HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT
In the street he had to pause and steady himself for a moment against a wall. He was trembling from head to foot, trembling with an extraordinary mixture of anger, surprise, indignation, and then anger again. Christina had warned him months ago that this was coming. "When mother makes up her mind," she said. Well, mother had made up her mind. And to what?
Where was Christina? Perhaps already she was being imprisoned in the country somewhere and could not get word to him—punished possibly until she consented to marry that horrible old man or some one equally disgusting.
The fear that he might now be too late—felt by him for the first time—made him cold with dread. Hitherto, from the moment when he had first seen the crimson feather in the Circus he had been sure that Fate was with him, that the adventure had been arranged from the beginning by some genial, warm-hearted Olympian smiling down from his rosy-tipped cloud, seeing Henry Trenchard and liking him in spite of his follies, and determining to make him happy. But suppose after all, it should not be so? What if Christina's life and happiness were ruined through his own weakness and dallying and delay? He was so miserable at the thought that he started back a step or two half-determining to face the horrible Mrs. Tenssen again. But there was nothing at that moment to be gained there. He turned down Peter Street, baffled as ever by his own ridiculous inability to deal with a situation adequately. What was there lacking in him, what had been lacking in him from his birth? Good, practical common sense, that was what he needed. Would he ever have it?
He decided that Peter was his need. He would put his troubles to him and do what he advised. Outside the upper part in Marylebone High Street he rang the little tinkly bell, and then waited an eternity. Nobody stirred. The house was dead. A grey, sleepy-eyed cat came and rubbed itself against his leg. He rang again, and then again.
Suddenly Peter appeared. He could not see through the dim obscurity of the autumn afternoon.
"Who's there?" he asked.
"It's me. I mean I. Henry."
"Henry?"
"Yes, Henry. Good heavens, Peter, it's as difficult to pass your gate as Paradise's."