It was a chill, rain-washed afternoon of a late August
day, that indefinite season when partridges are still in
security or cold storage, and there is nothing to
hunt---unless one is bounded on the north by the Bristol
Channel, in which case one may lawfully gallop after fat red
stags. Lady Blemley's house-party was not bounded on the
north by the Bristol Channel, hence there was a full
gathering of her guests round the tea-table on this
particular afternoon. And, in spite of the blankness of the
season and the triteness of the occasion, there was no trace
in the company of that fatigued restlessness which means a
dread of the pianola and a subdued hankering for auction
bridge. The undisguised open-mouthed attention of the
entire party was fixed on the homely negative personality of
Mr. Cornelius Appin. Of all her guests, he was the one who
had come to Lady Blemley with the vaguest reputation. Some
one had said he was “clever,” and he had got his
invitation in the moderate expectation, on the part of his
hostess, that some portion at least of his cleverness would
be contributed to the general entertainment. Until tea-time
that day she had been unable to discover in what direction,
if any, his cleverness lay. He was neither a wit nor a
croquet champion, a hypnotic force nor a begetter of amateur
theatricals. Neither did his exterior suggest the sort of
man in whom women are willing to pardon a generous measure
of mental deficiency. He had subsided into mere Mr. Appin,
and the Cornelius seemed a piece of transparent baptismal
bluff. And now he was claiming to have launched on the
world a discovery beside which the invention of gunpowder,
of the printing-press, and of steam locomotion were
inconsiderable trifles. Science had made bewildering
strides in many directions during recent decades, but this
thing seemed to belong to the domain of miracle rather than
to scientific achievement.
“And do you really ask us to believe,” Sir Wilfrid was
saying, “that you have discovered a means for instructing
animals in the art of human speech, and that dear old
Tobermory has proved your first successful pupil?”
“It is a problem at which I have worked for the last
seventeen years,” said Mr. Appin, “but only during the
last eight or nine months have I been rewarded with
glimmerings of success. Of course I have experimented with
thousands of animals, but latterly only with cats, those
wonderful creatures which have assimilated themselves so
marvellously with our civilization while retaining all their
highly developed feral instincts. Here and there among cats
one comes across an outstanding superior intellect, just as
one does among the ruck of human beings, and when I made the
acquaintance of Tobermory a week ago I saw at once that I
was in contact with a `Beyond-cat' of extraordinary
intelligence. I had gone far along the road to success in
recent experiments; with Tobermory, as you call him, I have
reached the goal.”
Mr. Appin concluded his remarkable statement in a voice
which he strove to divest of a triumphant inflection. No
one said “Rats,” though Clovis's lips moved in a
monosyllabic contortion which probably invoked those rodents
of disbelief.
“And do you mean to say,” asked Miss Resker, after a
slight pause, “that you have taught Tobermory to say and
understand easy sentences of one syllable?”
“My dear Miss Resker,” said the wonder-worker patiently,
“one teaches little children and savages and backward
adults in that piecemeal fashion; when one has once solved
the problem of making a beginning with an animal of highly
developed intelligence one has no need for those halting
methods. Tobermory can speak our language with perfect
correctness.”
This time Clovis very distinctly said, “Beyond-rats!”
Sir Wilfrid was more polite, but equally sceptical.
“Hadn't we better have the cat in and judge for
ourselves?” suggested Lady Blemley.
Sir Wilfrid went in search of the animal, and the company
settled themselves down to the languid expectation of
witnessing some more or less adroit drawing-room
ventriloquism.
In a minute Sir Wilfrid was back in the room, his face
white beneath its tan and his eyes dilated with excitement.
“By Gad, it's true!”
His agitation was unmistakably genuine, and his hearers
started forward in a thrill of awakened interest.
Collapsing into an armchair he continued breathlessly: “I
found him dozing in the smoking-room and called out to him
to come for his tea. He blinked at me in his usual way, and
I said, `Come on, Toby; don't keep us waiting'; and, by Gad!
he drawled out in a most horribly natural voice that he'd
come when he dashed well pleased! I nearly jumped out of my
skin!”
Appin had preached to absolutely incredulous hearers; Sir
Wilfred's statement carried instant conviction. A
Babel-like chorus of startled exclamation arose, amid which
the scientist sat mutely enjoying the first fruit of his
stupendous discovery.
In the midst of the clamour Tobermory entered the room and
made his way with velvet tread and studied unconcern across
to the group seated round the tea-table.
A sudden hush of awkwardness and constraint fell on the
company. Somehow there seemed an element of embarrassment
in addressing on equal terms a domestic cat of acknowledged
mental ability.
“Will you have some milk, Tobermory?” asked Lady Blemley
in a rather strained voice.
