A Prisoner Of War
P G Wodehouse
Mrs. Lora Delane Porter, that great woman, was condescending to argue with Herbert Nixon, a mere menial. The points under discussion were three:-
a Why had Herbert been absent from duty between the hours of 3 p.m. and midnight on the previous day?
b Why had he returned singing?
c Why had he divested himself of his upper garments and stood for twenty minutes before the front door, daring the Kaiser to come out and have his head knocked off?
Those were the main counts in Mrs. Porter's indictment, and she urged them with the skill of one who for many years had been in the forefront of America's Feminist movement. A trained orator and logician, she made mincemeat of Mr. Nixon.
Herbert's official position was that of odd-job man to the house which Mrs. Porter had taken for the summer in England. He had gone with the place as a sort of bonus.
"You don't understand, ma'am," he said, pityingly. "Being a female, you wouldn't understand. It's polerticks. This 'ere country 'as 'ad to go to war-"
"And so you had to go and stupefy the few brains you possess at the village inn? I don't see the connection."
"I can't argue with you, ma'am," said Mr. Nixon, patiently. "My 'ead don't seem just right this morning. All I know is-"
"All I know is that you can go right away now and look for another job."
" 'Ave it your own way, ma'am, 'ave it your own way. If you don't want me, there's others that'll be glad to 'ave me."
"Don't let me keep you from them," said Mrs. Porter. "Good morning."
Herbert vanished, and Mrs. Porter, dipping her pen in the ink, resumed the chapter of "Woman in the New Era" which his entry had interrupted.
Sybil Bannister came into the room. She was small and fluffy. Mrs. Porter greeted her with an indulgent smile. Ruthless towards the Herbert Nixons, she unbent with Sybil. Sybil was her disciple. She regarded her as a gardener regards some promising young plant.
Six months before Sybil had been what Mrs. Porter called undeveloped. That is to say, she had been content to live a peaceful life in her New York home, worshipping her husband, Mrs. Porter's nephew Hailey. The spectacle of a woman worshipping any man annoyed Mrs. Porter. To see one worshipping Hailey, for whom she entertained the contempt which only strong-minded aunts can feel for their nephews, stirred her to her depths.
Hailey, it is true, had not been a perfect husband. He was a rather pompous young man, dictatorial, and inclined to consider that the machinery of the universe should run with his personal comfort as its guiding motive. But Sybil had not noticed these things till Mrs. Porter pointed them out to her. Until Mrs. Porter urged her to assert her rights, she had not thought the matter out sufficiently to understand that she had any.
That determined woman took the situation strongly in hand. Before Hailey knew what had struck him the home was a battlefield, and when the time arrived for Mrs. Porter to go to England things came to a head. She invited Sybil to accompany her. Hailey forbade her to go. Sybil went. That is the whole campaign in a nutshell.
"I have just dismissed Nixon," said Mrs. Porter. "I have no objection in England going to war, but I will not have my odd-job man singing patriotic songs in the garden at midnight."
From the beginning of hostilities Mrs. Porter's attitude towards the European War had been clearly defined. It could continue, provided it did not bother her. If it bothered her it must stop.
Sybil looked uncomfortable.
"Aunt Lora, don't you think-I've been thinking-I believe I ought to go home."
"Ridiculous! You are perfectly safe here."
"I wasn't thinking so much about myself. I-I believe Hailey will be worried about me."
Mrs. Porter directed at her shrinking protegee one of the severe stares which had done so much to unman Mr. Nixon at their recent interview. This was backsliding, and must be checked.
"So much the better. It is just what Hailey wants-to have to worry about somebody except himself. The trouble with Hailey has always been that things have been made too comfortable for him. He has never had proper discipline. When Hailey was a child I once spanked him with a clothes-brush. The effects, while they lasted, were extremely gratifying. Unfortunately, immediately after the incident I ceased to be on speaking terms with his father, so was not able to follow up the good work."
Sybil shifted uneasily. She looked mutinous.
"He's my husband," she said.
"It's too late to worry about that."
"He is always very kind to me."
"Nonsense child! He treated you like a door-mat. When he was in a bad temper he snarled at you; when he was in a good temper he patronized you."
"He's very fond of me."
"Then why doesn't he try to get you back? Has he written you a single letter, asking you to go home, in the last two months?"
"You don't understand Hailey, Aunt Lora. He's so proud."
"Tchah!"
When Mrs. Porter said "Tchah!" it was final. There was nothing ill- tempered or violent about the ejaculation: it was simply final. Sybil withdrew.
It was Mrs. Porter's daily practice, when she had made her simple breakfast and given her household staff its instructions, to walk briskly out of her garden-gate, proceed for a mile down the high road, then, turning, to walk back and begin work on her current book. The procedure had two advantages. It cleared her brain, and it afforded mild exercise to Mike, her Irish terrier.
On the morning after the rout of Herbert Nixon, she had just emerged from the garden, when she was aware of a ragged figure coming towards her down the straight white road. She called to the dog, who was sniffing at an attractive-smelling dead bird which he had located under the hedge.
"Mike!"
Lora Delane Porter was not afraid of tramps; but it is no sign of fear to mobilize your forces; it is merely a sensible precaution in case of accidents. She mobilized Mike. He left the bird, on which he had intended to roll, with a back-glance of regret, and came trotting to her side.
"To heel!" said Mrs. Porter.
