Part 3

“I fear I am intruding——”

“Tut! tut! Come and have a peg. Just time! Were you in Kandahar when——” etc., etc.

And the pair, arm-in-arm, drifted off together—more strangely met than any two the classic muse has sung. O’Hagan’s reluctance in a degree was sincere, for he had formed a strong attachment for the Major at sight and would not gladly have inconvenienced him. But, on the other hand, no human power, save of course physically superior force, could have moved him from that house until his scrupulous honour was satisfied. Had his host proved of a different kidney, then O’Hagan patiently would have patrolled the neighbourhood until the reappearance of his man.

It is recorded, O’Hagan will tell you, that his ancestor Patrick, sometime of the Musketeers of Louis XIII., on one occasion waited for eight hours in the snow outside the hotel of the Duchesse de C——, in order to reprimand an unknown nobleman who had trodden on his corn. But within eight minutes from the time of the gentleman’s coming out, Patrick O’Hagan had aroused the concierge of the Hotel de C—— to take him in again, summoned a surgeon, summoned a priest, summoned an undertaker, and reported for duty at the Louvre. A bloody ancestor for any man.

My friend’s code, then, is peculiar, but iron-bound. He scrupulously avoided the topic of Mr. Repton with his host; but when, later, Mrs. Lestrange, the Major’s sister, came in to dinner on the arm of Captain O’Hagan, the countenance of Repton would have served as model for a Notre Dame gargoyle.

The Major, too, had been whispering to one man: “_The_ O’Hagan! You recall the incident at so-and-so?” And to another: “O’Hagan, V.C.! One of the O’Hagan’s of Dunnamore!” To a girl: “You must have read how the Boers ambushed a company of the So-and-So’s at So-and-So? Kipling has written about it! Well, this is Captain O’Hagan, who,” etc., etc.

So that, altogether, my friend has assured me that he recalls no more enjoyable evening. His conversation is always brilliant, but on this occasion, I gather, he surpassed himself. All eyes were fixed upon the handsome, debonair visitant from an older world of romance; for O’Hagan is at heart a Musketeer. Moira Cumberley in particular found him wholly entrancing; and each glance of her bright eyes which rested upon the cavalierly figure, likewise poured gall and wormwood into two souls. One of these souls was the sombre soul of Repton; the other was the joyous but hungry soul of a certain Mr. Bruce McIvor.

(“I could see how the wind blew,” O’Hagan will explain. “McIvor was the favoured swain, and naturally enough; for he was a fine lad and descended from Robert Bruce. When, later in the evening, I was presented to Mrs. Cumberley—Moira’s mother—I discovered the fly in the ointment. Repton had money—but no blood, my boy; no family—and poor McIvor, though he could trace back to Bruce, was a mere free-lance journalist. Mrs. Cumberley also lacked breed, but worshipped Pluto. She had banned the McIvor and encouraged Repton. I saw my course plainly.”)

When my friend Bernard O’Hagan sees his course plainly, there are squalls a-brewing for any unhappy wight who queries the Captain’s navigation.

—————

III. NATURAL SELECTION.

Moira sat out a dance with O’Hagan in the conservatory. Needless to say, the Captain does not dance. McIvor’s sighful acknowledgment of the girl’s disappearance rose above the music. Repton’s Mephistophelian glare pierced palm and fern. But Moira blushed, and settled down _tête-à-tête_.

“My dear little girl,” said O’Hagan blandly, “you are so very pretty and charming, that I am going to talk to you seriously about your lovers.”

Moira gasped as the amazing Captain took her hand and patted it paternally. Without preamble he had placed the conversation upon a thrilling level. It was a unique experience, but she rather liked it.

“Now, I sincerely hope you do not care for Mr. Repton,” continued O’Hagan; “because late to-night or early to-morrow morning I propose to pull his nose!”

“Oh!” said Moira. But the language of her eloquent eyes added: “Do him good!”

“He has asked you to marry him?”

(A rebellious glance).

“Has he not?”

(Slight nod).

“You have not yet given him your answer?”

(Head-shake).

“I am glad of that; because I want you to marry Bruce McIvor,” explained O’Hagan judicially.

“Indeed!” snapped Moira, with a mutinous shrug of pretty shoulders.

“Yes,” said O’Hagan. “I will tell you why. He is a handsome, fine man, and one of a brave and ancient race. He loves you in a way altogether different from Repton’s way.”

“Has he told you so?”—frigidly.

