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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Collected Short Stories
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Collected Short Stories - Book 4 by Fred M. White is a captivating anthology that showcases the masterful storytelling of one of the genre's greats. This fourth collection delivers a rich tapestry of suspense, adventure, and intrigue, each story crafted with White's signature flair for gripping narrative and complex characters. From eerie mysteries to thrilling escapades, each tale promises to transport readers into a world where nothing is as it seems. Whether you're a long-time fan or new to White's work, this collection offers a fresh and exhilarating journey into the realms of classic short fiction. Don't miss out on experiencing the latest gems from a timeless storyteller!
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Table of Contents
Collected Short Stories - Book4
UNBIDDEN GUESTS
THE LAST DRIVE
THE TWO BON-BONS
THE MIDNIGHT CALL
THE ONUS OF THE CHARGE
THE CHARLATAN
THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATE
THE BUFF GAUNTLET
THE LUCK OF THE GAME
THE BALANCE OF NATURE
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Collected Short Stories - Book4
UNBIDDEN GUESTS
Published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 15 Feb 1905
I
Heaven and earth seemed blended together in a great whirling wheel. Nurse Clare was conscious of a faint smell of burning wood; in a dreamy kind of way she sat up, and asked what was the matter. Then it came back to her that there had been an accident, and that she was not in the least hurt. The carriage had run off the rails, had pitched sideways down a sloping bank, the feeble oil lamp was out, one frosty star indicated the angled window and the serene silence beyond.
Nurse Clare's first thought was for her patient. A dim black bundle loomed opposite her. The resolute-looking, clear-eyed nurse was herself again. She fumbled for the silver match-box at the end of her chatelaine, and struck a vesta. The carriage had fallen over at an angle of forty-five, the dark bundle opposite with a smaller bundle in its arms was fast asleep.
"There has been an accident," Nurse Clare said. "Our slip coach has run off the line. I haven't the remotest idea where we are, but I fancy that we have the coach to ourselves."
"And I slept through it," the other woman said. "I was utterly worn out. I was up all the night with my boy."
She hugged the bundle in her arms closer.
A few hours before these women had been strangers. They had drifted together half-way through a long railway journey, and gradually the story had been told. It was a tale of struggle and misfortune, a runaway match, and a stern, unforgiving father. Then, when things had been getting better, the young husband had been stricken down with smallpox, and the young wife's last desperate resource was a distant relative in the West of England.
The slip coach had fallen clear of the line. Clearly there was nobody else in it. And there was comfort behind that distant red gleam. Nurse Clare sped rapidly along the sleepers till she could see the great crimson star directly overhead, and the outline of a signal box beneath it.
"There has been an accident," she said. "The slip coach to Longford has gone off the rails. Nobody has been hurt, only I thought—"
A big bearded man came rattling down the stairway.
"I was getting anxious, Miss," he said. "My mate, who has just gone off duty, is telegraphing for assistance. Can I do anything?"
"We must make use of your box for the present," the nurse said. "Anything is better than the railway carriage. Is not Grinstead Priory close by?"
"It's no use you going over to Grinstead Priory," the big man said. "If you crawled up the drive at the last gasp it 'ud just please Squire to set his dogs on you and drive you away."
"That poor little body isn't going to have a case of pneumonia on her hands if I can help it," said Nurse Clare. "And as to his dogs, why I just love them."
Nurse Clare pushed her way along until she came at length to a deserted lodge, a pair of moss-clad gates leading into the throat of an avenue. By the light of a crescent moon Nurse Clare could make out a big sign, "Beware of the Dogs." There was a deep-mouthed baying not far off.
But Clare had little time to picture what might have been. She was suddenly transformed into a female Daniel in a den of lions. The frosty air boomed with the deep baying of hounds. Clare caught herself thinking of Topsy and Eva and Uncle Tom.
The great brutes raced towards her, howling as they came. Clare's heart gave one great bound, and then seemed to stop still. She was honestly and sincerely afraid now; she had fully expected to hear the huge hall door fly open at the first note of danger. But though lights blazed in every window, the house was ominously still and silent.
