by Mike Ashley
I grew so uneasy at last that I threw up the window to see if anything had happened.
All was quiet again now: but, as my eyes because accustomed to the darkness. I thought I could make out a small black form lying motionless in the patch of light that was thrown on the grass-plot by the lamp behind me. It looked to me like Togo, Louisa must have turned him out as usual, and the servants have forgotten to let him in again, which was careless of them. He had had a fit, as had happened once before, and the screams I had heard had been his. Now I should have to go down and see after the poor brute . . .
But I never went. For, as I stood there at the window leaning out. I heard another sound below which drove all thought of Togo completely out of my head – a stealthy rustling and scrabbling, as if some large reptile – a chameleon for choice – were clambering up the ivy towards the window.
I knew I ought to shut it before the thing, whatever it was, could get in, but I couldn’t. I felt paralysed somehow. I stepped back into the room and stood there, waiting.
I had not to wait long before a small black object sprawled over the sill and alighted with a flop on the Ottoman beneath. I cannot give any idea of its appearance except by saying that it was a wizened little imp of a thing, as black as your hat, and hideously ugly. As it recovered its balance and stood there, blinking its beady little eyes in the lamplight, I noticed that its expression was not so much malignant as obsequious, and even abject. Though I didn’t like it any the better for that. And then it spoke.
“I hope you were not alarmed by the noise,” it said, in a soft reedy pipe. “It was only me.”
I can’t say that I was exactly surprised at hearing it speak. I did not know enough about Mandrakes for that. But it was clear enough that old Sir Thomas Browne had been wrong for once in his life, for this thing couldn’t possibly be anything else but a Mandrake. I did not answer it – what can you say to a Mandrake?
It jumped off the ottoman as I fell back into my chair; then it swarmed up the table leg with a horrible agility, hoisted itself over the edge, and sat down humbly on a wooden box of puzzle cubes.
“You see,” it went on apologetically, “when that dog of yours dragged me out of bed so suddenly, I couldn’t help calling out. I do not ask you to punish it – I wish to make no complaint – but it bit me severely in the back.”
There was something so sneaky and cringing in its manner that I began to feel less afraid of it. “It’s been punished enough already,” I said shortly. “It’s probably dead by this time.”
“Oh, surely not!” it said, squirming. “It has merely fainted. Though I can’t think why.”
“You don’t seem to be aware,” I replied, without disguising the disgust I felt, “that your appearance is enough to upset anyone.”
“I’m afraid,” it admitted, as it began to brush the mould from its frightful little twiggy legs, “my person has indeed been a little neglected. But I shall be presentable enough, after I have been a few days under your kindly care.”
I let it know pretty plainly that if it imagined I was going to take it in, it was considerably mistaken – which seemed to disappoint it.
“But why not?” it said, and blinked at me again. “Why can’t you take me in?”
“Because,” I said bluntly, “a house like this is not the place for creatures of your sort.”
“Oh,” it replied, “but I am accustomed to roughing it, and I would put up with any drawbacks for the pleasure of your society!”
The calm cheek of this was almost too much for me. “I dare say you would,” I said, “but you’re not going to get the chance. What I meant was, as a Mandrake – which you can’t deny you are – you are not a fit person to be admitted into any respectable household.”
It protested volubly that it couldn’t answer for other Mandrakes, it could only assure me that its own character was beyond reproach. It added that it had felt strongly attracted to me from the moment it saw my face, and its instinct told it that I should reciprocate the feeling in time.
I made the obvious retort that if its instinct told it that, it lied; I said I had no wish to argue with it, but it had better understand that it must leave the house at once.
“Don’t repulse me!” it whined. “I want you to treat me as a friend. Call me ‘Ferdie’. Do call me ‘Ferdie’!”
All I said to that was that, if it didn’t clear out of its own accord, I should be obliged to take it by the scruff of its neck and chuck it out of the window, which, as I pointed out, was conveniently open. Though, to tell you the truth, this was only bluff, for I wouldn’t have touched the thing for any money.
