“But it didn’t,” said Puffin. “How it all got out, I can’t say, nor for that matter can you. If it hadn’t been for me last night, it would have been all over Tilling that you and I were tipsy as well. That wouldn’t have improved our status that I can see.”
“It was in consequence of what you said to Mapp—” began the Major.
“But, good Lord, where’s the connection?” asked Puffin. “Produce the connection! Let’s have a look at the connection! There ain’t any connection! Duelling wasn’t as much as mentioned last night.”
Major Flint pondered this in gloomy, sipping silence.
“Bridge-party at Mrs. Poppit’s the day after to-morrow,” he said. “I don’t feel as if I could face it. Suppose they all go on making allusions to duelling and early trains and that? I shan’t be able to keep my mind on the cards for fear of it. More than a sensitive man ought to be asked to bear.”
Puffin made a noise that sounded rather like “Fudge!”
“Your pardon?” said the Major haughtily.
“Granted by all means,” said Puffin. “But I don’t see what you’re in such a taking about. We’re no worse off than we were before we got a reputation for being such fire-eaters. Being fire-eaters is a wash-out, that’s all. Pleasant while it lasted, and now we’re as we were.”
“But we’re not,” said the Major. “We’re detected frauds! That’s not the same as being a fraud; far from it. And who’s going to rub it in, my friend? Who’s been rubbing away for all she’s worth? Miss Mapp, to whom, if I may say so without offence, you behaved like a cur last night.”
“And another cur stood by and wagged his tail,” retorted Puffin.
This was about as far as it was safe to go, and Puffin hastened to say something pleasant about the hearthrug, to which his friend had a suitable rejoinder. But after the affair last night, and the dark sayings in the High Street this morning, there was little content or cosiness about the session. Puffin’s brazen optimism was but a tinkling cymbal, and the Major did not feel like tinkling at all. He but snorted and glowered, revolving in his mind how to square Miss Mapp. Allied with her, if she could but be won over, he felt he could face the rest of Tilling with indifference, for hers would be the most penetrating shafts, the most stinging pleasantries. He had more too, so he reflected, to lose than Puffin, for till the affair of the duel the other had never been credited with deeds of bloodthirsty gallantry, whereas he had enjoyed no end of a reputation in amorous and honourable affairs. Marriage no doubt would settle it satisfactorily, but this bachelor life, with plenty of golf and diaries, was not to be lightly exchanged for the unknown. Short of that…
A light broke, and he got to his feet, following the gleam and walking very lame out of general discomfiture.
“Tell you what it is, Puffin,” he said. “You and I, particularly you, owe that estimable lady a very profound apology for what happened last night. You ought to withdraw every word you said, and I every word that I didn’t say.”
“Can’t be done,” said Puffin. “That would be giving up my hold over your lady friend. We should be known as drunkards all over the shop before you could say winkie. Worse off than before.”
“Not a bit of it. If it’s Miss Mapp, and I’m sure it is, who has been spreading these—these damaging rumours about our duel it’s because she’s outraged and offended quite rightly, at your conduct to her last night. Mine, too, if you like. Ample apology, sir, that’s the ticket.”
“Dog-ticket,” said Puffin. “No thanks.”
“Very objectionable expression,” said Major Flint. “But you shall do as you like. And so, with your permission, shall I. I shall apologize for my share in that sorry performance, in which, thank God, I only played a minor role. That’s my view, and if you don’t like it, you may dislike it.”
Puffin yawned.
“Mapp’s a cat,” he said. “Stroke a cat and you’ll get scratched. Shy a brick at a cat, and she’ll spit at you and skedaddle. You’re poor company to-night, Major, with all these qualms.”
“Then, sir, you can relieve yourself of my company,” said the Major, “by going home.”
“Just what I was about to do. Good night, old boy. Same time to-morrow for the tram, if you’re not too badly mauled.”
