Adeline swam forward to Mrs. Bunting and cried with a note of triumph in her voice: “It is all settled. Everything is settled. He has won them all and he is to contest Hythe.”
Quite involuntarily her eyes must have met the Sea Lady’s.
It is of course quite impossible to say what she found there—or indeed what there was to find there then. For a moment they faced riddles, and then the Sea Lady turned her eyes with a long deferred scrutiny to the man’s face, which she probably saw now closely for the first time. One wonders whether it is just possible that there may have been something, if it were no more than a gleam of surprise and enquiry, in that meeting of their eyes. Just for a moment she held his regard, and then it shifted enquiringly to Mrs. Bunting.
That lady intervened effusively with an “Oh! I forgot,” and introduced them. I think they went through that without another meeting of the foils of their regard.
“You back?” said Fred to Chatteris, touching his arm, and Chatteris confirmed this happy guess.
The Bunting girls seemed to welcome Adeline’s enviable situation rather than Chatteris as an individual. And Mabel’s voice could be heard approaching. “Oughtn’t they to see me play it out, Mr. Chatteris?”
“Hullo, Harry, my boy!” cried Mr. Bunting, who was cultivating a bluff manner. “How’s Paris?”
“How’s the fishing?” said Harry.
And so they came into a vague circle about this lively person who had “won them all”—except Parker, of course, who remained in her own proper place and was, I am certain, never to be won by anybody.
There was a handing and shifting of garden chairs.
No one seemed to take the slightest notice of Adeline’s dramatic announcement. The Buntings were not good at thinking of things to say. She stood in the midst of the group like a leading lady when the other actors have forgotten their parts. Then every one woke up to this, as it were, and they went off in a volley. “So it’s really all settled,” said Mrs. Bunting; and Betty Bunting said, “There is to be an election then!” and Nettie said, “What fun!” Mr. Bunting remarked with a knowing air, “So you saw him then?” and Fred flung “Hooray!” into the tangle of sounds.
The Sea Lady of course said nothing.
“We’ll give ’em a jolly good fight for it, anyhow,” said Mr. Bunting.
“Well, I hope we shall do that,” said Chatteris.
“We shall do more than that,” said Adeline.
“Oh, yes!” said Betty Bunting, “we shall.”
“I knew they would let him,” said Adeline.
“If they had any sense,” said Mr. Bunting.
Then came a pause, and Mr. Bunting was emboldened to lift up his voice and utter politics. “They are getting sense,” he said. “They are learning that a party must have men, men of birth and training. Money and the mob—they’ve tried to keep things going by playing to fads and class jealousies. And the Irish. And they’ve had their lesson. How? Why,—we’ve stood aside. We’ve left ’em to faddists and fomenters—and the Irish. And here they are! It’s a revolution in the party. We’ve let it down. Now we must pick it up again.”
He made a gesture with his fat little hand, one of those fat pink little hands that appear to have neither flesh nor bones inside them but only sawdust or horse-hair. Mrs. Bunting leaned back in her chair and smiled at him indulgently.
“It is no common election,” said Mr. Bunting. “It is a great issue.”
The Sea Lady had been regarding him thoughtfully. “What is a great issue?” she asked. “I don’t quite understand.”
Mr. Bunting spread himself to explain to her. “This,” he said to begin with. Adeline listened with a mingling of interest and impatience, attempting ever and again to suppress him and to involve Chatteris by a tactful interposition. But Chatteris appeared disinclined to be involved. He seemed indeed quite interested in Mr. Bunting’s view of the case.
Presently the croquet quartette went back—at Mabel’s suggestion—to their game, and the others continued their political talk. It became more personal at last, dealing soon quite specifically with all that Chatteris was doing and more particularly all that Chatteris was to do. Mrs. Bunting suddenly suppressed Mr. Bunting as he was offering advice, and Adeline took the burden of the talk again. She indicated vast purposes. “This election is merely the opening of a door,” she said. When Chatteris made modest disavowals she smiled with a proud and happy consciousness of what she meant to make of him.
And Mrs. Bunting supplied footnotes to make it all clear to the Sea Lady. “He’s so modest,” she said at one point, and Chatteris pretended not to hear and went rather pink. Ever and again he attempted to deflect the talk towards the Sea Lady and away from himself, but he was hampered by his ignorance of her position.
And the Sea Lady said scarcely anything but watched Chatteris and Adeline, and more particularly Chatteris in relation to Adeline.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
SYMPTOMATIC
I
My cousin Melville is never very clear about his dates. Now this is greatly to be regretted, because it would be very illuminating indeed if one could tell just how many days elapsed before he came upon Chatteris in intimate conversation with the Sea Lady. He was going along the front of the Leas with some books from the Public Library that Miss Glendower had suddenly wished to consult, and which she, with that entire ignorance of his lack of admiration for her which was part of her want of charm for him, had bidden him bring her. It was in one of those sheltered paths just under the brow which give such a pleasant and characteristic charm to Folkestone, that he came upon a little group about the Sea Lady’s bath chair. Chatteris was seated in one of the wooden seats that are embedded in the bank, and was leaning forward and looking into the Sea Lady’s face; and she was speaking with a smile that struck Melville even at the time as being a little special in its quality—and she seems to have been capable of many charming smiles. Parker was a little distance away, where a sort of bastion projects and gives a wide view of the pier and harbour and the coast of France, regarding it all with a qualified disfavour, and the bath chairman was crumpled up against the bank lost in that wistful melancholy that the constant perambulation of broken humanity necessarily engenders.
A little group about the Sea Lady’s bath chair.
My cousin slackened his pace a little and came up and joined them. The conversation hung at his approach. Chatteris sat back a little, but there seemed no resentment and he sought a topic for the three to discuss in the books Melville carried.
“Books?” he said.
“For Miss Glendower,” said Melville.
“Oh!” said Chatteris.
“What are they about?” asked the Sea Lady.
“Land tenure,” said Melville.
“That’s hardly my subject,” said the Sea Lady, and Chatteris joined in her smile as if he saw a jest.
There was a little pause.
“You are contesting Hythe?” said Melville.
“Fate points that way,” said Chatteris.
“They threaten a dissolution for September.”