Dinny shook her head. “They’re neither of them like that. I must go and wash, Uncle.”
Adrian reflected upon the undeniable proposition that everyone had his troubles. His own at the moment were confined to the fact that his step-children, Sheila and Ronald Ferse, had measles, so that he was something of a pariah in his own house, the sanctity attaching to an infectious disease having cast his wife into purdah. He was not vastly interested in Clare. She had always been to him one of those young women who took the bit between their teeth and were bound to fetch up now and again with broken knees. Dinny, to him, was worth three of her. But if Dinny were going to be worried out of her life by her sister’s troubles, then, indeed, they became important to Adrian. She seemed to have the knack of bearing vicarious burdens: Hubert’s, his own, Wilfrid Desert’s, and now Clare’s.
And he said to his sister’s parakeet: “Not fair, Polly, is it?”
The parakeet, who was used to him, came out of its open cage on to his shoulder and tweaked his ear.
“You don’t approve, do you?”
The green bird emitted a faint chattering sound and clutched its way on to his waistcoat. Adrian scratched its poll.
“Who’s going to scratch her poll? Poor Dinny!”
His sister’s voice startled him:
“I can’t have Dinny scratched again.”
“Em,” said Adrian, “did any of US worry about the others?”
“In large families you don’t. I was the nearest—gettin’ Lionel married, and now he’s a judge—depressin’. Dornford—have you seen him?”
“Never.”
“He’s got a face like a portrait. They say he won the long jump at Oxford. Is that any good?”
“It’s what you call desirable.”
“Very well made,” said Lady Mont. “I looked him over at Condaford.”
“My dear Em!”
“For Dinny, of course. What do you do with a gardener who WILL roll the stone terrace?”
“Tell him not to.”
“Whenever I look out at Lippin’hall, he’s at it, takin’ the roller somewhere else. There’s the gong, and here’s Dinny; we’ll go in.”
Sir Lawrence was at the sideboard in the dining-room, extracting a crumbled cork.
“Lafite ‘65. Goodness knows what it’ll be like. Decant it very gently, Blore. What do you say, Adrian, warm it a little or no?”
“I should say no, if it’s that age.”
“I agree.”
Dinner began in silence. Adrian was thinking of Dinny, Dinny of Clare, and Sir Lawrence of the claret.
“French art,” said Lady Mont.
“Ah!” said Sir Lawrence: “that reminds me, Em; some of old Forsyte’s pictures are going to be lent. Considering he died saving them, they owe it to him.”
Dinny looked up.
“Fleur’s father? Was he a nice man, Uncle?”
“Nice?” repeated Sir Lawrence: “It’s not the word. Straight, yes: careful, yes—too careful for these times. He got a picture on his head, you know, in the fire—poor old chap. He knew something about French art, though. This exhibition that’s coming would have pleased him.”
“There’ll be nothing in it to touch ‘The Birth of Venus,’” said Adrian.
Dinny gave him a pleased look.
“That was divine,” she said.
Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow.
“I’ve often thought of going into the question: Why a nation ceases to be poetic. The old Italians—and look at them now!”
“Isn’t poetry an effervescence, Uncle? Doesn’t it mean youth, or at least enthusiasm?”
“The Italians were never young, and they’re enthusiastic enough now. When we were in Italy last May you should have seen the trouble they took over our passports.”
“Touchin’!” agreed Lady Mont.
“It’s only a question,” said Adrian, “of the means of expression. In the fourteenth century the Italians were expressing themselves in daggers and verse, in the fifteenth and sixteenth in poison, sculpture and painting, in the seventeenth in music, in the eighteenth in intrigue, in the nineteenth in rebellion, and in the twentieth their poetry is spelled in wireless and rules.”
“I did get so tired,” murmured Lady Mont, “of seein’ rules I couldn’t read.”
“You were fortunate, my dear; I could.”
“There’s one thing about the Italians,” continued Adrian; “century by century they throw up really great men of one sort or another. Is that climate, blood, or scenery, Lawrence?”