The little nurse stood rigidly there as the great hounds bounded towards here.
"Come here," Clare commanded. "Come here, sir."
The dog came with a shamed gliding movement. The others followed. Clare could see the lights gleaming on rows of polished tooth. She moved very slowly towards the hall door, she laid her fingers resolutely on the handle. Then she staggered into the hall and closed the door swiftly behind her.
Clare marched resolutely into one of the rooms—a noble dining-room with the table laid for dinner. There were covers for at least a score of guests. There were wines of the finest quality, an elegant repast, but everything, to the dishes on the sideboard, cold.
A fire of ripe acacia logs roared up the wide chimney. Before it there sat a man in a deep beehive chair, one foot resting on a stool. He was a grey man, grey as to his hair and eyes, and hard, clean cut features.
"Good evening!" he said in a deep sarcastic note. "I heard you outside. My hearing is good. You don't lack courage."
"If I had," Clare said; "those dogs of yours would have torn me to pieces. You heard me; and yet you took no steps—oh! shameless!"
"I cannot take steps of any kind at present," the man said grimly. "I have sprained my ankle badly. As to servants, there are none in the house. To-morrow a fresh set will arrive. What do you want here?"
Clare explained briefly. She would bring her charge there, whether Grinstead liked it or not.
"Mind you it is contraband of war," he said. "If I were not helpless, I tell you frankly I would have none of this. It is my mood at this time of the year to deck my table out as if I had a house full of people. The last happy time I had before I lost all faith in humanity was a Christmas. You see I have been decorating the walls with holly and the like. That is how I slipped and hurt my ankle. In doing so I displaced those pictures that lie on the floor. I shall be greatly obliged if you will replace them on their hooks. No, no, not that way—the face of the portraits to the wall."
Clare propped the portraits against the table. As her eyes fell upon them she gave a gasp of astonishment. They were beautifully painted, and must have been excellent portraits. Evidently, too, they were mother and daughter.
II
Clare hurried her companion up the avenue, and into the house, lest some misfortune should baulk her plans. Grinstead looked up grimly; then the black cloud shut down upon his face again. He would have risen only the pain in his foot brought him down again with a groan. Clare's companion stood there, as if dazed by the light.
"My daughter," Grinstead cried. "If you think to fool me like this—"
"Marmion knows me," Mrs. Lestrange said unsteadily. "See how he fawns upon me, and lick's my hand. Father don't send me away to-night. Let me stay here till the morning. Then I will go, and you shall see my face no more. My child—"
"Your child is safe," Nurse Clare said. "We shall stay here to-night. Give the boy to me."
Clare took a pillow from a chair, and laid the boy on it before the fire. His cheeks were rosy and flushed, the streaming firelight glistened upon the shining curls. With a sudden curiosity, Grinstead bent down to look. The big hound growled ominously.
"When I was in South Africa, I met a nurse. Head of a special mission, and called Ursula," said Clare, apropos of nothing apparently. "She was the head of a band of nurses equipped and sent out at her own expense. We all knew there was a sad story somewhere, and we all felt that she was not to blame. But we had to work too hard in those dark days to think of anything but our duty. Still, if ever there was an angel, Sister Ursula was one. Then enteric broke out, and she was one of the first to fall.
"I nursed her for a week, but it was obvious what the end would be, and just before she died she told me something of her history. She had married a man that she respected rather than loved, but he proved a good husband so far that she grew very fond of him in time. Then, some time after her little girl came, she made a discovery. By means of a deliberate lie her husband had separated her from the first love of her heart—"
"Ah," Grinstead said, hoarsely, "so she found that out?"
"Yes, she found it out. And that was why she left her husband and child without a word to go into a kind of convent. It was a dreadful shock to a proud nature like hers, and for years she nursed her sorrow alive. She might have forgiven that man had he sought her out, but he did not do so. And just before she died, before she had time to tell me who she was, she gave me this to give to her husband as a token of forgiveness. I am glad that I can hand it over to him at Christmas time."
