He heard hurrying footsteps, and, turning round, saw Desert behind him. Sir Lawrence had almost a shock looking at his face, dry, dark, with quivering lips and deep suffering eyes.
“You were quite right,” he said; “I thought I’d let you know. You can tell her family I’m going away.”
At this complete success of his mission Sir Lawrence experienced dismay.
“Be careful!” he said: “You might do her a great injury.”
“I shall do her that, anyway. Thank you for speaking to me. You’ve made me see. Good-bye!” He turned and was gone.
Sir Lawrence stood looking after him, impressed by his look of suffering. He turned in at his front door doubtful whether he had not made bad worse. While he was putting down his hat and stick, Lady Mont came down the stairs.
“I’m so bored, Lawrence. What have you been doin’?”
“Seeing young Desert; and, it seems, I’ve made him feel that until he can live on good terms with himself he won’t be fit to live with at all.”
“That’s wicked.”
“How?”
“He’ll go away. I always knew he’d go away. You must tell Dinny at once what you’ve done.” And she went to the telephone.
“Is that you, Fleur?… Oh! Dinny… This is Aunt Em!… Yes… Can you come round here?… Why not?… That’s not a reason… But you must! Lawrence wants to speak to you… At once? Yes. He’s done a very stupid thing… What?… No!… He wants to explain. In ten minutes… very well.”
‘My God!’ thought Sir Lawrence. He had suddenly realised that to deaden feeling on any subject one only needed to sit in conclave. Whenever the Government got into trouble, they appointed a Commission. Whenever a man did something wrong, he went into consultation with solicitor and counsel. If he himself hadn’t been sitting in conclave, would he ever have gone to see Desert and put the fat into the fire like this? The conclave had dulled his feelings. He had gone to Wilfrid as some juryman comes in to return his verdict after sitting in conclave on a case for days. And now he had to put himself right with Dinny, and how the deuce would he do that? He went into his study, conscious that his wife was following.
“Lawrence, you must tell her exactly what you’ve done, and how he took it. Otherwise it may be too late. And I shall stay until you’ve done it.”
“Considering, Em, that you don’t know what I said, or what he said, that seems superfluous.”
“No,” said Lady Mont, “nothing is, when a man’s done wrong.”
“I was charged to go and see him by your family.”
“You ought to have had more sense. If you treat poets like innkeepers, they blow up.”
“On the contrary, he thanked me.”
“That’s worse. I shall have Dinny’s taxi kept at the door.”
“Em,” said Sir Lawrence, “when you want to make your will, let me know.”
“Why?”
“Because of getting you consecutive before you start.”
“Anything I have,” said Lady Mont, “is to go to Michael, to be kept for Catherine. And if I’m dead when Kit goes to Harrow, he’s to have my grandfather’s ‘stirrup-cup’ that’s in the armoire in my sitting-room at Lippin’hall. But he’s not to take it to school with him, or they’ll melt it, or drink boiled peppermints out of it, or something. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then,” said Lady Mont, “get ready and begin at once when Dinny comes.”
“Quite!” said Sir Lawrence meekly. “But how the deuce am I to put it to Dinny?”
“Just put it, and don’t invent as you go along.”
Sir Lawrence played a tune with his fingers on the window-pane. His wife stared at the ceiling. They were like that when Dinny came.
“Keep Miss Dinny’s taxi, Blore.”
At the sight of his niece Sir Lawrence perceived that he had indeed lost touch with feeling. Her face, under its chestnut-coloured hair, was sharpened and blanched, and there was a look in her eyes that he did not like.
“Begin,” said Lady Mont.
Sir Lawrence raised one high thin shoulder as if in protection.
“My dear, your brother has been recalled, and I was asked whether I would go and see young Desert. I went. I told him that if he had a quarrel with himself he would not be fit to live with till he’d made it up. He said nothing and turned off. Afterwards he came up behind me in this street, and said that I was right. Would I tell your family that he was going away. He looked very queer and troubled. I said: ‘Be careful! You might do her a great injury.’ ‘I shall do her that, anyway,’ he said. And he went off. That was about twenty minutes ago.”
Dinny looked from one to the other, covered her lips with her hand, and went out.
A moment later they heard her cab move off.
CHAPTER 28
Except for receiving a little note in answer to her letter, which relieved her not at all, Dinny had spent these last two days in distress of mind. When Sir Lawrence made his communication, she felt as if all depended on whether she could get to Cork Street before he was back there, and in her taxi she sat with hands screwed tight together in her lap and her eyes fixed on the driver’s back, a back, indeed, so broad that it was not easy to fix them elsewhere. Useless to think of what she was going to say—she must say whatever came into her head when she saw him. His face would give her a lead. She realised that if he once got away from England it would be as if she had never seen him. She stopped the cab in Burlington Street and walked swiftly to his door. If he had come straight home, he must be in! In these last two days she had realised that Stack had perceived some change in Wilfrid and was conforming to it, and when he opened the door she said:
“You mustn’t put me off, Stack, I MUST see Mr. Desert.” And, slipping past, she opened the door of the sitting-room. Wilfrid was pacing up and down.
“Dinny!”
She felt that if she said the wrong thing it might be, then and there, the end; and she only smiled. He put his hands over his eyes; and, while he stood thus blinded, she stole up and put her arms round his neck.
Was Jean right? Ought she to—?
Then, through the opened door Foch came in. He slid the velvet of his muzzle under her hand, and she sank on her knees to kiss him. When she looked up, Wilfrid had turned away. Instantly she scrambled up, and stood, as it were, lost. She did not know of what, if of anything, she thought, not even whether she were feeling. All seemed to go blank within her. He had thrown the window open and was leaning there holding his hands to his head. Was he going to throw himself out? She made a violent effort to control her nerves, and said very gently: “Wilfrid!” He turned and looked at her, and she thought: ‘My God! He hates me!’ Then his expression changed, and became the one she knew; and she was aware once more of how at sea one is with wounded pride—so multiple and violent and changing in its moods!
“Well?” she said. “What do you wish me to do?”
“I don’t know. The whole thing is mad. I ought to have buried myself in Siam by now.”
“Would you like me to stay here to-night?”
“Yes! No! I don’t know.”
“Wilfrid, why take it so hard? It’s as if love were nothing to you. Is it nothing?”
For answer he took out Jack Muskham’s letter.
“Read this!”
She read it. “I see. It was doubly unfortunate that I came down.”
He threw himself down again on the divan, and sat there looking up at her.
‘If I do go,’ thought Dinny, ‘I shall only begin tearing to get back again.’ And she said: “What are you doing for dinner?”