THE MOUSE
Theodoric 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were not indispensable, and have withdrawn them from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,"
be 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 got 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.
"I think we must be getting near now," she presently
observed.
Theodoric had already noted with growing terror the
recurring stacks of small, ugly dwellings that heralded the
journey's end. The words acted as a signal. Like a hunted
beast breaking cover and dashing madly towards some other
haven of momentary safety he threw aside his rug, and
struggled frantically into his dishevelled garments. He was
conscious of dull suburban stations racing past the window,
of a choking, hammering sensation in his throat and heart,
and of an icy silence in that corner towards which he dared
not look. Then as he sank back in his seat, clothed and
almost delirious, the train slowed down to a final crawl,
and the woman spoke.
"Would you be so kind," she asked, "as to get me a
porter to put me into a cab? It's a shame to trouble you
when you're feeling unwell, but being blind makes one so
helpless at a railway station."