The tramp was a typical ruffian of his species. He was unkempt and grimy; he wore a soiled hat, a grey suit of clothes picked out with splashes of brown and green and there was no collar round his neck. He walked as if he had been partially hamstrung by a bungling amateur who had made a bad job of it.
As she drew level with him he looked at her, stopped, and said: "Aunt Lora!"
Mrs. Porter made it a rule to pass the ordinary tramp without a glance; but tramps who addressed her as "Aunt Lora" merited inspection. She accorded this inspection to the man before her, and gave a little gasp. His face was obscured by dust and perspiration, and he had a scrubby beard; but she recognized him.
"Hailey!"
To preserve a perfect poise in the face of all of life's untoward happenings was part of Mrs. Porter's religion. Though, for all her stern force of character, she was now inwardly aflame with curiosity, she did not show it in her manner.
"What are you doing here, Hailey?" she inquired, calmly.
He passed the ruins of a silk handkerchief over his grimy face and groaned. He was a shocking spectacle.
"I've had an awful time!"
"You look it."
"I've walked every step of the way from Southampton."
"Why?"
"Why! Because I had to. Do I look as if I were doing this for my health?"
"It's an excellent thing for your health. You always did shirk exercise."
Hailey drew himself up and fixed his aunt with a gaze which was a little too bloodshot to be really dignified.
"Aunt Lora, do not misunderstand me. I have not come to you for sympathy. I have not come to you for assistance. I have not-"
"You look like a walking ploughed field."
"I have merely come-"
"Have you been sleeping in those clothes?"
Hailey's hauteur changed to a human irritation.
"Yes, I have been sleeping in these clothes, and I wish you wouldn't look at me as if I were a kind of freak."
"But you are."
"Aunt Lora, I have not come to you for sym-"
"Bless the boy, don't tell me all the things you have not come to me for. What have you come for? In the first place, why are you in England at all? Have you come to try and get Sybil to go home?"
"I have not. If Sybil is to return home, she must do so of her own free will. I shall not attempt to persuade her. I am here because, on the declaration of war, I was obliged to leave Paris, where I was spending a vacation. When I reached Southampton and tried to get a boat back to New York I found it impossible. My traveller's cheques and my letter of credit were valueless, and I was without a penny. I had lost all my luggage. I set out to walk to you because you were the only person who could tell me where Professor Tupper-Smith lived."
"Professor Tupper-Smith?"
"Certainly. Professor Tupper-Smith. The English bore you planted on me when he visited New York last year."
Hailey spoke bitterly. Over the unconscious head of this same Professor Tupper-Smith there had raged one of the most serious of the battles which had shattered his domestic peace. The professor was a well-known English writer on sociology, who had come to New York with a letter of introduction to Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Porter, wishing to house him more comfortably than he was being housed at his hotel, had taken him to Sybil. Hailey was out of town at the time, and the thing had been done in his absence. He and Sybil had had one of their first quarrels about it. In the end the professor had stayed on, and incidentally nearly driven Hailey mad.
Now, if a man had nearly driven you mad in New York, bursting with your meat the while, the least he can do, when you call on him, destitute, in England, is to honour your note-of-hand for a few hundred dollars.
That was how Hailey had argued, and that was what had driven him to his aunt. She knew the location of this human El Dorado; he did not.
"Why do you want to see Professor Tupper-Smith?"
Hailey kicked the hard road in his emotion.
"I want to ask him for his photograph. That's all. Of course, I entertain no idea of getting him to lend me money so that I can get back to New York. As he is the only man I know in England, naturally that had not occurred to me."
Mrs. Porter was a grim woman, sparing with her smiles, but at these words she laughed heartily.
"Why, of course! Do you know, Hailey, I think I must be getting stupid. I never realized till now what a complete fix you were in."
"Will you tell me that man's address?"
"No. At least, not for a long time. But I'll do something else. I'll give you a job."
"What do you mean?"
"Hailey, you always were an undisciplined child. I often told your father so-when we were on speaking terms. Rich men's sons are always like that. I was saying to Sybil only yesterday that what you needed was discipline. Discipline and honest work! They may make something of you yet. My odd-job man left me yesterday-you shall take his place. You know what an odd-job man is, I presume? For instance"-she looked past him-"he washes the dog. I see that Mike is rolling again. He cannot understand that we don't like it. You had better catch him and wash him at once, Hailey. Take care he does not bite you. Irish terriers are quick-tempered.'
"Aunt Lora, do you imagine for a moment that I am going to-"
"You won't find out where Professor Tupper-Smith lives if you don't."
Hailey's unshaven jaw fell. There was a silence broken only by the pleased snortings of Mike.
"Aunt Lora, if it is your wish to humiliate me-"
"Don't be absurd, child. Humiliate you, indeed! You talk as if you were a prince of the blood. I am doing you a great kindness. This will be the making of you. You have been spoiled since you were a boy. You treated Sybil as if you were a Sultan. You were a mass of conceit. A month or two of this will-"
"A month or two!"
"Or three," said Mrs. Porter. "Well, make up your mind quickly. You have a perfectly free choice. If you prefer to go on tramping through England, by all means do so."
A minute later Mike, busy with his bird, felt his collar grasped. He gazed up into a set, scrubby-bearded face. It was the face of a man with a hidden sorrow.
"Under the tap in the stable-yard is the best place," said Mrs. Porter.