Aubrey shook his head gently.
‘It is pretty generally recognised now that he is beyond the reach of human science. The only thing to do seems to be to let him go on till he eventually runs down.’
They sat together on a rustic bench overlooking the water. It was a lovely morning. The sun shone on the little wavelets which the sighing breeze drove gently to the shore. A dreamy stillness had fallen on the world, broken only by the distant sound of Sir Alexander Bassinger murdering magpies, of Reginald Bassinger encouraging dogs to eviscerate a rabbit, of Wilfred busy among the sparrows, and a monotonous droning noise from the upper terrace, which was Colonel Sir Francis Pashley-Drake telling Lady Bassinger what to do with the dead gnu.
Aubrey was the first to break the silence.
‘How lovely the world is, Miss Mulliner.’
‘Yes, isn’t it!’
‘How softly the breeze caresses yonder water.’
‘Yes, doesn’t it!’
‘How fragrant a scent of wild flowers it has.’
‘Yes, hasn’t it!’
They were silent again.
‘On such a day,’ said Aubrey, ‘the mind seems to turn irresistibly to Love.’
‘Love?’ said Charlotte, her heart beginning to flutter.
‘Love,’ said Aubrey. ‘Tell me, Miss Mulliner, have you ever thought of Love?’
He took her hand. Her head was bent, and with the toe of her dainty shoe she toyed with a passing snail.
‘Life, Miss Mulliner,’ said Aubrey, ‘is a Sahara through which we all must pass. We start at the Cairo of the cradle and we travel on to the – er – well, we go travelling on.’
‘Yes, don’t we!’ said Charlotte.
‘After we can see the distant goal …’
‘Yes, can’t we!’
‘… and would fain reach it.’
‘Yes, wouldn’t we!’
‘But the way is rough and weary. We have to battle through the sand-storms of Destiny, face with what courage we may the howling simoons of Fate. And very unpleasant it all is. But sometimes in the Sahara of Life, if we are fortunate, we come upon the Oasis of Love. That oasis, when I had all but lost hope, I reached at one-fifteen on the afternoon of Tuesday, the twenty-second of last month. There comes a time in the life of every man when he sees Happiness beckoning to him and must grasp it. Miss Mulliner, I have something to ask you which I have been trying to ask ever since the day when we two first met. Miss Mulliner … Charlotte … Will you be my … Gosh! Look at that whacking great rat! Loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo!’ said Aubrey, changing the subject.
Once, in her childhood, a sportive playmate had secretly withdrawn the chair on which Charlotte Mulliner was preparing to seat herself. Years had passed, but the recollection of the incident remained green in her memory. In frosty weather she could still feel the old wound. And now, as Aubrey Bassinger suddenly behaved in this remarkable manner, she experienced the same sensation again. It was as though something blunt and heavy had hit her on the head at the exact moment when she was slipping on a banana-skin.
She stared round-eyed at Aubrey. He had released her hand, sprung to his feet, and now, armed with her parasol, was beating furiously in the lush grass at the waterside. And every little while his mouth would open, his head would go back, and uncouth sounds would proceed from his slavering jaws.
‘Yoicks! Yoicks! Yoicks!’ cried Aubrey.
And again,
‘Tally-ho! Hard For’ard! Tally-ho!’
Presently the fever seemed to pass. He straightened himself and came back to where she stood.
‘It must have got away into a hole or something,’ he said, removing a bead of perspiration from his forehead with the ferrule of the parasol. ‘The fact of the matter is, it’s silly ever to go out in the country without a good dog. If only I’d had a nice, nippy terrier with me, I might have obtained some solid results. As it is, a fine rat – gone – just like that! Oh, well, that’s Life, I suppose.’ He paused. ‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘Where was I?’
And then it was as though he waked from a trance. His flushed face paled.
‘I say,’ he stammered, ‘I’m afraid you must think me most awfully rude.’
‘Pray do not mention it,’ said Charlotte coldly.
‘Oh, but you must. Dashing off like that.’
‘Not at all.’
‘What I was going to say, when I was interrupted, was, will you be my wife?’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I won’t.’
‘You won’t?’