From her purse Clare drew a simple wedding ring. "Now what do you think of this man?" Clare went on. "Because his wife leaves him he loses all faith in human nature. He looks upon himself as betrayed. And yet all those years he never thinks of the cruel lie by which he parted a woman from the man of her heart. He had only one point of view, for his own sin he can feel nothing. Why when his daughter gives him a lesson that love is better than all the world besides, he sees nothing in it but another personal grievance."
Grinstead had nothing to say: his sharp tongue was silenced, for all that Clare had said was positively true. He had forgotten that dishonourable lie, he had deliberately ignored everything but his own wrongs. Even after the lapse of years his face flushed as he thought of his wife's feelings when the truth came home to her. It was amazing now to realise that he had never for a moment dreamt that the fault might have been his.
"I should have looked till I found you," Clare said. "As it is I have found you quite by accident. Sir, the play is played out. It is for you to say what situation the curtain shall rise upon."
It was some time before Grinstead spoke. He was cast down and humiliated, a prey to bitter feelings, and yet his heart was lighter than it had been for years. He pointed to the blank pictures on the walls.
"Will you do me a little favour?" he asked. "You were so good as to hang up those portraits for me just now. I shall be very glad if you will please put them in—in a more favourable position."
The words cost Grinstead an effort as Clare could see. Without a word she turned the pictures round and dusted them.
"And now," she said. "We had better see what bedroom accommodation there is for us. I presume there are fires laid upstairs. And when that is all over I will look to your injured ankle. Come along."
She swept Eleanor Lestrange out of the room, leaving Grinstead to his own troubled thoughts. At his feet the boy lay looking up with dreamy eyes. They looked up at him from the floor; they seemed to smile down at him from the walls.
"Ain't you afraid of me?" he said clumsily. The boy rose and climbed on to Grinstead's knees.
"I'm not afraid of anybody," he said, "because everybody loves me."
Clare laid a hand upon Eleanor Lestrange's shoulder and drew her into the shadow. The firelight danced and flickered, and in the centre of it was Grinstead with the boy on his knees and his slim hands in the little fellow's curls.
"Your troubles are over," Clare whispered, "and I fancy I shall be here long enough to see your husband and your father shake hands yet."
And she did.
THE LAST DRIVE
Advertisement for the Haskell golf ball, 1906
Published in The Australian Town And Country Journal, 3 Jan 1906, pp 33-34
I
THE members of the Royal Crossboro' Golf Club were suffering from a periodical lack of incidents. For instance, nobody had done any holes "in one" lately, the merits and demerits of the "Haskell"* et hoc had been thoroughly thrashed out, so that the select smoking-room company were actually forced back upon quite mundane matters. The afternoon was too wet and windy even for golf, and the half-dozen members round the fire had finished the usual after-lunch abuse of the Green Committee.
"Nor'-west gale for the last week," growled one. "I suppose that's why we are kept on the back tee at the eighteenth hole. Old Seddon to blame, of course."
"Of course," said another of the smokers. "It means that every ball that's fairly well played falls in the Mole brook, and consequently is carried past Seddon's house and into his private grounds, where he collects them all. He hasn't bought a new ball for years."
One of the fathers of the club, smoking gravely in his favourite armchair, smiled meaningly. There was a deadly feud between Mr. Chorsley aforesaid and the wily Seddon, whose residence was quite close to the home green.
"I've stopped that," Chorsley said. "I had a wire grating fixed across the brook just as it passed through the hedge into Seddon's grounds. No more annexed Haskell's now. Did I ever tell you how Seddon served me the last time we played together in the Spring?"
The assembled company shuffled uneasily. They had all heard the story times out of number, how Seddon had played with his opponent's ball, and declared it to be his own. But then Mr. Chorsley was a real good fellow, and widely hospitable to boot, and the old old story was endured in silence. And Seddon was no favourite in the club.
