Chapter XXVIII A Delicate Mission
Mr Harold Jefferson lived in the Albany, where a long succession of well-to-do bachelors, good and bad, have occupied chambers since the days of the later Georges. The bachelor nests in the Temple—so beloved of young Bar students fresh from the ‘Varsity—wax insignificant in comparison with the lofty, depressing spaciousness which characterises Albany chambers. The rents, too, differ widely, for whereas a man may cut quite a tenemental dash in the Temple for fifty or sixty pounds a year, in the Albany one’s rental may run into anything between a hundred and forty and four hundred per annum.
A quaint nook is this Albany. As one paces the stone-flagged footway in the contemplative stillness which broods over the place, it is an easy feat of the imagination to put the clock back a hundred years, to people the lettered houses with bucks and bloods in Regency attire, and, with the fall of night, to set the gaunt old quarter ablaze with candles, and listen to the flick and rattle of cards and dice, the popping of corks, and the sound of those old-fashioned oaths which it was thought fit that gentlemen should use freely in the days when Byron and Macaulay lived in this aristocratic bachelor precinct.
But new times bring new men, and Harold Jefferson was of the newest. He lived in the Albany for the same reason that he drove a motor-car, ploughed the Thames in a steam launch, and frequented fashionable restaurants at fashionable hours—because it was expensive.
On this particular night—the eve of his wedding day—Jefferson was superintending the packing of his various possessions. This was his last night in the Albany, so much had to be done. Albert, his valet, was moving here and there with dapper, noiseless steps, folding, arranging, pressing down, strapping, and locking. Albert was, on the whole, a good valet. He was punctual, obsequious, diplomatic, and only stole odd sixpences and shillings—for his was a mean little nature, content with little thefts.
Albert put up with abuse that no honest man would have listened to in silence. Therefore he suited Jefferson. True, he had no respect whatever for his master, but Jefferson paid him more liberally than, say, a military gentleman would have done, so he stayed on with Jefferson, wore his left-off suits, annexed his small change, and was quite contented with himself in his negative, unambitious way.
Harold, this evening, was in a high good-humour. Everything had fallen out as he had desired that it should do. He was marrying a lovely girl, and would be envied for his prize far and wide. He would dress her in the prettiest attire obtainable for money, deck her out in costly jewels, and constantly bask in the reflected glory of her beauty. When they came back, he promised himself he would take precious good care she didn’t pay many calls at No. 9, or have her starveling relations to see her more than twice a year.
At ten o’clock Albert, having completed his tasks, left the Albany. At eleven Jefferson was due at a farewell supper party which was to be given in his honour that night by some of his bachelor friends at the famous Whittingham restaurant, where they charge you eighteen-pence simply for hanging your hat up. The price of food and wine, reckoned on a similar scale, may be imagined. But then, Mr Jefferson and his friends set little store by a meal that did not cost them about six times more than it was worth.
Harold had adjusted his tie and put on his overcoat, preparatory to sallying forth, when there came a knock at his door. Albert having departed, he was obliged to answer the summons himself.
“Mr Maybury!”
Harold’s tone smacked more of surprise than cordiality.
“Yes, I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Jefferson, but my errand is an important one. May I come in?”
“Of course, of course! I am afraid I cannot ask you to stay very long, as I have to be at the Whittingham at eleven. Some of my friends are giving me a send-off. Will you have a glass of champagne?”
“No, thank you.”
“A cigar, then?”
“Again, no, thank you. Such things would not harmonise with my errand, for I have come, Mr Jefferson, to break some very unpleasant news to you.”
“I hope nothing is wrong with Dora?”
“My visit concerns Dora. To come to the point at once, I am afraid that this marriage arranged for to-morrow cannot take place.”
Jefferson stared at him aghast.
“In the name of goodness—why not?”
Jefferson had seated himself on the table, one slippered foot just touching the floor. Mr Maybury walked up to him.
“I am exceedingly sorry to have to bring you this news. Believe me, I feel for your position. The truth of the matter is, Dora loves another man, and therefore it would be most wrong on my part to allow your marriage with her to take place.”
