_Wherein the Major fights a Brilliant Rearguard Action; and Beats off
a Pressing Attack_
It was 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 of _The Cock and Bull_ in 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 somebody came 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 to fail 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--but _you_ must 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 cab _now_,” 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.