‘No. Never.’ Charlotte’s voice was tense with a scorn which she did not attempt to conceal. ‘So this is what you were all the time, Mr Bassinger – a secret sportsman!’
Aubrey quivered from head to foot.
‘I’m not! I’m not! It was the hideous spell of this ghastly house that overcame me.’
‘Pah!’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said “Pah”!’
‘Why did you say “Pah”?’
‘Because,’ said Charlotte, with flashing eyes, ‘I do not believe you. Your story is thin and fishy.’
‘But it’s the truth. It was as if some hypnotic influence had gripped me, forcing me to act against all my higher inclinations. Can’t you understand? Would you condemn me for a moment’s passing weakness? Do you think,’ he cried passionately, ‘that the real Aubrey Bassinger would raise a hand to touch a rat, save in the way of kindness? I love rats, I tell you – love them. I used to keep them as a boy. White ones with pink eyes.’
Charlotte shook her head. Her face was cold and hard.
‘Good-bye, Mr Bassinger,’ she said. ‘From this instant we meet as strangers.’
She turned and was gone. And Aubrey Bassinger, covering his face with his hands, sank on the bench, feeling like a sand-bagged leper.
The mind of Charlotte Mulliner, in the days which followed the painful scene which I have just described, was torn, as you may well imagine, with conflicting emotions. For a time, as was natural, anger predominated. But after a while sadness overcame indignation. She mourned for her lost happiness.
And yet, she asked herself, how else could she have acted? She had worshipped Aubrey Bassinger. She had set him upon a pedestal, looked up to him as a great white soul. She had supposed him one who lived, far above this world’s coarseness and grime, on a rarefied plane of his own, thinking beautiful thoughts. Instead of which, it now appeared, he went about the place chasing rats with parasols. What could she have done but spurn him?
That there lurked in the atmosphere of Bludleigh Court a sinister influence that sapped the principles of the most humanitarian and sent them ravening to and fro, seeking for prey, she declined to believe. The theory was pure banana-oil. If such an influence was in operation at Bludleigh, why had it not affected her?
No, if Aubrey Bassinger chased rats with parasols, it could only mean that he was one of Nature’s rat-chasers. And to such a one, cost what it might to refuse, she could never confide her heart.
Few things are more embarrassing to a highly-strung girl than to be for any length of time in the same house with a man whose love she has been compelled to decline, and Charlotte would have given much to be able to leave Bludleigh Court. But there was, it seemed, to be a garden-party on the following Tuesday, and Lady Bassinger had urged her so strongly to stay on for it that departure was out of the question.
To fill the leaden moments, she immersed herself in her work. She had a long-standing commission to supply the Animal-Lovers Gazette with a poem for its Christmas number, and to the task of writing this she proceeded to devote herself. And gradually the ecstasy of literary composition eased her pain.
The days crept by. Old Sir Alexander continued to maltreat magpies. Reginald and the local rabbits fought a never-ceasing battle, they striving to keep up the birth-rate, he to reduce it. Colonel Pashley-Drake maundered on about gnus he had met. And Aubrey dragged himself about the house
, looking licked to a splinter. Eventually Tuesday came, and with it the garden-party.
Lady Bassinger’s annual garden party was one of the big events of the countryside. By four o’clock all that was bravest and fairest for miles around had assembled on the big lawn. But Charlotte, though she had stayed on specially to be present, was not one of the gay throng. At about the time when the first strawberry was being dipped in its cream, she was up in her room, staring with bewildered eyes at a letter which had arrived by the second post.
The Animal-Lovers Gazette had turned her poem down!
Yes, turned it down flat, in spite of the fact that it had been commissioned and that she was not asking a penny for it. Accompanying the rejected manuscript was a curt note from the editor, in which he said that he feared its tone might offend his readers.
Charlotte was stunned. She was not accustomed to having her efforts rejected. This one, moreover, had seemed to her so particularly good. A hard judge of her own work, she had said to herself, as she licked the envelope, that this time, if never before, she had delivered the goods.
She unfolded the manuscript and re-read it.
