The organ had broken into annunciation. Alan Tasburgh with Jean on his arm was coming up the aisle. Dinny admired his square and steady look. As for Jean, she seemed the very image of colour and vitality. Hubert, standing, hands behind him, as if at ease, turned as she came up, and Dinny saw his face, lined and dark, brighten as if the sun had shone on it. A choky feeling gripped her throat. Then she saw that Hilary in his surplice had come quietly and was standing on the step.
‘I do like Uncle Hilary,’ she thought.
Hilary had begun to speak.
Contrary to her habit in church, Dinny listened. She waited for the word ‘obey’—it did not come; she waited for the sexual allusions—they were omitted. Now Hilary was asking for the ring. Now it was on. Now he was praying. Now it was the Lord’s Prayer, and they were going to the vestry. How strangely short!
She rose from her knees.
“Amazingly complete,” whispered Sir Lawrence, “as Bobbie Ferrar would say. Where are they going after?”
“To the theatre. Jean wants to stay in Town. She’s found a workman’s flat.”
“Calm before the storm. I wish that affair of Hubert’s were over, Dinny.”
They were coming back from the vestry now, and the organ had begun to play the Mendelssohn march. Looking at those two passing down the aisle Dinny had feelings of elation and of loss, of jealousy and of satisfaction. Then, seeing that Alan looked as if he, too, had feelings, she moved out of her pew to join Fleur and Michael; but, catching sight of Adrian near the entrance, went to him instead.
“What news, Dinny?”
“All right so far, Uncle. I am going straight back now.”
With the popular instinct for experiencing emotion at secondhand a little crowd of Hilary’s parishioners had gathered outside, and a squeaky cheer rose from them as Jean and Hubert got into the brown roadster, and drove away.
“Come in this cab with me, Uncle,” said Dinny.
“Does Ferse seem to mind your being there?” asked Adrian, in the cab.
“He’s quite polite, just silent; his eyes are always on Diana. I’m terribly sorry for him.”
Adrian nodded. “And she?”
“Wonderful; as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He won’t go out, though; just stays in the dining-room—watches from there all the time.”
“The world must seem to him a conspiracy. If he remains sane long enough he’ll lose that feeling.”
“Need he ever become insane again? Surely there are cases of complete recovery?”
“So far as I can gather, my dear, his case is not likely to be one of them. Heredity is against him, and temperament.”
“I could have liked him, it’s such a daring face; but his eyes ARE frightening.”
“Have you seen him with the children?”
“Not yet; but they speak quite nicely and naturally about him; so he hasn’t scared them, you see.”
“At the Home they talked jargon to me about complexes, obsessions, repressions, dissociation—all that sort of thing, but I gathered that his case is one where fits of great gloom alternate with fits of great excitement. Lately, both have grown so much milder that he has become practically normal. What has to be watched for is the recrudescence of one or of the other. He always had a streak of revolt in him; he was up against the leadership in the war, up against democracy after the war. He’ll almost certainly get up against something now he’s back. If he does it will ungear him again in no time. If there’s any weapon in the house, Dinny, it ought to be removed.”
“I’ll tell Diana.”
The cab turned into the King’s Road.
“I suppose I’d better not come to the house,” said Adrian, sadly.
Dinny got out, too. She stood a moment watching him, tall and rather stooping, walk away, then turned down Oakley Street, and let herself in. Ferse was in the dining-room doorway.
“Come in here,” he said; “I want a talk.”
In that panelled room, painted a greenish-gold, lunch had been cleared away, and on the narrow refectory table were a newspaper, a tobacco jar, and several books. Ferse drew up a chair for her and stood with his back to a fire which simulated flames. He was not looking at her, so she was able to study him as she had not yet had the chance of doing. His handsome face was uncomfortable to look on. The high cheek-bones, stiff jaw, and crisp grizzled hair set off those thirsty burning steel-blue eyes. Even his attitude, square and a-kimbo, with head thrust forward, set off those eyes. Dinny leaned back, scared and faintly smiling. He turned to her and said:
“What are people saying about me?”
