“Is he married?”
“Not even that, now,” said Sir Lawrence.
“But some men don’t even begin to be human, do they?”
“That’s not so bad; you know where you are, and can take a fire-shovel to them. No, it’s the blokes who get swelled head that make the trouble. By the way, I told my young man that you would sit for your miniature.”
“Oh! Uncle, I simply couldn’t sit with Hubert on my mind!”
“No, no! Of course not! But something must turn up.” He looked at her shrewdly and added: “By the way, Dinny, young Jean?”
Dinny lifted a wide and simple gaze:
“What about her?”
“She doesn’t look to me too easy to bite.”
“No, but what can she do, poor dear?”
“I wonder,” said Sir Lawrence, raising one eyebrow, “I just wonder. ‘They’re dear little innocent things, they are, they’re angels without any wings, they are. That’s ‘Punch’ before your time, Dinny. And it will continue to be ‘Punch’ after your time, except that wings are growing on you all so fast.”
Dinny, still looking at him innocently, thought: ‘He’s rather uncanny, Uncle Lawrence!’ And soon after she went up to bed.
To go to bed with one’s whole soul in a state of upheaval! And yet how many other upheaved souls lay, cheek to pillow, unsleeping! The room seemed full of the world’s unreasoning misery. If one were talented, one would get up and relieve oneself in a poem about Azrael, or something! Alas! It was not so easy as all that. One lay, and was sore—sore and anxious and angry. She could remember still how she had felt, being thirteen, when Hubert, not quite eighteen, had gone off to the war. That had been horrid, but this was much worse; and she wondered why. Then he might have been killed at any minute; now he was safer than anybody who was not in prison. He would be preserved meticulously even while they sent him across the world and put him up for trial in a country not his own, before some judge of alien blood. He was safe enough for some months yet. Why, then, did this seem so much worse than all the risks through which he had passed since he first went soldiering, even than that long, bad time on the Hallorsen expedition? Why? If not that those old risks and hardships had been endured of his free will; while the present trouble was imposed on him. He was being held down, deprived of the two great boons of human existence, independence and private life, boons to secure which human beings in communities had directed all their efforts for thousands of years, until—until they went Bolshy! Boons to every human being, but especially to people like themselves, brought up under no kind of whip except that of their own consciences. And she lay there as if she were lying in his cell, gazing into his future, longing for Jean, hating the locked-in feeling, cramped and miserable and bitter. For what had he done, what in God’s name had he done that any other man of sensibility and spirit would not do!
The mutter of the traffic from Park Lane formed a sort of ground base to her rebellious misery. She became so restless that she could not lie in bed, and, putting on her dressing gown, stole noiselessly about her room till she was chilled by the late October air coming through the opened window. Perhaps there was something in being married, after all; you had a chest to snuggle against and if need be weep on; you had an ear to pour complaint into; and lips that would make the mooing sounds of sympathy. But worse than being single during this time of trial was being inactive. She envied those who, like her father and Sir Lawrence, were at least taking cabs and going about; greatly she envied Jean and Alan. Whatever they were up to was better than being up to nothing, like herself! She took out the emerald pendant and looked at it. That at least was something to do on the morrow, and she pictured herself with this in her hand forcing large sums of money out of some flinty person with a tendency towards the art of lending.
Placing the pendant beneath her pillow, as though its proximity were an insurance against her sense of helplessness, she fell asleep at last.
Next morning she was down early. It had occurred to her that she could perhaps pawn the pendant, get the money, and take it to Jean before she left. And she decided to consult the butler, Blore. After all, she had known him since she was five; he was an institution and had never divulged any of the iniquities she had confided in him in her childhood.
She went up to him, therefore, when he appeared with her Aunt’s special coffee machine.
“Blore.”
“Yes, Miss Dinny.”
“Will you be frightfully nice and tell me, IN CONFIDENCE, who is supposed to be the best pawnbroker in London?”