It ran as follows:
GOOD GNUS
(A Vignette in Verse)
BY
CHARLOTTE MULLINER
When cares attack and life seems black,
How sweet it is to pot a yak,
Or puncture hares and grizzly bears,
And others I could mention:
But in my Animals ‘Who’s Who’
No name stands higher than the Gnu:
And each new gnu that comes in view
Receives my prompt attention.
When Afric’s sun is sinking low,
And shadows wander to and fro,
And everywhere there’s in the air
A hush that’s deep and solemn;
Then is the time good men and true
With View Halloo pursue the gnu:
(The safest spot to put your shot
Is through the spinal column).
To take the creature by surprise
We must adopt some rude disguise,
Although deceit is never sweet,
And falsehoods don’t attract us:
So, as with gun in hand you wait,
Remember to impersonate
A tuft of grass, a mountain-pass,
A kopje or a cactus.
A brief suspense, and then at last
The waiting’s o’er, the vigil past:
A careful aim. A spurt of flame.
It’s done. You’ve pulled the trigger,
And one more gnu, so fair and frail,
Has handed in its dinner-pail:
(The females all are rather small,
The males are somewhat bigger).
Charlotte laid the manuscript down, frowning. She chafed at the imbecility of editors. Less than ever was she able to understand what anyone could find in it to cavil at. Tone likely to offend? What did the man mean about the tone being likely to offend? She had never heard such nonsense in her life. How could the tone possibly offend? It was unexceptionable. The whole poem breathed that clean, wholesome, healthy spirit of Sport which has made England what it is. And the thing was not only lyrically perfect, but educational as well. It told the young reader, anxious to shoot gnus but uncertain of the correct procedure, exactly what he wanted to know.
She bit her lip. Well, if this Animal-Lovers bird didn’t know a red-hot contribution when he saw one, she would jolly well find somebody else who did – and quick, too. She …
At this moment, something occurred to distract her thoughts. Down on the terrace below, little Wilfred, complete with airgun, had come into her line of vision. The boy was creeping along in a quiet, purposeful manner, obviously intent on the chase: and it suddenly came over Charlotte Mulliner in a wave that here she had been in this house all this time and never once had thought of borrowing the child’s weapon and having a plug at something with it.
The sky was blue. The sun was shining. All Nature seemed to call to her to come out and kill things.
She left the room and ran quickly down the stairs.
And what of Aubrey, meanwhile? Grief having slowed him up on his feet, he had been cornered by his mother and marched off to hand cucumber sandwiches at the garden-party. After a brief spell of servitude, however, he had contrived to escape and was wandering on the terrace, musing mournfully, when he observed his brother Wilfred approaching. And at the same moment Charlotte Mulliner emerged from the house and came hurrying in their direction. In a flash, Aubrey perceived that here was a situation which, shrewdly handled, could be turned greatly to his advantage. Affecting to be unaware of Charlotte’s approach, he stopped his brother and eyed the young thug sternly.
‘Wilfred,’ he said, ‘where are you going with that gun?’
The boy appeared embarrassed.
‘Just shooting.’
Aubrey took the weapon from him and raised his voice slightly. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen that Charlotte was now well within hearing.
‘Shooting, eh?’ he said. ‘Shooting? I see. And have you never been taught, wretched child, that you should be kind to the animals that crave your compassion? Has no one ever told you that he prayeth best who loveth best all things both great and small? For shame, Wilfred, for shame!’
Charlotte had come up, and was standing there, looking at them inquiringly.
‘What’s all this about?’ she asked.
Aubrey started dramatically.
‘Miss Mulliner! I was not aware that you were there. All this? Oh, nothing. I found this lad here on his way to shoot sparrows with his airgun, and I am taking the thing from him. It may seem to you a high-handed action on my part. You may consider me hyper-sensitive. You may ask, Why all this fuss about a few birds? But that is Aubrey Bassinger. Aubrey Bassinger will not lightly allow even the merest sparrow to be placed in jeopardy. Tut, Wilfred,’ he said. ‘Tut! Cannot you see now how wrong it is to shoot the poor sparrows?’
‘But I wasn’t going to shoot sparrows,’ said the boy. ‘I was going to shoot Uncle Francis while he is having his sun-bath.’