“I don't mind if I do,” was the response, couched in a
tone of even indifference. A shiver of suppressed
excitement went through the listeners, and Lady Blemley
might be excused for pouring out the saucerful of milk
rather unsteadily.
“I'm afraid I've spilt a good deal of it,” she said
apologetically.
“After all, it's not my Axminster,” was Tobermory's
rejoinder.
Another silence fell on the group, and then Miss Resker,
in her best district-visitor manner, asked if the human
language had been difficult to learn. Tobermory looked
squarely at her for a moment and then fixed his gaze
serenely on the middle distance. It was obvious that boring
questions lay outside his scheme of life.
“What do you think of human intelligence?” asked Mavis
Pellington lamely.
“Of whose intelligence in particular?” asked Tobermory
coldly.
“Oh, well, mine for instance,” said Mavis, with a feeble
laugh.
“You put me in an embarrassing position,” said
Tobermory, whose tone and attitude certainly did not suggest
a shred of embarrassment. “When your inclusion in this
house-party was suggested Sir Wilfrid protested that you
were the most brainless woman of his acquaintance, and that
there was a wide distinction between hospitality and the
care of the feeble-minded. Lady Blemley replied that your
lack of brain-power was the precise quality which had earned
you your invitation, as you were the only person she could
think of who might be idiotic enough to buy their old car.
You know, the one they call `The Envy of Sisyphus,' because
it goes quite nicely up-hill if you push it.”
Lady Blemley's protestations would have had greater effect
if she had not casually suggested to Mavis only that morning
that the car in question would be just the thing for her
down at her Devonshire home.
Major Barfield plunged in heavily to effect a diversion.
“How about your carryings-on with the tortoise-shell puss
up at the stables, eh?”
The moment he had said it every one realized the blunder.
“One does not usually discuss these matters in public,”
said Tobermory frigidly. “From a slight observation of
your ways since you've been in this house I should imagine
you'd find it inconvenient if I were to shift the
conversation on to your own little affairs.”
The panic which ensued was not confined to the Major.
“Would you like to go and see if cook has got your dinner
ready?” suggested Lady Blemley hurriedly, affecting to
ignore the fact that it wanted at least two hours to
Tobermory's dinner-time.
“Thanks,” said Tobermory, “not quite so soon after my
tea. I don't want to die of indigestion.”
“Cats have nine lives, you know,” said Sir Wilfrid
heartily.
“Possibly”, answered Tobermory; “but only one liver.”
“Adelaide!” said Mrs. Cornett, “do you mean to
encourage that cat to go out and gossip about us in the
servants' hall?”
The panic had indeed become general. A narrow ornamental
balustrade ran in front of most of the bedroom windows at
the Towers, and it was recalled with dismay that this had
formed a favourite promenade for Tobermory at all hours,
whence he could watch the pigeons---and heaven knew what
else besides. If he intended to become reminiscent in his
present outspoken strain the effect would be something more
than disconcerting. Mrs. Cornett, who spent much time at
her toilet table, and whose complexion was reputed to be of
a nomadic though punctual disposition, looked as ill at ease
as the Major. Miss Scrawen, who wrote fiercely sensuous
poetry and led a blameless life, merely displayed
irritation; if you are methodical and virtuous in private
you don't necessarily want every one to know it. Bertie van
Tahn, who was so depraved at seventeen that he had long ago
given up trying to be any worse, turned a dull shade of
gardenia white, but he did not commit the error of dashing
out of the room like Odo Finsberry, a young gentleman who
was understood to be reading for the Church and who was
possibly disturbed at the thought of scandals he might hear
concerning other people. Clovis had the presence of mind to
maintain a composed exterior; privately he was calculating
how long it would take to procure a box of fancy mice
through the agency of the Exchange and Mart as a species of
hush-money.
Even in a delicate situation like the present, Agnes
Resker could not endure to remain too long in the
background.
“Why did I ever come down here?” she asked dramatically.
Tobermory immediately accepted the opening.
“Judging by what you said to Mrs. Cornett on the
croquet-lawn yesterday, you were out for food. You
described the Blemleys as the dullest people to stay with
that you knew, but said they were clever enough to employ a
first-rate cook; otherwise they'd find it difficult to get
any one to come down a second time.”
“There's not a word of truth in it! I appeal to Mrs.
Cornett---” exclaimed the discomfited Agnes.
“Mrs. Cornett repeated your remark afterwards to Bertie
van Tahn,” continued Tobermory, “and said, `That woman is
a regular Hunger Marcher; she'd go anywhere for four square
meals a day,' and Bertie van Tahn said---”
At this point the chronicle mercifully ceased. Tobermory
had caught a glimpse of the big yellow Tom from the Rectory
working his way through the shrubbery towards the stable
wing. In a flash he had vanished through the open French
window.