Jefferson stared at his visitor in amazement
“Are you quite sober, sir?” he demanded.
“Yes, I am absolutely sober.”
“Then allow me to tell you that you are talking so much tomfoolery! Of course the marriage must take place! How on earth can you have allowed yourself to come here with such a suggestion? I suppose Dora is in a state of nervousness that borders on hysteria and so has got some foolish fancy into her head that she doesn’t like me enough. For Heaven’s sake, man, go home and reason with her, and don’t delay me any longer with such a wild-goose tale.”
The ex-merchant regarded Jefferson with a cool and resolute gaze.
“This is not a wild-goose tale. Dora is not hysterical. Nor is this a foolish fancy of hers. She prefers young Mortimer to you, and it would be an unpardonable crime on my part to allow her to marry you.”
“Mortimer!—that bounder!”
“She loves Mortimer—and he is not, I may add, a bounder. He is as good a gentleman as I have ever met.”
The situation was getting serious. Jefferson took off his overcoat and lit a cigarette. Then—by way of steadying his own nerves—he mixed himself a whisky and soda. Finally he came to a halt opposite his visitor, and as he did so his lips set in an ugly and determined line.
“Now, look here, Maybury,” he said, blowing a column of smoke ceilingwards, “let us talk sense. Dora likes this Mortimer—I have known that for a long time. To-night his name is in every mouth—yes, I have read in the evening papers of what he has done. And so it suddenly occurs to her that she would prefer to be the wife of a brilliant young surgeon rather than of a—well, of a not very brilliant young stockbroker.”
Mr Maybury held up his hand, but Jefferson would not be silenced.
“She comes to you in tears, declaring she cannot marry me. You, not knowing women as I do, are convinced by her tears, and come straight off to me to say the marriage can’t take place. You are, if you will excuse me for saying so, a fool. I will marry Dora to-morrow, and afterwards I will prove to you that I am as good a man as any common cad of a surgeon you may please to take into your house as a lodger!”
Jefferson’s eyes were blazing with fury. The whisky had done its work.
“I have already told you,” returned Mr Maybury, in even, quiet tones, “that I feel very much for you. The abandonment of this match will put you in a very awkward position, but I must repeat that the marriage cannot and shall not take place.”
“And I say,” shouted Jefferson, “that I will not be bested by Mortimer. He shall not marry Dora. I look to her to keep her promise. Mortimer shall never have her!”
“No, he never will,” said Mr Maybury.
“What! You said just now that she prefers him to me!”
“She will never marry him,” Mr Maybury resumed, “because in all probability he will be dead within four-and-twenty hours!”
“Dead!” Jefferson’s face lit up with renewed hope.
“Yes, he has been severely mauled by a gang of Hooligans. The medical man who has seen him declares that his case is hopeless.”
Jefferson did not speak for a few moments. Then he burst into a laugh.
“I see—I see it all! Mortimer is brought in unconscious, and Dora promptly faints. She is inclined to be sentimental, as I know. And so you come here and tell me I mustn’t marry her. Did ever man set out on such a preposterous errand? My good Maybury, I shall be at the church to-morrow, and if you and your daughter are not there you will never set foot in my office again.”
“We shall certainly not be there,” replied Mr Maybury.
“We shall see. You’ve got a night to sleep on it. My father is ill, and is away on the Continent. I am head of the firm during his absence. Fail to keep your contract to-morrow afternoon, and you need never show your face in my office again. Were my father in London he would support me, for he will not see me insulted in this manner. I will telegraph to him, if you like.”
“You need not do that,” said Mr Maybury, moving towards the door; “I accept my dismissal at your hands.”
Jefferson laughed again. “I really think you cannot be quite sober. Just reflect on what you are doing. Can you afford to throw up your job with us?”
Mr Maybury turned fiercely upon the young man. “Afford! Listen to me, Mr Jefferson. My child’s happiness is to me a matter of higher importance than my post in your firm. I am a poor man—Heaven knows!—and want every penny I earn as your book-keeper, but that fact will not deter me from doing what I conceive to be my duty. I say my child shall not marry you.”
And without another word Dora’s father turned on his heel and went his way.