It must be a long-distance shot or Mavorovitch would be there to intercept him, the longer, the safer, if he could get up speed enough for his swing. He had left the rest of the players behind him long ago, tossing some to one side and outflanking others; but he had not got clear away from Mavorovitch, bent double, and quietly calculating, a few feet behind him, the exact moment for an intercepting spurt: and then through the sharpness of the icy air and the sense of his own speed an extraordinary certainty flashed into Winn. He was not alone; Claire was there. He called it a fancy, but he knew it was a certainty. A burning joy seized him, and a new wild strength poured into him. He could do anything now.
He drew up suddenly, long before the spot he had fixed upon as a certain stroke, lifted his arm, and struck with all his might. It was a long, doubtful, crossing stroke, almost incredibly distant from the goal.
The crowd held its breath as the ball rose, cutting straight above the goal-keeper’s head, through the very center of the goal.
Winn was probably the only person there who didn’t follow its flight. He looked up quickly at the bank above him, and met her eyes. She was as joined to him as if they had no separate life.
In a moment it struck him that there was nothing else to do but to go to her at once, take her in his arms, and walk off with her somewhere into the snow. He knew now that he had been in hell; the sight of her was like the sudden cessation of blinding physical pain.
Then he pulled himself together and went back to the game. He couldn’t think any more, but the new activity in him went on playing methodically and without direction.
Mavorovitch, who was playing even more skilfully and swiftly, got the better of him once or twice; but the speed that had given Winn room for his great stroke flowed tirelessly through him. It seemed to him as if he could have outpaced a Scotch express.
He carried the ball off again and again out of the mob of his assailants. They scattered under his rushes like creatures made of cardboard. He offered three goals and shot one. The cheering of the St. Moritzers sounded in his ears as if it were a long way off. He saw the disappointed, friendly grin of little Mavorovitch as the last whistle settled the match at five goals to four against Davos, but everything seemed cloudy and unreal. He heard Mavorovitch say:
“Spooner never told us he had a dark horse over here. I must say I am disappointed. Until half-time I thought I should get the better of you; but how did you get that devilish spurt on? Fierce pace tires, but you were easier to tire when you began.”
Winn’s eyes wandered over the little man beside him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said good-naturedly; he had never in his life felt so good-natured. “I suppose I thought we were getting beaten. That rather braces one up, doesn’t it?”
“Ah, that is you English all over,” laughed Mavorovitch. “We have a saying, ‘In all campaigns the English lose many battles, but they always win one – namely, the last.’”
“I’m sure it’s awfully jolly of you to say so,” said Winn. “You play a pretty fine game yourself, you know, considerably more skill in it than mine. I had no idea you were not English yourself.”
Mavorovitch seemed to swim away into a mist of laughter, people receded, the bank receded; at last he stood before her. Winn thought she was a little thinner in the face and her eyes were larger than ever. He could not take his own away from her; he had no thoughts, and he forgot to speak.
Everybody was streaming off to tea. The rink was deserted; it lay a long, gray shadow beneath the high, white banks. The snow had begun to fall, light, dry flakes that rested like powder on Claire’s curly hair. She waited for him to speak; but as he still said nothing, she asked with a sudden dimple:
“Where does this path lead to?”
Then Winn recollected himself, and asked her if she didn’t want some tea. Claire shook her head.
“Not now,” she said decidedly; “I want to go along this path.”
Winn obeyed her silently. The path took them between dark fir-trees to the farthest corner of the little park. Far below them a small stream ran into the lake, it was frozen over, but in the silence they could hear it whispering beneath the ice. The world was as quiet as if it lay in velvet. Then Claire said suddenly:
“Oh, why did you make me hurt him when I liked him so much?”
They found a bench and sat down under the trees.
“Do you mean you’ve sent Lionel away?” Winn asked anxiously.
“Yes,” she said in a forlorn little voice; “yesterday I sent him away. He didn’t know I was coming over here, he was very miserable. He asked me if I knew about you – he said he believed you wanted me to – and I said, ‘Of course I know everything.’ I wasn’t going to let him think you hadn’t told me. Why did you go away?”
He had not thought she would ask him that. It was as if he saw before him an interminable hill which he had believed himself to have already climbed.
He drew a deep breath, then he said:
“Didn’t they talk about it? I wrote to her, the chaplain’s wife I mean; I hadn’t time to see her, but I sent it by the porter. I thought she’d do; she seemed a gossipy woman, kept on knitting and gassing over a stove in the hall. I thought she was – a sort of circulating library, you see. I tipped the porter – tow-headed Swiss brute. I suppose he swallowed it.”
“He went away the same day you did,” Claire explained. “Nobody told me anything. Do you think I would have let them? I wouldn’t let Lionel, and I knew he had a right to, but I didn’t care about anybody’s rights. You see, I – I thought you’d tell me yourself. So I came,” she finished quietly.
She waited. Winn began to draw patterns on the snow with his stick, then he said:
“I’ve been a bit of a blackguard not telling you myself. I didn’t want to talk about it, and that’s a fact. I’m married.”
He kept his face turned away from her. It seemed a long time before she spoke.
“You should have told me that before,” she said in a queer, low voice. “It’s too late now.”
“Would it,” he asked quickly, “have made any difference – about Lionel, I mean?”
She shook her head.
“Not,” she said, “about Lionel.”
He bent lower over the pattern in the snow; it had become more intricate.
“I couldn’t tell you,” he muttered; “I tried. I couldn’t. That was why I went off. You say too late. D’you mind telling me if you mean – you care?”
Her silence seemed interminable, and then he knew she had already answered him. It seemed to him that if he sat there and died, he couldn’t speak.
“Winn,” she asked in a whisper, “did you go because of me – or because of you?”
He turned round, facing her.
“Is that worrying you?” he asked fiercely. “Well, you can see for yourself, can’t you? All there is of me – ” He could not finish his sentence.
It was snowing heavily. They seemed intensely, cruelly alone. It was as if all life crept off and left them by themselves in the drifting gray snow, in their silent little corner of the unconscious, unalterable world.
Winn put his arm around her and drew her head down on his shoulder.
“It’s all right,” he said rather thickly. “I won’t hurt you.”
But he knew that he had hurt her, and that it was all wrong.
She did not cry, but she trembled against his heart. He felt her shivering as if she were afraid of all the world but him.