Mr. Roland was disposed to think that the insult was all on the other side, and inclined to fancy that a man who abused another before he knew either his name or errand, could be nothing but a hopeless lunatic.
"This pains me," he observed--"pains me more than I can express."
"Well, upon my life!" shouted the Major. "A fellow comes to my house with the deliberate intention of insulting me and mine, and yet he has the confounded insolence to tell me that it pains him!"
"Major," Mr. Roland was naturally beginning to feel a little warm, "you are not sober."
"Sober!" roared the Major. "Not sober! Confound it! this is too much!"
And before the curate knew what was coming, the Major took him by the collar of his coat, led him from the room, and--let us say, a.s.sisted him down the stairs. The front door was flung open, and, in broad daylight, the astonished neighbours saw the Rev. John Roland, M.A., of Caius College, Cambridge, what is commonly called "kicked-out," of Major Clifford"s house.
CHAPTER IV
THE MAJOR"S SORROW
After the Major had disposed of his offensive visitor, he went upstairs to think the matter over. It began to suggest itself to him that, upon the whole, he had not, perhaps, been so kind and gentle as Miss Maynard had advised. But then, as he phrased it, the fellow had been so confoundedly impertinent.
"Bully me, sir! Bully me!" cried the Major, taking a strong view of Mr.
Roland"s, under the circ.u.mstances, exceedingly mild deportment. "And the fellow said I wasn"t sober! I never was so insulted in my life."
The Major felt the insinuation keenly, because--for prudential reasons only--he was rigidly abstemious.
When Miss Maynard returned, she was met at the door by the respected housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips, and her own maid, Mary Ann.
"Oh, Miss," began Mrs. Phillips, directly the door was opened, "such goings on I never see in all my life--never in all my days. I thought I should have fainted."
Miss Maynard turned pale. She thought of the mild, if aggravating, Spooner, and was fearful that her affectionate relative might in some degree have forgotten her emphasised directions.
"Oh, Miss Em!" chimed in Mary Ann. "Whatever will come to us I don"t know. If the police were to come and lock us all up, I shouldn"t be surprised. Not a bit, I shouldn"t."
"Pray shut the door," observed Miss Maynard, who was still upon the doorstep. "Come in here, Phillips, and tell me what is the matter."
Miss Maynard looked disturbed. Mr. Spooner was bad enough before, but he might make things very unpleasant indeed if anything had occurred to annoy him further.
"Oh, Miss Em, Mr. Roland has been here."
"Mr. Roland!"
"Yes, miss. And there was the Major and he a-shouting at each other, and the next thing I see was the Major dragging of him downstairs and a-shoving of him down the front steps."
Miss Maynard sank upon a chair. She seemed nearly fainting.
"Mrs. Phillips, this is awful."
"Awful ain"t the word for it, miss. It"s a case for the police."
"Mrs. Phillips, this is worse than you can possibly conceive. I must see the Major."
"The Major"s in the drawing-room. Can"t you hear him, miss?"
Miss Maynard could hear him stamping overhead as though he were doing his best to bring the ceiling down.
"Thank you; I will go to him."
She did go to him. But first she went to her own room, shutting the door carefully behind her. Going to the dressing-table she put her arms upon it and hid her face within her hands.
"Oh!" she said, "whatever shall I do?" Then she cried. "It"s the most dreadful thing I ever heard of. Oh, how could he find it in his heart to treat me so?" She ceased crying and dried her eyes, "Never mind, it"s not over yet. If he drives me to despair he shall know it was his doing."
Then she stood up, took off her hat and coat, washed her face and eyes, and entered the drawing-room in her best manner.
The Major was alone. He was perfectly aware that Miss Maynard had returned. He had seen her come up the street, he had heard her enter the house, but for reasons of his own he had not gone to meet her with that exuberant warmth with which, occasionally, it was his custom to greet her. He was in a towering pa.s.sion. At least, he fully intended to be in a towering pa.s.sion, but at the same time he was fully conscious that, under the circ.u.mstances, a towering pa.s.sion was a very difficult thing to keep properly towering. And when Miss Maynard entered with the expression of her countenance so sweet and saintlike, he knew that there was trouble in the air. He looked at his watch.
"Five-and-twenty minutes to two. Five-and-twenty minutes to two. And we lunch at half-past one. Those servants are disgraceful!"
And he crossed the room to ring the bell.
"Please don"t ring," said Miss Maynard, quite up to the man[oe]uvre. "I wish to speak to you."
"Oh, oh! Then perhaps you"ll remember it is luncheon-time, and when we"re likely to have any regularity in this establishment, perhaps you"ll let me know."
Miss Maynard drew herself up.
"Pray don"t attack me," she observed. "I don"t wish to be kicked out of the house."
The Major turned crimson. It was true that someone had been so kicked that morning, but it was unkind of Miss Maynard to insinuate that he had any desire to kick her.
"Look here!" he cried, actually shaking his fist at her.
"Don"t threaten me," remarked Miss Maynard.
"Threaten you! You leave me at home to meet a scoundrel!"
"How dare you!" exclaimed Miss Maynard, who had momentarily forgotten whom it was she had left him there to meet.
"How dare I. Well, upon my soul, this is a pretty thing!"
"I had never thought that in a matter in which my happiness was so involved, my existence so bound up, you could have treated me so cruelly!"
The Major stared. Like Mr. Roland, he was a little puzzled.
"You tell me that your existence is bound up in that fellow"s?"
"Fellow! The fellow is worth twenty thousand such gentleman as you!"
The Major was astounded. The remark amazed him. He really thought Miss Maynard must be demented, not knowing that Mr. Roland had thought the same thing of him not long before.
"Oh, Major Clifford, when I am broken-hearted, and you follow me, if you ever do, to a miserable tomb, then--then may you never know what it is to be a savage!"