CHAPTER XXIII
Wherein the Major fights a Brilliant Rearguard Action; and Beats off a Pressing Attack
Itwas the hour of social calls.
The suburban world was a-rustle in its best clothes, sallying forth in carriage and on foot to play at being in the whirl of fashion; Major Modeyne stood in drunken dignity on the whitewashed steps of the house, his coat turned outside in, his shirt hanging out before and behind, and flouted by street-boys. And the whole stucco front blushed with shame.
Even the titter in the areas, where kitchen-maids peeped through the railings at the rare comedy, was not without some sense of adverse criticism.
His “friends” in the city had thought the joke a killingly funny one; indeed, when, at the door ofThe Cock and Bullin Fleet Street, the Major had thanked them for the honour of their friendship, and, with a rending hiccup, had started amidst street urchins on his solemn homeward procession in this guise early in the afternoon, they had clung to each other and had wept with laughter, hysteric at the splendour of their humour. Nay, it provoked a mighty thirst and much recounting of whimsical details in drinking shops for a long day. The story grew.... But now that he was arrived in his own street, the pestering swarm of street-urchins that buzzed at the Major’s straying heels feared the joke was cracked—yet they were loath to give up the tattered shreds of it whilst there was a guffaw left to them. The point of honour during the journey had been to get in under the play of the Major’s cane, and pluck a strip off his shirt-tails; it had been a running fight as long as he tramped the streets, the victory now with the boys, now with the Major’s lunge of cane; but the gallant officer stood at last before his stronghold, and his back was to it. A bloody nose or so amongst the boys showed that the old soldier had not wholly lost the cunning of a heavy hand.
Yet he was vaguely troubled where he stood. He questioned his ability to mount the steps unaided—and mount them he must before he could achieve the ringing of the bell; he feared also that it would involve the turning of his back upon the enemy. With masterly coolness of judgment, he decided to wait until somebodycame to the house, and then to conduct his retreat, under cover of their entry, to the citadel.
A crowd collected.
It was at this dramatic pause that the landlady and her daughter, returning from envious viewing of the Quality rolling by in the Park, came upon the scene.
The Major, with wonted gallantry, and a somewhat wide miss or two of his hand at the object, swept off his hat; but the effort lost him his legs, and he suddenly sat upon the steps—the hat flinging out into the road, where it was rushed off with a wild whoop by triumphant urchins and became the football of a fierce game, in which many goals were kicked over neighbouring lamp-posts.
The two women, brushing their skirts aside, passed by the fallen Major haughtily. He made a vigorous effort to go up the steps on all fours after the ladies; he reached the topmost as they slammed the door in his face.
He sat on the doorstep, and shook his head sadly....
Thus Anthony Baddlesmere found him.
Anthony was slackening his pace, hesitant, wondering how to avoid the embarrassment of getting into the house—there was the rustle of a girl’s dress as she flipped past him, light feet ran up the steps, and Betty, ringing the bell, stooped down, gave her father her arm, and, as he struggled to his feet, led him into the yawning doorway.
Anthony stepped in after them; and the door was shut.
He felt a sudden sense of shame that he had allowed the girl to do what he himself had a little feared to do; and he helped her now to get her father up the stairs and into his room. Arrived thereat and entering, she led the poor dazed soul to an armchair, settled him there comfortably, with mother hands, then went to the windows and flung them open. When she turned, it was to find two angry women in the room—the landlady and her daughter had entered without leave or asking, and instantly began a torrent of upbraiding.
Betty went to them:
“He cannot understand now—better come to-morrow morning,” she said gently; and they, opening the door, conquering a stubborn desire to stay, slowly went out.
Anthony hesitated, not quite knowing what to do.
He looked at the girl.
The firm mouth was set; but there was no sign of complaint nor of anger upon her.
He felt a certain meanness in the object of the journey from which he was just returned.
The poor drunken man began to upbraid himself.
“Hush, father,” said the girl——
He hiccupped:
“I am very drunk,” he said. “Why deny it?”
“Ah, father! that you should have come out into the day at last!... I have feared this—for years.”
He tearfully protested that he never tasted any drink stronger than coffee before the sun set—and this came of breaking his principles.
The girl laughed sadly, and went to the window.
“Betty,” said Anthony at last—“can I do nothing for you?”
She shook her head:
“Nothing,” she said. “His will is gone.”
She was acquiring knowledge of the world early, this girl—and at first-hand.
The next morning, Major Modeyne read a letter at breakfast, and having read it, watching Betty furtively out of the corners of his eyes, he stealthily took advantage of her attention being fixed upon the tea-making to put the letter into his pocket.
It was a discomforting, abusive, cruel letter, and it said that he and his daughter received notice to vacate their rooms that day week—that there would be a cab waiting for them and their baggage as soon as it was dark, and that they must go, even if the law were employed to eject them.
It stated what it had to say harshly, vulgarly, blatantly. It was not the kind of letter that raises a man’s self-respect.
The week passed.
