Chapter VIII: Major Cypress Goes Off the Deep End

I

This story has no point. No story that has anything to do with Hugo Cypress could have a point, for Hugo is an utterly pointless man. Dear Hugo....

I have known him since he was so high, and as I was also so high, I know him well. I could tell you of many little happenings, just to show you the sort of man he was, but one in particular, a martial one, vividly occurs to me. It was in the third year of the war, and I had been shoved into the War Office, because of a personal application of that great scientific truth to the effect that two things cannot be in the same place at once, particularly if one of them happens to be a German shell; and, one day, Hugo called. His arm was in a sling and a light was in his eye. Dear Hugo....

“Show me,” said Hugo, “a man who will give me a job of work.”

I showed him old Tornado Toby--officially known as Major-General Sir Tobias Blast, K.C.M.G., D.S.O., M.V.O., O.U. D.S., etc. I stood in a far corner, and was very silent.

“What d’you want?” said Sir Toby.

“Job of work, sir.”

“Where?”

“Commission going to Iraq, sir.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know, sir. But it’s going.”

“Idiot. Why d’you want the job?”

“Chap must have a job of work, sir.”

Tornado Toby looked him over contemptuously, and his eye roved from the crown on Hugo’s shoulder-strap to the bits of ribbon on Hugo’s sleeve and the light in Hugo’s eye.

“What’s the matter with you as you are?”

“Fired out, sir. Sick.”

Sir Toby’s eye at last came to rest on Hugo’s disabled arm. He drew a blank form towards him. I played about with a cigarette-case.

“You can smoke,” he snarled. “What are they?”

“Virginian, sir.”

“Pah! You can’t smoke.”

He looked at Hugo.

“Sit down, Major.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir Toby poised pencil over paper.

“Education?”

“None, sir.”

“Where were you educated?”

“Nowhere, sir.”

“Idiot. Where were you at school?”

“Eton, sir.”

“Shake,” said Sir Toby.

They shook.

“What qualifications for this job in Iraq? Think before you answer.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hugo thought.

“Can’t think of any, sir,” he said at last.

“Languages? French?”

“Very guarded, sir.”

“Can you live on your pay?”

“Live on anything, sir.”

“Hum! Any private means?”

“Very private, sir. Never seen them.”

“How d’you live in London, then?”

“Pretty well, sir.”

Hugo got that job, and in 1919 he came back to England, very bronzed and lean and gay. But the gaiety did not last very long.

Now Hugo, in the days of his first youth, had been consumed by an ambition to be regarded as the kind of man to whom no chaste woman should be allowed to speak. But nothing ever came of that, he never even succeeded in persuading a chaste woman to cut him; wherefore in the course of time he came to think of himself as a poor harmless idiot who was liked by every one and loved by none. “Dear Hugo,” people said. That was all right in its way, said Hugo, but he was not so young as he had been and it got, he said, on his nerves a bit....

Soon after he had returned from the Near East, and when the gaiety had worn off, he discovered a pressing desire to Settle Down. And he cast a keen eye round and about the fair land of Britain, and behold! he saw Miss Shirley St. George--and, still worse, got it into his head that she had seen him. Immediately, he fell in love with Miss Shirley St. George. He had, of course, no money: she had no money. He proposed to her: she refused him. He begged: she laughed. “Dear Hugo,” she said.

II

Now Miss Shirley St. George was little sister to George Tarlyon, whom I think I’ve told you about.

One morning Hugo arose from his bed in the chambers, which he could not afford, and directed the valet, whom he could not afford, to send this telephone message: “Major Cypress desires to see Lord Tarlyon at his club at once.”

“Lord Tarlyon,” came the answer, “will see Major Cypress at Lord Tarlyon’s club at Lord Tarlyon’s convenience, and desires Major Cypress to stand at attention when speaking to him.”

There are many clubs in Saint James’s Street, but there is one in particular, towards the northern part, much referred to by biographers of persons of _ton_ of more elegant times. Thither, that morning at a reasonable hour, went Major Cypress, very thoughtfully. Tarlyon was there. Tarlyon was always there, at a reasonable hour.

“Bronx or Martini, Hugo?”

“Sherry, thanks.”

“Nice morning, Hugo. Up late last night?”

“No,” said Major Cypress. “No. I was not up late last night, George. And if you really want to know, I think it is a very classy morning.”

“Well,” said Tarlyon, “you can’t say fairer than that, old man.”

Silence....

“Sir,” said Major Cypress, “have I your permission to pay my addresses to your little sister with a view to a matrimonial entanglement?”

“Ho!” said Tarlyon.

“What the devil do you mean by saying ‘Ho!’ when I ask you if I can pay my----”

“You can pay her what you like,” said Tarlyon sulkily.

