Ludgate Hill, and stopped in Godlenian Street, one of the dingy, narrow
thoroughfares which represent the wealth of England. He ascended two
flights of dark and well-worn staircases, stopping at a door on the
glass portion of which was printed the legend, M. Willis & Co. Entering
the office, he was at once shown into the room with the principal, who
started to his feet to welcome him with a hearty shake of the hand,
although he looked as if his mind were very much disturbed.
‘It is very good of you to come so promptly, Major,’ he said earnestly,
and at the same time endeavouring to assume a careless manner; ‘but I
know that you have a regard for the Elliotts, and I am compelled to ask
you to help them out of a confounded mess.’
‘The Elliotts in a mess!’ exclaimed Major Dawkins in amazement. ‘Which
of them do you mean, the Elliotts of Todhurst or of Arrowby?’
‘Arrowby, of course,’ replied Willis, with an undercurrent of
irritation. ‘They are staying at Todhurst just now, and Nellie and
Stanley Maynard are there too. You know what a fool my sister’s husband
John Elliott is, and he has worked himself up into a fit of the most
ridiculous jealousy about Maynard and my sister. He is so wild about it
that he spoke to me, and wanted me to interfere. I won’t, for he is a——
Well, I was going to make use of a strong expression; but you can put
it down on your own account.’
‘He must have been making fun of you,’ returned the Major. ‘He knows
that Maynard is engaged to Nellie.’
‘There was no fun at all about it. The fellow was as serious as a man
could be. I laughed at him, and tried to reason with him; but it was no
use, as you can understand. I should have left the thing to be settled
between themselves—for I know Sophy can take care of herself—but he
hinted something about having a detective to watch her; and you can
guess what a general upset that might mean.’
‘The man must be mad.’
‘That is my opinion—at least, if he is not mad, he is on the borders
of madness. I shouldn’t mind a bit if he himself were to suffer the
consequences of this nonsense; but, you see, my sister Nellie and
Maynard are all likely to get into trouble through his insanity. Will
you help them out of it?—I can’t. If I say or do anything, it will be
misunderstood.’
The Major was silent for a moment. He wished to serve his friends, and
yet he was afraid that he, too, might be misunderstood. But he had such
a sincere regard for the Elliotts, that he bravely resolved to do what
he could to bring about an amicable arrangement.
‘I wish you had agreed to do it yourself,’ he said reflectively; ‘but
as matters stand, perhaps it will be better for me to do it. I shall
write at once to your sister—Mrs John—to her husband, and to Nellie.
Then I shall get down to Todhurst as quick as possible; and I have no
doubt that a few words of explanation will set everything right.’
The Major went to his club, and hurriedly wrote several letters. But
whilst he was placing them in the envelopes, he was in deep perplexity,
for who could tell what might be the result of this correspondence?
The result of the important engagement to which the Major hastened
after the scene with his servant was of a most distressing nature.
The happiness of friends whom he regarded with profound esteem was in
peril, and he had been told that the catastrophe could only be averted
by his immediate interference. The information and the intimation were
so astounding that he was bewildered. What could he do? How could
he find the opportunity, or rather how could he find a sufficiently
delicate method of saving those friends from the folly to which they
were being hastened by misunderstanding and passion?
The friends referred to were Joseph Elliott, J.P. of Todhurst, to whose
place the Major was to proceed on the following day; and the cousin of
that gentleman, John Elliott, of Arrowby. The conduct of the latter
threatened a domestic imbroglio, in which an outsider’s interference
was more likely to do mischief than render service. The whole trouble
sprang from a foolish misunderstanding, which a sentence of explanation
would set right. It seemed very hard to have the power of speaking
that sentence, and to remain silent out of selfish considerations of
prudence. Nay, was it not wicked to stand by and see the whole fabric
of domestic bliss fall into ruins, when by simply giving a timely
halloo the calamity might be prevented?
Still, the matter was so delicate that the Major wisely hesitated to
meddle with it, although appealed to by the near relative of the two
families. Then came the upbraiding question: ‘Was he not a friend of
the family, respected by them all, and having no interest one way or
another, except to do a generous act of service to people who had
temporarily lost control of their tempers and judgment?’ Yes, he was a
friend of the family, the Major admitted with something like a sigh,
and there was no doubt it was his duty to open their eyes, and he must
do it.
