by E. F. Benson
Never had there been such a shopping! It was nearly lunch-time when, at her front door, Major Flint finally stripped himself of her parcels and her companionship and hobbled home, profusely perspiring, and lame from so much walking on pavements in tight patent-leather shoes. He was weary and footsore; he had had no golf, and, though forgiven, was but a wreck. She had made him ridiculous all the morning with his frock-coat and top-hat and his porterages, and if forgiveness entailed any more of these nightmare sacraments of friendliness, he felt that he would be unable to endure the fatiguing accessories of the regenerate state. He hung up his top-hat and wiped his wet and throbbing head; he kicked off his shoes and shed his frock-coat, and furiously qui-hied for a whisky and soda and lunch.
His physical restoration was accompanied by a quickening of dismay at the general prospect. What (to put it succinctly) was life worth, even when unharassed by allusions to duels, without the solace of golf, quarrels and diaries in the companionship of Puffin? He hated Puffin—no one more so—but he could not possibly get on without him, and it was entirely due to Puffin that he had spent so outrageous a morning, for Puffin, seeking to silence Miss Mapp by his intoxicated bargain, had been the prime cause of all this misery. He could not even, for fear of that all-seeing eye in Miss Mapp’s garden-room, go across to the house of the unforgiven sea-captain, and by a judicious recital of his woes induce him to beg Miss Mapp’s forgiveness instantly. He would have to wait till the kindly darkness fell… “Mere slavery!” he exclaimed with passion.
A tap at his sitting-room door interrupted the chain of these melancholy reflections, and his permission to enter was responded to by Puffin himself. The Major bounced from his seat.
“You mustn’t stop here,” he said in a low voice, as if afraid that he might be overheard. “Miss Mapp may have seen you come in.”
Puffin laughed shrilly.
“Why, of course she did,” he gaily assented. “She was at her window all right. Ancient lights, I shall call her. What’s this all about now?”
“You must go back,” said Major Flint agitatedly. “She must see you go back. I can’t explain now. But I’ll come across after dinner when it’s dark. Go; don’t wait.”
He positively hustled the mystified Puffin out of the house, and Miss Mapp’s face, which had grown sharp and pointed with doubts and suspicions when she observed him enter Major Benjy’s house, dimpled, as she saw him return, into her sunniest smiles. “Dear Major Benjy,” she said, “he has refused to see him,” and she cut the string of the large cardboard box which had just arrived from the dyer’s with the most pleasurable anticipations…
Well, it was certainly very magnificent, and Miss Greele was quite right, for there was not the faintest tinge to show that it had originally been kingfisher-blue. She had not quite realized how brilliant crimson-lake was in the piece; it seemed almost to cast a ruddy glow on the very ceiling, and the fact that she had caused the orange chiffon with which the neck and sleeves were trimmed to be dyed black (following the exquisite taste of Mrs. Titus Trout) only threw the splendour of the rest into more dazzling radiance. Kingfisher-blue would appear quite ghostly and corpse-like in its neighbourhood; and painful though that would be for Diva, it would, as all her well-wishers must hope, be a lesson to her not to indulge in such garishness. She should be taught her lesson (D.V.), thought Miss Mapp, at Susan’s bridge-party tomorrow evening. Captain Puffin was being taught a lesson, too, for we are never too old to learn, or, for that matter, to teach.
Though the night was dark and moonless, there was an inconveniently brilliant gas-lamp close to the Major’s door, and that strategist, carrying his round roll of diaries, much the shape of a bottle, under his coat, went about half-past nine that evening to look at the rain-gutter which had been weeping into his yard, and let himself out of the back-door round the corner. From there he went down past the fishmonger’s, crossed the road, and doubled back again up Puffin’s side of the street, which was not so vividly illuminated, though he took the precaution of making himself little with bent knees, and of limping. Puffin was already warming himself over the fire and imbibing Roman roads, and was disposed to be hilarious over the Major’s shopping.
