The Complete Short Stories (15 page)

Maj.:
And eight and five make thirteen. We can't start our married life with thirteen children; it would be most unlucky. (Walks up and down in agitation.) Some way must be found out of this. If we could only bring them down to twelve. Thirteen is so horribly unlucky.

Em.:
Isn't there some way by which we could part with one or two? Don't the French want more children? I've often seen articles about it in the
Figaro.

Maj.:
I fancy they want French children. Mine don't even speak French.

Em.:
There's always a chance that one of them might turn out depraved and vicious, and then you could disown him. I've heard of that being done.

Maj.:
But, good gracious, you've got to educate him first You can't expect a boy to be vicious till he's been to a good school.

Em.:
Why couldn't he be naturally depraved? Lots of boys are.

Maj.:
Only when they inherit it from depraved parents. You don't suppose there's any depravity in me, do you?

Em.:
It sometimes skips a generation, you know. Weren't any of your family bad?

Maj.:
There was an aunt who was never spoken of.

Em.:
There you are!

Maj.:
But one can't build too much on that. In mid-Victorian days they labelled all sorts of things as unspeakable that we should speak about quite tolerantly. I daresay this particular aunt had only married a Unitarian, or rode to hounds on both sides of her horse, or something of that sort. Anyhow, we can't wait indefinitely for one of the children to take after a doubtfully depraved great aunt. Something else must be thought of.

Em.:
Don't people ever adopt children from other families?

Maj.:
I've heard of it being done by childless couples, and those sort of people–

Em
.: Hush! Some one's coming. Who is it?

Maj.:
Mrs. Paly-Paget.

Em.:
The very person!

Maj.:
What, to adopt a child? Hasn't she got any?

Em.:
Only one miserable hen-baby.

Maj.:
Let's sound her on the subject.

(Enter Mrs. Paley-Paget, R.)

Ah, good morning, Mrs. Paly-Paget. I was just wondering at breakfast where did we meet last?

Mrs. P.-P.:
At the Criterion, wasn't it? (Drops into vacant chair.)

Maj.:
At the Criterion, of course.

Mrs.
P.-P.:
I was dining with Lord and Lady Slugford. Charming
people, but so mean. They took us afterwards to the Velodrome, to see some dancer interpreting Mendelssohn's “songs without clothes.” We were all packed up in a little box near the roof, and you may imagine how hot it was. It was like a Turkish bath. And, of course, one couldn't see anything.

Maj.:
Then it was not like a Turkish bath.

Mrs. P.-P.:
Major!

Em.:
We were just talking of you when you joined us.

Mrs.
P.-P.:
Really! Nothing very dreadful, I hope.

Em.:
Oh, dear, no! It's too early on the voyage for that sort of thing. We were feeling rather sorry for you.

Mrs. P.-P.:
Sorry for me? Whatever for?

Maj.:
Your childless hearth and all that, you know. No little pattering feet.

Mrs. P.-P.:
Major! How dare you? I've got my little girl, I suppose you know. Her feet can patter as well as other children's.

Maj.:
Only one pair of feet.

Mrs. P.-P.:
Certainly. My child isn't a centipede. Considering the way they move us about in those horrid jungle stations, without a decent bungalow to set one's foot in, I consider I've got a hearthless child, rather than a childless hearth. Thank you for your sympathy all the same. I daresay it was well meant. Impertinence often is.

Em.:
Dear Mrs. Paly-Paget, we were only feeling sorry for your sweet little girl when she grows older, you know. No little brothers and sisters to play with.

Mrs. P.-P.:
Mrs. Carewe, this conversation strikes me as being indelicate, to say the least of it. I've only been married two and a half years, and my family is naturally a small one.

Maj.:
Isn't it rather an exaggeration to talk of one little female child as a family? A family suggests numbers.