Sir Lawrence shrugged. “What do you think of the claret? Put your nose to it, Dinny. Sixty years ago, you two young women wouldn’t be here, and Adrian and I would be soppy about it. It’s as near perfect as makes no matter.”
Adrian sipped and nodded.
“Absolutely prime!”
“Well, Dinny?”
“I’m sure it’s perfect, dear—wasted on me.”
“Old Forsyte would have appreciated this; he had wonderful sherry. Do you get the bouquet, Em?”
Lady Mont, who was holding her glass with her elbow on the table, moved her nostrils delicately.
“Such nonsense,” she murmured, “almost any flower beats it.”
The remark caused complete silence.
Dinny’s eyes were the first to come to the level.
“How are Boswell and Johnson, Auntie?”
“I was tellin’ Adrian: Boswell’s taken to rollin’ the stone terrace, and Johnson’s lost his wife—poor thing. He’s a different man. Whistles all the time. His tunes ought to be collected.”
“Survivals of old England?”
“No, modern—he just wanders.”
“Talking of survivals,” said Sir Lawrence, “did you ever read Ask Mamma, Dinny?”
“No; who wrote it?”
“Surtees. You should. It’s a corrective.”
“Of what, Uncle?”
“Modernity.”
Lady Mont lowered her glass; it was empty.
“So wise of them to be stoppin’ this picture exhibition at 1900. D’you remember, Lawrence—in Paris, all those wiggly things we saw, and so much yellow and light blue—scrolls and blobs and faces upside-down? Dinny, we’d better go up.”
And when presently Blore brought the message—Would Miss Dinny go down to the study? She murmured:
“It’s about Jerry Corven. Don’t encourage your Uncle—he thinks he can do good, but he can’t.”…
“Well, Dinny?” said Sir Lawrence: “I always like talking to Adrian; he’s a well-tempered fellow with a mind of his own. I told Clare I would see Corven, but it’s no good seeing him without knowing what one wants to say. And not much then, I’m afraid. What do YOU think?”
Dinny, who had seated herself on the edge of her chair, set her elbows on her knees. It was an attitude from which Sir Lawrence augured ill.
“Judging from what he said to me today, Uncle Lawrence, his mind’s made up. Either Clare must go back to him or he’ll try to divorce her.”
“How will your people feel about that?”
“Very badly.”
“You know there’s a young man hanging round?”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t a bean.”
Dinny smiled. “We’re used to that.”
“I know, but no beans when you’re out of bounds is serious. Corven might claim damages, he looks a vindictive sort of chap.”
“D’you really think he would? It’s very bad form, nowadays, isn’t it?”
“Form matters very little when a man’s monkey is up. I suppose you couldn’t get Clare to apply the closure to young Croom?”
“I’m afraid Clare will refuse to be dictated to about whom she sees. She thinks the break-up is entirely Jerry’s fault.”
“I,” said Sir Lawrence, emitting a slow puff, “am in favour of having Corven watched while he’s over here, and collecting a shot, if possible, to fire across his bows, but she doesn’t like the idea of that.�
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“She believes in his career, and doesn’t want to spoil it. Besides, it’s so revolting.”
Sir Lawrence shrugged.
“What would you? The law’s the law. He belongs to Burton’s. Shall I waylay him there and appeal to him to leave her here quietly, and see if absence will make her heart grow fond again?”
Dinny wrinkled her brows.
“It might be worth trying, but I don’t believe he’ll budge.”
“What line are you going to take yourself?”
“Back Clare in whatever she does or doesn’t do.”
Sir Lawrence nodded, having received the answer he expected.
