'Mrs. Gill is very ill,Nothing can improve herBut to see the TuileriesAnd waddle through the Louvre.'
No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for there are a pair of them, she cries:
'You must learn me that,' and off she goes in song also:
'Mrs. Dowey's very ill,Nothing can improve her.'
'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse:
'But dressed up in a Paris gownTo waddle through the Louvre.'
They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her. She says ecstatically:
'Hairy legs!'
A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what she is.
'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I must be stepping.'
Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit.
'Where are you living?'
He sighs.
'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut, where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in. Beggars,' bitterly, 'can't be choosers.'
'Beggars?'
'I've never been here before. If you knew'—a shadow coming over him—'what it is to be in such a place without a friend. I was crazy with glee, when I got my leave, at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering its streets for four hours, I would almost have been glad to be back in the trenches.'
'If you knew,' he has said, but indeed the old lady knows.
'That's my quandorum too, Kenneth.'
He nods sympathetically.
'I'm sorry for you, you poor old body,' shouldering his kit. 'But I see no way out for either of us.'
A cooing voice says, 'Do you not?'
'Are you at it again!'
She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her biggest guns for the end. In her excitement she is rising up and down on her toes.
'Kenneth, I've heard that the thing a man on leave longs for more than anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.'
'You never heard anything truer.'
'Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the dresser-top, and tell me what you see.'
He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed.
'It's a kind of a bath!'
'You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.'
'Me?'
'There's a woman through the wall that would be very willing to give me a shakedown till your leave is up.'
He snorts.
'Oh, is there!'
She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun.
'Kenneth, look!'
With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no more; an effect like this would be spoilt by language. Fortunately he is not made of stone. He thrills.
'My word! That's the dodge we need in the trenches.'
'That's your bed, Kenneth.'
'Mine?' He grins at her. 'You queer old divert. What can make you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me?'
'He! he! he! he!'
'I tell you, I'm the commonest kind of man.'
'I'm just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.'
'I've been a kick-about all my life, and I'm no great shakes at the war.'
'Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?'
'Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was just because they wanted my shirt.'
'Your shirt?'
'Well, they said it was their shirt.'
'Have you took prisoners?'
'I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.'
'How could one man take half a dozen?'
'Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.'
'Kenneth, you're just my ideal.'
'You're easily pleased.'
He turns again to the bed, 'Let's see how the thing works.' He kneads the mattress with his fist, and the result is so satisfactory that he puts down his kit.
'Old lady, if you really want me, I'll bide.'
'Oh! oh! oh! oh!'
Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of warning.
'But, mind you, I don't accept you as a relation. For your personal glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours; but the best I can say for you is that you're on your probation. I'm a cautious character, and we must see how you'll turn out.'
'Yes, Kenneth.'
'And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at six-thirty. A cove I met on a 'bus is going with me.'
She is a little alarmed.
'You're sure you'll come back?'
'Yes, yes,' handsomely, 'I leave my kit in pledge.'
'You won't liquor up too freely, Kenneth?'
'You're the first,' chuckling, 'to care whether I do or not.' Nothing she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as this. 'I promise. Tod, I'm beginning to look forward to being wakened in the morning by hearing you cry, "Get up, you lazy swine." I've kind of envied men that had womenfolk with the right to say that.'
He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes him.
'What is it, Kenneth?'
'The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.'
Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast.
'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me on the jumps.'
He turns her round.
'No, It couldn't be done.'
'Was it me you were thinking of?'
'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.'
She catches hold of him by the sleeve.
'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino! It's laced up the back in the very latest.'
'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.'
It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically.
'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It's not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it's chiffon.'
'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.'
'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your face less of a homely look?'
'I'm sure I could.'
'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will depend on the effect.'
He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not alone, for she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and dreadful fears. They beam on her and jeer at her, they pull her this way and that; with difficulty she breaks through them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and a looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows her staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, licking her palm, and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are sparkling.
One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham are in Mrs. Dowey's house, awaiting that lady's return from some fashionable dissipation. They have undoubtedly been discussing the war, for the first words we catch are:
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to junkerdom.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one to another, what do you think will happen after the war? Are we to go back to being as we were?'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war has wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance that is really astonishing.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the like of you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible departments of a great and haughty empire.'
They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might now hear their views on various passing problems of the day, such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in comes the Haggerty Woman, and spoils everything. She is attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at home.
MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, 'Here's that submarine again.'
