by Unknown
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 drawingroom, 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 womenfolk. 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 — tonight — won’t you, John?’
Mr. Torrance is a little pained. ‘Do I just begin tonight, 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 to me—’
‘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 conquer
ing 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 tonight! 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, ‘Did you, 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 do you think?’
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 tomorrow?’
‘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. ‘Goodnight, father.’
‘Goodnight. 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, you are not going to begin now.’