The Major had never been gayer, more debonair. He glittered. He was a very sun. When he returned at night few knew. But the mornings saw him blithe and tuneful.
The landlady and her daughter began to feel qualms. Still, they hardened their hearts; and it was not until the morning of the last day of the grace given him that the Major alluded to the unpleasant affair.
He sent the little maid-of-all-work to say that he wished to see the ladies if they could spare him five minutes—it would only take three. He was ushered into their little sitting-room with all the formalities he himself observed with so rigid an etiquette.
“Well, Major!” The landlady broke an embarrassed silence.
“Ladies,” said he—“I received a letter a week ago for which I have expected a formal apology. It has not been tendered.”
The ladies stiffened, ruffled.
The elder said:
“Major Modeyne, we hope you do not intend to make us use pressure to you.”
“No lady’s pressure has ever met rebuff from me,” said the Major gallantly. “I would meet the lady half way.”
The daughter sniffed:
“Major, you are pulling ma’s leg,” she said.
“Then, madam,” said the Major—“this is no place for her daughter.”
“You are trying to be funny, Major,” said the young woman huffily.
“Madam, most serious. For, were I to show indignation in my denial I should cast aspersion on a handsome limb; were I tofail in denying the soft impeachment I should entangle the limb in the moralities. You place me in the unhappy position known as the quandary. I can only escape from that position by saying that I have every confidence in your mother, and that it is my habit to keep her comely figure out of the gossip.”
“Lor, Major—I don’t know what you are getting at!”
“That I have pulled nothing,” said the Major solemnly.
“What do you want?”
“Ah, yes,” said the Major—“I came for the apology.”
“Then you don’t get it,” said the young woman tartly.
The Major bowed.
“That, madam, is a matter of taste.”
The young woman tossed her head:
“We don’t need to go to a school of manners, Major Modeyne.”
The Major bowed again:
“The letter,” said he, “is illegal.”
The women looked at each other uncomfortably.
“What?” said the daughter.
“Do not be alarmed, ladies; I did not say libellous. God forgive me, it is not that. But it contains instructions about my daughter that cannot hold in the law. My daughter has done nothing deserving of censure; and it is utterly out of your power to eject her from her room. The notice to quit rests with my daughter—and it is my intention that it shall always so rest.”
The younger woman sniffed:
“Major,” said she, “no one wants to give Miss Betty a shade of trouble—butyoumust leave at dark to-night——”
“Madam, if I go, I go alone.”
She nodded:
“I’m sorry, Major; but if you don’t go, the drawing-room floor says she will leave—and others in the house are getting restless—and we cannot afford the loss.”
The Major pondered upon the problem long.
“Yes,” he said, “the drawing-room floor is serious—she is a woman of weight.”
The landlady tittered.
But the daughter frowned her to order, and said, somewhat to the point:
“She pays her way handsomely.”
The Major bowed and withdrew.
He sang,Sigh no more, ladies, as he sallied up the stairs; and to the profound astonishment of the two puzzled women he did not stir from the house that day.
When it was dark, a servant was sent upstairs to the Major to tell him that the cab stood at the door.
“All right!” bawled the Major from within.
An hour passed.
The maid was again sent upstairs to tell the Major that the cab was waiting.
“Let it wait,” cried the Major.
Another hour passed.
The cabman became unpleasant, and uttered obscene prose.
The two ladies of the house, in support of each other, now went up the stairs and knocked.
“Come in,” cried the Major gaily.
They went in.
He was in bed.
The younger woman burst into tears:
“There is nothing packed, ma,” she said.
“What on earth have you been doing all day, Major Modeyne?” gasped the landlady.
“Pitying the lady who has the drawing-room,” said the Major.
“Why?”
“I don’t know what on earth she will do!” said the Major.
The younger woman bridled, sniffingly:
“She won’t do anything,” she said hotly.
“Ah,” said the Major—“just like me—just like me.”
“Is it?” she said testily. “Well, we shall see. The cab has been waiting for you for two hours.”
“Most patient cabman!” said the Major—“and who will pay the cabman, madam?”
“We intend to accompany you and your baggage to that cabnow,” said the young woman.
“That you won’t,” said the Major—“for I haven’t a stitch on me; and here I stay in bed until your extremely tasteless letter of a week ago is formally withdrawn.... Good-night, ladies. Allow me to open the door for you——”
He made as though to jump out of bed.
The two women hurriedly left the room.
They went to the drawing-room, knocked and entered, sat down on chairs and wept bitterly.
The stout lady of that realm went and held their hands; soothed them; and heard their story out.
“Wha—what are we to do, madam?” said they.
The stout lady laughed until the tears came.
“Well, you two women can’t lead a naked man into a cab,” said she; “I should love to see it, but I’m afraid you will never do it.”
They began to weep again.
The old lady grew impatient.
“Leave the man alone,” said she.
And she added, blowing her nose:
“I could have loved that creature.”
Indeed, Major Modeyne was always the gentleman—even at bay with the Inevitable.