The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no encouragement.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'It's a terrible war.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Is that so?'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I wonder what will happen when it ends?'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I have no idea.'
The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. After all, she is in her best.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Are they not back yet?'
Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'No,' icily. 'We have been waiting this half hour. They are at the theatre again.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'You tell me! I just popped in with an insignificant present for him, as his leave is up.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'The same errand brought us.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'My present is cigarettes.'
They have no intention of telling her what their presents are, but the secret leaps from them.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'So is mine.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Mine too.'
Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine has gold tips.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'So has mine.'
The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.'
No wonder they titter.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that's your name), but the word is Exquiseetos.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Much obliged' (weeps).
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I think I heard a taxi.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It will be her third this week.'
They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What is she in?'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with Venus sleeves.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Has she sold her gabardine coat?'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Not her! She has them both at the theatre, warm night though it is. She's wearing the astrakhan, and carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I saw her strutting about with him yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a procession.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Hsh!' peeping, 'Strike me dead, if she's not coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!'
Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it.
Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don't know how to describe it, but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do that.
MRS. DOWEY. 'Kenneth,' affecting surprise, 'we have visitors!'
DOWEY. 'Your servant, ladies.'
He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of Mrs. Mickleham's retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since you took the countess in to dinner.
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We should apologise. We're not meaning to stay.'
MRS. DOWEY. 'You are very welcome. Just wait'—the ostentation of this!—'till I get out of my astrakhan—and my muff—and my gloves—and' (it is the bonnet's turn now) 'my Excelsior.'
At last we see her in the merino (a triumph).
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You've given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.'
DOWEY. 'It's her that has given it to me, missis.'
MRS. DOWEY. 'Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,' waggling her fists. 'The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!' Vehemently: 'I swear by God that we had champagny wine.' There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it means, she has even prepared for it: 'And to them as doubts my word—here's the cork.'
She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I'm sure!'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against my Alfred.'
MRS. DOWEY. 'Me!'
DOWEY. 'Come, come, ladies,' in the masterful way that is so hard for women to resist; 'if you say another word, I'll kiss the lot of you.'
There is a moment of pleased confusion.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Really, them sodgers!'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.'
DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old lady; 'I must be off in ten minutes.'
The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be having some last words to say to her.'
DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say them in.'
He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house.
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. 'Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.'
All three present him with the cigarettes.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm though it may not be gold-tipped.'
DOWEY. 'You bricks!'
THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.'
DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, but—but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.'
It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says 'Hell!' to himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door and calls.
'Old lady.'
She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow.
'Is it time?'
An encouraging voice answers her.
'No, no, not yet. I've left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.'
'All is ended.'
'Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.'
'Yes, Kenneth.'
'It's bad for me, but it's worse for you.'
'The men have medals to win, you see.'
'The women have their medals, too.' He knows she likes him to order her about, so he tries it again.
'Come here. No, I'll come to you.' He stands gaping at her wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor does he quite know what he would like to say. 'God!'
'What is it, Kenneth?'
'You're a woman.'
'I had near forgot it.'
He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in the meantime—there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course—or mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her.
'Have you noticed you have never called me son?'
'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.'
'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs uncomfortably. 'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.'
'Kenneth, will I do?'
'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.'
'Propose for a mother?'
'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?'
She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with him.
'None of your sauce, Kenneth.'
'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish feelings for you.'
'Wait till I get my mop to you!'
'And if you're not willing to be my mother, I swear I'll never ask another.'
The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair.
'Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?'
'Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.'
'Was I slow in learning to walk?'
'The quickest in our street. He! he! he!' She starts up. 'Was that the whistle?'
'No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, joined the Black Watch.'
'I like to think that, Kenneth.'
'Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of you. 'Tion!' She stands bravely at attention. 'That's the style. Now listen, I've sent in your name as being my nearest of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.'
'Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?'
'I'll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap—'
'Kenneth!'
''Tion! Have no fear. I'll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me.' He is listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee.
'Hey! hey! hey! hey!'
'What fun we'll have writing to one another! Real letters this time!'
'Yes.'
'It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I've gone.'
'I will.'
'I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.'
'You may be sure.'
He ties his scarf round her neck.
'You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.'
'Away with you!'
'That scarf sets you fine.'
'Blue was always my colour.'
The whistle sounds.
'Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.'
She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she does something that makes Private Dowey take off his bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely with Dixon.