CHAPTER 10
The quality which from time immemorial has made the public men of England what they are, tempted so many lawyers into Parliament, caused so many divines to put up with being bishops, floated so many financiers, saved so many politicians from taking thought for the morrow, and so many judges from the pangs of remorse, was present in Eustace Dornford to no small degree. Put more shortly, he had an excellent digestion; could eat and drink at all times without knowing anything about it afterwards. He was an indefatigably hard worker even at play; and there was in him just that added fund of nervous energy which differentiates the man who wins the long jump from the man who loses it. And now, though his practice was going up by leaps and bounds since, two years ago, he had taken silk, he had stood for Parliament. And yet he was the last sort of man to incur the epithet ‘go-getter.’ His pale-brown, hazel-eyed, well-featured face had a considerate, even a sensitive look, and a pleasant smile. He had kept a little fine dark moustache, and his wig had not yet depleted his natural hair, which was dark and of rather curly texture. After Oxford he had eaten dinners and gone into the Chambers of a well-known Common Law Junior. Being a subaltern in the Shropshire Yeomanry when the war broke out, he had passed into the Cavalry, and not long after into the trenches, where he had known better luck than most people. His rise at the Bar after the war had been rapid. Solicitors liked him. He never fell foul of judges, and as a cross-examiner stood out, because he almost seemed to regret the points he scored. He was a Roman Catholic, from breeding rather than observance. Finally, he was fastidious in matters of sex, and his presence at a dinner-table on circuit had, if not a silencing, at least a moderating effect on tongues.
He occupied in Harcourt Buildings a commodious set of chambers designed for life as well as learning. Early every morning, wet or fine, he went for a ride in the Row, having already done at least two hours’ work on his cases. By ten o’clock, bathed, breakfasted, and acquainted with the morning’s news, he was ready for the Courts. When at four those Courts rose, he was busy again till half-past six on his cases. The evenings, hitherto free, would now be spent at the House: and since it would be seldom that he could go to bed without working an hour or so on some case or other, his sleep was likely to be curtailed from six hours to five, or even four.
The arrangement come to with Clare was simple. She arrived at a quarter to ten, opened his correspondence, and took his instructions from ten to a quarter past. She remained to do what was necessary, and came again at six o’clock, ready for anything fresh or left over.
On the evening after that last described, at the hour of eight-fifteen, he entered the drawing-room in Mount Street, was greeted, and introduced to Adrian, who had again been bidden. Discussing the state of the pound and other grave matters, they waited, till Lady Mont said suddenly: “Soup. What have you done with Clare, Mr. Dornford?”
His eyes, which had hitherto taken in little but Dinny, regarded his hostess with a faint surprise.
“She left the Temple at half-past six, saying we should meet again.”
“Then,” said Lady Mont, “we’ll go down.”
There followed one of those discomfortable hours well known to well-bred people, when four of them are anxious upon a subject which they must not broach to the fifth, and the fifth becomes aware of this anxiety.
They were, indeed, too few for the occasion, for all that each one of them said could be heard by the others. It was impossible for Eustace Dornford to be confidential with either of his neighbours; and since he instinctively felt that without a preliminary confidence he would only put his foot into it, he was careful to be public-minded and keep to such topics as the Premier, the undiscovered identity of certain poisoners, the ventilation of the House of Commons, the difficulty of knowing exactly what to do with one’s hat there, and other subjects of general interest. But, by the end of dinner he was so acutely aware that they were burning to say things he mustn’t hear, that he invented a professional telephone call, and was taken out of the room by Blore.
The moment he had gone Dinny said:
“She must have been waylaid, Auntie. Could I be excused and go and see?”
Sir Lawrence answered:
“Better wait till we break, Dinny; a few minutes can’t matter now.”
“Don’t you think,” said Adrian, “that Dornford ought to know how things stand? She goes to him every day.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Sir Lawrence.
“No,” said Lady Mont. “Dinny must tell him. Wait for him here, Dinny. We’ll go up.”
Thus it was that, returning to the dining-room after his trunk-call to someone whom he knew to be away from home, Dornford found Dinny waiting. She handed him the cigars and said:
“Forgive us, Mr. Dornford. It’s about my sister. Please light up, and here’s coffee. Blore, would you mind getting me a taxi?”