Miss Mapp, sitting by the hot-water pipes in the garden-room, looked out not long after to see what the night was like. Though it was not yet half-past ten the cowards’ sitting-rooms were both dark, and she wondered what precisely that meant. There was no bridge-party anywhere that night, and apparently there were no diaries or Roman roads either. Why this sober and chastened darkness… ?
The Major qui-hied for his breakfast at an unusually early hour next morning, for the courage of his resolve to placate, if possible, the hostility of Miss Mapp had not, like that of the challenge, oozed out during the night. He had dressed himself in his frock-coat, seen last on the occasion when the Prince of Wales proved not to have come by the 6.45, and no female breast however furious could fail to recognize the compliment of such a formality. Dressed thus, with top-hat and patent-leather boots, he was clearly observed from the garden-room to emerge into the street just when Captain Puffin’s hand thrust the sponge on to the window-sill of his bath room. Probably he too had observed this apparition, for his fingers prematurely loosed hold of the sponge, and it bounded into the street. Wild surmises flashed into Miss Mapp’s active brain, the most likely of which was that Major Benjy was going to propose to Mrs. Poppit, for if he had been going up to London for some ceremonial occasion, he would be walking down the street instead of up it. And then she saw his agitated finger press the electric bell of her own door. So he was not on his way to propose to Mrs. Poppit…
She slid from the room and hurried across the few steps of garden to the house just in time to intercept Withers though not with any idea of saying that she was out. Then Withers, according to instructions, waited till Miss Mapp had tiptoed upstairs, and conducted the Major to the garden-room, promising that she would “tell” her mistress. This was unnecessary, as her mistress knew. The Major pressed a half-crown into her astonished hand, thinking it was a florin. He couldn’t precisely account for that impulse, but general propitiation was at the bottom of it.
Miss Mapp meantime had sat down on her bed, and firmly rejected the idea that his call had anything to do with marriage. During all these years of friendliness he had not got so far as that, and, whatever the future might hold, it was not likely that he would begin now at this moment when she was so properly punishing him for his unchivalrous behaviour. But what could the frock-coat mean? (There was Captain Puffin’s servant picking up the sponge. She hoped it was covered with mud.) It would be a very just continuation of his punishment to tell Withers she would not see him, but the punishment which that would entail on herself would be more than she could bear, for she would not know a moment’s peace while she was ignorant of the nature of his errand. Could he be on his way to the Padre’s to challenge him for that very stinging allusion to sand-dunes yesterday, and was he come to give her fair warning, so that she might stop a duel? It did not seem likely. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she adjusted her face in the glass to an expression of frozen dignity and threw over her shoulders the cloak trimmed with blue in which, on the occasion of the Prince’s visit, she had sat down in the middle of the road. That matched the Major’s frock-coat.
She hummed a little song as she mounted the few steps to the garden-room, and stopped just after she had opened the door. She did not offer to shake hands.
“You wish to see me, Major Flint?” she said, in such a voice as icebergs might be supposed to use when passing each other by night in the Arctic seas.
Major Flint certainly looked as if he hated seeing her, instead of wishing it, for he backed into a corner of the room and dropped his hat.
“Good morning, Miss Mapp,” he said. “Very good of you. I—I called.”
He clearly had a difficulty in saying what he had come to say,
but if he thought that she was proposing to give him the smallest assistance, he was in error.
“Yes, you called,” said she. “Pray be seated.”
He did so; she stood; he got up again.
“I called,” said the Major, “I called to express my very deep regret at my share, or, rather, that I did not take a more active share—I allowed, in fact, a friend of mine to speak to you in a manner that did equal discredit—”
Miss Mapp put her head on one side, as if trying to recollect some trivial and unimportant occurrence.
“Yes?” she said. “What was that?”
“Captain Puffin,” began the Major.
Then Miss Mapp remembered it all.
“I hope, Major Flint,” she said, “that you will not find it necessary to mention Captain Puffin’s name to me. I wish him nothing but well, but he and his are no concern of mine. I have the charity to suppose that he was quite drunk on the occasion to which I imagine you allude. Intoxication alone could excuse what he said. Let us leave Captain Puffin out of whatever you have come to say to me.”
