“I’ve written a little, and, if I come back from this business, shall try and produce some account of it. In three days from now we reach the river, cross it, and follow up a western tributary towards the Himalayas.
“Faint echoes of the crisis you’ve been having trickle out here. Poor old England! I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again; but she’s a game old bird when put to it, and I can’t see her being beaten; in fact, properly moulted, I expect her to fly better than ever.
“Good-bye, old man, my love to you both; and to Dinny my special love.
“WILFRID.”
Peace! And she? She rewrapped the ribbon, photograph, and letter and thrust them into her bag. Making no noise, she opened the door, went down the stairs, and out into the sunshine.
Alone by the river, she unfolded the sheet she had taken from the letter, and, under a plane tree as yet bare of leaves, read these verses:
Lie still! The Embankment was nearly empty of people and of traffic. She walked on, crossing the main lines of the traffic, and came to Kensington Gardens. There on the Round Pond were many small boats, and many children interested in their vagaries. A bright-haired little boy, something like Kit Mont, was guiding his boat with a stick to a fresh attempt to cross the pond. What blissful unconsciousness of all else! Was that the secret of happiness? To be lost in the moment—to be out of oneself, like a child! He said suddenly:
“It’s going! Look!”
The sails filled, the little boat floated away. The small boy stood with arms akimbo, and, quickly looking up at her, said:
“Ha! I must run!”
Dinny watched him stop now and again with a jerk to calculate the landing of his boat.
So one ran through life, watching each venture coming to shore, and at the end lay still! Like birds who uttered their songs, hunted for worms, preened their feathers, flew without seeming cause, unless for joy; mated, built nests and fed their young, and when all was over became little stiffened bundles of feathers, and passed into corruption, and dust.
She followed slowly round the pond, saw him again guiding the boat with his stick, and said: “What do you call your boat?”
“A cutter. I had a schooner, but our dog ate the rigging.”
“Yes,” said Dinny, “dogs like rigging—very succulent.”
“Very what?”
“Like asparagus.”
“I’m not allowed asparagus, it’s too expensive.”
“But you’ve tasted it?”
“Yes. See, the wind’s catching it again!”
Off went the boat, and off went the small bright-haired boy.
Adrian’s words came into her head. “I was thinking more of children.”
She walked into what in old days would have been called a glade. The ground was covered with crocuses, yellow, violet, white, and with daffodils; the trees had eagerness in every twig, stretching their buds upward to the sun’s warmth; the blackbirds were in song. And as she walked she thought: ‘Peace! There is no peace. There is life, and there is death!’
And those who saw her thought: ‘Nice-looking girl!’ ‘These little hats!’ ‘Where’s she goin’, I wonder, with her head in the air?’ or, again, just: ‘Coo!’ She crossed the road and came to the Hudson Memorial. It was supposed to be a home for birds; but beyond a sparrow or two and a fat pigeon, there were none; nor were more than three people looking at it. She, who had seen it with Wilfrid, glanced at it for a moment and walked on.
“Poor Hudson! Poor Rima!” he had said.
She went down to the Serpentine and walked along it; the sun was bright on the water, and beyond it the grass was springy and dry. The papers were already talking of drought! The sound currents from north and south and west joined in a mild continuous roaring. Where he was lying it would be silent; strange birds and little creatures would be the only visitors, and odd-shaped leaves would drop on his grave. There came into her mind the pastoral scenes in some film pictures of the Normandy home of Briand, that she had seen at Argelès. “A pity we have to leave all this!” she had said.
An aeroplane droned its way over to the north, a high, silvery, small, noisy shape. HE had hated them ever since the war. “Disturbers of whatever Gods there be!”
Brave new world! God no longer in His heaven!
She turned a little north to avoid the place where she used to meet him. The roofless tabernacle of oratory close to the Marble Arch was deserted. She left the Park and went towards Melton Mews. It was over! With a queer little smile on her lips she turned into the Mews and stopped at her sister’s door.
CHAPTER 26
She found Clare in. For the first few minutes they avoided each other’s troubles, then Dinny said: “Well?”
“Not at all well. I’ve split with Tony—my nerves are in rags and his in tatters.”
“But do you mean that he—?”
“No. Only I’ve told him I can’t go on seeing him till this is over. We meet meaning not to talk about the thing; then it crops up, and we get all anyhow.”
“He must be awfully unhappy.”
“He is. But it’s only for another three or four weeks.”
“And then?”
Clare laughed—no joyful sound.
“But seriously, Clare?”
“We shan’t win, and then nothing will matter. If Tony wants me I suppose I shall let him. He’ll be ruined, so I shall owe him that.”
“I think,” said Dinny slowly, “that I wouldn’t let the result affect me.”
Clare stared up at her from the sofa.
“That sounds almost too sensible.”
“It wasn’t worth while to plead innocence unless you meant to carry it through, however the case goes. If you win, wait till you can divorce Jerry. If you don’t win, wait till you’re divorced. It won’t do Tony any real harm to wait; and it’ll certainly do you no harm to know for certain how you feel.”
“Jerry is quite clever enough to prevent my ever getting evidence against him, if he sets his mind to it.”
“Then we must hope you’ll lose. Your friends will still believe in you.”
Clare shrugged. “Will they?”
“I’ll see to that,” said Dinny.
“Dornford has advised telling Jack Muskham before the case comes on. What do you say?”
“I should like to see Tony Croom first.”
“Well, if you come round again this evening, you’ll see him. He comes and stares up at me at seven o’clock on Saturday and Sunday evenings. Quaint!”
“No. Very natural. What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Riding with Dornford in Richmond Park. I ride with him in the Row early every morning now. I wish you’d come, Dinny.”
“No things, and no muscles.”
“Darling,” said Clare, springing up, “it really was awful while you were ill. We felt ever so bad. Dornford was quite potty. You look better now than you did before.”
“Yes, I’m more pneumatic.”
“Oh! you’ve read that book?”
Dinny nodded. “I’ll come round this evening. Good-bye; bless you!”…
It was almost seven when she slipped out of Mount Street and walked rapidly towards the Mews. A full moon was up with the evening star in a not yet darkened sky. Coming to the west corner of the deserted Mews, she at once saw young Croom standing below No. 2. Waiting till he began to move away, she ran down the Mews and round the far corner to catch him.