“I thank you,” said Hugo.

“But,” said Tarlyon, “can you pay her anything at all? Major Cypress, are you in a position to support a wife?”

“Well, I never!” gasped Hugo. “I’m on half-pay, man!”

“Ho!” said Tarlyon. “I withdraw my consent. I hate to be unkind to majors, but I’m afraid I must. How are you going to live, man?”

“Can’t worry about cheques in Paradise, George.”

“Good for you, old Hugo! Very pretty. Bronx or Martini?”

“Sherry, thanks. George, you don’t know what love is....”

“Keep nothing from me, Hugo. What is love? Ah, what is love? I insist on being told....”

“Love,” said Hugo, “is proposing to Shirley five times in five months and being rejected five times in five months.... O God!”

“What did the girl say?”

“Say! She laughed at me, George. Five times running! ‘Dear Hugo....’ That’s what she said!”

“Poor old Hugo!”

“She said, George, that she could never, never marry me....”

“Well, damn it, man, you didn’t take that lying down, did you! And you a Major!”

“I took it lightly, George. I smiled. I distinctly remember smiling. O God!”

“I _am_ so sorry, Hugo! I really am, you know. Honestly, old man, I’d sooner have you for a brother-in-law than any man alive--except, perhaps, a Rockefeller.”

“Money, George, isn’t everything.”

“You’re right there, old man. Your money is completely nothing, anyhow. What’s your next step? Orchids?”

“I am no good at those Dago tricks, George.”

“Shirley’s very partial to carnations, old man.”

“No, George. Not even carnations. She’d laugh at me. She’d say ‘dear Hugo’....”

“Well, old man, you might go further and hear worse. It’s purple carnations she’s especially fond of it, by the way.”

“George, I’m going to try just once again--without carnations. Just once more, old man. And I thought I’d get your backing.”

“Full and square, Hugo, it’s with you. The cheek of that girl! Shall I ring her up and....”

“For God’s sake, don’t! But you’re a good fellow, George.... I say, if she refuses me again I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Have a drink, old man. Bronx, sherry, or Martini?”

“No more, thanks.”

“Well, best of luck, old man!”

“Thank you, George. Good-bye.”

“See you this evening?”

“Look here, old man, I don’t want to be dramatic and all that, but you may never see me again.” And Hugo was stone-cold serious. He was probably the most serious man in England at that moment. “Good-bye, old man. Thanks so much.”

“Just a moment.” And George Tarlyon went to the writing-table, rapidly wrote a short note, and put the envelope into Hugo’s hand.

“Give that to Shirley,” said he. But Hugo looked suspicious.

“It’s about the theatre to-night,” explained Tarlyon. “I’m taking her to _Loyalties_, to improve her mind.”

“Ah,” said Hugo. “_Loyalties!_ Ah! Jew play. Very improving.” Hugo thought weightily.

“Look here,” said Hugo, “you know about these things--you were born to be a co-respondent, George. Got any tips to give a chap?”

“There’s only one, old Hugo--take ’em young and treat ’em rough. Hairy, primitive man business, you know. ‘Come here, woman, and I’ll learn you’ stuff. But it works better with some than with others, and it’s rather risky. You might try giving her a thick ear, though--only in fun, of course. Cat playing with mouse _motif_. Tender brutality’s your line, Hugo. Many a good woman’s been won by a little tender brutality tastefully applied. Just put it to her gently that you’ll give her a thick ear unless she accepts you. You can always lead the conversation to ears, somehow.... Well, good-bye. Luck, Hugo. Hey, don’t forget your hat!”

III

Miss Shirley St. George lived with her aunt in Audley Square, Tarlyon saying that he was no fit person for a young girl to live with, and the aunt agreeing. They adored each other, George and Shirley.

Towards Audley Square walked Major Cypress, very thoughtfully. Piccadilly had to be crossed, from the new Wolsely building to Mr. Solomon’s, the florist. Piccadilly was crossed, miraculously, for the traffic was thick, though genial. A newsboy yelled, “Execution of Erskine Childers” into his ear.

“Boy,” said Major Cypress, “you must not do that. You must not gloat on death like that, and before perfect strangers, too. And, besides, though you may not have shared Mr. Childers’s political opinions, you must admit that he did not die meanly. Here’s a shilling for you, and don’t let me hear you talking so much about executions in future.”

Major Cypress then walked away a pace or two, and stood before the flower-laden windows of Mr. Solomon. The boy watched him.

“Balmy,” said the boy.

“Mysterious disappearance of Child!” yelled the boy.

“Damn it,” thought Major Cypress. “I am in love. Oh, damn it!”