‘It is also wrong,’ said Aubrey, after a slight hesitation, ‘to shoot Uncle Francis while he is having his sun-bath.’
Charlotte Mulliner uttered an impatient exclamation. And Aubrey, looking at her, saw that her eyes were glittering with a strange light. She breathed quickly through her delicately-chiselled nose. She seemed feverish, and a medical man would have been concerned about her blood-pressure.
‘Why?’ she demanded vehemently. ‘Why is it wrong? Why shouldn’t he shoot his Uncle Francis while he is having his sun-bath?’
Aubrey stood for a moment, pondering. Her razor-like feminine intelligence had cut cleanly to the core of the matter. After all, now that she put it like that, why not?
‘Think how it would tickle him up.’
‘True,’ said Aubrey, nodding. ‘True.’
‘And his Uncle Francis is precisely the sort of man who ought to have been shot at with air-guns incessantly for the last thirty years. The moment I met him, I said to myself, “That man ought to be shot at with air-guns.” ’
Aubrey nodded again. Her girlish enthusiasm had begun to infect him.
‘There is much in what you say,’ he admitted.
‘Where is he?’ asked Charlotte, turning to the boy.
‘On the roof of the boathouse.’
Charlotte’s face clouded.
‘H’m!’ she said. ‘That’s awkward. How is one to get at him?’
‘I remember Uncle Francis telling me once,’ said Aubrey, ‘that, when you went shooting tigers, you climbed a tree. There are plenty of trees by the boathouse.’
‘Admirable!’
For an instant there came to disturb Aubrey’s hearty joy in the chase a brief, faint flicker of prudence.
‘But … I say … Do you really think … Ought we … ?’
Charlotte’s eyes f
lashed scornfully.
‘Infirm of purpose,’ she said. ‘Give me the air-gun!’
‘I was only thinking …’
‘Well?’
‘I suppose you know he’ll have practically nothing on?’
Charlotte Mulliner laughed lightly.
‘He can’t intimidate me,’ she said. ‘Come! Let us be going.’
Up on the roof of the boathouse, the beneficent ultra-violet rays of the afternoon sun pouring down on his globular surface, Colonel Sir Francis Pashley-Drake lay in that pleasant half-waking, half-dreaming state that accompanies this particular form of lumbago-treatment. His mind flitted lightly from one soothing subject to another. He thought of elks he had shot in Canada, of moufflon he had shot in the Grecian Archipelago, of giraffes he had shot in Nigeria. He was just on the point of thinking of a hippopotamus which he had shot in Egypt, when the train of his meditations was interrupted by a soft popping sound not far away. He smiled affectionately. So little Wilfred was out with his air-gun, eh?
A thrill of quiet pride passed through Colonel Pashley-Drake. He had trained the lad well, he felt. With a garden-party in progress, with all the opportunities it offered for quiet gorging, how many boys of Wilfred’s age would have neglected their shooting to hang round the tea-table and stuff themselves with cakes. But this fine lad …
Ping! There it was again. The boy must be somewhere quite close at hand. He wished he could be at his side, giving him kindly advice. Wilfred, he felt, was a young fellow after his own heart. What destruction he would spread among the really worthwhile animals when he grew up and put aside childish things and exchanged his air-gun for a Winchester repeater.
Sir Francis Pashley-Drake started. Two inches from where he lay a splinter of wood had sprung from the boathouse roof. He sat up, feeling a little less affectionate.
‘Wilfred!’
There was no reply.
‘Be careful, Wilfred, my boy. You nearly …’
A sharp, agonizing twinge caused him to break off abruptly. He sprang to his feet and began to address the surrounding landscape passionately in one of the lesser-known dialects of the Congo basin. He no longer thought of Wilfred with quiet pride. Few things so speedily modify an uncle’s love as a nephew’s air-gun bullet in the fleshy part of the leg. Sir Francis Pashley-Drake’s plans for this boy’s future had undergone in one brief instant a complete change. He no longer desired to stand beside him through his formative years, teaching him the secrets of shikarri. All he wanted to do was to get close enough to him to teach him with the flat of his right hand to be a bit more careful where he pointed his gun.
The Penguin Book of the British Short Story Page 5
