Cahusac lifted his eyebrows. “You haven’t seen them yet?”
Hugh received discomfort from his glance. He explained vaguely.
“Take your own time,” said Cahusac, again rising to go. “Things are slack just now. I can get away pretty easily.”
The Good Samaritan departed, and Hugh remained for some time speculative at the window, looking out into the sunshine. He had known Cahusac and his wife fairly intimately for several years. They were friends, too, of the Merriams. But hitherto he had shrouded his private life from them in his customary reserve. He wondered now at the indiscreet expansiveness of which he had been guilty. The secret was safe enough with Cahusac. But would he not have betrayed it, just the same, to a less scrupulous friend, who had come to him that morning with a sympathetic face? The thought gave qualms. The past year had loosened his character. The past month had played havoc with it; had weakened, too, his firm grasp of logical issues. Cahusac had enabled his mind to gain fresh hold. He faced the consequences of Irene’s action with the pain of a great dismay.
The physical longing for air and sun and forgetfulness in quick motion lured him out of doors. He rode hard through Sunnington and along the Heath Road until he reached the open country. He traversed many miles that day, going along lonely stretches of clear road at racing speed which brought the thrill into his veins and the lust of physical life that floods thought. He was in that condition of being which, in a more elemental age, would have carried him baresark into the joy of battle: modern civilisation substitutes the bicycle. Perhaps, after all, we are not more grotesque than our ancestors.
The dusk was falling when he returned by the Heath Road, dusty and thoroughly fatigued. He glanced wistfully at the Merriams’ house as he sped by. The lights were not yet lit. It bore a strange aspect of desertion. For a moment he felt the impulse to turn and seek admittance, get through the strange first interview, whose indefinite postponement was growing stranger still. Irene’s sensitiveness he could understand; besides, she had written twice. But Gerard’s silence was unaccountable. Was he waiting, despite Irene’s messages, for him to take the initiative? The temptation was strong; but obedience to Irene prevailed. He went on, letting his weary mind drift on trivial matters. He would have a meal, smoke, and sleep like a log. It would be the first sound, unstirring sleep for many weeks. The night before he had had a shivering dream of Minna, which had kept him awake till morning. Where was she? He wondered vaguely.
Suddenly a figure crossing the road in front of him caused him to ring his bell. The figure turned. He recognised Irene. In a second he had dismounted and was by her side. She extended her hand, looked at him frankly in the waning light.
“Fate has arranged it for us,” he said. “If you knew how I have been hungering for speech with you!”
“I couldn’t send for you,” she replied. “There were reasons——”
“I know. I have waited patiently. But you feel what I have to express somehow to you and Gerard.”