IV.
A last peep, ere we hurry across the bridge, will disclose to us Mr. Bob Chater still pressing upon Mary the attentions which her position, in relation to his, made it so difficult for her to escape. Piqued by her attitude towards him, he was the more inflamed than ordinarily he would have been by the fair face and neat figure that were hers. Yet he made no headway; within a month of the date of his return to Palace Gardens was as far from conquest as upon that night in the nursery.
To a City friend, Mr. Lemuel Moss, dining at 14 Palace Gardens with him one night, he explained affairs.
“Dam' pretty girl, that governess of yours, or whatever she is,” said Mr. Moss, biting the end from a cigar in the smoking-room after dinner. “Lucky beggar you are, Bob. My mater won't have even a servant in the place that wouldn't look amiss in a monkey-house. Knows me too well, unfortunately,” and Mr. Moss, taking a squint at himself in the overmantel, laughed—well enough pleased.
Bob pointed out that there was not so much luck about it as Mr. Moss appeared to think. “Never seen such a stand-offish little rip in all my life,” he moodily concluded.
“What, isn't she—?”
Bob understood the unvoiced question. “Won't even let a chap have two minutes' talk with her,” he said, “let alone anything else.”
Mr. Moss stretched himself along the sofa; rejoined: “Oh, rats! Rats! You don't know how to manage 'em—that's what it is.”
“I know as well as you, and a dashed sight better, I don't mind betting,” Bob returned with heat. In some circles it is an aspersion upon a man's manliness to have it hinted that a petticoat presenting possibilities has not been ruffled.
“Well, it don't look much like it. I caught her eye in the passage when we were coming downstairs, and you don't tell me—not much!”
“Did you though?” Bob said. Himself he had never been so fortunate.
“No mistake about it. Why, d'you mean to say you've never got as far as that, even?”
“Tell you she won't look at me.”
Mr. Moss laughed. Enjoyed the “score” over his host for a few moments, and then:
“Tell you what it is, old bird,” said he, “you're going the wrong way about it. I know another case just the same. Chap out Wimbledon way. His people kept a girl—topper she was, too—dark. He was always messing round just like you are, and she was stand-offish as a nun. One night he came home early, a bit screwed—people out—girl in. Met her in the drawing-room. Almost been afraid to speak to her before. Had a bit of fizz on board him now—you know; didn't care a rip for anybody. Gave her a smacking great kiss, and, by Gad!—well, she was all right. Told him she'd always stood off up to then because she was never quite sure what he meant—afraid he didn't mean anything, and that she might get herself into no end of a row if she started playing around. Same with this little bit of goods, I'll lay.”
Bob was interested. “Shouldn't be surprised if you're right,” he said; and moodily cogitated upon the line of action prescribed.
Mr. Moss offered to bet that where girls were concerned he was never far wrong. “Slap-dash style is what they like,” he remarked, and with a careless “It's all they understand” dismissed the subject.
It remained, however, in Bob's mind throughout the evening; sprang instantly when, after breakfast upon the following day, he caught a glimpse of Mary as he prepared for the City.
Standing for a moment in the hall, it occurred to him that this very evening offered the opportunity he sought. Mr. and Mrs. Chater were to dine at the house of a neighbour. The invitation had included Bob—fortunately he had refused it. Returning to the morning-room, “I shan't be in to-night,” he told his mother.
“Then I needn't order any dinner for you?”
“No.” He hung about irresolute, then lit a cigar, and between the puffs, “Shall you be late?” he asked carelessly.
“Sure to be,” Mrs. Chater told him. “It's going to be a big bridge drive, you know. We shan't get back before midnight. Don't sit up for us, dear.”
Bob inhaled a long breath from his cigar, exhaled it deliciously. The chance for the slap-dash style was at hand.
“Oh, I'll be later than you. Lemmy Moss has got a bachelors' party on. We're going to have a billiard match.”
“That's capital then, dear. I shall let the servants go to Earl's Court—I've promised them a long time.”