* * * * *
There was a merry party on the large bowling-green of Todhurst Grange
playing at lawn-tennis in the sunshine of the autumn afternoon. The
players had no intention of making a business of the game by too
strict adherence to rules. Blunders were not regarded by this blithe
party as serious offences, but were laughed at, and explained to
the inexperienced. The young folk of both sexes were particular in
regard to correct costume, but beyond that they had come out to amuse
themselves, to display their graces, to laugh, to flirt—or it might be
to make love—but not to strive for any prize except the amusement of
each other.
The Major had taken his place amongst the young people, and in his
light kerseymeres looked as youthful as his competitors. He was the
worst player on the ground, and in that respect distinguished himself
by affording the greatest degree of enjoyment to the company. He was
perfectly aware of his own incapacity; but, cheerfully declaring that
it was never too late to learn, he laughed cordially with those who
laughed at him. He, undoubtedly, would have been less buoyant had he
been aware that much of the mirth he provoked was due to the droll
effect of his earnest efforts to skip hither and thither with the same
lightness and ease as his youthful rivals. Of this he was happily
unconscious, and so he flourished his racket gaily, and began to think
that he would soon be a first-class player. He skipped the more when he
observed that Miss Euphemia Panton, the wealthy spinster, was watching
his movements from the terrace.
He had made what was, for him, a most dexterous stroke, and stood
complacently waiting his turn to play, when a servant approached him
and presented a note.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but I was told to ask your immediate attention to
this.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Major, putting the note carelessly in his pocket,
as he stood smiling on his pretty partner, Miss Helen (in home circles,
Nellie) Carroll, who was understood to be engaged to the stalwart young
fellow on the other side of the net, and at present her opponent.
The Major admired the clever competition of the lovers; they were so
gay and energetic in it, that his mental reflection was that they were
really trying the question as to which should be master in the future.
‘I was told to wait an answer, sir,’ was the respectful reminder of the
attendant who had brought the note.
‘In a minute,’ replied the Major, as he made one of his funny
stiff-kneed skips to meet the ball which came flying in his direction.
He managed to catch it on the hop, and sent it far beyond bounds,
the feat eliciting loud shouts of applauding laughter. The hero was
complacent: he had evidently done something—he did not know what,
but it allowed him another pause. So he looked at the note, and the
racket dropped from his hand. The deep lines of his visage, which had
almost disappeared in his boyish enjoyment of the game, became suddenly
prominent in the expression of alarm which took the place of smiles.
‘Gracious powers! I have put the letters into the wrong envelopes!’
He looked with anxious inquiry into the bright flushed face of Miss
Carroll. No, she had heard nothing yet. He begged that she would
excuse him, as he was obliged to hasten up to the house—a message of
importance had come for him, and he had no alternative but to curtail
the happy privilege of being her partner during the rest of the
game. Then, to the attendant: ‘Tell Mrs Elliott I shall be with her
immediately. Hurry, like a good fellow.’
The man bowed and departed. The Major wiped his brow as he followed, at
first with quick steps, but soon more slowly. He was trying to collect
his thoughts, and to comprehend the possibilities of the dilemma into
which he had fallen.
‘She must have got the letter intended for Mrs John; and in that case,
what has become of the others? This _is_ a mess. The thing seemed to be
so easy to settle: only a little explanation required, and all would
have gone smoothly as ever; and now—who knows what mischief may come of
my idiotic bungling!’
He had never before found himself in such a desperate position; but he
promptly resolved to take the straight way out of it. He would at once
explain his mistake, ask forgiveness, and trust to Mrs Joseph Elliott’s
good sense and good-nature to keep her silent about the matter which
had been accidentally revealed to her.
Accordingly, he entered Mrs Joseph’s boudoir with a dejected air, but
with the firm step of one resolved to do his duty at any cost. He
found the lady standing by her writing-table, with cheeks flushed and
eyes uncomfortably bright with excitement. She held an open letter
in her hand. She was a plump, fair woman, with soft pretty features,
and rather small gray eyes. She was easy-going and good-tempered to
a degree, because she had a supreme dislike to be bothered about
anything; but, like these easy-going people in general, once she was
roused, she held obstinately to the idea which possessed her, and would
not be convinced by any argument that a mistake had been made and that
indignation was uncalled for.
