Chapter I: Haverley of the Greys

My friend Captain O’Hagan is a man fatally easy to misjudge; a man monstrously difficult to appreciate. Arraign him before a bar of his peers, and no two findings would march in step, no two voices be in unison. If we except the critic of the _Tailor and Cutter_, I doubt, indeed, if there be a man in London who perceives the exquisite distinction of O’Hagan’s dress. His mode of going hatless is dubbed affectation; his purple-lined cloak an ostentatious extravagance.

But some there are who instinctively detect O’Hagan’s sterling qualities; some (as myself) achieve to this knowledge; and some have it thrust upon them.

I recall an illustrative incident:

O’Hagan and I were at one of those pleasant afternoon functions where the caller surreptitiously, but constantly, glances at his timepiece in order to learn if a sufficient interval has elapsed since his arrival to admit of his departure. You have been, no doubt? O’Hagan rarely goes; but a Miss Pamela Crichton was present on this occasion—and, somehow, O’Hagan and I are frequently meeting this charming girl at all sorts of odd places—quite by accident, oh, quite by accident.

“I am proud of the success which Pamela has achieved,” my friend whispered to me, “since I took her up.” (She composes). “But I do not approve of her accepting these social invitations. She is merely providing the hostess with a gratuitous entertainment.”

This view of the matter, from O’Hagan, surprised me. But later, the hostess said:

“_Dear_ Miss Crichton, you will play us that last charming piece of yours, _won’t_ you!”

Mrs. Pointzby-North’s request was sweetly proffered, but it was a sweetness akin to that with which, addressing a valued butler, she might have said:

“_Milton_, you will see that the bull-dogs are not permitted to fight in the drawing-room in future, _won’t_ you!”

O’Hagan did not object to the tone of patronage, however. (“Mrs. Pointzby-North,” said he, “is a member of a very old and distinguished family.” That, of course, was final.)

But when Pamela began to play, delightfully, and everyone continued to chatter, simianly, he stood up.

“Rank has its obligations,” he said—and strode across to the player.

He took both her hands, and the flow of melody ceased upon an unexpected discord. Then came silence—the thrilling silence of surprise. Lolling gracefully upon the baby grand, my friend toyed with the black ribbon upon which his monocle dangles and glanced toward Mrs. Pointzby-North.

“My dear Mrs. North, as a very old and quite absurdly privileged friend, might I address a few words to everybody, without annoyance to you?”

Mrs. Pointzby-North, fluttering somewhat:

“My _dear_ Captain O’Hagan! As if you _could_ offend me, however hard you tried!”

O’Hagan inclined his head, and raised the monocle to survey the expectant ring of guests. Then:

“Good folks, Miss Pamela Crichton is so well worth listening to, that I beg you will preserve a perfect quiet whilst she is playing. Believe me, you will be well repaid, and will furthermore confer upon Mrs. North and upon myself a favour which we shall deeply appreciate!”

Pamela performed amid a throbbing silence which would have gratified Sarah Bernhardt. But I divined how in future the doors of Mrs. Pointzby-North would be closed to Miss Crichton.

(“It is better,” O’Hagan explained to me, when we had seen the girl to a cab. “I do not desire that Pamela be treated as a public exhibit.”)

Replace the famous cloak with a toga, and in O’Hagan you have a very complete patrician—an aristocrat of sensibilities so exquisite that the trifling errors of good society jar upon them more harshly than the eating of peas with a knife upon the atrophied perceptions of the merely respectable.

After dinner that evening Sir Roger Rundel called upon O’Hagan in his chambers.

My friend’s chambers overlook Whitehall, and, in his moments of ease, he is always to be found in the room which he calls his library, but whose appointments more nearly correspond with those of a harêm. To visitors but superficially acquainted with O’Hagan, this apartment proves a surprise. Its arabesques dimly perceptible in the blue rays of a hanging lamp, the plash of water in a tiny marble basin enhancing the illusion that one has lost one’s way, this _mandarah_ possesses all the charms of the unexpected.

For golden carp in the basin you are of course prepared? Prepare, further, for O’Hagan in a loose blue robe, O’Hagan extended upon a cushioned divan, sipping coffee from a tiny porcelain cup and enjoying the solace of tumbâk in a Persian narghli.

Donohue, a model man, immaculate, in immaculate black, proclaimed the arrival, and ushered in the person, of Sir Roger. You would like Sir Roger Rundel; bronzed, well groomed, reserved, forty-five; he is what we mean by a typical English gentleman.

He and O’Hagan are old friends. Donohue made fresh _kahweh_ (no one expects whisky in the _mandarah_), whilst Sir Roger selected from the rack an amber mouthpiece neatly labelled “R.R.” and appropriated the guest’s tube of the narghli.

O’Hagan: “Been hoping to see you every day since I heard of your return, Rundel.”

Sir Roger: “Yes, yes. Since my—marriage, fear I’ve neglected bachelor friends. I leave London to-night—on departmental business.”

Silence; broken by bubbling of narghli. Enter Donohue with coffee. Exit Donohue.

O’Hagan fumbled for the indispensable pebble, found it, and examined Sir Roger’s face critically.

“There’s a fly in the ointment, Rundel. Name the brute’s species.”

Sir Roger put down his cup with a rattle.

“Captain Haverley,” he snapped—“and now I’ve said it!”

“Ah,” mused O’Hagan; “Haverley, of the —th Greys. Only know him by repute.”

“What sort of repute?” growled Rundel.

“Yes,” O’Hagan nodded, and dropped his monocle. “_That_ sort!”

Sir Roger got upon his feet, and began to pace up and down a square of Persian carpet.

“We know one another, O’Hagan. There’s not another man in England I’d confide in. But—well—Beesley told me about this afternoon—at Mrs. Pointzby-North’s, and I said, ‘Same old O’Hagan!’ That’s what it is, O’Hagan: there’s only one of you—only one of you! This—friendship—between my wife and Haverley is nothing—from Val’s point of view. Understand? _She_ means no harm.”

“What attitude have you adopted?”

“No attitude. Overlooked it. But I’m going away; and I will _not_ have Val talked about, and I will _not_ be made to look ridiculous. In a word, O’Hagan, I’ll have no damned _cavalière servante_ with Haverley’s reputation dangling after my wife!”

“Well?” said O’Hagan, calmly sipping coffee.

“Val’s younger than me; and I don’t want her to think that I think—see what I mean? I can’t speak to _her_.”

“I follow you perfectly,” said O’Hagan. “You can speak to neither party without the risk of precipitating what you wish to avoid. Thanks for entrusting this matter to me, Rundel. I will call out Captain Haverley to-morrow morning!”

“My dear fellow! never do at all!”

“Why? I should see to it that he remained incapacitated in France throughout the term of your absence!”

“Too medieval, O’Hagan—too dam’ medieval. Bar you the country for twelve months at least! Besides, he might refuse—or, worse, you might kill him!”

“True,” agreed O’Hagan; “such mistakes have occurred. However—if Captain Haverley is not permitted the society of Lady Rundel during your absence, I take it that you will be satisfied?”

“Certainly! certainly! If I knew that——”

“Rely upon it, Rundel,” said O’Hagan, rising. “I will put an end to this undesirable intimacy. I shall regard it as my sacred duty to do so!”

In that moment he was superb; a man worthy of the confidence of kings; a man to hold stainless the honour of a queen.

“My dear fellow!” said Sir Roger, and shook his hand furiously. “My dear, dear fellow!”

Ah! what a privilege it is to call Bernard O’Hagan your friend!

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