“Poor Uncle!” said Dinny, softly.
“Well, my dear, so things go in this life. But to be torn between two horrors is not my dream.”
“Was it in his family?”
Adrian nodded. “His grandfather died raving. But for the war it might never have developed in Ferse, but you can’t tell. Hereditary madness? Is it fair? No, Dinny, I’m not a believer in divine mercy in any form that we humans can understand, or in any way that we would exercise it ourselves. An all-embracing creativity and power of design without beginning and without end—obviously. But—tie it to our apron-strings we can’t. Think of a mad-house! One simply daren’t. And see what the fact that one daren’t means for those poor creatures. The sensitive recoil and that leaves them mainly to the insensitive, and God help them!”
“According to you, God won’t.”
“God is the helping of man by man, somebody once said; at all events that’s all the working version we can make of Him.”
“And the Devil?”
“The harming of man by man, only I’d throw in animals.”
“Pure Shelley, Uncle.”
“Might be a lot worse. But I become a wicked Uncle, corrupting the orthodoxy of Youth.”
“You can’t corrupt what is not, dear. Here’s Oakley Street. Would you like me to go and ask Diana if she wants anything?”
“Wouldn’t I? I’ll wait for you at this corner, Dinny; and thank you ever so.”
Dinny walked swiftly, looking neither to right nor left, and rang the bell. The same maid answered it.
“I don’t want to come in, but could you find out for me quietly from Mrs. Ferse whether she’s all right, or whether she wants anything. And will you tell her that I’m at Mrs. Michael Mont’s, and am ready to come at any moment, and to stay if she’d like me.”
While the maid was gone upstairs she strained her ears, but no sound reached them till the maid came back.
“Mrs. Ferse says, Miss, to thank you very heartily, and to say she won’t fail to send for you if she needs you. She’s all right at present, Miss; but, oh dear! we ARE put about, hoping for the best. And she sends her love, Miss; and Mr. Cherrell’s not to worry.”
“Thank you,” said Dinny: “Give her our love and say there we are—all ready.”
Then, swiftly, looking neither to left nor right, she returned to Adrian. The message repeated, they walked on.
“Hanging in the wind,” said Adrian, “is there anything more dreadful? And how long—oh, Lord! How long? But as she says, we mustn’t worry,” and he uttered an unhappy little laugh. It began to grow dusk, and in that comfortless light, neither day nor night, the ragged ends of the streets and bridges seemed bleak and unmeaning. Twilight passed, and with the lamps form began again and contours softened.
“Dinny, my dear,” said Adrian, “I’m not fit to walk with; we’d better get back.”
“Come and dine at Michael’s then, Uncle—do!”
Adrian shook his head.
“Skeletons should not be at feasts. I don’t know how to abide myself, as your Nurse used to say, I’m sure.”
“She did not; she was Scotch. Is Ferse a Scottish name?”
“May have been originally. But Ferse came from West Sussex, somewhere in the Downs—an old family.”
“Do you think old families are queer?”
“I don’t see why. When there’s a case of queerness in an old family, it’s conspicuous of course, instead of just passing without notice. Old families are not inbred like village folk.” By instinct for what might distract him, Dinny went on:
“Do you think age in families has any points to it at all, Uncle?”
“What is age? All families are equally old, in one sense. But if you’re thinking of quality due to mating for generations within a certain caste, well, I don’t know—there’s certainly ‘good breeding’ in the sense that you’d apply it to dogs or horses, but you can get that in any favourable physical circumstances—in the dales, by the sea; wherever conditions are good. Sound stock breeds sound stock—that’s obvious. I know villages in the very North of Italy where there isn’t a person of rank, and yet not one without beauty and a look of breeding. But when you come to breeding from people with genius or those exceptional qualities which bring men to the front, I’m very doubtful whether you don’t get distortion rather than symmetry. Families with military or naval origin and tradition have the best chance, perhaps—good physique and not too much brain; but Science and the Law and Business are very distorting. No! where I think ‘old’ families may have a pull is in the more definite sense of direction their children get in growing up, a set tradition, a set objective; also perhaps to a better chance in the marriage market; and in most cases to more country life, and more encouragement to taking their own line and more practice in taking it. What’s talked of as ‘breeding’ in humans is an attribute of mind rather than of body. What one thinks and feels is mainly due to tradition, habit and education. But I’m boring you, my dear.”
“No, no, Uncle; I’m terribly interested. You believe then in the passing on of an attitude to life rather than in blood.”
“Yes, but the two are very mixed.”
“And do you think ‘oldness’ is going out and soon nothing will be handed on?”
“I wonder. Tradition is extraordinarily strong, and in this country there’s a lot of machinery to keep it alive. You see, there are such a tremendous lot of directive jobs to be done; and the people most fit for such jobs are those who, as children, have had most practice in taking their own line, been taught not to gas about themselves, and to do things because it’s their duty. It’s they, for instance, who run the Services, and they’ll go on running them, I expect. But privilege is only justified nowadays by running till you drop.”
“A good many,” said Dinny, “seem to drop first, and then do the running. Well, here we are again, at Fleur’s. Now do come in, Uncle! If Diana did want anything you’d be on the spot.”
“Very well, my dear, and bless you—you got me on a subject I often think about. Serpent!”
CHAPTER 18
By pertinacious use of the telephone, Jean had discovered Hubert at ‘The Coffee House’ and learned his news. She passed Dinny and Adrian as they were coming in.
“Whither away?”
“Shan’t be long,” said Jean, and walked round the corner.
Her knowledge of London was small, and she hailed the first cab. Arriving in Eaton Square before a mansion of large and dreary appearance, she dismissed the cab and rang the bell.
“Lord Saxenden in Town?”
“Yes, my lady, but he’s not in.”
“When will he be in?”
“His lordship will be in to dinner, but—”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“Excuse me—my lady—”
“Not my lady,” said Jean, handing him a card; “but he’ll see me, all the same.”
The man struggled a moment, received a look straight between the eyes, and said:
“Will you come in here, my—Miss?”
Jean went. The little room was barren except for gilt-edged chairs of the Empire period, a chandelier, and two marble-topped console tables.
“Please give him my card the moment he comes in.”
The man seemed to rally.
“His Lordship will be pressed for time, Miss.”
“Not more than I am, don’t worry about that.” And on a gilt-edged chair she sat down. The man withdrew. With her eyes now on the darkening Square, now on a marble and gilt clock, she sat slim, trim, vigorous, interlacing the long fingers of browned hands from which she had removed her gloves. The man came in again and drew the curtains.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, “like to leave a message, Miss, or write a note?”
“Thank you, no.”
He stood a moment, looking at her as if debating whether she was armed.
“Miss Tasburgh?” he said.