‘I regret having been obliged to call you away from your amusement,
Major Dawkins,’ she said, controlling her voice with an evident effort;
‘but here is a letter of a most extraordinary nature, which has
apparently reached my hands without being intended for them. If I am
not very much mistaken, I believe _you_ can give me some explanation of
its contents.’
‘My dear Mrs Elliott,’ the Major answered nervously, ‘I gathered from
the note I received on the lawn that some blunder had been made. Allow
me to assure you’——
‘Don’t you think it would be as well if you looked at the letter before
you proceed further?’ was Mrs Joseph’s cold interruption. ‘I wish to
know if this was written by you; and if it was, I shall understand how
to proceed.’
The Major held out his hand for the letter; but Mrs Joseph laid it on
her desk and held it down, as if unwilling to trust it out of her hand.
He glanced at the paper and groaned. It was not necessary to read more
than the first words. As he had expected, the letters had somehow got
into the wrong envelopes.
‘Yes, this was written by me, but it was not intended for you.’
‘Of course not,’ she exclaimed with a slight hysterical laugh.
‘I really do wish you would allow me to explain: there is a mistake—a
cruel blunder’——
‘I shall seek my husband and ask _him_ to explain.’
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t. He has nothing whatever to do with it. If
you would allow me’——
‘But I shall not allow you, Major Dawkins, to say another word. You,
having made this mistake, wish to screen your friend. But that will not
do for me. Whatever you may have to say must be spoken in his presence.’
‘If you would only allow me’——
She bowed contemptuously, and passed out of the room, leaving the Major
standing with eyes and mouth wide open in hopeless bewilderment. He
clasped his brow, stared at the door and at the desk where the letter
had lain.
‘Why did I not snatch it from the foolish woman, and so compel her
to hear me? What mischief have I done! I must get those letters back
at any cost. I must see both the Elliotts and explain. They must
understand—they must excuse me, for they know my eagerness to serve
them. I must get hold of Joe before she sees him.’ And he hurried away
in search of his host.
The letter which caused so much commotion contained nothing more
terrible than this:
MY DEAR FRIEND—Let me implore you to act with more consideration
towards Mrs E. The incident which vexes you is capable of
the simplest explanation; and if you persist in your present
unreasonable suspicions, there is no saying what havoc you may make
of your own and other people’s happiness. I understand the whole
position, and will be glad to set things right—as I believe it is
now in my power to do as soon as we meet, if you will only confide
in me.—Yours faithfully,
A. DAWKINS.
This letter had been intended for Mr John Elliott, a morbidly nervous
and suspicious man, and it had been placed in an envelope addressed to
Mrs J. Elliott, Todhurst. Such a blunder was most irritating; but after
all, it could be explained, and the good-nature which had prompted his
action could not be understood.
He had himself received a letter intended for another fellow, although
bearing his (the Major’s) address in full on the envelope. He had even
received an epistle from a man of education and intelligence, in which
the writer, instead of putting down his own signature, had written
the name of the addressee. It was not such a very uncommon blunder
for a person who was sending off a number of missives in a hurry. The
salve of these reflections afforded only momentary relief to the poor
Major’s disturbed conscience. The instances of blunders such as he had
perpetrated had occurred on trivial occasions, and afforded merriment
to all parties when discovered. But in his own case, the happiness of
half-a-dozen people was involved, and he was stung by remorse for his
carelessness, whilst feeling that he was walking in a dense fog of
confusion.
As the Major was rushing in the direction of the stables, in the
neighbourhood of which he was most likely to find his horse-loving host
at that time of day, he was pounced upon by a troop of young Elliotts.
He was a special favourite with the young folk—for who so young as
he when amongst them? He was saluted with a chorus of invitations to
different games; and it was a little time before he could impress upon
them the fact that he could not join them, as he had very serious
business with their father. Where was he?