“I’ve not heard anything; I’ve only been to my brother’s wedding.”
“Your brother Hubert? Whom has he married?”
“A girl called Jean Tasburgh. You saw her the day before yesterday.”
“Oh! Ah! I locked her in.”
“Yes, why?”
“She looked dangerous to me. I consented to go into that place, you know. I wasn’t put there.”
“Oh! I know; I knew you were there of your own accord.”
“It wasn’t such a bad place, but—well! How do I look?”
Dinny said softly: “You see, I never saw you before, except at a distance, but I think you look very well.”
“I am well. I kept my muscles up. The fellow that looked after me saw to that.”
“Did you read much?”
“Lately—yes. What do they think about me?”
At the repetition of this question Dinny looked up into his face.
“How can they think about you without having seen you?”
“You mean I ought to see people?”
“I don’t know anything about it, Captain Ferse. But I don’t see why not. You’re seeing me.”
“I like YOU.”
Dinny put out her hand.
“Don’t say you’re sorry for me,” Ferse said, quickly.
“Why should I? You’re perfectly all right, I’m sure.”
He covered his eyes with his hand.
“I am, but how long shall I be?”
“Why not always?”
Ferse turned to the fire.
Dinny said, timidly: “If you don’t worry, nothing will happen again.”
Ferse spun round to her. “Have you seen much of my children?”
“Not very much.”
“Any likeness to me in them?”
“No; they take after Diana.”
“Thank God for that! What does Diana think about me?” This time his eyes searched hers, and Dinny realised that on her answer everything might depend.
“Diana is just glad.”
He shook his head violently. “Not possible.”
“The truth is often not possible.”
“She doesn’t hate me?”
“Why should she?”
“Your Uncle Adrian—what’s between them? Don’t just say: Nothing.”
“My uncle worships her,” said Dinny, quietly, “that’s why they are just friends.”
“Just friends?”
“Just friends.”
“That’s all you know, I suppose.”
“I know for certain.”
Ferse sighed, “You’re a good sort. What would you do if you were me?”
Again Dinny felt her ruthless responsibility.
“I think I should do what Diana wanted.”
“What is that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she does yet.”
Ferse strode to the window and back.
“I’ve got to do something for poor devils like myself.”
“Oh!” said Dinny, dismayed.
“I’ve had luck. Most people like me would have been certified, and stuck away against their will. If I’d been poor we couldn’t have afforded that place. To be there was bad enough, but it was miles better than the usual run of places. I used to make my man talk. He’d seen two or three of them.”
He stood silent, and Dinny thought of her uncle’s words: “He’ll get up against something, and that will ungear him again in no time.”
Ferse went on suddenly: “If you had any other kind of job possible, would YOU take on the care of the insane? Not you, nor anyone with nerves or sensibility. A saint might, here and there, but there aren’t saints enough to go round by a long chalk. No! To look after us you’ve got to shed the bowels of compassion, you must be made of iron, you must have a hide like leather; and no nerves. With nerves you’d be worse than the thick-skinned because you’d be jumpy, and that falls on us. It’s an impasse. My God! Haven’t I thought about it? And—money. No one with money ought to be sent to one of those places. Never, never! Give him his prison at home somehow—somewhere. If I hadn’t known that I could come away at any time—if I hadn’t hung on to that knowledge even at my worst, I wouldn’t be here now—I’d be raving. God! I’d be raving! Money! And how many have money? Perhaps five in a hundred! And the other ninety-five poor devils are stuck away, willy-nilly, stuck away! I don’t care how scientific, how good those places may be, as asylums go—they mean death in life. They must. People outside think we’re as good as dead already—so who cares? Behind all the pretence of scientific treatment that’s what they really feel. We’re obscene—no longer human—the old idea of madness clings, Miss Cherrell; we’re a disgrace, we’ve failed. Hide us away, put us underground. Do it humanely—twentieth century! Humanely! Try! You can’t! Cover it all up with varnish then—varnish—that’s all it is. What else can it be? Take my word for that. Take my man’s word for it. He knew.”