"It's a strange thing," another member said, thoughtfully. "For the last month Frank Bruce has never made one decent drive over the Mole brook at the last hole. He is playing a better game than he has ever played in his life, and yet every time he comes to the last tee he slices his drive over the boundary into the brook, as it passes into Seddon's property."
"And never misses when he drops another ball down for a second drive," added another member.
"One way of getting round old Seddon," a further member remarked. "It's love for Mary Seddon, the old boy's niece, that upsets Bruce's nerve at the last hole. When he is in sight of the house he is thinking of the unattainable and other things."
"Is that really a fact?" Chorsley asked eagerly.
"Absolutely," the last speaker replied. "And whatever may be the faults of old Seddon, his niece Mary is really a nice girl. She'll have a fair amount of money, too, not that Bruce calculates on that. But Seddon's got a sorry nephew who comes down from the City now and again, and he's trying to force the little girl to marry him."
"Why doesn't Bruce take matters in his own hands?" Chorsley growled.
"Well, he can't quite do that. His prospects are good, and he is a really smart fellow, but as yet his income is small. Seddon has put his foot down. There is to be no more intercourse, nothing till Frank can show a clear income of £500 a year. When that comes Seddon magnanimously offers to withdraw all opposition. So it's long odds on the nephew."
Chorsley nodded thoughtfully. He was an easy going kind-hearted old gentleman, but he had a pretty temper of his own, and he hated Seddon heartily. He would have gone a long way to thwart the miserly man who laid traps for golf balls. His eyes twinkled as he looked into the fire. He began to see his way. He was not yet retired from the stockbroking firm from whence he derived a large portion of his big income.
"You'll see Bruce when he comes down to-night, Partridge," he said. "I wish you'd make up a match with him for me on Saturday, if he has nothing else on. Then you can both come afterwards and have dinner with me."
Partridge promised to arrange the matter if possible, and evidently meant it. Chorsley's little dinners were by no means to be despised. And though Frank Bruce was an infinitely better player than his elderly opponent, and though he was consumed by what looked like a hopeless passion for Mary Seddon, he fixed up the match without the slightest hesitation.
They came along well enough till the last teeing ground was reached. It was an interesting match, for at this point the rivals were all square. Everything depended upon the last hole. Below the tee was a broken sloping ground ending into the tiny but swiftly running Mole brook. Beyond was the fair green course and the red flag fluttering in the distance.
"My honour," said Bruce, as he seemed to be selecting a ball with unusual care. "My drive first. I must try and not miss this one. Latterly I can't manage this hole at all,"
He made his tee carefully, and placed a perfectly white new ball upon it. Mr. Chorsley made as if to get out of the way, and in doing so kicked the ball off the tee, so that it rolled into some heather. With a muttered apology, he replaced the dismantled ball.
"Now go on," he said. "Give me a good lead."
Bruce swung very slowly up, then his driver came down with a smashing force. Away went the ball, not straight across the course, but sliced away to the right well over the boundary fence and down till it hopped into the Mole brook in Seddon's grounds.
"Funny thing, isn't it?" Bruce said without the slightest emotion.
"Very," Chorsley said gravely. "But you'll do better next drive. Of course, you can tee up another ball and play three strokes. Go ahead."
Chorsley got a good drive, and Bruce a beautifully long raking shot. But the handicap was too strong, and he lost the hole by a stroke. He bore his defeat with singular philosophy.
"No use getting out of temper," he said.
"Not a bit," Chorsley chuckled. "See you later on at dinner time. Partridge has to leave early, but don't you hurry. I have a word or two for your private ear afterwards."
II
A LONG bubbling glass stood at Frank Bruce's elbow, and a long cigar between his teeth. The smoking-room was comfortably and not too brilliantly lighted; the glowing fire invited confidence.
Partridge had departed, and Bruce and his host were alone together. For a long time the former stared thoughtfully into the fire.
"Why don't you make up your mind to marry her in spite of him?" Chorsley asked.
"It wouldn't be fair," Bryce said, in the most natural manner, and as if there had been a long conversation on the subject nearest his heart. "I couldn't afford it yet, and, confound it, Mr. Chorsley, how could you possibly guess what I was thinking about?"
