OUR SEAT
The Chantrelles gone, with the whistle of their departing train
shrilling in her ears, Mabel sighed contentedly, gathered all there was
of her together and spent a full two minutes in inspecting its
reflection in the mirror.
The sound of the closing of the door on them as they left had been sweet
music in her ears. The warning shriek of the engine as it started out of
the station, drawing them every moment further and further away from
her, was sweeter still.
Then she entered into consultation with her cook; set about ordering the
most appetising little dinner she could devise. There was entailed an
expenditure of anxious thought; the function was an important one. Mrs.
Seton-Carr was not a woman to despise details of that kind.
She had laughed once at a cynic's belief that, if you cannot make sure
of retaining a man's love, you can, by securing the services of a good
cook, make sure of his respect. Despite her laughter she was not without
faith in the proverb that the road to a man's heart lies through his
stomach.
The last time Prince Charlie had dined at Ivy Cottage he had not enjoyed
himself; she remembered why with a little flush of shame. There was
determination that he should do so this time. And she rather thought she
would enjoy herself too; anyway, it would not be her fault if they
failed to do so.
The shades of evening began their descent soon after half-past four
o'clock. It was not too dark then for her to see her brother and Prince
Charlie go by on the Parade--eastwards. The author's broad, square
shoulders were unmistakable. She herself was hidden by the bedroom
curtain she was behind.
They had gone in the direction of the seat. A smile found place on her
face; so far all was well. Then she tried on two or three hats. Was
anxious to look her best; she knew that she could talk so much better
when sure of her appearance. Sadness tinged her reflection; the beauty
of her millinery would be wasted in the darkness.
Then, with a sigh--she was a woman, with all a woman's belief in
millinery's power--she hoped that not much talking would be needed.
Silence and a good profile were more reliable. She looked at the clock:
the minutes dragged slowly.
At a quarter to five she left the cottage. Before the hour reached the
end of the Parade. An east wind was blowing. As she neared the seat the
odour of cigars came to her, borne on the wind from which the smokers
were sheltered. Then she advanced.
"Hullo, Sis!"
Dick started to his feet as if she were an apparition, spoke in an
exaggerated tone of surprise; continuing:
"Who on earth would have thought of seeing you here?"
She could have soundly boxed his ears for him--well-meaning Dick--for so
overdoing it. He could not have exhibited more surprise had he thought
her dropped from the clouds. Brothers really are terribly trying at
times.
Perhaps it was as well for him that he slowly moved away. Apparently he
evinced a judicious, if sudden, interest in moonlight conchology.
Anyway, he devoted his attention to some of the common objects of the
sea-shore.
That Dick did move off was the essential point. She saw, with relief,
that he had sense enough for that. The sound of the whistling of "Rule
Britannia" gradually died away in the distance.
Masters had risen to his feet the moment his eyes fell on her. Stood
there doubtful what he should do. She did not leave him in doubt long;
advanced towards him, and stretching out her hand, said:
"Prince Charlie, I am--oh, I am so sorry! Please forgive me!"
It was a lame speech. She was surprised at, ashamed of, herself. She had
rehearsed what she had intended saying all the afternoon. Now it came to
the point she could not remember a word.
Whatever she might think of her own words they were an immense surprise
to Masters. He took her extended hand, common courtesy compelled him to
that, and said gently:
"Forgive? You are surely--oh, I have nothing to forgive!"
"You have!"
She insisted with a charming insistence. Somehow her eyes got to need
mopping with her handkerchief--a lace handkerchief with a singularly
pretty border, by the way.
"I have b-behaved"--she mopped on--"like a wicked wretch t-to you."
Of course, with a man of Masters' temperament it was most effective; she
was playing an ideal game. Some men are used to tears; come to look upon
them as an unavoidable factor in their dealings with women. The author
had not reached that stage: probably never would.
A woman crying, or in distress, never failed to appeal to him. Perhaps
Mrs. Seton-Carr knew that. Women are very subtle; their intuition is no
mythical possession. Any way, she played that handkerchief of hers for
all it was worth.
Masters still stood hesitating; was genuinely anxious and full of
wonder: what he ought to do. Thoughts of eau de Cologne occurred to him.
He knew women found relief in that kind of thing; but he bent over her
and said:
"I beg you--oh, I beg, earnestly, you will not distress yourself."
He really meant it; her distress distressed him. The more she saw that
the more tears she shed. Artful little crocodile!
"You w-won't f-f-forgive me!"
She knew all the time that he would.
"Pray, Mrs.--you--I--I--have nothing to forgive. But if you think I
have, I forgive you freely, fully."
The road was getting smooth, she thought, but it was not safe to drop
the handkerchief yet; plainly that was a strong weapon.