He was half-deafened by the variety of responses, all spoken
simultaneously: ‘I saw him near the duck-pond; come along,
Major.’—‘He’s in the orchard’—‘He’s looking at the new mare in the
meadow’—‘He’s giving physic to _Tally-ho_ in the stable.’
In desperation, the Major pranced off at random. There was a brief
pause among the young folk; then, struck by the idea that their friend
was only making fun after all, they gave the view-halloo and followed
in full chase, girls and boys competing to be first to run down the
quarry. The Major in his gay tennis suit, now somewhat disarranged,
panting and flushed, followed by the merry troop, was like a big
schoolboy playing at Hare and Hounds—the hare getting very much the
worst of it.
‘Major Dawkins—Major Dawkins!’ called a lady who was standing in his
path as he approached her. ‘Do, please, stop playing with the children;
I want to speak to you.’
It was Mrs John Elliott of Arrowby.
The Major, even if politeness had not compelled him to obey, was very
glad to halt. He could not have run much farther. The children were
around him in a moment, clinging to his sleeves, and laughing in
gleeful triumph.
‘My dears,’ said the Major, gasping for breath, ‘I really am in
earnest. I do want you to let me off to-day.’
‘And I have something particular to say to the Major,’ added Mrs John,
as she took the gentleman’s arm and led him away from the disappointed
group.
Mrs John was a lady endowed with the blissful nature which without
effort can under any circumstances realise the spirit of the old saw—
A merry heart goes all the way,
A sad tires in a mile-a.
She seemed to be always laughing; she was as fond of bonbons as
a child; and although turned thirty, she was still one of those
‘giddy young things’ who quite innocently find great satisfaction in
attracting the attention of men’s eyes. She did not try to do this by
extravagance of dress, although it obtained special care. Indeed, she
did not try at all; but her blithe, frank ways magnetised men, and
she was alike to all, old or young, handsome or otherwise. It had,
therefore, caused much amazement that she should have given her hand to
John Elliott. Had she mated with his cousin Joseph, the burly, jovial,
red-haired, fox-hunting squire of Todhurst, the fitness of things would
have been appreciated. But John!—it was incomprehensible.
He was the antithesis of his cousin: bilious, sallow, narrow-chested,
and with stooping shoulders. He had no interest in field-sports; he
did not keep more than ten acres of his land under his own management;
but he was strict with his agent and tenants about rents. He was a
dilettante archæologist, a dilettante book-hunter, and a dilettante
philanthropist. He believed that he was in earnest. He regarded his
wife as a jewel so precious that every one envied him the possession;
and when he came to understand that people wondered why she had married
_him_, he began to wonder too, and the result was much mental torture.
He was conscious that she might have had a much more suitable mate, and
that consciousness rendered him the more jealously fond. She, although
at moments incensed at his folly and want of faith, maintained her good
spirits and retained her good looks.
‘Now, Major,’ she said in her sprightly way, as soon as they had got
beyond earshot of the children, ‘I want you to tell me all about this
mysterious note you have sent me. I can guess that you mean my husband
by “our mutual friend.” But who is the “lady,” and what is the nonsense
to which you ask me to pay no heed?’
The Major absolutely groaned inwardly; for he knew by her allusions
that his worst fears were realised, and she had got the note intended
for Nellie. So, then, each of the three letters had been delivered to
the wrong person! Confound that hurry—confound that fellow Hollis,
who had been the cause of it by his mischievous interference with the
hair-dye. Had it not been for that incident, the Major was convinced he
could never have made such a gross mistake as this. And here was the
happiness of a household imperilled by a bottle of hair-dye!
‘It may be monstrously absurd to others,’ groaned the miserable
Dawkins; ‘but to me it is monstrously distressing.’
‘What is so absurd and at the same time so distressing?’ inquired Mrs
John gaily, restraining within due bounds her inclination to laugh at
the extraordinary contortions of his features.
‘My dear madam, I assure you, it is all a stupid and most lamentable
mistake on my part. That letter’——
‘I am quite satisfied that it is a mistake,’ she interrupted. ‘Pray, do
not feel any uneasiness on that account, and do not bother about the
letter. But, concerning the lady, I should like to know something, and
you promise here to tell me.’ She held the unlucky letter open in her
hand.