Bob whistled gaily as he mounted his 'bus for the City. The opportunity was surely exceptional.
At eight o'clock he returned; noiselessly let himself in.
The gas in the hall burned low. Beneath the library door gleamed a stronger light. Bob turned the handle.
Mary was curled in a big chair with a book. Certainly the opportunity was exceptional.
At the noise of his entry she sprang to her feet with a little cry. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed: “what a fright you gave me!”
Bob pushed the door. He laughed. “Did I?”; came towards her. “Are you all alone? What a shame!”
“Minnie is in the kitchen, I think. Mrs. Chater said you wouldn't be in to-night.”
“Why do you think I came?”
“I don't know.”
“I came to see you.”
She gave a nervous little laugh and made to pass him.
Bob fell back a pace, guarding the door. “Don't you think that was thoughtful of me?”
“I don't know what you mean. There was no need.”
“What! No need! You all alone like this when all the rest are enjoying themselves!”
“So was I. A long evening with a book.”
She had fallen back as he, speaking, had slowly advanced.
Now the great chair in which she had been seated was alone between them.
“Oh, books! Books are rot.” He stepped around the chair.
She fell back; was cornered between the hearth and a low table.
Bob dropped into the chair; boldly regarded her; his eyes as expressive of his slap-dash intentions as he could make them: “Look here, I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I'm going to take you to a music-hall or somewhere.”
He stretched a foot; touched her.
She drew back close against the mantelpiece, her agitation very evident.
“Well, don't that please you?”
“You know it is impossible.”
Bob paid no regard. This was that same diffidence with which the chap near Wimbledon had had to contend.
“We'll come out of the show early and have a bit of supper and be back before half-past eleven. Who's to know? Now, then?”
“It's very kind of you. I know you mean it kindly—”
“Of course I do—”
“But I'd rather not.”
“Are you afraid?”
She was desperately afraid. Her face, the shaking of her hand where it was pressed back against the wall, and the catch in her voice advertised her apprehension. She was afraid of this big young man confidently lolling before her.
She said weakly: “It would not be right.”
Bob sat up. “Is that all?” he laughed. His hands were upon the arms of the chair, and he made to pull himself up towards her.
She saw her mistake. “No,” she cried hurriedly—“no; I would not go with you in any case.”
A shadow flickered upon Bob's face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say. Please let me pass.”
“I want to be friends with you. Why can't you let me?”
“Please let me pass. Mr. Chater.”
Bob lay back. He said with a laugh, “Well, I'm not stopping you, am I?”
She hesitated a moment. The passage between the table and the long chair was narrow. But truly he was not stopping her—so far as one might judge.
She took her skirts about her with her left hand; stepped forward; was almost past the chair before he moved.
Then he flung out a hand and caught her wrist, drawing her.
“Now!” he cried, and his voice was thick.
She gave a half-sound of dismay—of fear; tried to twist free. Bob laughed; pulled sharply on her arm. She was standing sideways to him—against the sudden strain lost her balance and half toppled across the chair.
As Bob reflected, when afterwards feeding upon the incident, had he not been as unprepared as she for her sudden stumble, he would have made—as he put it—a better thing of it. As it was, her face falling against his, he was but able to give a half kiss when she had writhed herself free and made across the room.
But that embrace of her had warmed Bob's passions. Springing up, he caught her as she fumbled with the latch; twisted her to him.
For a moment they struggled, he grasping her wrists and pressing towards her.
With the intention of encircling her waist he slipped his hold. But panic made her the quicker. Her outstretched arms held him at bay for a breathing space; then as he broke them down she dealt him a swinging blow upon the face that staggered him back a step, his hand to his cheek.
Mrs. Chater opened the door.
“Oh, he kissed me! He kissed me!” Mary cried.
Bob said very slowly, “You—infernal—little—liar.”
Mrs. Chater glowered upon Mary with cruel eyes. “It was a fortunate thing,” she said coldly, “that a headache brought me home. Go to your room, miss.”
We may hurry across the bridge.