"So what the fellows at the club house say is perfectly true," Chorsley went on coolly. "Old Seddon plays the magnanimous, and what he'll do when you can show a clear £500 a year. Meanwhile, there is a rival in the path."
"Yes, confound him!" Bruce growled.
"Who has the ears of the wicked uncle. This wicked uncle watches the niece so carefully that she can't get a line out of the house, and you can't get a line into it. And yet you can put her on her guard when the rival is coming down, and if you want an interview when you come down here on Saturdays you know how to arrange it, don't you?"
Bruce looked up anxiously, and Chorsley smiled.
"Oh, I'm not going to give you away," he said. "It's one of the smartest tricks I've ever come across, and that is saying a good deal. A young fellow who can invent a dodge like that is certain to get on in the world, and I can give him a good start. Here is a golf ball. It is the one that you first put upon the last tee this morning. When I kicked it off the tee I replaced it with another. I know your secret, young man, and I congratulate you. Go up to the last tee in the morning, and drive that ball off in the way it should be driven, and when you see Miss Seddon at night ask for an interview with her uncle. Tell him you have your £500 a year all right, and, if he is incredulous, give him this letter. Now finish up your cigar, and be off."
* * * * *
At a quarter past nine the following night Frank Bruce was sitting in a secluded part of Mr. Seddon's grounds, and he was not alone. A pretty girl with dark eyes was by his side, and his arm was about her waist.
"I expected your message last night," Mary said.
"Well, I thought I had sent it," Bruce replied. "Mary, our little scheme has been found out. Mr. Chorsley took the marked ball, and substituted another for it."
"And I saw you drive off, and when I picked the ball up it was quite clean," Mary said, "But surely Mr. Chorsley would never have been so ill-natured--"
"Old Chorsley is a brick. And between ourselves, he would give a great deal to put a spoke in your uncle's wheel. On the whole we shall have no occasion to regret--"
An acid voice breaking in on the lovers' sweet converse thought otherwise. The tall, thin man demanded to know why he had been deceived like this, to which Bruce coolly responded that there had been no deception whatever. There was a stipulation as to an income of £500 a year--
"Which remains to be fulfilled," Seddon said, coldly.
"Perhaps when you read this letter you will think otherwise," Bruce said. "It is intended for you."
Seddon tore open the envelope contemptuously. His face changed as he read, and he bit his lip.
"I suppose you are aware of the contents of this letter," he said with an effort. "But, of course you are. In it Mr. Chorsley informs me that he is going out of the firm of Chorsley and Martin, and that the present manager comes in. Therefore you are offered the managership, with good prospects at a salary of £600 a year."
Bruce nodded coolly. But he was absolutely taken by surprise. All the same his enemy was utterly routed. He dropped the letter on the grass, and walked away with his hands behind him. Mary bent over her lover, and kissed him with delighted tears in her eyes.
"Do explain, Frank," she said, rapturously. "Do tell me how it happened."
"When I've seen Chorsley," Bruce muttered, "but not before, because I'm hanged if I know."
"Easiest thing in the world," Chorsley said, as he waved his cigar in front of him. "Why did you always slice it in the same direction? Why did you always get your ball off so clean? Because you were doing it on purpose. Again why? Because the object of your affection was near at hand. You wanted to signal to her. Then it occurred to me that if you wrote a message in blue pencil on a new golf ball, it wouldn't come out for some time. You do so, and you drive that ball into the brook, and Miss Seddon finds it. I got hold of a ball of yours, and I read the message making an appointment. By Jove, a splendid dodge--never heard of better. And so that's the way you managed your love affairs, eh. Well, If you can do so well with one thing you may do well with another, and that's why I gave you the chance of filling the new opening in our office. No, you need not thank me, I shall have a good servant, and I get even with Seddon at the same time. But there will be two things that I prophesy."
"And what are those?" Bruce asked.
