Forewarned Page #2

"Forewarned" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, known by his pen name Saki. The narrative revolves around themes of irony and social critique, showcasing Munro's signature wit and biting satire. The story unfolds through the interaction of a group of characters who find themselves entangled in a web of superstitions and unexpected outcomes. As events take a surprising turn, the tale explores human nature's tendency toward disbelief in the extraordinary, ultimately revealing Munro's sharp commentary on society and the follies of its inhabitants.

• Short story

								

cause.  What manner of evildoer was Robert Bludward?

The train stopped at another small station, and the two men got out.  One
of them left behind him a copy of the Argus, the local paper to which
he had made reference.  Alethia pounced on it, in the expectation of
finding a cultured literary endorsement of the censure which these rough
farming men had expressed in their homely, honest way.  She had not far
to look; "Mr. Robert Bludward, Swanker," was the title of one of the
principal articles in the paper.  She did not exactly know what a swanker
was, probably it referred to some unspeakable form of cruelty, but she
read enough in the first few sentences of the article to discover that
her cousin Robert, the man at whose house she was about to stay, was an
unscrupulous, unprincipled character, of a low order of intelligence, yet
cunning withal, and that he and his associates were responsible for most
of the misery, disease, poverty, and ignorance with which the country was
afflicted; never, except in one or two of the denunciatory Psalms, which
she had always supposed to have be written in a spirit of exaggerated
Oriental imagery, had she read such an indictment of a human being.  And
this monster was going to meet her at Derrelton Station in a few short
minutes.  She would know him at once; he would have the dark beetling
brows, the quick, furtive glance, the sneering, unsavoury smile that
always characterised the Sir Jaspers of this world.  It was too late to
escape; she must force herself to meet him with outward calm.

It was a considerable shock to her to find that Robert was fair, with a
snub nose, merry eye, and rather a schoolboy manner.  "A serpent in
duckling's plumage," was her private comment; merciful chance had
revealed him to her in his true colours.

As they drove away from the station a dissipated-looking man of the
labouring class waved his hat in friendly salute.  "Good luck to you, Mr.
Bludward," he shouted; "you'll come out on top!  We'll break old
Chobham's neck for him."

"Who was that man?" asked Alethia quickly.

"Oh, one of my supporters," laughed Robert; "a bit of a poacher and a bit
of a pub-loafer, but he's on the right side."

So these were the sort of associates that Robert Bludward consorted with,
thought Alethia.

"Who is the person he referred to as old Chobham?" she asked.

"Sir John Chobham, the man who is opposing me," answered Robert; "that is
his house away there among the trees on the right."

So there was an upright man, possibly a very Hugo in character, who was
thwarting and defying the evildoer in his nefarious career, and there was
a dastardly plot afoot to break his neck!  Possibly the attempt would be
made within the next few hours.  He must certainly be warned.  Alethia
remembered how Lady Sylvia Broomgate, in Nightshade Court, had
pretended to be bolted with by her horse up to the front door of a
threatened county magnate, and had whispered a warning in his ear which
saved him from being the victim of foul murder.  She wondered if there
was a quiet pony in the stables on which she would be allowed to ride out
alone.  The chances were that she would be watched.  Robert would come
spurring after her and seize her bridle just as she was turning in at Sir
John's gates.

A group of men that they passed in a village street gave them no very
friendly looks, and Alethia thought she heard a furtive hiss; a moment
later they came upon an errand boy riding a bicycle.  He had the frank
open countenance, neatly brushed hair and tidy clothes that betoken a
clear conscience and a good mother.  He stared straight at the occupants
of the car, and, after he had passed them, sang in his clear, boyish
voice:

"We'll hang Bobby Bludward on the sour apple tree."

Robert merely laughed.  That was how he took the scorn and condemnation
of his fellow-men.  He had goaded them to desperation with his shameless
depravity till they spoke openly of putting him to a violent death, and
he laughed.

Mrs. Bludward proved to be of the type that Alethia had suspected, thin-
lipped, cold-eyed, and obviously devoted to her worthless son.  From her
no help was to be expected.  Alethia locked her door that night, and
placed such ramparts of furniture against it that the maid had great
difficulty in breaking in with the early tea in the morning.

After breakfast Alethia, on the pretext of going to look at an outlying
rose-garden, slipped away to the village through which they had passed on
the previous evening.  She remembered that Robert had pointed out to her
a public reading-room, and here she considered it possible that she might
meet Sir John Chobham, or some one who knew him well and would carry a
message to him.  The room was empty when she entered it; a Graphic
twelve days old, a yet older copy of Punch, and one or two local papers
lay upon the central table; the other tables were stacked for the most
part with chess and draughts-boards, and wooden boxes of chessmen and
dominoes.  Listlessly she picked up one of the papers, the Sentinel,
and glanced at its contents.  Suddenly she started, and began to read
with breathless attention a prominently printed article, headed "A Little
Limelight on Sir John Chobham."  The colour ebbed away from her face, a
look of frightened despair crept into her eyes.  Never, in any novel that
she had read, had a defenceless young woman been confronted with a
situation like this.  Sir John, the Hugo of her imagination, was, if
anything, rather more depraved and despicable than Robert Bludward.  He
was mean, evasive, callously indifferent to his country's interests, a
cheat, a man who habitually broke his word, and who was responsible, with
his associates, for most of the poverty, misery, crime, and national
degradation with which the country was afflicted.  He was also a
candidate for Parliament, it seemed, and as there was only one seat in
this particular locality, it was obvious that the success of either
Robert or Sir John would mean a check to the ambitions of the other,
hence, no doubt, the rivalry and enmity between these otherwise kindred
souls.  One was seeking to have his enemy done to death, the other was
apparently trying to stir up his supporters to an act of "Lynch law".  All
this in order that there might be an unopposed election, that one or
other of the candidates might go into Parliament with honeyed eloquence
on his lips and blood on his heart.  Were men really so vile?

"I must go back to Webblehinton at once," Alethia informed her astonished
hostess at lunch time; "I have had a telegram.  A friend is very
seriously ill and I have been sent for."

It was dreadful to have to concoct lies, but it would be more dreadful to
have to spend another night under that roof.

Alethia reads novels now with even greater appreciation than before.  She
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