With the disappearance of his too brilliant pupil
Cornelius Appin found himself beset by a hurricane of bitter
upbraiding, anxious inquiry, and frightened entreaty. The
responsibility for the situation lay with him, and he must
prevent matters from becoming worse. Could Tobermory impart
his dangerous gift to other cats? was the first question he
had to answer. It was possible, he replied, that he might
have initiated his intimate friend the stable puss into his
new accomplishment, but it was unlikely that his teaching
could have taken a wider range as yet.
“Then,” said Mrs. Cornett, “Tobermory may be a valuable
cat and a great pet; but I'm sure you'll agree, Adelaide,
that both he and the stable cat must be done away with
without delay.”
“You don't suppose I've enjoyed the last quarter of an
hour, do you?” said Lady Blemley bitterly. “My husband and
I are very fond of Tobermory---at least, we were before this
horrible accomplishment was infused into him; but now, of
course, the only thing is to have him destroyed as soon as
possible.”
“We can put some strychnine in the scraps he always gets
at dinner-time,” said Sir Wilfrid, “and I will go and
drown the stable cat myself. The coachman will be very sore
at losing his pet, but I'll say a very catching form of
mange has broken out in both cats and we're afraid of its
spreading to the kennels.”
“But my great discovery!” expostulated Mr. Appin;
“after all my years of research and experiment---”
“You can go and experiment on the short-horns at the
farm, who are under proper control,” said Mrs. Cornett,
“or the elephants at the Zoological Gardens. They're said
to be highly intelligent, and they have this recommendation,
that they don't come creeping about our bedrooms and under
chairs, and so forth.”
An archangel ecstatically proclaiming the Millennium, and
then finding that it clashed unpardonably with Henley and
would have to be indefinitely postponed, could hardly have
felt more crestfallen than Cornelius Appin at the reception
of his wonderful achievement. Public opinion, however, was
against him---in fact, had the general voice been consulted
on the subject it is probable that a strong minority vote
would have been in favour of including him in the strychnine
diet.
Defective train arrangements and a nervous desire to see
matters brought to a finish prevented an immediate dispersal
of the party, but dinner that evening was not a social
success. Sir Wilfrid had had rather a trying time with the
stable cat and subsequently with the coachman. Agnes Resker
ostentatiously limited her repast to a morsel of dry toast,
which she bit as though it were a personal enemy; while
Mavis Pellington maintained a vindictive silence throughout
the meal. Lady Blemley kept up a flow of what she hoped was
conversation, but her attention was fixed on the doorway. A
plateful of carefully dosed fish scraps was in readiness on
the sideboard, but sweets and savoury and dessert went their
way, and no Tobermory appeared either in the dining-room or
kitchen.
The sepulchral dinner was cheerful compared with the
subsequent vigil in the smoking-room. Eating and drinking
had at least supplied a distraction and cloak to the
prevailing embarrassment. Bridge was out of the question in
the general tension of nerves and tempers, and after Odo
Finsberry had given a lugubrious rendering of “Mélisande
in the Wood” to a frigid audience, music was tacitly
avoided. At eleven the servants went to bed, announcing
that the small window in the pantry had been left open as
usual for Tobermory's private use. The guests read steadily
through the current batch of magazines, and fell back
gradually on the “Badminton Library” and bound volumes of
Punch. Lady Blemley made periodic visits to the pantry,
returning each time with an expression of listless
depression which forestalled questioning.
At two o'clock Clovis broke the dominating silence.
“He won't turn up tonight. He's probably in the local
newspaper office at the present moment, dictating the first
instalment of his reminiscences. Lady What's-her-name's
book won't be in it. It will be the event of the day.”
Having made this contribution to the general cheerfulness,
Clovis went to bed. At long intervals the various members
of the house-party followed his example.
The servants taking round the early tea made a uniform
announcement in reply to a uniform question. Tobermory had
not returned.
Breakfast was, if anything, a more unpleasant function
than dinner had been, but before its conclusion the
situation was relieved. Tobermory's corpse was brought in
from the shrubbery, where a gardener had just discovered it.
From the bites on his throat and the yellow fur which coated
his claws it was evident that he had fallen in unequal
combat with the big Tom from the Rectory.
By midday most of the guests had quitted the Towers, and
after lunch Lady Blemley had sufficiently recovered her
spirits to write an extremely nasty letter to the Rectory
about the loss of her valuable pet.
Tobermory had been Appin's one successful pupil, and he
was destined to have no successor. A few weeks later an
elephant in the Dresden Zoological Garden, which had shown
no previous signs of irritability, broke loose and killed an
Englishman who had apparently been teasing it. The victim's
name was variously reported in the papers as Oppin and
Eppelin, but his front name was faithfully rendered
Cornelius.
“If he was trying German irregular verbs on the poor
beast,” said Clovis, “he deserved all he got.”