We have one last glimpse of the old lady—a month or two after Kenneth's death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Savings Certificates, Kenneth's bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old 'un; yet she exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day's toil.
Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any son are thedramatis personae. We could pick them up in Mayfair, in Tooting, on the Veldt, in rectories or in grocers' back parlours, dump them down on our toy stage and tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to choose from, but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and all go away but two.
The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are Mr. Torrance and his boy; so let us make use of them. Torrance did not linger in order to be chosen, he was anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we recognised him, and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never forget a face) as the legal person who reads out the names of the jury before the court opens, and who brushes aside your reasons for wanting to be let off. It pleases our humour to tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off.
He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and this is perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with others on those unfeeling benches. It is not because he is without a wig, for we saw him, on the occasion to which we are so guardedly referring, both in a wig and out of it; he passed behind a screen without it, and immediately (as quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing touch rather like the butler's wriggle to his coat as he goes to the door. There are the two kinds of learned brothers, those who use the screen, and those who (so far as the jury knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter are the swells, and include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in the public thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has doubtless led many an onlooker to crime.
Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we accompany him to his house, as we must, in order to set our scene properly, we find that it is quite a suburban affair, only one servant kept, and her niece engaged twice a week to crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the drawing-room, so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the room but Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the unseeing eye all the family are there except Roger. They consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Torrance. Mr. Torrance is enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and every line of him is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is happening in the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it, even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat sarcastic gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he would have ceased long ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on whom wit falls like pellets on sandbags; all the dents they make are dimples.
Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is listening to Roger's step overhead. You, know what a delightful step the boy has. And what is more remarkable is that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is seventeen, and who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since he first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a pass when a sister so openly admits that she is only number two in the house.
Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two ladies as they gaze upward. 'I think—didn't I, Emma?' is the mother's contribution, while it is Emma who replies in a whisper, 'No, not yet!'
Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not possible that there can be anything in the paper as good as this. Indeed, he occasionally casts a humorous glance at his women-folk. Perhaps he is trying to steady them. Let us hope he has some such good reason for breaking in from time to time on their entrancing occupation.
'Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says, upon apparently good authority, that love laughs at locksmiths.'
His wife answers without lowering her eyes. 'Did you speak, John? I am listening.'
'Yes, I was telling you that the Hidden Hand has at last been discovered in a tub in Russell Square.'
'I hear, John. How thoughtful.'
'And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.'
'I shouldn't wonder, John.'
'Hence the name Petrograd.'
'Oh, was that the reason?'
'You will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable gentleman then resumed his seat.'
'That was nice of him.'
'As I,' good-naturedly, 'now resume mine, having made my usual impression.'
'Yes, John.'
Emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes her mother that John has been saying something. They are on too good terms to make an apology necessary. She observes blandly, 'John, I haven't heard a word you said.'
'I'm sure you haven't, woman.'
'I can't help being like this, John.'
'Go on being like yourself, dear.'
'Am I foolish?'
'Um.'
'Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm—with him up there?'
'He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we presented him to an astounded world nineteen years ago.'
'But he—he is not going to be up there much longer, John.' She sits on the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle him that it is not worth his while to smile. Her voice is tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal nothing. 'You will be nice to him—to-night—won't you, John?'
Mr. Torrance is a little pained. 'Do I just begin to-night, Ellen?'
'Oh no, no; but I think he is rather—shy of you at times.'
'That,' he says a little wryly, 'is because he is my son, Ellen.'
'Yes—it's strange; but—yes.'
With a twinkle that is not all humorous, 'Did it ever strike you, Ellen, that I am a bit—shy of him?'
She is indeed surprised. 'Of Rogie!'
'I suppose it is because I am his father.'
She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass at that. It reminds her of what she wants to say.
'You are so sarcastic,' she has never quite got the meaning of this word, 'to Rogie at times. Boys don't like that, John.'
'Is that so, Ellen?'
'Of course I don't mind your being sarcastic tome—'
'Much good,' groaning, 'my being sarcastic to you! You are so seldom aware of it.'
'I am not asking you to be a mother to him, John.'
'Thank you, my dear.'
She does not know that he is sarcastic again. 'I quite understand that a man can't think all the time about his son as a mother does.'
'Can't he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?'
'I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his troubles rather than to his father. Rogie tells me everything.'
Mr. Torrance is stung. 'I daresay he might tell me things he wouldn't tell you.'
She smiles at this. It is very probably sarcasm.
