MISUNDERSTANDINGS
"Aren't you going to sit on Our Seat? Or don't you need a rest?"
It was said archly; the significant reference to Our Seat, subtly
conveyed. She seemed to have shaken off the depression of yesterday. Was
herself; her own blithe, bright self again.
Mechanically Masters accepted the implied invitation; sat. There ensued
silence; a silence which told more than speech. Not the silence which
breathes of sweet accord between two understanding hearts.
She, on her part, was filled with wonder--expectancy--an undefined sense
of something being wrong. He was not insensible of the fact that the
plumage of his dove was rustling. No woman could, of course, endure such
treatment.
The need for speech on his part was plain: but, somehow, he was at a
loss for words. Was yet alive to the fact that she would read his
speechlessness her own way: would set him down as guilty of caddish
behaviour. The silence became tense: the strain was fast becoming
unbearable.
But little time passed; she got to her feet--being the kind of woman
quick to take offence. The insult was felt the more acutely because, she
told herself, she was alone to blame: had simply courted it, brought it
on herself.
She had wanted to meet this man. Had hurried on to the parade with the
feeling in her heart that it would be good to meet him. Had sat on the
seat for a minute's rest and a faint sense of grief that she had not
encountered him on her walk. Had been thinking disconsolately of walking
home, when she was rendered joyful by his presence.
And then--to be treated like that! Had she offended him? Such a
possibility passed rapidly through her mind; was as rapidly rejected as
a theory untenable. Did he disapprove of her coming there alone, at that
time?
She knew that some men were punctilious in regard to such matters. But
he--natural, unconventional as he was himself--surely it could not be
that. His voice interrupted her reflections. In a husky, strained tone,
looking neither right nor left, but aimlessly in front of him, he said:
"Nice, fine evening, isn't it?"
Another credit note to our fickle climate! But the utter incongruity of
the remark, the exceedingly strange tone of his voice, caused her to
wheel round and look at him. Then she saw. The moon chanced to be free
from clouds just then; its pale beams accentuated the lividity of
Masters' face.
"Oh, my God! you are ill! What has happened--an accident? What can I do
for you?"
As she was quick of thought so she was quick of movement. In a moment
was kneeling beside him--all the annoyance and hastily-aroused temper
gone to the winds. Only her helpful woman's instinct aching to be of
service to him: to the man she loved.
"It is nothing. Don't--please. Don't worry yourself."
Impulsively her arms went up to his shoulders in sheer sympathy and
kindliness. All the stiffness, all the resentment, left her. She was
only just plainly and simply a woman.
That being the case, her womanly pride was relegated to a back seat. Her
precious dignity went down in value; right down to nil. It was not in
the question at all--that question she asked as she gave herself to the
needs of the moment; asked with real anxiety:
"Tell me--what to do?"
The light was there on her face, in her eyes! Oh, unmistakably there!
The light which yesterday he had prayed he might see; that he had
yearned for with his heart and soul. Her soft beautiful radiant eyes
were looking with eager, tearful anxiety into his own.
For a moment--the influence of the moment and forgetfulness in
combination--he felt that he must grasp, grip, strain her to him. Hold
her in one long, lasting embrace. Then--he remembered! That an hour back
she had been clinging to, looking into another man's face with the same
tearful eyes! Oh, the excellence, super-excellence, of her acting! He
would have given a king's ransom for the ability to laugh just then--at
himself.
Could it be--could it? For a brief instant he doubted. The next moment
blamed himself for being a fool. But not a blind fool--oh, no! He had
the evidence of his own eyes: the evidence for the prosecution.
Most of us, under such circumstances, willingly take upon ourselves the
threefold responsibility of witness, jury and judge. It is instinctive
in most men: the desire to ladle out justice. But the appeal court
sometimes oversets the decisions; Justice is not infallible--perhaps her
blindness has something to do with it.
Few of us betray modesty when wearing the ermine. The more rigorously we
silence the opposing counsel--the evidence of our own hearts--the more
we pride ourselves on our impartiality, our exemplary Roman-fatherly
administration of justice. We are apt to ignore any talk of a Court of
Appeal; arrogate to ourselves supreme wisdom.
Curiously enough, the more severe the sentence we pronounce, the more we
rise in our own estimation. The rise may not be permanent--seldom is;
but while we are at the high water mark of self-assurance we generally
make the most of the tide. The sailing along on it is helped by the wind
of serene self-complacency; we sun ourselves in vanity of our prowess.
Forgetfulness is there; that the tide--like the proverbial lane or
worm--has a knack of turning.
The dominant note in Masters at the moment was anger. That such a woman
should have power over men. He mentally thanked God that her power over
him was of the past. Laid the flattering unction to his soul that
perhaps he was cleaner-minded than his fellows. Man applies curious
ointments to his wounds!
