who is the lady next Miss Gilbey?” he asked in a low voice of the girl who sat on his right. This was Miss Outram, a young woman whom he didn’t like, and perhaps hadn’t taken much trouble to conceal the fact; at any rate the antipathy was mutual. “That’s Flora’s mother—Mrs. Gilbey,” she told him. He recalled now, Mrs. Gilbey was coming to lunch. “She lives at Great Wybrow, you know,” continued Miss Outram. Arnold didn’t know; he’d never troubled to speculate where Flora’s mother lived, but the name struck a chord of memory. He’d seen it quite recently; in fact, that very morning on a sign post as he came back from Brighton . . . close by the house where he’d picked up the dog. Mr. Twining had satisfied his hunger on cold beef and salad and apple tart, and was now toying with biscuits and cheese, and suddenly the flavour of the food he was eating turned as it were to dust and ashes in his mouth. He felt his face grow warm; he experienced a horrid prickling sensation in his scalp. A moment later he banished the absurd thought which had given him his secret fright. No, it couldn’t be. He furtively surveyed the company. Surely everything was as usual. And yet was it conscience or imagination which made him suspect that the rest of the narty were sharing a secret jest—one wlv'-'h he had no share, i “And that's Harold Gilbey,” said Miss

Outram subtly indicating the youth in the blazer. “I saw him come up on a bicycle,” murmured Arnold. “Some domestic cataclysm brought him here—no, that’s hardly a suitable word, because I gathered it concerned a dog. But the trouble seems to have blown over. At least the Gilbeys are not worrying much, are they?” Arnold turned to his tormentor, tried to speak, and failed. His brain cells were on strike. He wanted to explain it was a joke, but tongue-tied could only stare dumbly. If only he had guessed that the youth on the bicycle was Flora’s brother pursuing the dog thief, there had been just time to pass it off as a practical joke, but after his elaborate story at the luncheon table. Too late; too late! People were rising from the table, drifting out of the room. Flora left without a backward glance, but he sensed rather than saw Mrs. Gilbey’s malicious look, and her son’s half concontemptuous, half-amused expression. Good-natured Mrs. Hereford had a frown on her face, and what did that gesture thrown at Jack imply. And presently Jack and he were alone. “Look here, Twining,” began the former. Arnold found voice. In a last desperate appeal to stave off the inevitable he started a confused explanation. “He’d gone off with the dog in the car. forgetting it was there. He’d . . .” “Oh. stop lying. Harold Gilbey saw you pick it up and bolt with it. He was in his belroom watching you. Chased the car on his bicycle, never dreaming where it was going. Saw it turn in here. Saw his mother and told her. Eva reported that Flora and you and the Peke were in the garden. Flora was sent for. . . .” “We gave you a chance to explain at the luncheon table. That was the champion. As Sin you stole.” “The car is at the door, Mr. John.” announced Mold the butler. “You can just catch the 2.15, Twining. Mold will pack your bag and send it off by the evening express. Afraid I must insist, but Mrs. Gilbey declines ro meet vou at tea, and the rest of the party, too. would rather be excused from seeing you again.” I Arnold went. —“The Australasian.”