Then the plausible little beast tried to work on my pity; there had been no rain for days, it said, and it was feeling so parched and dry, and generally exhausted. “Well,” I said, relenting a little, “I’ll give you just one whisky and soda, and after that you must go.” But it refused anything but plain soda, with which I filled a tumbler to the brim, and the Mandrake stooped down and drained it greedily with great gulps.
The soda water seemed to buck it up in a most extraordinary way. Its shrivelled little form began to fill out, and its extremities to look more like hands and feet, while its height actually increased by several inches. But in other respects I could see no improvement.
“I feel a different being,” it informed me complacently. “It’s just occurred to me,” it went on, “that the prejudice which I can’t help seeing you have against me may be due to my want of clothing. Underground that did not signify, but, in the world above, I quite recognize that the proprieties should be observed. Only I don’t see – ah, the very things . . . Will you excuse me?”
It had suddenly caught sight of a large Golliwogg, which I had bought for Peggy, and which was lying on the table. Before I could interfere the Mandrake had deftly stripped the doll of its blue coat, white shirt, and red trousers, and arrayed itself in them. “Now,” it remarked proudly, “you will have no need to blush for me!”
I think I never saw anything more outrageously grotesque than the spectacle that Mandrake presented in the Golliwogg’s garments, which hung about its meagre body in loose folds. But it strutted about with immense satisfaction. “Quite a fair fit,” it said, trying to twist its ugly head round and see its back. “Though I’m not sure there isn’t a wrinkle between the shoulders. Do you notice it?”
I said I thought it need not distress itself about that, and again ordered it to get out.
“But where am I to get to?” it said; “I can’t go back to the garden now. And it’s your garden, which surely gives me some claim on your hospitality!”
I said it had no claims on me whatever; if anyone was responsible for it, Messrs Protheroe and Morris were the proper parties to apply to, and I gave it their address in Cheapside. Perhaps this was hardly fair on the firm, who, of course, would not have sold such a thing, knowingly, as an anemone root – but I had to get out of it somehow.
I did not pitch it out of the window; I showed it to the front door, like an ordinary caller. “Then you cast me from you,” it sighed in the passage, as I undid the chain. “Are we to meet as strangers henceforth?”
“If we ever meet at all,” I said, “which I see no necessity for. Good night.” But it still lingered on the door-mat.
“Ah, well,” it said, “it cannot be that I shall find all hearts as hard as yours. Did you say Cheapside?”
I said if it had any difficulty in finding the way it had better ask a constable. It thanked me profusely, begged me not to trouble to come to the gate with it, and left.
With all my instinctive repugnance, I could not help feeling slightly ashamed of myself; it did look such a forlorn and pitiable little wretch as it shambled down the path and slipped through the bars of the gate!
But what could I do? To keep it was out of the question; Louisa would never stand it – the thing would get on her nerves. And then there were the Dudlows. What would Violet, what would her father and mother, think of me if they disco
vered that I was harbouring such a beastly thing as a Mandrake?
I chained and barred the door, congratulating myself that, so far as I was concerned, the affair was done with. And then I went to bed, deciding that it would be better not to mention the matter to Louisa.
* * *
The next day, of course, was Christmas. I was sitting by the fire in the dining-room, which faces the road. Louisa was at church, and I ought to have been there, too. I didn’t quite know why I hadn’t gone, as I should certainly have met Violet there, and perhaps walked home with her afterwards – but I supposed I hadn’t felt up to it.
Anyhow there I was, in an armchair with a pipe and a newspaper, when all at once I became aware of a low tapping at the bow window behind my back. I didn’t look round, for I had a sort of presentiment of what it was. And then, in the bevelled plate-glass mirror of the sideboard opposite, I saw reflected a flash of scarlet and blue among the variegated laurels in one of the window-boxes, and I knew for certain that that infernal little Mandrake had turned up again. The tapping grew louder, but I took no notice, hoping that it would soon get tired of it and go away.
