CHAPTER XIII—Dis Aliter Visum
But the best laid schemes of Yvonnes and men often come to nothing. While she was devising, on her drive along the coast, a plan for spending a quiet dangerless evening at the hotel, Mrs. Winstanley was sitting in solitary dignity at the concert, nursing her wrath over Professor Drummond’s “Natural Law in the Spiritual world,” a book which she often perused when she wished to accentuate the rigorous attitude of her mind.
Yvonne had reckoned without Mrs. Winstanley. Otherwise she would have offered her a seat in the carriage. As it was, Mrs. Winstanley felt more resentful than ever. Under the impression that the Canon was to accompany her to the Kursaal, she had graciously dispensed with the escort of the Wilmingtons, who had gone off to see bicycle races at the Vélodrome. She was left in the lurch.
To dislike this is human. To wrap oneself up in one’s sore dignity is more human still, and there was much humanity that lurked, unsuspected by herself, in Mrs. Winstanley’s bosom. It asserted itself, further, in certain curiosities. She had seen that morning what had escaped the Canon’s notice—the stranger’s grasp on Yvonne’s arm and the insolent admiration on his face. This fact, coupled with Yvonne’s agitation, had put her upon the track of scandal. The result was, that at the concert she made interesting discoveries, and, piecing things together in her mind afterwards, bided her time to make use of them.
It would be for the Canon’s sake, naturally. A woman of Mrs. Winstanley’s stamp is always the most disinterested of God’s creatures. She never performed an action of which her conscience did not approve. But she was such a superior woman that her conscience trembled a little before her, like most of the other friends whom she patronised. She did not have to wait long. The Canon called upon her soon after his return to invite herself and the Wilmingtons to dinner. It was his last evening at Ostend, and Yvonne was not feeling well enough to spend it, as usual, at the Kursaal.
“Yvonne is still poorly, Everard?” she asked, with her air of confidential responsibility.
“A little. She has been gadding about somewhat too much lately, and it has knocked her up.”
“Has it not occurred to you that her encounter this morning may have had something to do with it?”
“Of course not,” replied the Canon, sharply. “It would be ridiculous.”
“I have reasons for not thinking so, Everard. The man was singing at the Kursaal this afternoon. Here is his name on the programme.” She handed him the slip of paper. He read the name among the artistes. “M. Bazouge.” He returned it to her.