"You m-m-must think me such an awful b-b-brute!"
Wretched little prevaricator! She knew quite well that he thought
nothing of the kind.
"Believe me, I can never think of you in any way but the kindliest."
True; every word of it. His heart was like a photographic plate, capable
only of bearing one clear picture.
"I d-daresay you wish me dead, or at the bottom of the s-sea--and I
d-deserve it."
Really she did. It was most unfair--this present performance of hers. It
distressed him beyond measure; he said:
"I wish you nothing but the greatest happiness it is possible for you to
enjoy; wish it from my heart."
"And I--I--have behaved so--s-s-so ungratefully to you."
She uttered truth; perhaps for a change. But he denied what she said;
answered:
"Not at all! You behaved rightly; as your heart dictated."
She had to flare up at that; could not help it. As a matter of fact all
her actions had been in direct opposition to her heart's promptings.
"I did nothing of the sort! My behaviour was quite wrong!"
The handkerchief shifted a little to enable her to look up at him out of
the corner of her eye, as she continued:
"Just the reverse of the way my h-h-heart dictated."
His own heart beat a little quicker at that, in expectation, as he asked
eagerly:
"When was that?"
"At that wr-r-retched dinner."
He sat down; somehow they both sat--apparently it was a simultaneous
act. He was, however, to windward of her; she engineered that. The faint
perfume of the hair of her bent head came to him. It has been already
mentioned that Mrs. Seton-Carr devoted attention to details. No wonder
the elder Weller warned his son against widows!
"You have said either not enough or too much." He spoke hoarsely, in
tense tones. "Tell me--more."
"You want to make it h-h-hard for me; to humble me m-m-more."
She sobbed out the words, the while her disengaged hand, curiously, fell
on his. Naturally, his hand closed on hers, and--quite easily--he
frustrated her efforts to take it away. He moved closer to her.
She turned the back of her head to him. Was not unaware of the fact that
her hair grew very prettily there; fell in soft little golden curls at
the nape of her neck. Of course the movement was quite an unconscious
one! Perhaps, too, it was pure accident that the moon just then had
popped from behind a cloud, so lighting up things; she went on:
"I t-think you are very h-hard to me."
He moved closer still; every fibre in his being thrilled by contact with
the woman he loved. Had he bent down, his lips would have touched her
head. The blood was racing through his veins as he wondered--should he
dare? Then he thought of the dinner party--remembered Chantrelle. The
thought acted as the descent of iced water might have done: she was
another man's property! He took his hand away.
That alarmed her--dreadfully! She had thought all was going along so
nicely; was actually getting ready for the union of lips; the final
drying of her eyes. What could possibly have frozen him up like that?
"I am sorry," he said, "you should think unpleasant things of me. But is
there need?"
The coldness of his tone struck a horrible chill to her heart. But it
was not a moment for despair, rather for a marshalling of all her
forces. She redoubled her efforts; fell on her knees by his side, and
cried:
"You are cruel! I am kneeling to you, asking you to forgive me, and you
won't! I knelt to you once before--here on this spot--and you were cruel
to me then----"
"Ah, yes!"
He interrupted her; the memory of his brutality then--he called it
so--returned to him; his words came hurriedly:
"For that I need your forgiveness; I ought to abjectly apologise. What I
did, said, then was wholly under a misapprehension----"
She seized on that: it gave her a chance. Moreover, it was now or
never--so she thought. Metaphorically she set her teeth and said--Now.
Actually she whispered:
"Isn't it possible perhaps, that you may be under a misapprehension
now?"
She boldly raised her head and looked him straight in the face as she
spoke. Tears had not in the least, strange to say, disfigured hers; her
grief had not been that kind! She continued:
"Don't do as you did then; don't push me away from you!"
That was a rubbing of it in with a vengeance. Had the effect of making
him speak with a strange quiver in his voice.
"Please--please get up! I don't like--I can't bear--to see you----"
Her disobedience was of the studied kind. She got so close to him that
he felt the warmth of her body, the up-creep of her hands on his breast,
the sweet warm breath from her lips. So holding him--holding in every
sense of the word--she said with a spice of defiance in her voice:
"I won't get up till you tell me you forgive me everything!"
She had him at such a disadvantage! It was really grossly unfair. The
poor wretch did not know whether he was on his head or his heels. Then,
almost before he knew what he was doing, his arms were about her; he
could not help it. He gripped her to him so closely that she could have
cried out--but it was too sweet a pain to ask relief from.
"Tell me." His voice was raucous in its hoarseness. "You do not--do not
belong to Chantrelle?"
A laugh came to her lips. A tinge of jealousy in the man she loves
pleases a woman, spices things as it were. Besides, looked at from the
right view-point, it is the subtlest of flattery.
Hence her laughter.