“But why top-hat and frock-coat, Major?” he asked.“Another visit of the Prince of Wales, I asked myself, or the Voice that breathed o’er Eden? Have a drink—one of mine, I mean? I owe you a drink for the good laugh you gave me.”
Had it not been for this generosity and the need of getting on the right side of Puffin, Major Flint would certainly have resented such clumsy levity, but this double consideration caused him to take it with unwonted good-humour. His attempt to laugh, indeed, sounded a little hollow, but that is the habit of self-directed merriment.
“Well, I allow it must have seemed amusing,” he said.“The fact was that I thought she would appreciate my putting a little ceremony into my errand of apology, and then she whisked me off shopping before I could go and change.”
“Kiss and friends again, then?” asked Puffin.
The Major grew a little stately over this.
“No such familiarity passed,” he said. “But she accepted my regrets with—ha—the most gracious generosity. A fine-spirited woman, sir; you’ll find the same.”
“I might if I looked for it,” said Puffin. “But why should I want to make it up? You’ve done that, and that prevents her talking about duelling and early trains. She can’t mock at me because of you. You might pass me back my bottle, if you’ve taken your drink.”
The Major reluctantly did so.
“You must please yourself, old boy,” he said.“It’s your business, and no one’s ever said that Benjy Flint interfered in another man’s affairs. But I trust you will do what good feeling indicates. I hope you value our jolly games of golf and our pleasant evenings sufficiently highly.”
“Eh! How’s that?” asked Puffin. “You going to cut me too?”
The Major sat down and put his large feet on the fender. “Tact and diplomacy, Benjy, my boy,” he reminded himself.
“Ha! That’s what I like,” he said, “a good fire and a friend, and the rest of the world may go hang. There’s no question of cutting, old man; I needn’t tell you that—but we must have one of our good talks. For instance, I very unceremoniously turned you out of my house this afternoon, and I owe you an explanation of that. I’ll give it you in one word: Miss Mapp saw you come in. She didn’t see me come in here this evening—ha! ha!—and that’s why I can sit at my ease. But if she knew—”
Puffin guessed.
“What has happened, Major, is that you’ve thrown me over for Miss Mapp,” he observed.
“No, sir, I have not,” said the Major with emphasis.“Should I be sitting here and drinking your whisky if I had? But this morning, after that lady had accepted my regret for my share in what occurred the other night, she assumed that since I condemned my own conduct unreservedly, I must equally condemn yours. It really was like a conjuring trick; the thing was done before I knew anything about it. And before I’d had time to say, ‘Hold on a bit,’ I was being led up and down the High Street, carrying as much merchandise as a drove of camels. God, sir, I suffered this morning; you don’t seem to realize that I suffered; I couldn’t stand any more mornings like that: I haven’t the stamina.”
“A powerful woman,” said Puffin reflectively.
“You may well say that,” observed Major Flint. “That is finely said. A powerful woman she is, with a powerful tongue, and able to be powerful nasty, and if she sees you and me on friendly terms again, she’ll turn the full hose on to us both unless you make it up with her.”
“H’m, yes. But as likely as not she’ll tell me and my apologies to go hang.”
“Have a try, old man,” said the Major encouragingly.
Puffin looked at his whisky-bottle.
“Help yourself, Major,” he said. “I think you’ll have to help me out, you know. Go and interview her: see if there’s a chance of my favourable reception.”
“No, sir,” said the Major firmly, “I will not run the risk of another morning’s shopping in the High Street.”
“You needn’t. Watch till she comes back from her shopping tomorrow.”
Major Benjy clearly did not like the prospect at all, but Puffin grew firmer and firmer in his absolute refusal to lay himself open to rebuff, and presently, they came to an agreement that the Major was to go on his ambassadorial errand next morning. That being settled, the still undecided point about the worm-cast gave rise to a good deal of heat, until, it being discovered that the window was open, and that their voices might easily carry as far as the garden-room, they made malignant rejoinders to each other in whispers. But it was impossible to go on quarrelling for long in so confidential a manner, and the disagreement was deferred to a more convenient occasion. It was late when the Major left, and after putting out the light in Puffin’s hall, so that he should not be silhouetted against it, he slid into the darkness, and reached his own door by a subtle detour.
