IX.
Turning from the door he marched steadily across the hall towards the stairs to arouse George.
At the lowermost step a movement on the landing above made him pause. He was to be spared the trouble. Placing the candle upon a table he looked up. He spoke. “George!”
“Wash it?” said a voice. “Wash it?”
“Wash nothing,” Mr. Marrapit commanded. “Who is this?”
The answer, starting low, ascended a shrill scale: “Wash it? Wash it? Wash it?”
“Silence!” Mr. Marrapit answered. “Descend!”
He craned upwards. The curl-papered head of Mrs. Major poked at him over the banisters.
“Darling,” breathed Mrs. Major. “Darling—um!”
“Mrs. Major! What is this?”
“Thash what I want to know,” said Mrs. Major coquettishly. “Wash it? Wash ish it?”
“You are distraught, Mrs. Major. Have no fear. To your room.”
The curl-papered head waggled. Mrs. Major beamed. “Darling. Darling—um!”
“Exercise control,” Mr. Marrapit told her. “Banish apprehension. There are thieves; but we are alert.”
The head withdrew. Mrs. Major gave a tiny scream: “Thieves!” She took a brisk little run down the short flight which gave from where she stood; flattened against the wall that checked her impulse; pressed carefully away from it; stood at the head of the stairs facing Mr. Marrapit.
He gazed up. “I fear you have been walking in your sleep, Mrs. Major.”
Mrs. Major did not reply. She pointed a slippered toe at the stair below her; swayed on one leg; dropped to the toe; steadied; beamed at Mr. Marrapit; and in a high treble coquettishly announced, “One!”
Mr. Marrapit frowned: “Retire, Mrs. Major.”
Mrs. Major plumped another step, beamed again: “Two!”
“You dream. Retire.”
Mrs. Major daintily lifted her skirt; poised again. The projected slipper swayed a dangerous circle. Mrs. Major alarmingly rocked. That infamous Old Tom presented three sets of banisters for her support; she clutched at one; it failed her; “Three four five six seven eight nine ten—darling!” she cried; at breakneck speed plunged downwards, and with the “Darling!” flung her arms about Mr. Marrapit's neck.
Back before the shock, staggering beneath the weight, Mr. Marrapit went with digging heels. They could not match the pace of that swift blow upon his chest. Its backward speed outstripped them. With shattering thud he plumped heavily to his full length upon the floor; Mrs. Major pressed him to earth.
But that shock was a whack on the head for Old Tom that temporarily quieted him. “What has happened?” Mrs. Major asked, clinging tightly.
Mr. Marrapit gasped: “Release my neck. Remove your arms.”
“Where are we?”
“You are upon my chest. I am prone beneath you. Release!”
“It's all dark,” Mrs. Major cried; gripped firmer.
“It is not dark. I implore movement. Our juxtaposition unnaturally compromises us. It is abhorrent.”
Mrs. Major opened the eyes she had tightly closed during that staggering journey and that shattering fall. She loosed her clutch; got to her knees; thence tottered to a chair. That infamous Old Tom raised his head again; tickled her brain with misty fingers.
Mr. Marrapit painfully rose. He put a sympathetic hand upon the seat of his injury; with the other took up the candle. He regarded Mrs. Major; suspiciously sniffed the air, pregnant with strange fumes; again regarded his late burden.
Upon her face that infamous Old Tom set a beaming smile,
“Follow me, Mrs. Major,” Mr. Marrapit commanded; turned for the dining-room; from its interior faced about upon her.
With rare dignity the masterly woman slowly arose; martially she poised against the hat-rack; with stately mien marched steadily towards him.
Temporarily she had the grip of Old Tom—was well aware, at least, of his designs upon her purity, and superbly she combated him.
With proud and queenly air she drew on—Mr. Marrapit felt that the swift suspicion which had taken him had misjudged her.
Mrs. Major reached the mat. Old Tom gave a playful little twitch of her legs, and she jostled the doorpost.
With old-world courtesy she bowed apology to the post. “Beg pardon,” she graciously murmured; stood swaying.