However, it persevered until I began to feel alarmed lest it should attract the attention of the people opposite, who are rather given to gossiping. So I got up and let the thing in, and asked it what the deuce it wanted now – for I was extremely annoyed. Without waiting for an invitation it took the armchair opposite mine, with a cough which was either deferential or due to the tobacco smoke. Then it explained that its intrusion, which it hoped I would overlook, had been prompted by an irresistible impulse to wish me the Compliments of the Season.
Of course I knew it had some deeper motive than that, and I made no answer, beyond grunting. It appeared that it had gone to Cheapside, but had found neither Mr Protheroe nor Mr Morris at home – which did not surprise me. It had been wandering about all night, though it had contrived – it did not mention how, and I asked no questions – to refresh itself with some cocoa and a slice of cake at a coffee-stall. And, its appetite having once been aroused, it had begun, it said, to feel hungry again. Might it trespass on me for a meal? It would be deeply grateful, even if I could do no more for it than a mince-pie.
I declined. Not from stinginess, but a conviction that it would be the thin end of the wedge. I might have it staying on to lunch – and there were Louisa’s feelings to be considered. It took the refusal meekly enough, and said it had another favour to ask of me. Perhaps I had not observed that it had been putting on flesh with a rapidity which it could only attribute to the currant cake?
I had already noticed a change. It was now at least two feet high; its blue jacket was reduced to a bolero, while its red breeches were hardly bigger than bathing-drawers. I forget if it still retained its shirt or not. The Mandrake represented that if this shrinkage were to continue, it would soon be ashamed to present itself in public, and asked if I could recommend it to a really good tailor – “not the one who made those things you have on,” it explained. “I prefer a quieter style myself.”
I knew there was no fault to be found with the clothes I was wearing, a neat suit in quite the right shade of green, and I might have shut the little beggar up pretty sharply if I had chosen. But after all, what did it matter what a Mandrake thought of my things?
“I feel sure I should be a success in society,” it went on, wriggling with suppressed eagerness as it spoke, “if I were only decently dressed. I have many gifts, and even accomplishments. All my tastes are innocent and refined. You would find we had much in common, if you would only try to regard me as a friend. If,” it entreated, with a smile which it evidently intended to be winning, but which came out on its gnarled wooden countenance as a revoltingly offensive leer, “If I could once hear you call me ‘Ferdie’!”
It heard me call it several names – but “Ferdie” was not one of them. “Then do I gather,” it said, “that, in your judgement, the mere fact of my extraction, if known, would be sufficient to exclude me from any social circle?”
I replied that that was distinctly my impression. “Then,” it stipulated, “if I leave you now, will you give me your word of honour as a young English gentleman never to reveal to any living soul what I really am?”
What it really was must be so obvious to the most careless observer that I felt I could safely promise, and besides, I was in such a hurry to get it out of the way before Louisa returned from church. Then it asked if there were not charitable persons called “clergy” who were in the habit of relieving deserving cases, and, with a sudden inspiration, I gave it Casbird’s name and address, on condition that it did not mention who had sent it to him.
And at last, after having the unblushing impudence to inquire affectionately after Togo, it started. As I watched it slink across the road and round the corner in the direction of the curate’s lodgings, I could not resist a grim chuckle. For I knew Tony Casbird not only as a fellow of strong common sense, but as a fair all-round cricketer and a first-rate halfback, and if this little beast was getting uppish, he could be safely trusted to put it in its proper place.
And anyhow, the job was more in his line than mine.
It must have been the same evening that Casbird came in. In fact, I know it was, because he said he couldn’t stay long, as he was going on to “Ingleholme” to tell Miss Dudlow how pleased his vicar had been with the charming effect of the Christmas decorations, which she had taken a prominent part in arranging.