“No. I have not had an opportunity to speak to him yet! But it is so. With the stimulus of your affection, Moira, with the chance of such a prize as you, he will go far. I understand men of family, my dear, and I tell you that Bruce is a splendid fellow. As for you, Moira, I can only say that I should like to marry you, myself! But since that is impossible, I want it to be Bruce.”

He was curiously impersonal; a kind of directing Beneficence which from an Olympic height smoothed the tangled skeins of lesser lives. But there was a finality in his pronouncements against whose thrall the girl fought stubbornly with all the armoury of her woman-soul. For another than Bernard O’Hagan thus to have championed McIvor must have spelled ruin for McIvor’s cause; but if O’Hagan had been pressing the suit of an unknown, and not that of one towards whom the girl was predisposed favourably, his advocacy must have told. Moira experienced a sense of weakness; later, of absolute futility.

Once submit to the yoke of O’Hagan’s regal patronage, and you are lost. You become a mere pawn. His majestic interference is a stupendous force.

Mr. Repton appeared to claim a dance.

Muffled thunder seemed to be called for and a little incidental music in the form of a sustained chord in G minor.

“I have been having a chat with Moira, sir,” said O’Hagan, haughtily, rising as Repton entered.

The muscles of Repton’s jaws stood out, lumpish.

“We have decided,” continued the cool voice, “that your suit must be withdrawn! It is distasteful to Moira—and distasteful to me!”

Repton’s face, in the dimness, showed a greyish white. He swallowed noisily—and took a step towards Captain O’Hagan. Moira clutched at the Captain’s arm. She did not fully realise what had happened. Only she knew that this strange man, who half fascinated and half frightened her, had precipitated a climax in her life; had, from no personal motive that she could fathom—unless antipathy from Repton and friendliness to a descendant of Bruce—brought her love affairs violently to a head.

Resentment found place in her heart. Captain O’Hagan was a mere chance acquaintance. Yet—wondrous, expansively human O’Hagan!—she gladly sank her individuality in the overflowing lake of his own and was not philosopher enough to know the source of her contentment. Repton had been very attentive, had spent his money lavishly, but he had been more exacting than his position warranted. What a pity that Bruce was so poor!

For the world (so Moira’s mother taught) was ruled by a gilded Providence with a rod of iron: a rod of iron tipped with a magical talisman—a bright new sovereign.

Mr. Repton achieved speech.

“Is it—true . . . what this . . . ruffian . . . says?”

“I note that you call me a ruffian, sir,” said O’Hagan icily.

Moira Cumberley was trembling.

“I am—awfully sorry,” she answered, speaking with difficulty, “that this has come about. Don’t think I want to be bad friends, Mr. Repton. I want us to be friends always. But——”

“She cannot entertain marriage with a man whose nose I shall pull in the morning!” concluded O’Hagan. “I have other plans for her future. Your card, sir—and you may go!”

Is there another living could have framed such a speech?—another who could have carried such a situation in such a manner? I challenge you to produce him.

Repton turned on his heel. Of words he was bereft again; action was impossible.

—————

IV. AT FIG TREE COURT. I.

Captain O’Hagan entered my rooms whilst I was at breakfast—hatless, as is his custom; debonair, as he cannot fail to be. His presence has the curious effect of changing relative values. His individuality absorbs: one can no longer describe the scene: the scene is Captain O’Hagan. As he lounges upon the blue Chesterfield, with that odd pose of the hip which suggests that a rapier swings there, I often think that had he flourished contemporaneously with Velasquez he had surely inspired the artist to a supreme achievement. “Portrait of the Chevalier Bernard O’Hagan,” must have been counted the Spanish master’s _chef d’œuvre_.

“My dear Raymond, are you acquainted with a person of the name of Repton?”

“Sidney Repton, company promoter, newspaper proprietor, and so forth?”

“That will be the fellow! He gave me the slip last night! My position, as a guest, precluded the possibility of obtaining his address from another guest; and the fellow left without his hat. But his address was not in his hat. Where does he live?”

“39A, Fig Tree Court.”

“Will you come around with me?”

“For what, purpose?”

“I am going to pull his nose!”

“He will probably prosecute you!”

“I think not. But I am entirely at his service. And what about Bruce McIvor?”

“McIvor is a man of great promise. He has been unfortunate. He would make an ideal leader-writer. But he lacks the necessary influence to secure such a post.”

O’Hagan frowned thoughtfully.