‘MY DEAR FRIEND,’ it ran—‘That is the most appropriate form of
address for me to use on the present occasion, which is in my eyes
an important one. I beseech you to give no heed whatever to any
nonsense you may hear about our “mutual friend” and a certain lady.
There is not the slightest foundation for it, and of that I shall
convince you immediately after my arrival at Todhurst.—Believe me,
your most faithful servant,
ALFRED DAWKINS.’
‘You were never intended to receive that letter,’ ejaculated the Major
with a resolute effort to pull himself together.
‘I am sure my husband did not intend it,’ she rejoined, smiling
confidentially; ‘but I thank you for putting me on my guard against
idle rumours. It was your duty to do so, as the friend of the family,
and I for one am grateful. But it was scarcely necessary; for
although John is peculiar in some ways, I have perfect confidence in
his discretion, and know that he is incapable of entangling himself
with any lady, except through others misunderstanding one of his
philanthropic crazes.—Ah, I see what it is,’ and here her expression
changed from that of half-indifferent curiosity to one of serious
interest. ‘He has been kind to some wretched creature, and she is
trying to take advantage of him. That is what you mean by warning me
not to heed any nonsense I might hear. Thanks, thanks! I must go at
once and relieve his mind of any uneasiness as to my views of the case.’
The Major had endeavoured several times to interrupt her without avail.
Now, when he saw her turning quickly away, he cried vehemently: ‘Stop,
my dear madam; you are quite wrong—you misunderstand the whole affair.
Do give me time to tell you exactly what is the matter.’
‘I know enough, Major; thank you very much. I must learn the rest from
John himself. Here are some friends coming—I do not wish them to see me
in this anxious state. We can have a chat in the afternoon.’ With a bow
she walked quickly away.
He would have followed, but was arrested by a musical voice calling:
‘Major Dawkins, I wish particularly to speak to you.’
He turned, and beheld Nellie Carroll advancing hurriedly towards him.
Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with indignation, and her sharp
firm step betokened that she was in a temper. Behind her was Stanley
Maynard, looking troubled, and evidently trying to persuade her to
refrain from some rash action.
CHILDREN’S PLAY.
‘O papa, when will you die?’ asked one of the youngest of my children.
A strange question, thought I.
‘Why do you ask, my dear?’
‘Oh, because it will be such fun burying you.’
This little experience of the author of _Olla Podrida_ originated
in the death of a pet canary which caused the young people great
tribulation. ‘To amuse them,’ he says, ‘we made them a paper coffin,
put the defunct therein, and sewed on the lid, dug a grave in the
garden, and dressing them out in any remnants of black we could find
for weepers, made a procession to the grave where it was buried.’ This
little divertissement quite took their fancy, and led them to wish for
a repetition on a larger scale.
The memory of a back-garden little cemetery of pet birds and kittens,
over whose graves the writer had erected head-slates with appropriate
epitaphs, occurs to him after hearing of the late obsequies of a pet
rabbit at Southport. Little Amy’s bunnie went the way of all rabbits,
and her playmates, sympathising with her affliction, determined to
give it an appropriate funeral. They arranged a catafalque out of a
soap-box, and with great solemnity dragged it in procession to the
grave. The children, feeling that a service of some kind ought to be
performed, but instinctively recognising the unfitness of the ordinary
religious ritual, joined hands around the bier, and sang with dignified
pathos the well-known old song, _Oh, bring back my Bunnie to me_. They
did it so seriously, and with such child-like good faith, that even
the grown-up listeners behind the blinds forgot the bathos of the
situation, and involuntarily sympathised with the young mourners in
their grief. A ‘stepping-stone,’ as one of the pall-bearers afterwards
described it, was placed over the grave, and the ceremony was over; but
even the gorgeousness of the funeral pageant and the impressive burial
service could not wholly console the owner for the loss of her rabbit.
A little girl who witnessed the capture of a rat in a trap, exclaimed,
with the relentless thoughtlessness of childhood: ‘Me wants you to dead
him, so me can see him all buried in the seminary’—this playing at
funerals being evidently a fascinating amusement with many little folks.