Mrs. P.-P.:
Really, Major, your language is extraordinary. I dare say I've only got a little female child, as you call it, at present—

Maj
.: Oh, it won't change into a boy later on, if that's what you're counting on. Take our word for it; we've had so much more experience in these affairs than you have. Once a female, always a female. Nature is not infallible, but she always abides by her mistakes.

Mrs. P.-P.
(rising): Major Dumbarton, these boats are uncomfortably small, but I trust we shall find ample accommodation for
avoiding each other's society during the rest of the voyage. The same wish applies to you, Mrs. Carewe.

(Exit Mrs. Paly-Paget, L.)

Maj.:
What an unnatural mother! (Sinks into chair.)

Em.:
I wouldn't trust a child with any one who had a temper like hers. Oh, Dickie, why did you go and have such a large family? You always said you wanted me to be the mother of your children.

Maj.:
I wasn't going to wait while you were founding and fostering dynasties in other directions. Why you couldn't be content to have children of your own, without collecting them like batches of postage stamps I can't think. The idea of marrying a man with four children!

Em.:
Well, you're asking me to marry one with five.

Maj.:
Five! (Springing to his feet.) Did I say five?

Em.:
You certainly said five.

Maj.:
Oh, Emily, supposing I've miscounted them! Listen now, keep count with me. Richard—that's after me, of course.

Em.:
One.

Maj.:
Albert-Victor—that must have been in Coronation year.

Em.:
Two!

Maj.:
Maud. She's called after—

Em
.: Never mind who she's called after. Three!

Maj.:
And Gerald.

Em.:
Four!

Maj.:
That's the lot.

Em.:
Are you sure?

Maj.:
I swear that's the lot. I must have counted Albert-Victor as two.

Em.:
Richard!

Maj.:
Emily!

(They embrace.)

T
HEODORIC VOLER
had been brought up, from infancy to the confines of middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life. When she died she left Theodoric alone in a world that was as real as ever, and a good deal coarser than he considered it
had any need to be. To a man of his temperament and upbringing even a simple railway journey was crammed with petty annoyances and minor discords, and as he settled himself down in a second-class compartment one September morning he was conscious of ruffled feelings and general mental discomposure. He had been staying at a country vicarage, the inmates of which had been certainly neither brutal nor bacchanalian, but their supervision of the domestic establishment had been of that lax order which invites disaster. The pony carriage that was to take him to the station had never been properly ordered, and when the moment for his departure drew near the handyman who should have produced the required article was nowhere to be found. In this emergency Theodoric, to his mute but very intense disgust, found himself obliged to collaborate with the vicar's daughter in the task of harnessing the pony, which necessitated groping about in an ill-lighted outhouse called a stable, and smelling very like one—except in patches where it smelt of mice. Without being actually afraid of mice, Theodoric classed them among the coarser incidents of life, and considered that Providence, with a little exercise of moral courage, might long ago have recognized that they were not indispensable, and have withdrawn them from circulation. As the train glided out of the station Theodoric's nervous imagination accused himself of exhaling a weak odour of stableyard, and possibly of displaying a mouldy straw or two on his usually well-brushed garments. Fortunately the only other occupant of the compartment, a lady of about the same age as himself, seemed inclined for slumber rather than scrutiny; the train was not due to stop till the terminus was reached, in about an hour's time, and the carriage was of the old-fashioned sort, that held no communication with a corridor, therefore no further travelling companions were likely to intrude on Theodoric's semi-privacy. And yet the train had scarcely attained its normal speed before he became reluctantly but vividly aware that he was not alone with the slumbering lady; he was not even alone in his own clothes. A warm, creeping movement over his flesh betrayed the unwelcome and highly resented presence, unseen but poignant, of a strayed mouse, that had evidently dashed into its present retreat during the episode of the pony harnessing. Furtive stamps and shakes and wildly directed pinches failed to dislodge the intruder, whose motto, indeed, seemed to be Excelsior; and the lawful occupant of the clothes lay back against the cushions
and endeavoured rapidly to evolve some means for putting an end to the dual ownership. It was unthinkable that he should continue for the space of a whole hour in the horrible position of a Rowton House for vagrant mice (already his imagination had at least doubled the numbers of the alien invasion). On the other hand, nothing less drastic than partial disrobing would ease him of his tormentor, and to undress in the presence of a lady, even for so laudable a purpose, was an idea that made his eartips tingle in a blush of abject shame. He had never been able to bring himself even to the mild exposure of open-work socks in the presence of the fair sex. And yet—the lady in this case was to all appearances soundly and securely asleep; the mouse, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to crowd a Wanderjahr into a few strenuous minutes. If there is any truth in the theory of transmigration, this particular mouse must certainly have been in a former state a member of the Alpine Club. Sometimes in its eagerness it lost its footing and slipped for half an inch or so; and then, in fright, or more probably temper, it bit. Theodoric was goaded into the most audacious undertaking of his life. Crimsoning to the hue of a beetroot and keeping an agonized watch on his slumbering fellow-traveller, he swiftly and noiselessly secured the ends of his railway-rug to the racks on either side of the carriage, so that a substantial curtain hung athwart the compartment. In the narrow dressing-room that he had thus improvised he proceeded with violent haste to extricate himself partially and the mouse entirely from the surrounding casings of tweed and half-wool. As the unravelled mouse gave a wild leap to the floor, the rug, slipping its fastening at either end, also came down with a heart-curdling flop, and almost simultaneously the awakened sleeper opened her eyes. With a movement almost quicker than the mouse's, Theodoric pounced on the rug, and hauled its ample folds chin-high over his dismantled person as he collapsed into the further corner of the carriage. The blood raced and beat in the veins of his neck and forehead, while he waited dumbly for the communication-cord to be pulled. The lady, however, contented herself with a silent stare at her strangely muffled companion. How much had she seen, Theodoric queried to himself, and in any case what on earth must she think of his present posture?