“He lacks incentive, Raymond,” he said. “A man who can trace his ancestry to Robert Bruce requires no influence other than that of blood. Blood, my boy! that is the secret of success! When he is engaged to the girl he loves—the girl I have chosen for him—he will go far. Mark my words, Raymond; he will go far.”

“I was unaware that he was a friend of yours.”

“I have never spoken to him! But it is unnecessary. A leader-writer, you say? On behalf of an old-established and soundly Conservative organ, of course? Such vacancies, I take it, are rare?”

“Very rare. The leader-writer of the _Universe_ is about to become editor. That will create a vacancy. But poor McIvor is not in the running.”

“How is that?”

“Well—your friend, Repton, is a big shareholder—managing director. And Repton—for some reason—is no friend to McIvor.”

“The reason is evident to me, Raymond. But I am wasting time. I shall be too late to pull Repton’s nose; and, owing to other engagements, the pleasure would have to be unduly postponed if I missed him this morning. Are you ready?”

“My dear fellow, you really must excuse me!”

O’Hagan rose, picked up his cane as though it were a sword, swung his shoulders as though to adjust a bandolier, and sighed sadly.

“I am disappointed in you, Raymond. Your ancestor, who helped to hold Limerick, would be disappointed in you, too, I fear. You are tainted with the modern heresies which substitute the solicitor for the second, the divorce-court for the rapier. Good morning.”

The dignified displeasure of the Hon. Bernard O’Hagan is a dire penalty for any man to incur. The Captain retired from my rooms as who should say, “There is a plebeian strain somewhere here!” It was a Charles rebuking a Buckingham; save that the Buckingham was a sorry Villiers, and the Charles a credit to the house of Stuart.

Leaving me to my breakfast and my humiliation, proceed with O’Hagan to No. 39A, Fig Tree Court.

His loud and long ring upon the bell of Repton’s chambers brought that monied and harried bachelor in person to the door. Repton wore slippers and a dressing-gown. His pale, blonde face faded a tone upon recognition of his early caller. Some dread there was, mingled with the anger of a man used to the servility which Talent accords to Capital; for the calmly persistent and imperious truculence of Captain O’Hagan is awesome.

O’Hagan extended his arm and seized Repton’s prominent nose in a vice-grip.

Uttering a furious imprecation, Sidney Repton struck out at him. But a pupil of Shashu Myuku (Grand Master of the Higher Jiu-jitsu) is elusive as a marsh-light. There are not six Europeans, my friend has assured me, initiated in the occultry of Japanese super-force.

Repton’s fists met vacancy. Obedient to a power which, seemingly percolating from his nose through every nerve of his body, rendered him helpless—log-like—Repton dropped, panting, to his knees. O’Hagan thrust him prostrate, entered, and closed the door behind him. The feat apparently was performed effortless; such is the outstanding wonder of this science (called, I believe, _judo_).

“Police!” gasped the outraged man. “Help! _Police!_”

“Sir,” said O’Hagan sternly, “I should not exploit these arts upon a gentleman. But your whole conduct has shown me plainly that you are not one. However, I shall now resort to the ordinary methods employed to chastise an offensive churl.”

He removed, a light grey glove (imbrued with the blood of Repton), cast it contemptuously from him; and, as Repton rose, clutching the maltreated organ, O’Hagan grasped his heavy cane with unmistakable intent.

“Now,” said O’Hagan, standing on the threshold, “you will recall having referred to me as an ‘overdressed puppy’! I have yet to deal with you in regard to the offensive terms ‘lunatic,’ ‘ruffian,’ and ‘confounded policeman!’”

“Curse you! I’ll kill you!” panted Repton and crouched, looking up to O’Hagan with glaring, malignant eyes which, at that moment indeed, mirrored a murderous soul.

“I think not,” was the reply. “Others have attempted the feat; but I am here to-day, alive to resent insult.”

The other did not rise. Repton already was defeated. The business-like ferocity of O’Hagan, the absolute efficiency of his methods, caused to evaporate what remained of the quality vaguely labelled Courage, leaving only the brine of bitter anger and mortification.

“What do you want?” he said slowly, racking his muddled brains for a mode of retribution which should not render him ridiculous.

He stood up and backed toward his desk.

“Remain where you are!” directed O’Hagan, pointing his cane. “Attempt to reach any weapon, and I shall thrash you until I am tired!”

“I am unarmed,” muttered Repton sullenly. “You have a heavy stick.”

