What little more there was to be told she told him on their way up, but otherwise their drive was rather silent. Once or twice he leaned out of the window and spoke to the chauffeur.
“You can get along a bit quicker here,” he said. “There’s an empty road.”
“If you don’t mind going a bit above the average, my dear?” he asked. “’Twould be a good thing, too, if we got home before Claude, and it’s but a slow train he’ll have caught.”
And once again as they crossed the great heathery upland of Ashdown Forest, redolent with gorse and basking in the sun: “Seems strange on a beautiful day like this!” he said. “But there! who knows but that we shan’t have some pleasant weather yet?”
Claude, meantime, getting Jim’s letter by the same post that had brought his news to Dora, had left by an earlier train, in order to see Jim as soon as possible. He had gone before Dora came down, and thus heard nothing of Sir Henry’s letter, and though he was anxious to know, as soon as he got to town, how his mother was, he determined to go to the flat on his way to Park Lane. That would not take long, whatever it might be that Jim wished to tell him; a few minutes, he imagined, would suffice.
All the way up he pondered over it, but think as he might, he could find only one explanation of Jim’s request, and that was that he was going to confess. That was the best thing that could happen, and as far as he could see it was the only thing. But the thought of his own part embarrassed him horribly: he had no liking for his brother-in-law, and guessed that on Jim’s side there was a similar barrenness of affection. All this would make the interview difficult and painful: he could forgive him easily and willingly, but instinctively he felt how chilly a thing forgiveness is, if there is no warmth of feeling behind to vitalize it. But when first he suspected that Jim had done this, he felt sorry for him; if it turned out that he was going to confess, his pity was certainly not diminished.
On the threshold he paused: his repugnance for what lay before him was almost invincible, and all his pondering had led to nothing practical: he was still absolutely without idea as to what he should say himself. But the thing had to be done; waiting made it no easier, and he went in. He would have to trust to the promptings of the moment: all he was sure of was that he did not feel unkind, but only sorry. So—had he known it—he need not have been so very uncomfortable.
Jim was standing in the window, looking out on to the street. He turned as Claude came in, but said nothing. Something had to be done, and Claude spoke.
“You asked me to come and see you,” he said. “So I came up as early as I could. Oh, good morning, Jim!”