Part 3

The Major was much perturbed as he drove along the crowded streets to keep the appointment, for which he was now a quarter of an hour late. That was disturbing enough to a man of his punctual habits; but it was not the main cause of his present vexation. The main cause was his sense that from this day forth he was, metaphorically, under his servant’s thumb.

Observing Dawkins approach for the first time, you would have fancied that he was a youth of about twenty-five, although he was several years more than double that age. His slim figure, below the average height, was always arrayed in the latest style affected by young men about town. There were a few decorous modifications, certainly, but they were so slight as to be scarcely observable. Then there was a vivacity about his movements which only occasionally suggested a degree of stiffening about the knee-joints, and thus an appearance of juvenility was produced until he was subjected to close inspection. The wrinkles on his brow and under the gray eyes, and the yellow complexion resulting from the touch of liver which he had brought home with him from India, set a stranger speculating whether he was a prematurely aged boy or a very vain old man. But as soon as he began to speak, all speculation on the subject ceased—he was so young in thought, so interested in everything he saw and in every one he met.

The fact was that the Major had not yet realised the truth that he was a grown man and had passed the equator of middle age. He had never been married; he had never suffered under any absorbing attachment to maid or widow; and although he had been twenty years in the army, he had never been in action. A petty riot was the only approach to a battle in which he had ever been privileged to take part. Whilst he bore his disappointment cheerfully, as a general rule, there were times when he lamented the ill luck which had attended him so far as war was concerned. His soul had been always eager for the fray; but fate had denied him any opportunity to distinguish himself on the field. During his twenty years of service in India, there had been battles enough fought and won; but he had no share in any of them. To satisfy his ambition, he had twice exchanged into regiments which were under orders for active service. In the first instance, the orders were countermanded; and in the second—the war was over before his regiment reached the front. So he was gazetted Major, and was ‘retired’ on half-pay without having sustained a scratch in his country’s cause, and without any experience of the proud pomp and circumstance of the big war that makes ambition glorious. He lived in hope, however, that a time would come when the offer of his sword might be acceptable to the War Office. He was then a rabid Jingo, and a resolute advocate of armed opposition to every step made by Russia in the direction of our Indian empire. But he kept these sentiments very much to himself, and only ventilated them when much provoked by some peace-at-any-price man.

The Major’s cab rushed along the Strand, along Fleet Street, and up 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’——