Of course the maid knew, as did every one at the Manor, of the ridiculous visit of Farmer Wadhurst, and she was one of the few who guessed rightly what was its purport. She was fully aware of all that was meant by this breathless flight to the coast, and, as she had had something like forty years’ experience of the world and the wickedness of men and the credulity of women and the ambiguity of the word Love, she had never for a moment doubted what would be the issue of this journey. It was not at all necessary for Mrs. Wingfield to say to her, as she did while the champagne was creaming in the glass:
“Walters, Mr. Wingfield is here, and I have just learned that Miss Wadhurst is here also—you saw Mr. Wadhurst and you will know, I am sure, that it would never do for them to meet.”
“It must be prevented at any cost, ma’am,” acquiesced Walters. “Where’s Mr. Wingfield and Miss Wadhurst just now?”
“They are out sailing; they will be here for lunch at one. It is necessary that I should meet them.”
“Quite so, ma’am. It’s a pity; but you’ll do it. This is one of your good days. To-morrow will most likely be one of your worst. But it can’t be helped.”
“It cannot be helped. If I were to fail to meet them before—before anyone else can meet them—there would be no more good days for me in the world, Walters.”
“Drink the champagne, ma’am, and rest quite still for half an hour and you’ll be able to do it without risk.”
Mrs. Wingfield obeyed her. She took some mouthfuls of the chicken and then drank two glasses of the champagne. Her maid had spied a comfortable chair overlooking the tennis lawns close at hand and the sea in the distance. To this she led Mrs. Wingfield, and there she left her with a wrap about her knees, to wait for her anxious half-hour.
The day was less grey at Sandyclifife than it had been at the Manor, and certainly the air was cooler. A breeze was blowing shorewards, bearing in every breath the sweet salt smell of the Channel. It came very gratefully to that poor weary lady sitting there waiting for what the next hour should bring to her.
But what could it bring to her except disaster? The man had told her that he had no intention of making an attempt to punish her son; but what did it matter about the man or his intentions? It was not the consequences of the act that troubled her, it was the sin of the act.