Part 15 (2/2)

He had not the glimmer of such a hope. To ask him if he had even the wish would have been to put an awkward question. The code wherein he was Bob Purnett's pupil recognizes quite a strict division of life into compartments. He was Winnie's lover of a certainty; quite doubtfully was he her convert. Being her lover was to break the law; being her convert was to deny it. Before he met her, he had been of the people who always contemplate conforming to the law--some day; at the proper time of life, or at the proper time before death--whichever may be the more accurate way of putting it. He was ready to say to the Tribunal, ”I have done wrong”--but not to say, ”You--or your interpreters--have been wrong.” A very ordinary man was G.o.dfrey Ledstone.

So after a solitary lunch (a sausage left cold from breakfast and a pot of tea) Winnie started on a solitary expedition. She took the train from Baron's Court to Hyde Park Corner, with the idea of enjoying the ”autumn tints” along by Rotten Row and the Serpentine. But, as she walked, her thoughts were not so much on autumn tints as on Woburn Square--on that family so nearly related to her life, yet so unspeakably remote, to whom she was worse than a menace--she was a present and active curse--who to her were something wrong-headed, almost ridiculous, yet intensely formidable--really the concrete embodiment of all she had to struggle against, the thing through which the great world would most probably hit at her, wound her, and kill her if it could. And both the family and Winnie thought themselves so absolutely, so demonstrably, right! Right or wrong, she knew very well, as she walked on towards the Serpentine, that now--this instant--in Woburn Square they were trying to get her man away from her; to make him ashamed of her (he had sworn never to be), to make him throw her over, to leave her stranded, to the ridicule and ruin of her experiment. With a sudden catch in the breath she added, ”And the breaking of my heart!”

Just as she came near to the lake she saw--among the walkers who had till now seemed insubstantial shades to her preoccupied mind--a familiar figure, Hobart Gaynor! Her heart leapt in sudden joy; here was an old, a sympathetic friend, the man who understood why she had done what she had. But Hobart Gaynor was not alone. His radiant and self-satisfied demeanour was justified by the fair comeliness of the girl who walked beside him--his bride, wedded to him a month ago, Cicely Marshfield.

Winnie had sent him congratulations, good wishes, and a present; all of which had been cordially acknowledged in a letter written three days before the wedding. The ceremony had taken place in the country, and quietly (because of an aunt's death); no question had arisen as to who was or was not to be asked to attend it.

Her heart went out to Hobart. He had loved her; she had always been very fond of him. In her drab uneventful girlhood he had provided patches of enjoyment; in that awful married life he had now and then been a refuge.

She did not know Cicely, but Hobart would surely have chosen a nice girl, one who would be a friend, who would understand it all, who could be talked to about it all? With a happy smile and a pretty blush she met Hobart and his bride Cicely. She saw him speak to her, a quick, hurried word. Cicely replied--Winnie saw the rapid turn of her head and the movement of her lips. He spoke once more--just as Winnie nodded and smiled at him, and he was raising his hand to his hat. Then came the encounter. But before it was fairly begun, Winnie's heart was turned to lead. Hobart's face was flushed; his hand came out to hers in a stiff reluctance. The tall fair girl stood so tall, so erect, looking down, bowing, not putting out a hand at all, ignoring a pathetically comic appeal in her embarra.s.sed husband's eyes.

Winnie's eager words of congratulation, of cordiality and friends.h.i.+p, met with a chilly ”Thank you,” uttered under an obvious protest, under _force majeure_. Winnie set her eyes on Hobart's, but his were turned away; a rigid smile on his lips paid a ghastly tribute to courtesy.

Winnie carried the thing through as briefly as possible. She was not slow to take a cue.

”Well, I'm glad to have run across you,” she said, ”and when you're settled in, I must come and see you. You won't want to be bothered just yet.”

Again Hobart's glance appealed desperately to his wife. But his wife left the answer to him.

”We are a bit chaotic still,” he stumbled. ”But soon, I hope, Winnie----”

”I'll give you notice. Don't be afraid! Now I must hurry on--good-bye.”

”Good-bye,” said Cicely, with another inclination of her head--it seemed so high above Winnie's, looking down from such an alt.i.tude.

”Good-bye, Winnie.” A kindliness, queerly ashamed of itself, struggled to expression in Hobart's voice.

When the pair had pa.s.sed by--after a safe interval--Winnie turned and looked at their retreating figures, the haughty erect girl, dear old Hobart's broad solid back, somewhat bowed by much office work. Winnie was smiling; it is sometimes the only thing to do.

”This isn't my lucky day.” So she phrased her thoughts to herself, coupling together the encounter in Hyde Park with what was now--at this moment--going on in Woburn Square; for it was not yet tea-time, and G.o.dfrey's visit would last, according to custom, till after tea.

She got home and waited for him in the dusk of the autumn evening. An apprehension possessed her; she did not know how much effect Woburn Square might have had upon him. But he came in about six, cheerful, affectionate, unchanged. On the subject of his home-visit, however, he was rather reticent.

”They were all very kind--and I really don't think mother's any worse than usual. About her frail ordinary.” He seemed inclined to dismiss the matter with this brief summary. ”And what did you do with yourself?”

”I took the Tube up to the Park and had a walk.” She paused. ”I met Hobart and Cicely Gaynor.”

”Oh, the happy pair! How were they flouris.h.i.+ng?”

”They--well, they warned me off, G.o.dfrey. At least she did--and he had to follow suit, of course.”

G.o.dfrey had been helping himself to whisky and soda-water; tumbler in hand, he walked across the studio and back again.

”Hobart's one of the very few people in the world I'm really fond of.”

”Well, you know, Winnie, you wanted it this way. I a.s.sure you I don't find it altogether comfortable either.” He emptied the tumbler in a long draught and set it down on the table.

She jumped up quickly, came to him, and clasped her arms round his neck; she could but just reach, for he was tall.

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