'I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth to him, John?'
With an unspoken sigh, 'It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men show warmth to each other! Shame, woman!'
'Two men!' indignantly. 'John, he is only nineteen.'
'That's all,' patting her hand. 'Ellen, it is the great age to be to-day, nineteen.'
Emma darts in.
'Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look at himself in the mirror before coming down!'
Having made the great announcement, she is off again.
'You won't be sarcastic, John?'
'I give you my word—if you promise not to break down.'
Rashly, 'I promise.' She hurries to the door and back again. 'John, I'll contrive to leave you and him alone together for a little.'
Mr. Torrance is as alarmed as if the judge had looked over the bench and asked where he was. 'For God's sake, woman, don't do that! Father and son! He'll bolt; or if he doesn't, I will.'
Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what all the to-do is about.
EMMA. 'Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the Royal Sussex. Father—your son; 2nd Lieutenant Torrance—your father. Mother—your little Rogie.'
Roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or the uniform comes forward with Roger inside it. He has been a very ordinary nice boy up to now, dull at his 'books'; by an effort Mr. Torrance had sent him to an obscure boarding-school, but at sixteen it was evident that an office was the proper place for Roger. Before the war broke out he was treasurer of the local lawn tennis club, and his golf handicap was seven; he carried his little bag daily to and from the city, and his highest relaxation was giggling with girls or about them. Socially he had fallen from the standards of the home; even now that he is in his uniform the hasty might say something clever about 'temporary gentlemen.'
But there are great ideas buzzing in Roger's head, which would never have been there save for the war. At present he is chiefly conscious of his clothes. His mother embraces him with cries of rapture, while Mr. Torrance surveys him quizzically over the paper; and Emma, rushing to the piano, which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can also be used as a sideboard, plays 'See the Conquering Hero Comes.'
ROGER, in an agony, 'Mater, do stop that chit making an ass of me.'
He must be excused for his 'mater.' That was the sort of school; and his mother is rather proud of the phrase, though it sometimes makes his father wince.
MRS. TORRANCE. 'Emma, please, don't. But I'm sure you deserve it, my darling. Doesn't he, John?'
MR. TORRANCE, missing his chance, 'Hardly yet, you know. Can't be exactly a conquering hero the first night you put them on, can you, Roger?'
ROGER, hotly, 'Did I say I was?'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never did—I never did!'
EMMA. 'Isn't he a pet!'
ROGER. 'Shut up, Emma.'
MRS. TORRANCE, challenging the world, 'Though I say it who shouldn't—and yet, why shouldn't I?'
MR. TORRANCE. 'In any case you will—so go ahead, "mater."'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I knew he would look splendid; but I—of course I couldn't know that he would look quite so splendid as this.'
ROGER. 'I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a time in coming down.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'We thought we heard you upstairs strutting about.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'John! Don't mind him, Rogie.'
ROGER, haughtily, 'I don't.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'Oh!'
ROGER. 'But I wasn't strutting.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you not to draw it, dear—not till necessity makes you.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'Come, come, Ellen; that's rather hard lines on the boy. If he isn't to draw it here, where is he to draw it?'
EMMA, with pride, 'At the Front, father.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'I thought they left them at home nowadays, Roger?'
ROGER. 'Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.'
MRS. TORRANCE, foolishly, 'Not when you have got used to them.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'That isn't what Roger means.' (His son glares.)
EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count the salutes, 'I know what he means. If you carry a sword the snipers know you are an officer, and they try to pick you off.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'It's no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, won't you, in the trenches?'
ROGER. 'Honour bright, mater.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'Above all, don't look up.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they can't look up.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.'
ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.'
MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?—very likely. Now about the question of provisions—'
ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I mayn't go for months and months.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know—and, of course, there is a chance that you may not be needed at all.'
ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you, John—How long do you think the war is likely to last?' Her John resumes his paper. 'Rogie, I know you will laugh at me, but there are some things that I could not help getting for you.'
ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to fit up my whole platoon.'
MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.'
EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? Platoon! Dragoon!'
MR. TORRANCE. 'Spitoon!'
EMMA. 'Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; Admiral of the Fleet is scrumptious, but Marechal de France—that is the best of all.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd Lieutenant.' Gulping, 'Lot of little boys.'