"That you will miss no more drives on the last tee," Chorsley chuckled, "and that you will not be so prodigal with your 'rubbers' in the future."
THE TWO BON-BONS
ILLUSTRATED BY P.B. HICKLING
Published in The Strand Magazine, May 1906
I
THE little woman clung impulsively to Jim Stacey's hands as if they were buoys in a tempestuous sea and she drowning in the social gulf for want of a friend. And, indeed, Mrs. Arthur Lattimer was in a sorry case, as her pleading eyes would have told a less astute observer than her companion.
As to the scene itself, it was set for comedy rather than tragedy. Down below a new Russian contralto was delighting the ears of Lady Trevor's guests; the rooms were filled with all the best people; the little alcove where Stacey was sitting was a mass of fragrant Parma violets and cool, feathery ferns; the electric lights were demurely shaded; indeed, Lady Trevor always made a point of this discretion in her illuminations. There was no chance for the present of interruption, so that Stacey was in a position to listen to his companion's story without much fear of the inquisitive outsider. Gradually the look of terror began to fade from the grey eyes of Mrs. Arthur Lattimer.
"My dear lady," Stacey said, in his most soothing tones, "I shall have to get you to tell it me all over again. You see, I have been out of town for the last two or three days, and only received your hurried note an hour ago. You will admit that stating a case is not your strong point."
"What did I say?" Mrs. Lattimer asked. "I am half beside myself with trouble. Did I make it quite clear to you that I had lost the great Asturian emerald?"
"I gathered that," Stacey said. "I am also under the impression that the emerald was stolen."
"It was stolen, "Mrs. Lattimer affirmed. "I was wearing it—"
"Wearing it?" Stacey echoed. "Surely that was a little indiscreet. But how came the Empress of Asturia's jewel in your possession at all?"
"I had better explain, "Mrs. Lattimer went on. "As you know perfectly well, my husband is a dealer in precious stones. He is probably the greatest man in this line in Europe. You are also aware that the Empress of Asturia is in London at the present moment. She has a fancy to try to match that priceless stone; in fact, if possible, she wants two more like it. She came very quietly to our house in Mount Street and saw my husband on the subject. Of course, he held out little hope of being able to execute the commission, but he said that he had heard of a couple of likely stones in Venice, and that, if Her Majesty would leave the emerald with him, he would see what he could do. To make a long story short the stone was left with him, and up to three or four days ago was locked away in his safe—a small safe that he keeps in his study."
"Lattimer showed you the stone, of course?"
"I have my husband pretty well in hand," Mrs. Lattimer laughed. "He showed me the emerald the next day, and a sudden fancy to wear it came over me with irresistible force. It was no great matter for me to get possession of the key of the safe. My husband was away, too, for a night, and on Monday evening I went to a bridge party at Rutland House, wearing the emerald as a pin. I was just a little frightened to find my borrowed gem so greatly admired. We were having supper about twelve o'clock—a sort of informal affair at a sideboard in the drawing-room—and I was induced to hand the stone round. Without thinking, I unscrewed it from the pin and stood there laughing and chatting keeping my eyes open all the same."
"Knowing something of the kind of woman who is a professional bridge-player?" Stacey laughed.
"Precisely," Mrs. Lattimer said. "There were one or two present whom I would not trust very far. Well, in some extraordinary way the stone was lost. Nobody seemed to know where it was; nobody would confess to having taken it. I am afraid I lost my head for the moment. I know I said a few hard things; but there it is—that stone is gone, and unless I can recover it by midday to-morrow I am ruined, absolutely ruined."
"Your husband?" Stacey hinted.
"Knows nothing. I have not dared to tell him. I have waited till the last possible moment on chance of the stone being recovered. You see, I stole the key of the safe and made my husband believe that he had lost it. It is a wonderful safe of American make, and no one in London can unpick it. My husband telegraphed to New York to the makers to send a man over, and he arrives by the Celtic to-night. Unless the stone can be found first—"
Stacey nodded sympathetically. He quite appreciated the desperate condition of affairs.