Surprised but impassive—for, after all, anybody might have to ‘pop’ anything in these days—the butler placed the coffee machine at the head of the table and stood reflecting.
“Well, Miss Dinny, of course there’s Attenborough’s, but I’m told the best people go to a man called Frewen in South Molton Street. I can get you the number from the telephone book. They say he’s reliable and very fair.”
“Splendid, Blore! It’s just a little matter.”
“Quite so, Miss.”
“Oh! And, Blore, would you—should I give my own name?”
“No, Miss Dinny; if I might suggest: give my wife’s name and this address. Then, if there has to be any communication, I could get it to you by telephone, and no one the wiser.”
“Oh! that’s a great relief. But wouldn’t Mrs. Blore mind?”
“Oh! no, Miss, only too glad to oblige you. I could do the matter for you if you wish.”
“Thank you, Blore, but I’m afraid I must do it myself.”
The butler caressed his chin and regarded her; his eye seemed to Dinny benevolent but faintly quizzical.
“Well, Miss, if I may say so, a little nonchalance goes a long way even with the best of them. There are others if he doesn’t offer value.”
“Thank you frightfully, Blore; I’ll let you know if he doesn’t. Would half past nine be too early?”
“From what I hear, Miss, that is the best hour; you get him fresh and hearty.”
“Dear Blore!”
“I’m told he’s an understanding gent, who can tell a lady when he sees one. He won’t confuse you with some of those Tottie madams.”
Dinny laid her finger to her lips.
“Cross your heart, Blore.”
“Oh! absolutely, Miss. After Mr. Michael you were always my favourite.”
“And so were you, Blore.” She took up ‘The Times’ as her father entered, and Blore withdrew.
“Sleep well, Dad?”
The General nodded.
“And Mother’s head?”
“Better. She’s coming down. We’ve decided that it’s no use to worry, Dinny.”
“No, darling, it isn’t, of course. D’you think we could begin breakfast?”
“Em won’t be down, and Lawrence has his at eight. You make the coffee.”
Dinny, who shared her Aunt’s passion for good coffee went reverentially to work.
“What about Jean?” asked the General, suddenly. “Is she coming to us?”
Dinny did not raise her eyes.
“I don’t think so, Dad; she’ll be too restless; I expect she’ll just make out by herself. I should want to, if I were her.”
“I daresay, poor girl. She’s got pluck, anyway. I’m glad Hubert married a girl of spirit. Those Tasburghs have got their hearts in the right place. I remember an uncle of hers in India—daring chap, a Goorkha regiment, they swore by him. Let me see, where was he killed?”
Dinny bent lower over the coffee.
It was barely half past nine when she went out with the pendant in her vanity bag, and her best hat on. At half past nine precisely she was going up to the first floor above a shop in South Molton Street. Within a large room, at a mahogany table, were two seated gentlemen, who might have seemed to her like high-class bookmakers if she had known what such were like. She looked at them anxiously, seeking for signs of heartiness. They appeared, at least, to be fresh, and one of them came towards he
r.
Dinny passed an invisible tongue over her lips.
“I’m told that you are so good as to lend money on valuable jewellery?”
“Quite, Madam.” He was grey, and rather bald, and rather red, with light eyes, and he stood regarding her through a pair of pince-nez which he held in his hand. Placing them on his nose, he drew a chair up to the table, made a motion with one hand, and resumed his seat. Dinny sat down.
“I want rather a lot, five hundred,” and she smiled: “It was an heirloom, quite nice.”
Both the seated gentlemen bowed slightly.
“And I want it at once, because I have to make a payment. Here it is!” And out of her bag she drew the pendant, unwrapped it and pushed it forward on the table. Then, remembering the needed touch of nonchalance, she leaned back and crossed her knees.