Casbird was a devoted admirer of Violet’s – but I was not afraid of him, for I didn’t think he stood a sporting chance. Just as he rose to go, he mentioned that on returning from service that morning he had found a most interesting visitor waiting to see him. I thought I could guess who it was, but I wasn’t going to give myself away, so I merely said, “Oh, really?” or something of that sort.
“Yes,” said Casbird, “I have seldom known a sadder, stranger case. He has come through so much, and with such splendid pluck and endurance.”
Naturally Louisa wanted to know more about him. What was he like? Casbird said really he scarcely knew how to describe him. Handsome? Well, no, he should hardly call him that – in fact, at first sight, his appearance was somewhat against him. But such a bright, cheery little chap! So simple and fresh. “I assure you,” the curate concluded, “that somehow he makes me feel quite worldly by comparison!”
I thought I must have been wrong – he couldn’t possibly be referring to the Mandrake! “What do you call it – I mean him?” I asked.
“Well,” said the curate, “I call him ‘Ferdie’ at present. It was his own wish, and he hasn’t told me his other name yet. I am putting him up until I can find a suitable opening for him. He’s a delightful companion, so touchingly grateful for the least kindness, so full of little delicate attentions! Why, when I came in to tea this afternoon, I found the little fellow had actually put my slippers inside the fender to warm, and was toasting a crumpet for me by the fire!”
I listened aghast. I knew Casbird rather went in for being broad-minded and tolerant and that – but I’d really no idea he would carry it so far as to chum up with a Mandrake! Well, it was his own affair. The thing was evidently an accomplished liar, and it would not surprise me in the least if when he got back he found that it had gone off with his spoons.
After Casbird had left, Louisa expressed a great curiosity to meet this new protégé of his, and was slightly annoyed with me for showing so little interest in the subject. I began to regret that promise of mine.
The Dudlows were having a children’s party on the evening of Boxing Day, and I had been looking forward to it eagerly. For one thing, because I always do enjoy children’s parties, and in Cricklebury Park there are some particularly nice kiddies. For another, because I had made up my mind that, if I had an opportunity, I would speak out to Violet before the evening was over. I wouldn’t let myself feel too sure beforehand, because that is unlucky – but all the same, I had a kind of feeling that it would be all right.
And Dudlow was not likely to refuse his consent to an engagement, for I knew his wife would put in a word for me. Mrs Dudlow had approved of me from the first, when she saw what friends I had made with the younger children, Peggy and little Joan. Children, she always maintained, were “such infallible judges of character.”
They had made me promise to come early, because, as Mrs Dudlow was kind enough to say, they depended on me to “set the ball rolling.”
I got to “Ingleholme” as early as I could, but the moment Louisa and I had passed the “cathedral glass” portico, I was aware from the shouts of children’s laughter that came from the drawing-room that the ball had begun to roll already without my assistance. And I must confess that it was rather a blow, on entering, to find that, instead of the welcome I had expected, my appearance passed almost unnoticed. But they were all much too absorbed in something that was going on in the inner room – even Violet’s greeting was a little casual. “Such a wonderful conjurer,” she whispered; “if you go nearer the arch, you will see him much better.”
When I did, I must leave you to imagine my feelings on discovering that the performer who was holding his audience entranced with delight and amazement was nothing else than that miserable little beast of a Mandrake!
It had gone on growing, and was now the height of a middle-sized pygmy – but it was just as hideous as ever, and in spite of its being in correct evening clothes, I knew it at once. And what is more, I could see it knew me, and was trying to catch my eye and claim my admiration.
It was conjuring – or I should rather say, pretending to conjure – for while it kept on jabbering away with the utmost assurance, it never succeeded in bringing off a single trick. Now, I don’t call myself a conjurer (though I can do a few simple things with eggs and half-crowns and so forth) – but I should have been sorry to make such an exhibition of myself as that incompetent little rotter was doing.