This was adroit; it compelled the Major to begin all over again.
“I come entirely on my own account,” he began.
“I understand,” said Miss Mapp, instantly bringing Captain Puffin in again. “Captain Puffin, now I presume sober, has no regret for what he said when drunk. I quite see, and I expected no more and no less from him. Yes. I am afraid I interrupted you.”
Major Flint threw his friend overboard like ballast from a bumping balloon.
“I speak for myself,” he said. “I behaved, Miss Mapp, like a—ha—worm. Defenceless lady, insolent fellow drunk—I allude to Captain P—. I’m very sorry for my part in it.”
Up till this moment Miss Mapp had not made up her mind whether she intended to forgive him or not; but here she saw how crushing a penalty she might be able to inflict on Puffin if she forgave the erring and possibly truly repentant Major. He had already spoken strongly about his friend’s offence, and she could render life supremely nasty for them both—particularly Puffin—if she made the Major agree that he could not, if truly sorry, hold further intercourse with him. There would be no more golf, no more diaries. Besides, if she was observed to be friendly with the Major again and to cut Captain Puffin, a very natural interpretation would be that she had learned that in the original quarrel the Major had been defending her from some odious tongue to the extent of a challenge, even though he subsequently ran away. Tilling was quite clever enough to make that inference without any suggestion from her… But if she forgave neither of them, they would probably go on boozing and golfing together, and saying quite dreadful things about her, and not care very much whether she forgave them or not. Her mind was made up, and she gave a wan smile.
“Oh, Major Flint,” she said, “it hurt me so dreadfully that you should have stood by and heard that man—if he is a man—say those awful things to me and not take my side. It made me feel so lonely. I had always been such good friends with you, and then you turned your back on me like that. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve it. I lay awake ever so long.”
This was affecting, and he violently rubbed the nap of his hat the wrong way… Then Miss Mapp broke into her sunniest smile.
“Oh, I’m so glad you came to say you were sorry!” she said. “Dear Major Benjy, we’re quite friends again.”
She dabbed her handkerchief on her eyes.
“So foolish of me!” she said. “Now sit down in my most comfortable chair and have a cigarette.”
Major Flint made a peck at the hand she extended to him, and cleared his throat to indicate emotion. It really was a great relief to think that she would not make awful allusions to duels in the middle of bridge-parties.
“And since you feel as you do about Captain Puffin,” she said, “of course, you won’t see anything more of him. You and I are quite one, aren’t we, about that? You have dissociated yourself from him completely. The fact of your being sorry does that.”
It was quite clear to the Major that this condition was involved in his forgiveness, though that fact, so obvious to Miss Mapp, had not occurred to him before. Still, he had to accept it, or go unhouseled again. He could explain to Puffin, under cover of night, or perhaps in deaf-and-dumb alphabet from his window…
“Infamous, unforgivable behaviour!” he said. “Pah!”
“So glad you feel that,” said Miss Mapp, smiling till he saw the entire row of her fine teeth. “And oh, may I say one little thing more? I feel this: I feel that the dreadful shock to me of being insulted like that was quite a lovely little blessing in disguise, now that the effect has been to put an end to your intimacy with him. I never liked it, and I liked it less than ever the other night. He’s not a fit friend for you. Oh, I’m so thankful!”
Major Flint saw that for the present he was irrevocably committed to this clause in the treaty of peace. He could not face seeing it torn up again, as it certainly would be, if he failed to accept it in its entirety, nor could he imagine himself leaving the room with a renewal of hostilities. He would lose his game of golf to-day as it was, for apart from the fact that he would scarcely have time to change his clothes (the idea of playing golf in a frock-coat and top-hat was inconceivable) and catch the 11.20 tram, he could not be seen in Puffin’s company at all. And, indeed, in the future, unless Puffin could be induced to apologize and Miss Mapp to forgive, he saw, if he was to play golf at all with his friend, that endless deceptions and subterfuges were necessary in order to escape detection. One of them would have to set out ten minutes before the other, and walk to the tram by some unusual and circuitous route; they would have to play in a clandestine and furtive manner, parting company before they got to the club-house; disguises might be needful; there was a peck of difficulties ahead. But he would have to go into these later; at present he must be immersed in the rapture of his forgiveness.