When they had drunk their coffee, and were standing together by the fire, she turned her face to it and went on hurriedly:
“You see, Clare has split from her husband, and he’s just come over to take her back. She won’t go, and it’s rather a difficult time for her.”
Dornford made a considerate sound.
“I’m very glad you told me. I’ve been feeling unhappy all dinner.”
“I must go now, I’m afraid, and find out what’s happened.”
“Could I come with you?”
“Oh! thank you, but—”
“It would be a real pleasure.”
Dinny stood hesitating. He looked like a present help in trouble; but she said: “Thank you, but perhaps my sister wouldn’t like it.”
“I see. Any time I can help, please let me know.”
“Your taxi’s at the door, Miss.”
“Some day,” she said, “I’d like to ask you about divorce.”
In the taxi she wondered what she would do if she could not get in; and then what she would do if she could get in and Corven were there. She stopped the cab at the corner of the Mews.
“Stay here, please, I’ll let you know in a minute if I want you again.”
Dark and private loomed that little backwater.
‘Like one’s life,’ thought Dinny, and pulled at the ornamental bell. It tinkled all forlorn, and nothing happened. Again and again she rang, then moved backward to look up at the windows. The curtains—she remembered they were heavy—had been drawn close; she could not decide whether or no there was light behind them. Once more she rang and used the knocker, holding her breath to listen. No sound at all! At last, baffled and disquiet, she went back to the cab. Clare had said Corven was staying at the Bristol, and she gave that address. There might be a dozen explanations; only why, in a town of telephones, had Clare not let them know? Half-past ten! Perhaps she had by now!
The cab drew up at the hotel. “Wait, please!” Entering its discreetly gilded hall, she stood for a moment at a loss. The setting seemed unsuitable for private trouble.
“Yes, madam?” said a page-boy’s voice.
“Could you find out for me, please, if my brother-inlaw, Sir Gerald Corven, is in the hotel?”
What should she say if they brought him to her? Her figure in its evening cloak was reflected in a mirror, and that it was straight filled her with a sort of surprise—she felt so as if she were curling and creeping this way and that. But they did not bri
ng him to her. He was not in his room, nor in any of the public rooms. She went out again to her cab.
“Back to Mount Street, please.”
Dornford and Adrian were gone, her Aunt and Uncle playing piquet.
“Well, Dinny?”
“I couldn’t get into her rooms, and he was not in his hotel.”
“You went there?”
“It was all I could think of to do.”
Sir Lawrence rose. “I’ll telephone to Burton’s.” Dinny sat down beside her Aunt.
“I feel she’s in trouble, Auntie. Clare’s never rude.”
“Kidnapped or locked up,” said Lady Mont. “There was a case when I was young. Thompson, or Watson—a great fuss. Habeas corpus, or something—husbands can’t now. Well, Lawrence?”
“He hasn’t been in the Club since five o’clock. We must just wait till the morning. She may have forgotten, you know; or got the evening mixed.”
“But she told Mr. Dornford that they would meet again.”
“So they will, tomorrow morning. No good worrying, Dinny.”
Dinny went up, but did not undress. Had she done all she could? The night was clear and fine and warm for November. Only a quarter of a mile or so away, was that backwater of Mews—should she slip out and go over there again?
She threw off her evening frock, put on a day dress, hat and fur coat, and stole downstairs. It was dark in the hall. Quietly drawing back the bolts, she let herself out, and took to the streets. When she entered the Mews—where a couple of cars were being put away for the night—she saw light coming from the upper windows of No. 2. They had been opened and the curtains drawn aside. She rang the bell.
After a moment Clare, in her dressing-gown, opened the door.
“Was it you who came before, Dinny?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry I couldn’t let you in. Come up!”
She led the way up the spiral stairs, and Dinny followed.
Upstairs it was warm and light, the door into the tiny bathroom open, and the couch in disorder. Clare looked at her sister with a sort of unhappy defiance.
“Yes, I’ve had Jerry here, he’s not been gone ten minutes.”
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