But that thankfulness did not arrest his anger; made it the greater
perhaps. He was hardly in a state of that judicial calm which should
characterize dispassionate inquiry. Being angry, he spoke--after the
manner of the angry man--foolishly; said brutally:
"This has been a busy evening with you. Don't you get tired of hugging
men? I am the second in one hour."
For a moment she made no movement, no sound--save of the quick indrawing
of her breath. It was as if some icy blast had suddenly assailed and
frozen her to the spot. Her face retained the same look; she was too
amazed--not understanding--too astonished to do more than look. He went
on mercilessly:
"I saw the parting at your back door; I was passing. Saw you slobbering
over a man there as you seem inclined to slobber over me."
It was as if he had struck her! She drew in her breath so that it
sounded whistle-like. Fell back; extending her arms, seemed as if she
would push him from her as something unclean. In colourlessness her face
rivalled his.
"How dare you----"
Those words were shaped on her white lips. Then she stopped. The lips
trembled, tightened. Rising to her feet, the indignation in her eyes as
she looked down at him completed the sentence.
He laughed; that laugh with the underlying sobbing catch in it, for his
laughter was not born of merriment. Said, righteous indignation shining
in his own eyes too:
"Dare! What do you mean? The witnessing of it, or telling you of it?"
She scorned reply; he was really too contemptible! Yet the woman in her
bubbled to the surface; she could not resist an effort to hurt him:
"And you--you played the spy!"
A raising of his shoulders, a lowering of his eyes, as he answered:
"Call it so if you wish."
He really did not care what she thought of him; plainly showed that. The
indifference roused her; she tried again. Spoke with forced
quietness--standing a little way from him--her voice full of contempt:
"There is a man bearing your name in the High Street: a blacksmith. I
could understand such behaviour on his part. But--a--gentleman!"
Her satisfaction came then: she had hurt. A deep flush streamed over his
face, then faded altogether away, except for two red streaks.
"Am I not behaving as one?"
Keenly sensitive to her rebuke, he spoke half-apologetically. The
bitterness of the incident was making him more himself. Brought home to
him, forcefully, the irony of things.
"Pray pardon me." He rose and stepped towards her. "Will you allow me to
see you home?"
"Don't touch me!"
There seemed an absolute fire burning in her eyes, so intense was her
scorn. She could not have shrunk from him, or found him more repellent,
had he been a leper. Her eyes seemed to scorch him.
He knew himself to be in the right; knew it perfectly well; beyond the
shadow of a doubt. But standing before that searing indignation, it was
he who appeared to be in the wrong, even to himself--his inmost self.
Such treatment hurt. Thought of the gross unfairness of it too was
positively stinging. He who was suffering--the victim--to be put in the
wrong! To be arraigned by the victimiser!
His blood, his forehead, seemed to be burning hot, the while he was
conscious of cold shivers running through him. Was this--he despised
himself as he questioned--carrying out his intention? Was he plucking up
his love by the roots?
It was weakness--he labelled it so--weakness on his part that her words,
her presence, had still such power to move him. He would be
strong--strong and just. But he realized the hardness of the task he set
himself. It was man's work; he would prove himself worthy of it.
She did not deign him another word; the wound to her pride was too
severe for that. Her blue eyes blazed, as perhaps only blue eyes can.
She would have given worlds for tears to soften their burning heat, but
no tears came. Without another glance at him she turned and walked
away--assumed an every-day gait; he should not think she was excited.
He did not attempt to stop her. Why should he? It was better so. Better
that the sharp severing blow had been struck then than later: clean cuts
heal quickest. He would let her get well on her way home before he
moved. She must not think he was trying to follow.
Standing on the edge of the wall he looked out to sea. The water wore an
appearance of invitation: that dangerous aspect which has proved
irresistibly attractive to so many. Right out too, it looked so--so--so
away from everything.
The tide was receding; was going out and away--to the Great Beyond. He
knew that if he chose he could go with it. It would be so easy an act,
if he stepped off the rocks further down--into the water that was always
deep.
Then he pulled himself up with a jerk. Pride came to the rescue. Was he
to cave in, go under, just because of a woman? What a fool he was! What
an unmitigated, arrant fool! Was there a woman in the world--the whole
world--worth caring so much for? No. Not one!
But his heart contradicted. He remembered that anxious look on her face,
the loving attitude, the feel of her arms as they rested on his breast,
his shoulders. His, too, was the remembrance of the warmth of the sweet
human breath; her eyes that had looked into his. Then he looked out to
sea again; mentally out to the Great Beyond. Asked himself the old, old
question: Was life worth living?
Bathos saved the situation. He remembered that a character in one of his
stories had asked the same question: Was life worth living? The comic
doctor had replied that it depended--depended on the liver!
He walked home.