“I think it’s Mrs. Bouncing,” she said dejectedly. “He’s teaching her to skate, but she’ll never learn. She’s been up here for years, and she doesn’t know her edges! It looks awfully as if he really liked her, because Maurice skates quite well.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been of very little use to you about Mrs. Bouncing,” Winn said apologetically. “I thought Bouncing might help us, he’s quite a good chap; but I’m afraid he’s too down in the mouth. Still, I think I may be able to do something if things get to look really bad. Don’t worry about that, please. But, by Jove! this skating matter is serious. What are you going to do about it?” Anything that stopped sport seemed to Winn to be really serious; something had got to be done about it. “Isn’t there any one else up here not going in for it that you could lick into shape?”
Claire shook her head doubtfully.
“They’d have to give up every bit of their time,” she explained, “and virtually hardly breathe. You see, pair-skating is really very stiff. Of course, if I got a new man, I’d do most of the figures; but he’d have to be there to catch me at the right times, and awfully steady on his edges, and waltz of course.”
“What about me?” Winn asked quietly.
“I’m steady on my edges, and I can waltz after a fashion, and I’d promise not to breathe for a fortnight.” He looked at her, and then looked away quickly. He was a damned fool to have offered himself! How on earth was he going to stand a fortnight with her when he could barely keep himself in hand for five minutes?
“Oh,” she said, “you!”
Afterward she said a good deal more, but Winn only remembered the way she said “you,” because her voice had sounded different, as if she had found something she had wanted to lay her hands on. Of course what she really wanted was to go in for the pair-skating; it was much the most fun.
They began from that moment to go in for it. Winn had to speak to Dr. Gurnet about the skating, because four hours wasn’t enough, and Claire insisted upon Dr. Gurnet’s consent.
Dr. Gurnet had consented, though he had raised his eyebrows and said, “Pair-skating?” and then he had asked who Major Staines had chosen for his partner. Naturally Winn had become extremely stiff, and said, “Miss Rivers,” in a tone which should have put an end to the subject.
“Well, well!” said Dr. Gurnet. “And she’s a woman, after all, isn’t she?” Winn ignored this remark.
“By the by,” he said, “my friend’s coming out in about a fortnight – the one I told you about, Captain Drummond.”
“I remember perfectly,” said Dr. Gurnet; “a most estimable person I understand you to say. In about a fortnight? The skating competition will just be over then, won’t it? I am sure I hope you and Miss Rivers will both make a great success of it.”
The fortnight passed in a sunny flash. On the whole Winn had kept himself in hand. His voice had betrayed him, his eyes had betrayed him, all his controlled and concentrated passion had betrayed him; but he hadn’t said anything. He had buried his head deep in the sands and trusted like an ostrich to an infectious oblivion. He reviewed his behavior on the way to the rink the day of the International.
It was an icy cold morning; the valley was wrapped in a thick blue mist. There was no sunlight yet. The tops of the mountains were a sharpened deadly white, colder than purity. As he walked toward the valley the black fir-trees on the distant heights took fire. They seemed to be lighted one by one from some swift, invisible torch, and then quicker than sight itself the sun slipped over the edge and ran in a golden flood across the mountains. The little willows by the lake-side turned apricot; the rink was very cold and only just refrozen. It was a small gray square surrounded by color. Winn was quite alone in the silence and the light and the tingling bitter air. There was something in him that burned like a secret undercurrent of fire. Had he played the game? What about that dumb weight on his lips when he had tried to tell Claire on the Schatz Alp about Estelle? He couldn’t get it out then; but had he tried again later? Had he concealed his marriage? Why should he tell her anything? She wouldn’t care, she was so young. Couldn’t he have his bit of spring, his dance of golden daffodils, and then darkness? He really thought of daffodils when he thought of Claire. She wouldn’t mind, because she was spring itself, and had in front of her a great succession of flowers; but these were the last he was going to have. There wouldn’t be anything at all after Claire, and he wasn’t going to make love to her. Good God! he wasn’t such a beast! There had been times this last fortnight that had tried every ounce of his self-control, and he hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t said a word that damned yellow-necked, hen-headed chaplain’s wife couldn’t have heard and welcome. Would many fellows have had his chances and behaved as if they were frozen barbed-wire fences? And she’d looked at him – by Jove, she’d looked at him! Not that she’d meant anything by it; only it had been hard to have to sit on the only decent feelings he had ever had and not let them rip. And as far as Estelle was concerned, she didn’t care a damn for him, and he might just as well have been a blackguard. But that wasn’t quite the point, was it? Blackguards hurt girls, and he hadn’t set out to hurt Claire.
Well, there was no use making any song or dance about it; he’d have to go. At first he had thought he could tell her he was married – tell her as soon as the competition was over, and stay on; but he hadn’t counted on the way things grew, and he didn’t think now he could tell her and then hold his tongue about what he felt. If he told her, the whole thing would be out; he couldn’t keep it back. There were things you knew you could do, like going away and staying away; there were others you were a fool to try.
He circled slowly over the black ice surrounded by pink flames. It made him laugh, because he might have been a creature in hell. Yes, that was what hell was like, he had always known it – cold. Cold and lonely, when, if you’d only had a bit of luck, you might have been up somewhere in the sunlight, not alone. He didn’t feel somehow this morning as if his marriage was an obstruction; he felt as if it were a shame. It hurt him terribly that what had driven him to Estelle could be called love, when love was this other feeling – the feeling that he’d like to be torn into little bits rather than fail Claire. He’d be ridiculous to please her; he’d face anything, suffer anything, take anything on. And it wasn’t in the least that she was lovely. He didn’t think about her beauty half as much as he thought about her health and the gentle, tender ways she had with sick people. He’d watched her over and over again, when she had no idea he was anywhere near, being nice to people in ways in which Winn had never dreamed before one could be nice. When people had nothing but their self-esteem left them, no attractions, no courage, no health, she’d just sit down beside them and make their self-esteem happy and comfortable.
She needn’t have been anything but young and gay and triumphant, but she never shirked anybody else’s pain. He had puzzled over her a good deal because, as far as he could see, she hadn’t the ordinary rules belonging to good people – about church, and not playing cards for money, and pulling people up. It wasn’t right and wrong she was thinking of most; it was other people’s feelings.
He tried not to love her like that, because it made it worse. It was like loving God and Peter; it mixed him all up.
He couldn’t see straight because everything he saw turned into love of her, and being with her seemed like being good; and it wasn’t, of course, if he concealed things.
The icy blue rink turned slowly into gold before he had quite made up his mind what to do. Making up his mind had a good deal to do with Lionel, so that he felt fairly safe about it. It was going to hurt horribly, but if it only hurt him, it couldn’t be said to matter. You couldn’t have a safe plan that didn’t hurt somebody, and as long as it didn’t hurt the person it was made for, it could be counted a success.