LOUIS

“It would be jolly to spend Easter in Vienna this year,” said

Strudwarden, “and look up some of my old friends there. It’s about the

jolliest place I know of to be at for Easter—”

“I thought we had made up our minds to spend Easter at Brighton,”

interrupted Lena Strudwarden, with an air of aggrieved surprise.

“You mean that you had made up your mind that we should spend Easter

there,” said her husband; “we spent last Easter there, and Whitsuntide as

well, and the year before that we were at Worthing, and Brighton again

before that. I think it would be just as well to have a real change of

scene while we are about it.”

“The journey to Vienna would be very expensive,” said Lena.

“You are not often concerned about economy,” said Strudwarden, “and in

any case the trip of Vienna won’t cost a bit more than the rather

meaningless luncheon parties we usually give to quite meaningless

acquaintances at Brighton. To escape from all that set would be a

holiday in itself.”

Strudwarden spoke feelingly; Lena Strudwarden maintained an equally

feeling silence on that particular subject. The set that she gathered

round her at Brighton and other South Coast resorts was composed of

individuals who might be dull and meaningless in themselves, but who

understood the art of flattering Mrs. Strudwarden. She had no intention

of foregoing their society and their homage and flinging herself among

unappreciative strangers in a foreign capital.

“You must go to Vienna alone if you are bent on going,” she said; “I

couldn’t leave Louis behind, and a dog is always a fearful nuisance in a

foreign hotel, besides all the fuss and separation of the quarantine

restrictions when one comes back. Louis would die if he was parted from

me for even a week. You don’t know what that would mean to me.”

Lena stooped down and kissed the nose of the diminutive brown Pomeranian

that lay, snug and irresponsive, beneath a shawl on her lap.

“Look here,” said Strudwarden, “this eternal Louis business is getting to

be a ridiculous nuisance. Nothing can be done, no plans can be made,

without some veto connected with that animal’s whims or convenience being

imposed. If you were a priest in attendance on some African fetish you

couldn’t set up a more elaborate code of restrictions. I believe you’d

ask the Government to put off a General Election if you thought it would

interfere with Louis’s comfort in any way.”

By way of answer to this tirade Mrs. Strudwarden stooped down again and

kissed the irresponsive brown nose. It was the action of a woman with a

beautifully meek nature, who would, however, send the whole world to the

stake sooner than yield an inch where she knew herself to be in the

right.

“It isn’t as if you were in the least bit fond of animals,” went on

Strudwarden, with growing irritation; “when we are down at Kerryfield you

won’t stir a step to take the house dogs out, even if they’re dying for a

run, and I don’t think you’ve been in the stables twice in your life.

You laugh at what you call the fuss that’s being made over the

extermination of plumage birds, and you are quite indignant with me if I

interfere on behalf of an ill-treated, over-driven animal on the road.

And yet you insist on every one’s plans being made subservient to the

convenience of that stupid little morsel of fur and selfishness.”

“You are prejudiced against my little Louis,” said Lena, with a world of

tender regret in her voice.

“I’ve never had the chance of being anything else but prejudiced against

him,” said Strudwarden; “I know what a jolly responsive companion a

doggie can be, but I’ve never been allowed to put a finger near Louis.

You say he snaps at any one except you and your maid, and you snatched

him away from old Lady Peterby the other day, when she wanted to pet him,

for fear he would bury his teeth in her. All that I ever see of him is

the top of his unhealthy-looking little nose, peeping out from his basket

or from your muff, and I occasionally hear his wheezy little bark when

you take him for a walk up and down the corridor. You can’t expect one

to get extravagantly fond of a dog of that sort. One might as well work

up an affection for the cuckoo in a cuckoo-clock.”

“He loves me,” said Lena, rising from the table, and bearing the

shawl-swathed Louis in her arms. “He loves only me, and perhaps that is

why I love him so much in return. I don’t care what you say against him,

I am not going to be separated from him. If you insist on going to

Vienna you must go alone, as far as I am concerned. I think it would be

much more sensible if you were to come to Brighton with Louis and me, but

of course you must please yourself.”

