“We don’t see the right side of marriage in the Law. But Mr. Dornford would make a woman happy—in my opinion.”
“In mine, too, George.”
“He’s a very quiet man, but a fund of energy, and considerate. Solicitors like him; judges like him.”
“And wives will like him.”
“Of course he’s a Catholic.”
“We all have to be something.”
“Mrs. Calder and I’ve been Anglicans ever since my old dad died. He was a Plymouth Brother—very stiff. Express an opinion of your own, and he’d jump down your throat. Many’s the time I’ve had him threaten me with fire and slaughter. All for my good, you understand. A fine religious old feller. And couldn’t bear others not to be. Good red Zummerzet blood, and never forgot it, though he did live in Peckham.”
“Well, George, if Mr. Dornford wants me again after all, would you telephone me at five o’clock? I’ll look in at my rooms in case.”
Clare walked. The day was even more springlike than yesterday. She went by the Embankment and St. James’s Park. Alongside the water, clusters of daffodil spikes were pushing up, and tree-shoots swelling into bud. The gentle, warming sunlight fell on her back. It couldn’t last! There would be a throwback to winter, for sure! She walked fast out under the chariot, whose horses, not too natural, worried but exhilarated her, passed the Artillery Memorial without a glance, and entered Hyde Park. Warmed up now, she swung out along the Row. Riding was something of a passion with her, so that it always made her restive to see someone else riding a good horse. Queer animals, horses, so fiery and alive at one moment, so dull and ruminative the next!
Two or three hats were raised to her. A long man on a good-looking mare reined up after he had passed and came back.
“I thought it was you. Lawrence told me you were over. Remember me—Jack Muskham?”
Clare—thinking: ‘Lovely seat for a tall man!’—murmured: “Of course!” and was suddenly on her guard.
“An acquaintance of yours is going to look after my Arab mares.”
“Oh! yes, Tony Croom.”
“Nice young chap, but I don’t know if he knows enough. Still, he’s keen as mustard. How’s your sister?”
“Very well.”
“You ought to bring her racing, Lady Corven.”
“I don’t think Dinny cares much for horses.”
“I could soon make her. I remember—” he broke off, frowning. In spite of his languid pose, his face seemed to Clare purposeful, brown, lined, ironic about the lips. She wondered how he would take the news that she had spent last night with Tony in a car.
“When do the mares come, Mr. Muskham?”
“They’re in Egypt now. We’ll ship them in April. I might go over for it; possibly take young Croom.”
“I’d love to see them,” said Clare; “I rode an Arab in Ceylon.”
“We must get you down.”
“Somewhere near Oxford, isn’t it?”
“About six miles; nice country. I’ll remember. Good-bye!” He raised his hat, touched the mare with his heel, and cantered off.
‘My perfect innocence!’ she thought. ‘Hope I didn’t overdo it. I wouldn’t like to ‘get wrong’ with him. He looks as if he knew his mind terribly well. Lovely boots! He didn’t ask after Jerry!’
Her nerves felt a little shaken, and she struck away from the Row towards the Serpentine.
The sunlit water had no boats on it, but a few ducks on the far side. Did she mind what people thought? Miller of Dee! Only, did he really care for nobody? Or was he just a philosopher? She sat down on a bench in the full sunlight, and suddenly felt sleepy. A night in a car, after all, was not quite the same as a night out of a car. Crossing her arms on her breast, she closed her eyes. Almost at once she was asleep.
Quite a number of people straggled past between her and the bright water, surprised to see one in such nice clothes asleep before lunch. Two little boys carrying toy aeroplanes stopped dead, examining her dark eyelashes resting on her cream-coloured cheeks, and the little twitchings of her just touched-up lips. Having a French governess, they were ‘well-bred’ little boys without prospect of sticking pins into her or uttering a sudden whoop. But she seemed to have no hands, her feet were crossed and tucked under her chair, and her attitude was such that she had abnormally long thighs. It was interesting; and after they had passed one of them kept turning his head to see more of her.
Thus, for a full hour of elusive spring, Clare slept the sleep of one who has spent a night in a car.
CHAPTER 20
And three weeks passed, during which Clare saw young Croom but four times in all. She was packing for the evening train to Condaford, when the sheep bell summoned her down the spiral stairway.
Outside was a shortish man in horn spectacles, who gave her a vague impression of being connected with learning. He raised his hat.
“Lady Corven?”
“Yes.”
“Pardon me, I have this for you.” Producing from his blue overcoat a longish document, he put it into her hand.
Clare read the words:
“In the High Court of Justice
Probate Divorce and Admiralty Division.
The Twenty-sixth day of February, 1932.
In the Matter of the Petition of Sir Gerald Corven.”
A weak feeling ran down the back of her legs, and she raised her eyes to the level of those behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Oh!” she said.
The shortish man made her a little bow. She had a feeling that he was sorry for her, and promptly closed the door in his face. She went up the spiral stairs, sat down on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. Then she spread the document on her lap. Her first thought was: ‘But it’s monstrous—I’ve done nothing!’ Her second: ‘I suppose I must read the foul thing!’
She had not read more than: ‘The humble petition of Gerald Corven, K.C.B.,’ when she had her fourth thought: ‘But this is exactly what I want. I shall be free!’
More calmly she read on till she came to the words: ‘That your Petitioner claims from the said James Bernard Croom as damages in respect of his said adultery so committed the sum of two thousand pounds.’
Tony! If he had two thousand shillings, it was all! Beast! Revengeful brute! This sudden reduction of the issue to terms of hard cash not only rasped her feelings but brought her a sort of panic. Tony must not, should not be ruined through her! She must see him! Had they—but of course they had served it on him too.
She finished reading the petition, took a long draw at her cigarette and got up.
She went to the telephone, asked for a trunk call and gave the number of his inn.
“Can I speak to Mr. Croom?—Gone up to London?—In his car?—When?”
An hour ago! That could only mean that he was coming to see her!
A little soothed, she made a rapid calculation. She could not now catch the train to Condaford; and she got another trunk call through to the Grange.
“Dinny? This is Clare. I can’t possibly get down to-night—tomorrow morning instead… No! I’m all right; a little worried. Good-bye!”
A little worried! She sat down again, and once more read the ‘foul thing’ through. They seemed to know everything, except the truth. And neither she nor Tony had ever seen a sign that they were being watched. That man with the horn ‘specs,’ for instance, evidently knew her, but she’d never seen him before! She went into the bathroom and washed her face in cold water. Miller of Dee! The part had become extremely difficult.
‘He’ll have had nothing to eat,’ she thought.
She set the table downstairs with what she had, made some coffee, and sat down to smoke and wait. Condaford and the faces of her people came before her; the face too, of Aunt Em; and of Jack Muskham; above all the face of her husband, with its faint, hard-bitten, cat-like smile. Was she to take this lying down? Apart from the damages, was she to let him triumph without a fight? She wished now she had taken her father’s and Sir Lawrence’s advice and ‘clapped a detective on to him.’ Too late now—he would be taking no risks till the case was over.