And he stared into the flower-laden windows of Mr. Solomon. Orchids there were therein, yellow and mauve and speckled. Roses, little, tight autumn roses. Pink and white anemones, hyacinths and jonquils, white Dutch lilacs and fat chrysanthemums in white and bronze. And there were carnations--right in the middle of that pageant was a splash of purple carnations.

“Carnations,” thought Major Cypress. “And, in particular, purple carnations. But that is not a proper way for an Englishman to win a wife. A little tender brutality is the way. But how to be tenderly brutal? Hell, I wish I was a Frenchman! A gardenia, on the other hand, may not come amiss. I will wear a gardenia. It will give me an air of high-minded depravity, which, they say, is attractive to young women.”

Major Cypress entered within, and in due course was served with a gardenia.

“For your button-hole, sir?”

“I suppose so,” said Major Cypress. “But not so much vegetable matter with it, please. I want a gardenia, not a garden. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir. Nice morning, sir.”

“I doubt it,” said Major Cypress.

He wandered westwards, past the Berkeley. The commissionaire at the restaurant doors saluted him. Hugo liked that, and always rather sought it. Tarlyon was of opinion that the commissionaire probably mistook him for some one who had once tipped him, but Hugo said that that was not the point, while to be saluted by commissionaires on Piccadilly was a thing that happened only to very few people.

IV

At last, very thoughtfully, he came to the house in Audley Square. As he rang, a clock struck one and gave him an idea.

“I will ask her to luncheon at Claridge’s,” he thought. “It will be a good opening.”

Major Cypress waited in the drawing-room for quite a long time. He paced about. The floor was of parquet, mostly uncovered, and so his feet made a noise. He sat down.

“You again!” cried Shirley.

“How are you, Shirley?”

“I refuse to tell you, Hugo. I am tired of telling you. Don’t I look well?”

“Hum,” said Hugo. He could never answer questions like that.

Shirley came near. She was in a sort of bronze dress of _crêpe marocain_, and her throat glowed very white. Her face Major Cypress did not actually look at, it tempted him so exceedingly. Shirley smiled.

“I will tell you,” she smiled, “what you have come to do, Hugo. You have come to take me out to lunch.”

“I do wish,” said Hugo, “that you would get out of that nasty habit of calling ‘luncheon’ lunch. Lunch sounds like a glass of milk and a digestive biscuit.”

“Dear Hugo!”

“Look here, Shirley, don’t ever say that again!”

Shirley was very near, and her white hands were somehow like white flowers. But at her face he did not look.

“Dea----”

“Don’t!” he roared.

Now Shirley was twenty and tall and straight and fair, and when she laughed you saw why servants were polite to her on sight. And oh, she was such a pretty girl!

“Hugo,” she said, “you are going to propose to me again.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” she said, “you are. And if you say you are not, then you are a liar, and I don’t like liars.”

Then something happened to Hugo Cypress; and, after all, he was thirty-four, and she only twenty. He glared down at Shirley St. George, and from his mouth issued reasonable and critical noises, as befitted a man of thirty-four who has offered his hand five times running to a slip of a girl of twenty.

“Shirley,” he said, “listen to me. You are a very pretty young lady. I have so far been so shy with you that I have not been able to tell you how beautiful I think you are----”

“Thank you, Hugo,” she said very softly. And she tempted him exceedingly, but he continued on his manly way, glaring at a point half-way between her right ear and her left shoulder.

“Nor have I been able to tell you, Shirley, how I love you. That was because I was shy--but I have now finished with being shy. I adore you so frightfully, my dear, that I have made myself a carpet for you to walk on. And you have taken advantage of me, that’s what you’ve done. Carpets get frayed. You have treated me, Shirley, exactly as a heartless, meretricious woman of thirty might treat an infatuated soap-manufacturer. That is, perhaps, because you are used to men being in love with you, and know that they will love you all the more the worse you treat them. Perhaps you are right, Shirley. But I can’t bear it any more, and so I am now going to leave this building and your life....” And Hugo went towards the door with a firm step.

“You’re not going, Hugo!” It was a cry.

“I am indeed, Shirley. Good-bye. And God bless you.”

“Oh, dear, every man says ‘God bless you!’” cried Shirley. “It is the most final and most bitter thing they can say, for they say it with a prayer to the devil in their hearts. Go away, Hugo Cypress. I hate you.”

“That’s why I am saying good-bye, Shirley.”

“But surely you can’t go without proposing to me for the sixth and last time!” And that was a cry.

Hugo opened the door; and he smiled, in a sort of way.

“I thought I couldn’t, Shirley--but I find I can.”

“But you can’t, you simply can’t!” she cried. “Why, I came down to see you on the distinct understanding that you were going to propose to me for the sixth and last time and only _then_ going away for ever! Hugo, you can’t do one without the other--it’s not fair!”