“You must get rid of that dog,” said Strudwarden’s sister when Lena had

left the room; “it must be helped to some sudden and merciful end. Lena

is merely making use of it as an instrument for getting her own way on

dozens of occasions when she would otherwise be obliged to yield

gracefully to your wishes or to the general convenience. I am convinced

that she doesn’t care a brass button about the animal itself. When her

friends are buzzing round her at Brighton or anywhere else and the dog

would be in the way, it has to spend whole days alone with the maid, but

if you want Lena to go with you anywhere where she doesn’t want to go

instantly she trots out the excuse that she couldn’t be separated from

her dog. Have you ever come into a room unobserved and heard Lena

talking to her beloved pet? I never have. I believe she only fusses

over it when there’s some one present to notice her.”

“I don’t mind admitting,” said Strudwarden, “that I’ve dwelt more than

once lately on the possibility of some fatal accident putting an end to

Louis’s existence. It’s not very easy, though, to arrange a fatality for

a creature that spends most of its time in a muff or asleep in a toy

kennel. I don’t think poison would be any good; it’s obviously horribly

over-fed, for I’ve seen Lena offer it dainties at table sometimes, but it

never seems to eat them.”

“Lena will be away at church on Wednesday morning,” said Elsie

Strudwarden reflectively; “she can’t take Louis with her there, and she

is going on to the Dellings for lunch. That will give you several hours

in which to carry out your purpose. The maid will be flirting with the

chauffeur most of the time, and, anyhow, I can manage to keep her out of

the way on some pretext or other.”

“That leaves the field clear,” said Strudwarden, “but unfortunately my

brain is equally a blank as far as any lethal project is concerned. The

little beast is so monstrously inactive; I can’t pretend that it leapt

into the bath and drowned itself, or that it took on the butcher’s

mastiff in unequal combat and got chewed up. In what possible guise

could death come to a confirmed basket-dweller? It would be too

suspicious if we invented a Suffragette raid and pretended that they

invaded Lena’s boudoir and threw a brick at him. We should have to do a

lot of other damage as well, which would be rather a nuisance, and the

servants would think it odd that they had seen nothing of the invaders.”

“I have an idea,” said Elsie; “get a box with an air-tight lid, and bore

a small hole in it, just big enough to let in an indiarubber tube. Pop

Louis, kennel and all, into the box, shut it down, and put the other end

of the tube over the gas-bracket. There you have a perfect lethal

chamber. You can stand the kennel at the open window afterwards, to get

rid of the smell of gas, and all that Lena will find when she comes home

late in the afternoon will be a placidly defunct Louis.”

“Novels have been written about women like you,” said Strudwarden; “you

have a perfectly criminal mind. Let’s come and look for a box.”

Two mornings later the conspirators stood gazing guiltily at a stout

square box, connected with the gas-bracket by a length of indiarubber

tubing.

“Not a sound,” said Elsie; “he never stirred; it must have been quite

painless. All the same I feel rather horrid now it’s done.”

“The ghastly part has to come,” said Strudwarden, turning off the gas.

“We’ll lift the lid slowly, and let the gas out by degrees. Swing the

door to and fro to send a draught through the room.”

Some minutes later, when the fumes had rushed off, he stooped down and

lifted out the little kennel with its grim burden. Elsie gave an

exclamation of terror. Louis sat at the door of his dwelling, head erect

and ears pricked, as coldly and defiantly inert as when they had put him

into his execution chamber. Strudwarden dropped the kennel with a jerk,

and stared for a long moment at the miracle-dog; then he went into a peal

of chattering laughter.

It was certainly a wonderful imitation of a truculent-looking toy

Pomeranian, and the apparatus that gave forth a wheezy bark when you

pressed it had materially helped the imposition that Lena, and Lena’s

maid, had foisted on the household. For a woman who disliked animals,

but liked getting her own way under a halo of unselfishness, Mrs.

Strudwarden had managed rather well.

“Louis is dead,” was the curt information that greeted Lena on her return

from her luncheon party.

“Louis _dead_!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, he flew at the butcher-boy and bit him, and he bit me, too, when I

tried to get him off, so I had to have him destroyed. You warned me that

he snapped, but you didn’t tell me that he was downright dangerous. I

shall have to pay the boy something heavy by way of compensation, so you

will have to go without those buckles that you wanted to have for Easter;

also I shall have to go to Vienna to consult Dr. Schroeder, who is a

specialist on dog-bites, and you will have to come too. I have sent what

remains of Louis to Rowland Ward to be stuffed; that will be my Easter

gift to you instead of the buckles. For Heaven’s sake, Lena, weep, if

you really feel it so much; anything would be better than standing there

staring as if you thought I had lost my reason.”

Lena Strudwarden did not weep, but her attempt at laughing was an

unmistakable failure.