ROGER. 'Mater!'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I mean, just think of their cold feet.' She produces many parcels and displays their strange contents. 'Those are for putting inside your socks. Those are for outside your socks. I am told that it is also advisable to have straw in your boots.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'Have you got him some straw?'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I thought, John, he could get it there. But if you think—'
ROGER. 'He's making fun of you again, mater.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shouldn't wonder. Here are some overalls. One is leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The worst of it is that they are from different shops, and each says that the others keep the damp in, or draw the feet. They have such odd names, too. There are new names for everything nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you laughing at me, Rogie?'
MR. TORRANCE, sharply, 'If he is laughing, he ought to be ashamed of himself.'
ROGER, barking, 'Who was laughing?'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'John!'
Emma cuffs her father playfully.
MR. TORRANCE. 'All very well, Emma, but it's past your bedtime.'
EMMA, indignantly, 'You can't expect me to sleep on a night like this.'
MR. TORRANCE. 'You can try.'
MRS. TORRANCE. '2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!'
MR. TORRANCE, alarmed, 'Ellen, don't break down. You promised.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I am not going to break down; but—but there is a photograph of Rogie when he was very small—'
MR. TORRANCE. 'Go to bed!'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I happen—to have it in my pocket—'
ROGER. 'Don't bring it out, mater.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'If I break down, John, it won't be owing to the picture itself so much as because of what is written on the back.'
She produces it dolefully.
MR. TORRANCE. 'Then don't look at the back.'
He takes it from her.
MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, 'But I know what is written on the back, "Roger John Torrance, aged two years four months, and thirty-three pounds."'
MR. TORRANCE. 'Correct.' She weeps softly. 'There, there, woman.' He signs imploringly to Emma.
EMMA, kissing him, 'I'm going to by-by. 'Night, mammy. 'Night, Rog.' She is about to offer him her cheek, then salutes instead, and rushes off, with Roger in pursuit.
MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shall leave you together, John.'
MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, 'Do you think it's wise?' With a groan, 'You know what I am.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'Do be nice to him, dear.' Roger's return finds her very artful indeed, 'I wonder where I put my glasses?'
ROGER. 'I'll look for them.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such a funny place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, that I hoped they would reject you on account of your eyes?'
ROGER. 'I suppose you couldn't help it.'
MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, 'Did you believe I really meant it, John?'
MR. TORRANCE, curious, 'Didyou, Roger?'
ROGER. 'Of course. Didn't you, father?'
MR. TORRANCE. 'No! I knew the old lady better.'
He takes her hand.
MRS. TORRANCE, sweetly, 'I shouldn't have liked it, Rogie dear. I'll tell you something. You know your brother Harry died when he was seven. To you, I suppose, it is as if he had never been. You were barely five.
ROGER. 'I don't remember him, mater.'
MRS. TORRANCE. 'No—no. But I do, Rogie. He would be twenty-one now; but though you and Emma grew up I have always gone on seeing him as just seven. Always till the war broke out. And now I see him a man of twenty-one, dressed in khaki, fighting for his country, same as you. I wouldn't have had one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. That is, if it is the noble war they all say it is. I'm not clever, Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn't deceive mothers. I'll get my glasses.'
She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly.
'Like to change your mother, Roger?'
The answer is also gruff. 'What doyouthink?'
Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being together, without so much as the tick of a clock to help them. The father clings to his cigar, sticks his knife into it, studies the leaf, tries crossing his legs another way. The son examines the pictures on the walls as if he had never seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the door.
Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not going, Roger?'
Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought—'
'Won't you—sit down and—have a chat?'
Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!'
'Why not?' rather truculently.
'Oh—oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably.
The cigar gets several more stabs.
'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?'
'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.'
'Phew! Hours before I shall be up.'
'I suppose so.'
'Well, you needn't dwell on it, Roger.'
Indignantly. 'I didn't.' He starts up. 'Good-night, father.'
'Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn't I say I wanted to have a chat with you?'
'I thought we had had it.'
Gloomingly, 'No such luck.'
There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes an appeal to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. It is now he who is casting eyes at the door. He sits again, ashamed of himself.
'I like your uniform, Roger,' he says pleasantly.
Roger wriggles. 'Haven't you made fun of me enough?'
Sharply, 'I'm not making fun of you. Don't you see I'm trying to tell you that I'm proud of you?'
Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, 'Good lord, father,youare not going to begin now.'
The father restrains himself.
'Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to smoke till you were twenty?'
'Oh, it's that, is it?' Shutting his mouth tight, 'I never promised.'
Almost with a shout, 'It's not that.' Then kindly, 'Have a cigar, my boy?'