Both of them looked at the pendant for a full minute without movement or speech. Then the second gentleman opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass. While he was examining the pendant, Dinny was conscious that the first gentleman was examining herself. That—she supposed—was the way they divided labour. Which would they decide was the more genuine piece? She felt rather breathless, but kept her eyebrows slightly raised and her eyelids half closed.
“Your own property, Madam?” said the first gentleman.
Remembering once more the old proverb, Dinny uttered an emphatic: “Yes.”
The second gentleman lowered his glass, and seemed to weigh the pendant in his hand.
“Very nice,” he said. “Old-fashioned, but very nice. And for how long would you want the money?”
Dinny, who had no idea, said boldly: “Six months; but I suppose I could redeem it before?”
“Oh! yes. Five hundred, did you say?”
“Please.”
“If you are satisfied, Mr. Bondy,” said the second gentleman, “I am.”
Dinny raised her eyes to Mr. Bondy’s face. Was he going to say, ‘No, she’s just told me a lie?’ Instead, he pushed his underlip up over his upper lip, bowed to her and said:
“Quite!”
‘I wonder,’ she thought, ‘if they always believe what they hear, or never? I suppose it’s the same thing, really—THEY get the pendant and it’s I who have to trust them—or, rather, it’s Jean.’
The second gentleman now swept up the pendant, and, producing a book, began to write in it. Mr. Bondy, on the other hand, went towards a safe.
“Did you wish for notes, Madam?”
“Please.”
The second gentleman, who had a moustache and white spats, and whose eyes goggled slightly, passed her the book.
“Your name and address, Madam.”
As she wrote: ‘Mrs. Blore’ and her aunt’s number in Mount Street, the word ‘Help!’ came into her mind, and she cramped her left hand as to hide what should have been the ringed finger. Her gloves fitted dreadfully well and there was no desirable circular protuberance.
“Should you require the article, we shall want Ј550 on the 29th of April next. After that, unless we hear from you, it will be for sale.”
“Yes, of course. But if I redeem it before?”
“Then the amount will be according. The interest is at 20 per cent., so in a month, say, from now, we should only require Ј508 6s. 8d.”
“I see.”
The first gentleman detached a slip of paper and gave it to her.
“That is the receipt.”
“Could the pendant be redeemed on payment by anyone with this receipt, in case I can’t come myself?”
“Yes, Madam.”
Dinny placed the receipt in her vanity bag, together with as much of her left hand as would go in, and listened to Mr. Bondy counting notes on the table. He counted beautifully; the notes, too, made a fine crackle, and seemed to be new. She took them with her right hand, inserted them into the bag, and still holding it with her concealed left hand, arose.
“Thank you very much.”
“Not at all, Madam, the pleasure is ours. Delighted to be of service. Good-bye!”
Dinny bowed, and made slowly for the door. There, from under her lashes she distinctly saw the first gentleman close one eye.
She went down the stairs rather dreamily, shutting her bag.
‘I wonder if they think I’m going to have a baby,’ she thought; ‘or it may be only the Cambridgeshire.’ Anyway she had the money, and it was just a quarter to ten. Thomas Cook’s would change it, perhaps, or at least tell her where to get Belgian money.
It took an hour and visits to several places before she had most of it in Belgian money, and she was hot when she passed the barrier at Victoria with a platform ticket. She moved slowly down the train, looking into each carriage. She had gone about two-thirds down when a voice behind had called:
“Dinny!” And, looking round, she saw Jean in the doorway of a compartment.
“Oh! there you are, Jean! I’ve had such a rush. Is my nose shiny?”
“You never look hot, Dinny.”
“Well! I’ve done it; here’s the result, five hundred nearly all in Belgian.”
“Splendid!”
“And the receipt. Anyone can get it on this. The interest’s at 20 per cent, calculated from day to day, but after April 28th, unless redeemed, it’ll be for sale.”
“You keep that, Dinny.” Jean lowered her voice. “If we have to do things, it will mean we shan’t be on hand. There are several places that have no treaties with Bolivia, and that’s where we shall be till things have been put straight somehow.”