Miss Mapp had a good deal of division of her swift mind, when, next morning, she learned the nature of Major Benjy’s second errand. If she, like Mr. Wyse, was to encourage Puffin to hope that she would accept his apologies, she would be obliged to remit all further punishment of him, and allow him to consort with his friend again. It was difficult to forgo the pleasure of his chastisement, but, on the other hand, it was just possible that the Major might break away, and, whether she liked it or not (and she would not), refuse permanently to give up Puffin’s society. That would be awkward since she had publicly paraded her reconciliation with him. What further inclined her to clemency, was that this very evening the crimson-lake tea-gown would shed its effulgence over Mrs. Poppit’s bridge-party, and Diva would never want to hear the word “kingfisher” again. That was enough to put anybody in a good temper. So the diplomatist returned to the miscreant with the glad tidings that Miss Mapp would hear his supplication with a favourable ear, and she took up a stately position in the garden-room, which she selected as audience chamber, near the bell so that she could ring for Withers if necessary.
* * * *
Miss Mapp’s mercy was largely tempered with justice, and she proposed, in spite of the leniency which she would eventually exhibit, to give Puffin “what for,” first. She had not for him, as for Major Benjy, that feminine weakness which had made it a positive luxury to forgive him: she never even thought of Puffin as Captain Dicky, far less let the pretty endearment slip off her tongue accidentally, and the luxury which she anticipated from the interview was that of administering a quantity of hard slaps. She had appointed half-past twelve as the hour for his suffering, so that he must go without his golf again.
She put down the book she was reading when he appeared, and gazed at him stonily without speech. He limped into the middle of the room. This might be forgiveness, but it did not look like it, and he wondered whether she had got him here on false pretences.
“Good morning,” said he.
Miss Mapp inclined her head. Silence was gold.
“I understood from Major Flint—” began Puffin.
Speech could be gold too.
“If,” said Miss Mapp, “you have come to speak about Major Flint you have wasted your time. And mine!”
(How different from Major Benjy, she thought. What a shrimp!)
The shrimp gave a slight gasp. The thing had got to be done, and the sooner he was out of range of this powerful woman the better.
“I am extremely sorry for what I said to you the other night,” he said.
“I am glad you are sorry,” said Miss Mapp.
“I offer you my apologies for what I said,” continued Puffin.
The whip whistled.
“When you spoke to me on the occasion to which you refer,” said Miss Mapp, “I saw of course at once that you were not in a condition to speak to anybody. I instantly did you that justice, for I am just to everybody. I paid no more attention to what you said than I should have paid to any tipsy vagabond in the slums. I daresay you hardly remember what you said, so that before I hear your expression of regret, I will remind you of it. You threatened, unless I promised to tell nobody in what a disgusting condition you were, to say that I was tipsy. Elizabeth Mapp tipsy! That was what you said, Captain Puffin.”
Captain Puffin turned extremely red. (“Now the shrimp’s being boiled,” thought Miss Mapp.)
“I can’t do more than apologize,” said he. He did not know whether he was angrier with his ambassador or her.
“Did you say you couldn’t do ‘more,’” said Miss Mapp with an air of great interest. “How curious! I should have thought you couldn’t have done less.”
“Well, what more can I do?” asked he.
“If you think,” said Miss Mapp, “that you hurt me by your conduct that night, you are vastly mistaken. And if you think you can do no more than apologize, I will teach you better. You can make an effort, Captain Puffin, to break with your deplorable habits, to try to get back a little of the self-respect, if you ever had any, which you have lost. You can cease trying, oh, so unsuccessfully, to drag Major Benjy down to your level. That’s what you can do.”
She let these withering observations blight him.