“Don’t worry, little Shirley. The day is yet young, and some one else is sure to propose to you in the course of it. You will observe, my dear, that I am being cynical, after the manner of all rejected young men.”

“But, Hugo, I want _you_ to--for the sixth and last time, dear, just to see what I’ll say!” And she tempted him exceedingly with her sun-lit face.

“That’s just it, Shirley. I know what you’ll say. Good-bye.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Shirley. “How awful men are! And how d’you know what I’ll say, Hugo? You are a clever chap, aren’t you? Are you a psycho-analyst, Hugo? Can you tell what is passing in a woman’s mind by looking at her instep? And for heaven’s sake don’t go on standing in that doorway looking like a draught!”

“Sorry, Shirley.” And Hugo faded away round the angle of the door and was closing it behind him.

“Hugo, how dare you go like that!” And that was the most frantic cry of all; and Hugo’s face reappeared round the angle of the door, and it was a rather bewildered face.

“Well, damn it, my dear, I must go somehow!”

“Yes, but you know very well you can’t live without me--don’t you, Hugo? Now answer truthfully, Hugo.”

“Well, you know, since you came in this morning, I’ve been thinking it over----”

“But how awful you are to admit that you can think of anything when you’re with Shirley!”

“There you go!” he cried harshly. “Making a fool of me!”

“But, my darling, I must make someth----”

“What was that you said?” he snapped.

“Have you gone mad? Didn’t you hear me?”

“Child, did you or did you not call me ‘darling’?”

“Why, so I did!--I’m so sorry, Hugo....”

Hugo Cypress advanced across the room and towered above Shirley St. George.

“Are you playing the fool, Shirley?”

“I am playing for time, my darling--lunch-time. Luncheon-time, I mean.”

She giggled.

Now Shirley was not given to giggling....

No one had ever seen Shirley carrying an umbrella, and no one had ever heard Shirley giggling.

“Ho!” muttered Major Cypress.

“Don’t gargle in my aunt’s drawing-room, Hugo!”

“I’m thinking, Shirley.”

“Don’t think!” she cried sharply.

“Well,” he began, and stopped.

“Wipe your forehead, dear; you’re rather hot.”

Hugo wiped his forehead.

“Look here, Shirley, supposing--just supposing--that I so far forget myself as to prop----”

“Oh, Hugo!” And she clapped her hands--little Shirley! “You must! For the sixth and last time ... just to make it even numbers!”

Hugo’s face was as white as his gardenia.

“For the sixth and last time, Shirley, will you marry me?”

As she stood, with the palms of her hands pressed down on the table and her little face thrown back, she was like a dove, still and absorbed. She was absorbed in something that was Hugo, yet in something that was much more than Hugo. And then her lips trembled a little; they whispered:

“Oh, Hugo, I have been such a beast! But you are so sweet that I simply couldn’t help it!”

He didn’t understand.

But he understood when suddenly she crooked an arm around his neck and brought his face down to hers, and he saw that her eyes were wet....

“My God!” he said, and kissed her bravely.

“Of course,” she whispered. “Of course....”

“No, not like that,” she whispered. “Not as though I were your sister. I beg you to observe that I am not your sister. Yes, properly, dear. Oh, I do like you frightfully, Hugo....”

Then quite a lot of things happened at the same time; and then he cried:

“But why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I didn’t realise, my darling. I didn’t know I loved you--and how can a girl know a thing like that? Oh, Hugo, you are so sweet! What fun to have you for keeps! And it will be nice to chew bits of you now and then--oh, what fun we’ll have! Dear Hugo....”

“And you said, Shirley, that you would never, never marry me!”

“I didn’t know myself, dear--nor you! Until, after the fifth time, when you went away saying that you would never come back. And then I was very sorry, Hugo.”

“Oh, by the way,” he said, “here’s a note from George--about taking you to _Loyalties_ to-night.”

She read the note.

“Oh!” she said.

“What does he say?” he asked.

She tore up the note.

“Only that he’s got a box for _Loyalties_, and that I may ask whom I like----”

“Thanks so much, Shirley. I’d love to come. It will improve my mind.”

Now this was the note from George Tarlyon to his little sister, Shirley St. George:

“Shirley, how dare you go about London refusing to marry such of my friends, if any, who ask you? ‘Never, never,’ indeed! Remember, Shirley, that there’s only one bigger lie than ‘never, never,’ and that is ‘always, always.’”

“Oh!” thought Shirley. “Fat lot he knows about it!” But all the same, she never said ‘always, always’; she just thought it.

The rest of this story is quite uninteresting, for Hugo and Shirley were happy ever after: which is, unfortunately, more than most people are, what with first one thing and then another....