'Me?'
A rather shaky hand, passes him a cigar case. Roger selects from it and lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the worst.
'Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?'
Guardedly, 'Often.'
Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is one of the effects of war.
'I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We have both been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes a father and son so uncomfortable in each other's presence.'
Roger is not yet prepared to meet him half-way, but he casts a line.
'Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?'
'Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.'
'So is mine,' with deep feeling.
'You don't say so!' with such surprise that the father undoubtedly goes up a step in the son's estimation. 'I always seem to know what you are thinking, Roger.'
'Do you? Same here.'
'As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only decent that you and I should be very chary of confidences with each other.'
Roger is relieved. 'I'm dashed glad you see it in that way.'
'Oh, quite. And yet, Roger, if you had to answer this question on oath, "Whom do you think you are most like in this world?" I don't mean superficially, but deep down in your vitals, what would you say? Your mother, your uncle, one of your friends on the golf links?'
'No.'
'Who?'
Darkly, 'You.'
'Just how I feel.'
There is such true sympathy in the manly avowal that Roger cannot but be brought closer to his father.
'It's pretty ghastly, father.'
'It is. I don't know which it is worse for.'
They consider each other without bitterness.
'You are a bit of a wag at times, Roger.'
'You soon shut me up.'
'I have heard that you sparkle more freely in my absence.'
'They say the same about you.'
'And now that you mention it, I believe it is true; and yet, isn't it a bigger satisfaction to you to catch me relishing your jokes than any other person?'
Roger's eyes open wide. 'How did you know that?'
'Because I am so bucked if I see you relishing mine.'
'Areyou?' Roger's hold on the certain things in life are slipping. 'You don't show it.'
'That is because of our awkward relationship.'
Roger lapses into gloom. 'We have got to go through with it.'
His father kicks the coals. 'There's no way out.'
'No.'
'We have, as it were, signed a compact, Roger, never to let on that we care for each other. As gentlemen we must stick to it.'
'Yes. What are you getting at, father?'
'There is a war on, Roger.'
'That needn't make any difference.'
'Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without warning. I'm going to cast a grenade into the middle of you. It's this, I'm fond of you, my boy.'
Roger squirms. 'Father, if any one were to hear you!'
'They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is quiet in our street. Won't you—won't you say something civil to me in return, Roger?'
Roger looks at him and away from him. 'I sometimes—bragged about you at school.'
Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. 'Did you? What sort of things, Roger?'
'I—I forget.'
'Come on, Roger.'
'Is this fair, father?'
'No, I suppose it isn't.' Mr. Torrance attacks the coals again. 'You and your mother have lots of confidences, haven't you?'
'I tell her a good deal. Somehow—'
'Yes, somehow one can.' With the artfulness that comes of years, 'I'm glad you tell her everything.'
Roger looks down his cigar. 'Not everything, father. There are things—about oneself—'
'Aren't there, Roger!'
'Best not to tell her.'
'Yes—yes. If there are any of them you would care to tell me instead—just if you want to, mind—just if you are in a hole or anything?'
'No thanks,' very stiffly.
'Any little debts, for instance?'
'That's all right now. Mother—'
'She did?'
Roger is ready to jump at him. 'I was willing to speak to you about them, but—'
'She said, "Not worth while bothering father."'
'How did you know?'
'Oh, I have met your mother before, you see. Nothing else?'
'No.'
'Haven't been an ass about a girl or anything of that sort?''
'Good lord, father!'
'I shouldn't have said it. In my young days we sometimes—It's all different now.'
'I don't know, I could tell you things that would surprise you.'
'No! Not about yourself?'
'No. At least—'
'Just as you like, Roger.'
'It blew over long ago.'
'Then there's no need?'
'No—oh no. It was just—you know—the old, old story.'
He eyes his father suspiciously, but not a muscle in Mr. Torrance's countenance is out of place.
'I see. It hasn't—left you bitter about the sex, Roger, I hope?'
'Not now. She—you know what women are.'
'Yes, yes.'
'You needn't mention it to mother.'
'I won't.' Mr. Torrance is elated to share a secret with Roger about which mother is not to know. 'Think your mother and I are an aged pair, Roger?'
'I never—of course you are not young.'
'How long have you known that? I mean, it's true—but I didn't know it till quite lately.'
'That you're old?'