“I accept your apologies,” she said. “I hope you will do better in the future, Captain Puffin, and I shall look anxiously for signs of improvement. We will meet with politeness and friendliness when we are brought together and I will do my best to wipe all remembrance of your tipsy impertinence from my mind. And you must do your best too. You are not young, and engrained habits are difficult to get rid of. But do not despair, Captain Puffin. And now I will ring for Withers and she will show you out.”
She rang the bell, and gave a sample of her generous oblivion.
“And we meet, do we not, this evening at Mrs. Poppit’s?” she said, looking not at him, but about a foot above his head. “Such pleasant evenings one always has there, I hope it will not be a wet evening, but the glass is sadly down. Oh, Withers, Captain Puffin is going. Good morning, Captain Puffin. Such a pleasure!”
Miss Mapp hummed a rollicking little tune as she observed him totter down the street.
“There!” she said, and had a glass of Burgundy for lunch as a treat.
CHAPTER X
The news that Mr. Wyse was to be of the party that evening at Mrs. Poppit’s and was to dine there first, en famille (as he casually let slip in order to air his French), created a disagreeable impression that afternoon in Tilling. It was not usual to do anything more than“have a tray” for your evening meal, if one of these winterbridge-parties followed, and there was, to Miss Mapp’s mind, a deplorable tendency to ostentation in this dinner-giving before a party. Still, if Susan was determined to be extravagant, she might have asked Miss Mapp as well, who resented this want of hospitality. She did not like, either, this hole-and-corner en famille work with Mr. Wyse; it indicated a pushing familiarity to which, it was hoped, Mr. Wyse’s eyes were open.
There was another point: the party, it had been ascertained, would in all number ten, and if, as was certain, there would be two bridge-tables, that seemed to imply that two people would have to cut out. There were often nine at Mrs. Poppit’s bridge-parties (she appeared to be unable to count), but on those occasions Isabel was generally told by her mother that she did not care for bridge, and so there was no cutting out, but only a pleasant book for Isabel. But what would be done with ten? It was idle to hope that Susan would sit out: as hostess she always considered it part of her duties to play solidly the entire evening. Still, if the cutting of cards malignantly ordained that Miss Mapp was ejected, it was only reasonable to expect that after her magnanimity to the United Services, either Major Benjy or Captain Puffin would be so obdurate in his insistence that she must play instead of him, that it would be only ladylike to yield.
She did not, therefore, allow this possibility to dim the pleasure she anticipated from the discomfiture of darling Diva, who would be certain t
o appear in the kingfisher-blue tea-gown, and find herself ghastly and outshone by the crimson-lake which was the colour of Mrs. Trout’s second toilet, and Miss Mapp, after prolonged thought as to her most dramatic moment of entrance in the crimson-lake, determined to arrive when she might expect the rest of the guests to have already assembled. She would risk, it is true, being out of a rubber for a little, since bridge might have already begun, but play would have to stop for a minute of greetings when she came in, and she would beg everybody not to stir, and would seat herself quite, quite close to Diva, and openly admire her pretty frock, “like one I used to have …!”
It was, therefore, not much lacking of ten o’clock when, after she had waited a considerable time on Mrs. Poppit’s threshold, Boon sulkily allowed her to enter, but gave no answer to her timid inquiry of: “Am I very late, Boon?” The drawing-room door was a little ajar, and as she took off the cloak that masked the splendour of the crimson-lake, her acute ears heard the murmur of talk going on, which indicated that bridge had not yet begun, while her acute nostrils detected the faint but certain smell of roast grouse, which showed what Susan had given Mr. Wyse for dinner, probably telling him that the birds were a present to her from the shooting-lodge where she had stayed in the summer. Then, after she had thrown herself a glance in the mirror, and put on her smile, Boon preceded her, slightly shrugging his shoulders, to the drawing-room door, which he pushed open, and grunted loudly, which was his manner of announcing a guest. Miss Mapp went tripping in, almost at a run, to indicate how vexed she was with herself for being late, and there, just in front of her, stood Diva, dressed not in kingfisher-blue at all, but in the crimson-lake of Mrs. Trout’s second toilet. Perfidious Diva had had her dress dyed too…