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 handy-man
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
recognised that they were not indispensable, and have withdrawn them from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 stable-yard, 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 agonised 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," he 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 get 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 mobilised 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
paralysing 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 surburban 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."
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_Edinburgh_