“Oh!” said Dinny, blankly, “I could have got more. They lapped it up.”
“Never mind! I must get in. G.P.O. Brussels. Good-bye! Give my dear love to Hubert and tell him all’s well.” She flung her arms round Dinny, gave her a hug, and sprang back into the train. It moved off almost at once, and Dinny stood waving to that brilliant browned face turned back towards her.
CHAPTER 34
This active and successful opening to her day had the most acute drawbacks, for it meant that she was now the more loose-ended.
The absence of the Home Secretary and the Bolivian Minister seemed likely to hold up all activity even if she could have been of use in those directions, which was improbable. Nothing for it but to wait, eating one’s heart out! She spent the rest of the morning wandering about, looking at shop windows, looking at the people who looked at shop windows. She lunched off poached eggs at an A.B.C. and went into a cinema, with a vague idea that whatever Jean and Alan were preparing would seem more natural if she could see something of the sort on the screen. She had no luck. In the film she saw were no aeroplanes, no open spaces, no detectives, no escaping from justice whatever; it was the starkest record of a French gentleman, not quite in his first youth, going into wrong bedrooms for an hour and more on end, without anyone actually losing her virtue. Dinny could not help enjoying it—he was a dear, and perhaps the most accomplished liar she had ever watched.
After this warmth and comfort, she set her face again towards Mount Street.
She found that her mother and father had taken the afternoon train back to Condaford, and this plunged her into uncertainty. Ought she to go back, too, and ‘be a daughter’ to them? Or ought she to remain ‘on the spot’ in case anything turned up for her to do?
She went up to her room undecided, and began half-heartedly to pack. Pulling open a drawer, she came on Hubert’s diary, which still accompanied her. Turning the pages idly, she lighted on a passage which seemed to her unfamiliar, having nothing to do with his hardships:
“Here’s a sentence in a book I’m reading: ‘We belong, of course, to a generation that’s seen through things, seen how futile everything is, and had the courage to accept futility, and say to ourselves: There’s nothing for it but to enjoy ourselves as best we can.’ Well, I suppose that’s my generation, the one that’s seen the war and its aftermath; and, of course, it IS the attitude of quite a crowd; but when you come to think of it, it might have been said by any rather un
thinking person in any generation; certainly might have been said by the last generation after religion had got the knock that Darwin gave it. For what does it come to? Suppose you admit having seen through religion and marriage and treaties, and commercial honesty and freedom and ideals of every kind, seen that there’s nothing absolute about them, that they lead of themselves to no definite reward, either in this world or a next which doesn’t exist perhaps, and that the only thing absolute is pleasure and that you mean to have it—are you any farther towards getting pleasure? No! you’re a long way farther off. If everybody’s creed is consciously and crudely ‘grab a good time at all costs,’ everybody is going to grab it at the expense of everybody else, and the devil will take the hindmost, and that’ll be nearly everybody, especially the sort of slackers who naturally hold that creed, so that THEY, most certainly, aren’t going to get a good time. All those things they’ve so cleverly seen through are only rules of the road devised by men throughout the ages to keep people within bounds, so that we may all have a reasonable chance of getting a good time, instead of the good time going only to the violent, callous, dangerous and able few. All our institutions, religion, marriage, treaties, the law, and the rest, are simply forms of consideration for others necessary to secure consideration for self. Without them we should be a society of feeble motor-bandits and streetwalkers in slavery to a few super-crooks. You can’t, therefore, disbelieve in consideration for others without making an idiot of yourself and spoiling your own chances of a good time. The funny thing is that no matter how we all talk, we recognise that perfectly. People who prate like the fellow in that book don’t act up to their creed when it comes to the point. Even a motor-bandit doesn’t turn King’s evidence. In fact, this new philosophy of ‘having the courage to accept futility and grab a good time’ is simply a shallow bit of thinking; all the same, it seemed quite plausible when I read it.”
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