'Hang it, Roger, not so bad as that—elderly. This will stagger you; but I assure you that until the other day I jogged along thinking of myself as on the whole still one of the juveniles.' He makes a wry face. 'I crossed the bridge, Roger, without knowing it.'
'What made you know?'
'What makes us know all the new things, Roger?—the war. I'll tell you a secret. When we realised in August of 1914 that myriads of us were to be needed, my first thought wasn't that I had a son, but that I must get fit myself.'
'You!'
'Funny, isn't it?' says Mr. Torrance quite nastily. 'But, as I tell you, I didn't know I had ceased to be young, I went into Regent's Park and tried to run a mile.'
'Lummy, you might have killed yourself.'
'I nearly did—especially as I had put a weight on my shoulders to represent my kit. I kept at it for a week, but I knew the game was up. The discovery was pretty grim, Roger.'
'Don't you bother about that part of it. You are doing your share, taking care of mother and Emma.'
Mr. Torrance emits a laugh of self-contempt. 'I am not taking care of them. It is you who are taking care of them. My friend, you are the head of the house now.'
'Father!'
'Yes, we have come back to hard facts, and the defender of the house is the head of it.'
'Me? Fudge.'
'It's true. The thing that makes me wince most is that some of my contemporaries have managed to squeeze back: back into youth, Roger, though I guess they were a pretty tight fit in the turnstile. There is Coxon; he is in khaki now, with his hair dyed, and when he and I meet at the club we know that we belong to different generations. I'm a decent old fellow, but I don't really count any more, while Coxon, lucky dog, is being damned daily on parade.'
'I hate your feeling it in that way, father.'
'I don't say it is a palatable draught, but when the war is over we shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear of my being sarcastic to you then, Roger. I'll have to be jolly respectful.'
'Shut up, father!'
'You've begun, you see. Don't worry, Roger. Any rawness I might feel in having missed the chance of seeing whether I was a man—like Coxon, confound him!—is swallowed up in the pride of giving the chance to you. I'm in a shiver about you, but—It's all true, Roger, what your mother said about 2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so little of a military nation that most of us didn't know therewere2nd Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes we feel that there is nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is like a new word to us—one, I daresay, of many that the war will add to our language. We have taken to it, Roger. If a son of mine were to tarnish it—'
'I'll try not to,' Roger growls.
'If you did, I should just know that there had been something wrong about me.'
Gruffly, 'You're all right.'
'If I am, you are.' It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance turns on his son. 'I suppose you have been asking yourself of late, what if you were to turn out to be a funk!'
'Father, how did you know?'
'I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk of this commission I have been thinking and thinking what were you thinking—so as to help you.'
This itself is a help. Roger's hand—but he withdraws it hurriedly.
'They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,' he says wistfully.
'I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms as you before their first engagement.'
'I—I kind of think, father, that I won't be a funk.'
'I kind of think so too, Roger.' Mr. Torrance forgets himself. 'Mind you don't be rash, my boy; and for God's sake, keep your head down in the trenches.'
Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his anxious father.
'You know you laughed at mother for saying that!'
'Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate manner with you.'
The magnanimous Roger says, 'Oh, I don't know. It's just the father-and-son complication.'
'That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my affection for you more openly.'
Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, 'I wouldn't do that.' Nicely, 'Of course for this once—but in a general way I wouldn't do that.Weknow, you and I.'
'As long as we know, it's no one else's affair, is it?'
'That's the ticket, father.'
'Still—' It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now taking advantage of his superior slyness. 'Still, before your mother—to please her—eh?'
Faltering, 'I suppose it would.'
'Well, what do you say?'
'I know she would like it.'
'Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all bunkum—repellent even to our natures.'
'Lord, yes!'
'But to gratify her.'
'I should be so conscious.'
Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. 'So should I.'
Roger considers it. 'How far would you go?'
'Oh, not far. Suppose I called you "Old Rogie"? There's not much in that.'
'It all depends on the way one says these things.'
'I should be quite casual.'
'Hum. What would you like me to call you?'
Severely, 'It isn't what wouldIlike. But I daresay your mother would beam if you called me "dear father"'
'I don't think so?'
'You know quite well that you think so, Roger.'
'It's so effeminate.'
'Not if you say it casually.'
With something very like a snort Roger asks, 'How does one say a thing like that casually?'
'Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said it—or anything of that sort.'
'Hum. Of course you—if we were to—be like that, you wouldn't do anything.'
'How do you mean?'
'You wouldn't paw me?'