The situation was wildly bizarre—unlike anything within his experience; of which he had dreamed. The querulous voice did not seem his own.

O’Hagan placed his cane upon a chair, and raised the monocle.

“Do you contemplate an attack?” he asked, with a kind of pleased surprise.

Repton dropped into an armchair, and sank his face in his hands. His inflamed nose robbed the scene of a certain pathos which otherwise had found place there.

“You will sit at your desk,” said O’Hagan, “and write a note to the new editor of the _Universe_ informing him that Mr. Bruce McIvor will be his leader-writer.”

Repton was galvanised. He started up; clutched the chair-arms.

“I shall not! Your damned interference in my affairs——” His voice broke.

“Very well.” O’Hagan took up his cane. “The alternative is equally pleasing to me.”

“Look here!” Repton was on his feet again, hands twitching. “I’ve got no chance with you! You’re a bully!——”

“I warn you that I regard those words as a new insult. Indeed, that is the greatest insult of all. Should you term one a bully who sued you for slander?” O’Hagan’s eyes were bright. “Learn, that when you insult a gentleman, the choice of weapons is his! The law is a weapon for those who cannot fight their own battles, not for such as I!”

Ah! what would you have given to have heard him deliver that speech? But you cannot even picture him, head aloft, foot advanced; hear the ringing voice; quail before the flashing eye.

Repton wrote.

“Now, a letter to McIvor, giving him the appointment at the same salary as his predecessor.”

Repton grasped at the desk. The ferrule of O’Hagan’s cane tapped upon the writing-pad.

“At the same salary as his predecessor, Mr. Repton.”

The note was written.

“Ring up all your fellow-directors, or all whom you can,” ordered the Captain, “and tell them of this appointment.”

Repton hesitated. To comply was to burn his boats. The cane quivered in O’Hagan’s nervous grasp.

“It’s irregular. It may be annulled at Wednesday’s meeting.”

“If it is annulled I shall thrash you in public, when and where I next meet you. You will be at liberty to take what steps you please.”

Lifting the receiver from the hook, Sidney Repton made several calls, briefly communicating to those who ruled the _Universe_ that Mr. Bruce McIvor was a desirable acquisition to the literary staff. He was vanquished. In aught save exact compliance he saw ridicule—the contempt of Fleet Street.

He turned to O’Hagan, pale faced, eyes flaming. Words trembled unspoken upon his tongue.

“Stop!”

O’Hagan spoke the word imperiously, and raised his hand.

“You have bought immunity,” he continued, “in respect of your insults from ‘overdressed puppy’ to ‘bully.’ Any you may utter henceforward I shall deal with separately.”

He strode toward the door; turned in a flash . . . and struck a revolver out of Repton’s hand. Stooping, he picked it from the carpet.

“I shall consider my action in the matter of this murderous assault, Mr. Repton,” he said icily. “My behaviour will largely depend upon your own.”

He slipped the weapon into his pocket, and turned again. The door slammed behind him.

—————

II.

We caught Bruce McIvor just as he was about to go out. I think I have never seen a man quite so blankly amazed as he when the letter of appointment was placed in his hand. I am more or less accustomed to the various emotions expressed by the victims of O’Hagan’s extraordinary philanthropy; but McIvor was positively alarming. He seemed to be dazed.

I think he experienced that kind of sentiment which makes a Frenchman weep, intoxicates an Irishman, but chokes a Scotsman.

In the cab which O’Hagan had in waiting we were a silent trio. O’Hagan leant back humming a gay melody, whilst McIvor sat watching him as if he half expected him to vanish like some Arabian _ginn_.

Into a charming little villa we filed. McIvor’s nervousness was appalling. He kept close to my distinguished friend, and hung upon his words as though in them alone he hoped for salvation. In a pretty, _petite_ drawing-room we waited; the young Scot, seated on the edge of a chair, looking like a man on trial for murder; I hard put to it to preserve a serene countenance; and O’Hagan wandering from picture to picture, and surveying each through his uplifted monocle with the critical gaze of a connoisseur.

Then he turned the glass upon the door, drawing himself up with inimitable grandeur

Entered a very pretty girl, and a very prim lady, more mature; excellently but dryly, preserved.

McIvor rose and coughed and looked everywhere but straight before him. The pretty girl blushed frantically. The other lady stared, extending her hand to O’Hagan.

O’Hagan bowed. O’Hagan’s bow is a notable event.