“I think I have caught a chill,” he ventured desperately.

“Really, I'm sorry,” she replied. “I was just going to ask you if you would open this window.”

“I fancy it's malaria,” he added, his teeth chattering slightly, as much from fright as from a desire to support his theory.

“I've got some brandy in my hold-all, if you'll kindly reach it down for me,” said his companion.

“Not for worlds—I mean, I never take anything for it,” he assured her earnestly.

“I suppose you caught it in the Tropics?”

Theodoric, whose acquaintance with the Tropics was limited to an annual present of a chest of tea from an uncle in Ceylon, felt that even the malaria was slipping from him. Would it be possible, he wondered, to disclose the real state of affairs to her in small instalments?

“Are you afraid of mice?” he ventured, growing, if possible, more scarlet in the face.

“Not unless they came in quantities, like those that ate up Bishop Hatto. Why do you ask?”

“I had one crawling inside my clothes just now,” said Theodoric in a voice that hardly seemed his own. “It was a most awkward situation.”

“It must have been, if you wear your clothes at all tight,” she observed; “but mice have strange ideas of comfort.”

“I had to get rid of it while you were asleep,” he continued; then, with a gulp, he added, “it was getting rid of it that brought me to— to this.”

“Surely leaving off one small mouse wouldn't bring on a chill,” she exclaimed, with a levity that Theodoric accounted abominable.

Evidently she had detected something of his predicament, and was enjoying his confusion. All the blood in his body seemed to have mobilized in one concentrated blush, and an agony of abasement, worse than a myriad mice, crept up and down over his soul. And then, as reflection began to assert itself, sheer terror took the place of humiliation. With every minute that passed the train was rushing nearer to the crowded and bustling terminus where dozens of prying eyes would be exchanged for the one paralyzing pair that watched him from the further corner of the carriage. There was one slender despairing chance, which the next few minutes must decide. His fellow-traveller might relapse into a blessed slumber. But as the minutes throbbed by that chance ebbed away. The furtive
glance which Theodoric stole at her from time to time disclosed only an unwinking wakefulness.