“Most generous of you, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “As for that—well, I won’t allude to him again.”
Miss Mapp gave a happy little laugh, and having made a further plan, switched away from the subject of captains and insults with alacrity.
“Look!” she said. “I found these little rosebuds in flower still, though it is the end of November. Such brave little darlings, aren’t they? One for your buttonhole, Major Benjy? And then I must do my little shoppings or Withers will scold me—Withers is so severe with me, keeps me in such order! If you are going into the town, will you take me with you? I will put on my hat.”
Requests for the present were certainly commands, and two minutes later they set forth. Luck, as usual, befriended ability, for there was Puffin at his door, itching for the Major’s return (else they would miss the tram); and lo! there came stepping along Miss Mapp in her blue-trimmed cloak, and the Major attired as for marriage—top-hat, frock-coat and buttonhole. She did not look at Puffin and cut him; she did not seem (with the deceptiveness of appearances) to see him at all, so eager and agreeable was her conversation with her companion. The Major, so Puffin thought, attempted to give him some sort of dazed and hunted glance; but he could not be certain even of that, so swiftly had it to be transformed into a genial interest in what Miss Mapp was saying, and Puffin stared open-mouthed after them, for they were terrible as an army with banners. Then Diva, trundling swiftly out of the fish-shop, came, as well she might, to a dead halt, observing this absolutely inexplicable phenomenon.
“Good morning, Diva darling,” said Miss Mapp. “Major Benjy and I are doing our little shopping together. So kind of him, isn’t it? and very naughty of me to take up his time. I told him he ought to be playing golf. Such a lovely day! Au reservoir, sweet! Oh, and there’s the Padre, Major Benjy! How quickly he walks! Yes, he sees us! And there’s Mrs. Poppit; everybody is enjoying the sunshine. What a beautiful fur coat, though I should think she found it very heavy and warm. Good morning, dear Susan! You shopping, too, like Major Benjy and me? How is your dear Isabel?”
Miss Mapp m
ade the most of that morning; the magnanimity of her forgiveness earned her incredible dividends. Up and down the High Street she went, with Major Benjy in attendance, buying grocery, stationery, gloves, eau-de-Cologne, boot-laces, the “Literary Supplement” of The Times, dried camomile flowers, and every conceivable thing that she might possibly need in the next week, so that her shopping might be as protracted as possible. She allowed him (such was her firmness in “spoiling” him) to carry her shopping-basket, and when that was full, she decked him like a sacrificial ram with little parcels hung by loops of string. Sometimes she took him into a shop in case there might be someone there who had not seen him yet on her leash; sometimes she left him on the pavement in a prominent position, marking, all the time, just as if she had been a clinical thermometer, the feverish curiosity that was burning in Tilling’s veins. Only yesterday she had spread the news of his cowardice broadcast; to-day their comradeship was of the chattiest and most genial kind. There he was, carrying her basket, and wearing frock-coat and top-hat and hung with parcels like a Christmas-tree, spending the entire morning with her instead of golfing with Puffin. Miss Mapp positively shuddered as she tried to realize what her state of mind would have been, if she had seen him thus coupled with Diva. She would have suspected (rightly in all probability) some loathsome intrigue against herself. And the cream of it was that until she chose, nobody could possibly find out what had caused this metamorphosis so paralysing to inquiring intellects, for Major Benjy would assuredly never tell anyone that there was a reconciliation, due to his apology for his rudeness, when he had stood by and permitted an intoxicated Puffin to suggest disgraceful bargains. Tilling—poor Tilling—would go crazy with suspense as to what it all meant.
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.