His neat introductory speech ended with something to the effect that——

“My friend, Mr. Lawrence Raymond, would like to be counted among _your_ friends.”

I was acknowledged.

“I am delighted, Miss Cumberley,” he continued, linking his arm in that of McIvor and drawing him forward, “to present to you the new leader-writer of the _Universe_. Mrs. Cumberley—your future son-in-law. Congratulations!”

Can you picture the scene? I think not. Heavens! what a man! I take off my hat to Bernard O’Hagan.

EXPLOIT THE THIRD.

HE MEETS THE LEOPARD LADY.

EXPLOIT THE THIRD. HE MEETS THE LEOPARD LADY.

I. THE BOOM-MAKER.

My friend Captain O’Hagan frequently is misunderstood; his studied singularity of appearance is falsely ascribed to a desire for notoriety. Whereas he eschews and abominates publicity of any kind, and merely seeks to establish a visible distinction betwixt the aristocrat and the plebeian.

The ever-increasing facilities for airing one’s grievances in long primer, he contends, are destructive of that chaste reserve once characteristic of our race. I agree with O’Hagan. He declares that we love to be interviewed.

“Is it not true, Raymond,” he cries, “that for the sake of seeing her photograph (retouched) in the columns of a daily paper, Mrs. Brown-Jones will reveal to the blushing public the secret of her corsets? Does she not draw attention to the graceful contour of her form, and she (the mother of a family) take the man in the street into her confidence, imparting to him intimate particulars respecting her wardrobe which, if used indiscreetly, would prove most compromising?

“Alas, O’Hagan,” I reply, “it is so.”

He throws himself back in his chair, purple-lined cloak widely flying; picturesque, hatless head raised in scorn. He is the focus of a hundred gazes.

“A young lady,” he continues, “whom one might assume from her picture in the advertisement column to be not wholly destitute of modesty, will inform edified readers that ‘until Mrs. Hodge brought me a box of Nippo Ointment my face was one red mass of pimples!’ She will declare that formerly she was unable to sleep at night owing to the itching of her back!”

His scorn is terrible; superbly fearful. Advertisement is anathema.

We are seated in the Park, wherein at the moment no one else is talked of but my distinguished friend. Those who have the honour of his acquaintance acquire a new popularity with the less fortunate. Several countesses and a charming duchess have repassed us no fewer than nine times. But O’Hagan, serenely insensible to the admiration which he excites in so many bosoms, lounges regally aloof, as one upon a lofty minaret who scarce glances down to the throngs beneath him.

An author of “costume” romances passes. His studiously cultivated resemblance to Napoleon III. usually earns him a buzz of acknowledgment. This morning he moves amid the chill of unrecognition, and raises his prominent moustache fiercely and rudely as he glares at my companion, who usurps all homage.

“That fellow stares in an unwarrantable manner,” says O’Hagan; and taking my arm, he proceeds in the same direction.

We overtake the author, despite my lagging footsteps; for I perceive that my friend is bent upon some extravagant act.

“Pardon me, sir!”

The author turns, glaring.

“But are you connected with the house of Buonaparte?”

The author, puzzled, faintly gratified:

“Not directly, sir. But what——”

“I regret that, sir. I cherish an antipathy from the family which I may term hereditary. Your reply deprives me of the pleasure of trimming your _moustachios_!”

The man is stricken speechless. It is such an encounter as he has portrayed (on paper) a score of times. But in the actuality it finds him lacking.

“For your whole appearance is most distasteful to me,” concludes the Captain. “Good morning.”

(We proceed.)

A trembling voice which says something about “a letter from my solicitor,” reaches our ears, faintly.

“The solicitor again, Raymond!” laughs O’Hagan. “Never the friend to measure the length of one’s blade! Your knights of the pen make sorry cavaliers!”

I grant it. And the worst of my bad dreams is that wherein—unaccompanied by the magnificent and terrible O’Hagan—I encounter some of those whom he has browbeaten in my presence!

But, as I think I already have stated, O’Hagan sometimes is misunderstood.

At a certain club, of which O’Hagan is not a member, my friend was introduced to an American gentleman who proclaimed himself a press agent.

(“I like Americans—real, full-blooded, whole-hearted Americans,” O’Hagan has told me. “I can even appreciate how, in an American, commercial acumen and gentility may be wedded. My great grand-uncle, Edmond, distinguished himself, as you remember, in the Civil War.”