_dramatis 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 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 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, '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 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, _you_ are 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.'
'_Are_ you?' 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.'