“I’ll remember. We’d better go down now, or we shall be late for tea.”
And, all the way home, they contended with birds’ songs and the names of plants.
“Thanks for my treat,” he said.
“I’ve enjoyed it, too.”
That walk had, indeed, a curiously soothing effect on Dinny. So, she could talk with him without question of love-making.
Bank holiday was sou’-westerly. Dornford spent a quiet hour with Clare over her evidence, and then went riding with her in the rain. Dinny’s morning went in arranging for spring cleaning and the chintzing of the furniture while the family were up in town. Her mother and father were to stay at Mount Street, she and Clare with Fleur. In the afternoon she pottered with the General round the new pigsties, progressing as slowly as a local builder, anxious to keep his men in work, could make them. She was not alone again with Dornford until after tea.
“Well,” he said, “I think your sister will do, if she keeps her temper.”
“Clare can be very cutting.”
“Yes, and there’s an underlying sentiment among lawyers against being cut up by outsiders in each other’s presence; even judges have it.”
“They won’t find her a ‘butterfly on the wheel.’”
“It’s no good getting up against institutions, you know; they carry too many guns.”
“Oh! well,” said Dinny, with a sigh, “it’s on the knees of the gods.”
“Which are deuced slippery. Could I have a photograph of you, preferably as a little girl?”
“I’ll see what we’ve got—I’m afraid only snaps; but I think there’s one where my nose doesn’t turn up too much.”
She went to a cabinet, took a drawer out bodily, and put it on the covered billiard table.
“The family snap-hoard—choose!”
He stood at her side and they turned them over.
“I took most of them, so there aren’t many of me.”
“Is that your brother?”
“Yes, and this—just before he went to the war. This is Clare the week before she was married. Here’s one of me, with some hair. Dad took that when he came home, the spring after the war.”
“When you were thirteen?”
“Fourteen nearly. It’s supposed to be like Joan of Arc being taken in by voices.”
“It’s lovely. I shall get it enlarged.”
He held it to the light. The figure was turned three quarters, and the face lifted to the branches of a fruit tree in blossom. The whole of the little picture was very much alive; the sun having fallen on the blossom and on Dinny’s hair, which hung to her waist.
“Mark the rapt look,” she said; “there must have been a cat up the tree.”
He put it into his pocket and returned to the table.
“And this?” he said: “Could I have this too?”
The snap was one of her a little older, but still with her hair uncut, full face, hands clasped in front, head a little down and eyes looking up.
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was there.” It was the counterpart of one she had sent to Wilfrid.
Dornford nodded; and she realised that in some uncanny way he knew why. Seized with compunction, she said:
“Oh! yes, you can. It doesn’t matter, now.” And she put it into his hand…
After Dornford and Clare had left on Tuesday morning, Dinny studied a map, took the car and set out for Bablock Hythe. She did not care for driving, but she was moved by the thought of Tony Croom deprived of his week-end glimpse of Clare. The twenty-five miles took her well over an hour. At the inn she was told that he would be at his cottage, and, leaving the car, she walked over. He was in shirt-sleeves distempering the walls of the low, timbered sitting-room. From the doorway she could see the pipe wobble in his mouth.
“Anything wrong with Clare?” he said at once.
“Nothing whatever. I just thought I’d like to have a look at your habitat.”
“How terribly nice of you! I’m doing a job of work.”
“Clearly.”
“Clare likes duck’s-egg green; this is the nearest I can get to it.”
“It goes splendidly with the beams.”
Young Croom said, looking straight before him, “I can’t believe I’ll ever get her here, but I can’t help pretending; otherwise the sand would be clean out of my dolly.”
Dinny put her hand on his sleeve.
“You’re not going to lose your job. I’ve seen Jack Muskham.”
“Already? You’re marvellous. I’ll just wash off and get my coat on, and show you round.”
Dinny waited in the doorway where a streak of sunlight fell. The two cottages, knocked into one, still had their ramblers, wistaria, and thatched roof. It would be very pretty.
“Now,” said young Croom. “The boxes are all finished, and the paddocks have got their water. In fact, we only want the animals; but they’re not to be here till May. Taking no risks. Well, I’d rather have this case over first. You’ve come from Condaford?”
“Yes. Clare went back this morning. She would have sent her love, but she didn’t know I was coming.”
“Why DID you come?” said young Croom bluntly.
“Fellow feeling.”
He thrust his arm within hers.
“Yes. So sorry! Do you find,” he added suddenly, “that thinking of other people suffering helps?”
“Not much.”
“No. Wanting someone is like tooth or ear ache. You can’t get away from it.”
Dinny nodded.
“This time of year, too,” said young Croom, with a laugh. “The difference between being ‘fond of’ and ‘loving’! I’m getting desperate, Dinny. I don’t see how Clare can ever change. If she were ever going to love me, she would by now. If she’s not going to love me, I couldn’t stick it here. I’d have to get away to Kenya or somewhere.”
Looking at his eyes, ingenuously hanging on her answer, her nerve went. It was her own sister; but what did she know of her, when it came to the depths?
“You never know. I wouldn’t give up.”
Young Croom pressed her arm.
“Sorry to be talking of my mania. Only, when one longs day and night—”
“I know.”
“I must buy a goat or two. Horses don’t like donkeys; and as a rule they shy at goats; but I want to make these paddocks feel homy. I’ve got two cats for the boxes. What do you think?”
“I only know about dogs, and—pigs theoretically.”
“Come and have lunch. They’ve got a rather good ham.”
He did not again speak of Clare; and, after partaking together of the rather good ham, he put Dinny into her car and drove her the first five miles of the way home, saying that he wanted a walk.
“I think no end of you for coming,” he said, squeezing her hand hard: “It was most frightfully sporting. Give my love to Clare,” and he went off, waving his hand, as he turned into a field-path.
She was absent-minded during the rest of the drive. The day, though still south-westerly, had gleams of sunlight, and sharp showers of hail. Putting the car away she got the spaniel Foch and went out to the new pigsties. Her father was there, brooding over their construction like the Lieutenant–General he was, very neat, resourceful, faddy. Doubtful whether they would ever contain pigs, Dinny slipped her arm through his.
“How’s the battle of Pigsville?”
“One of the bricklayers was run down yesterday, and that carpenter there has cut his thumb. I’ve been talking to old Bellows, but—dash it!—you can’t blame him for wanting to keep his men in work. I sympathise with a chap who sticks by his own men, and won’t have union labour. He says he’ll be finished by the end of next month, but he won’t.”
“No,” said Dinny, “he’s already said that twice.”
“Where have you been?”
“Over to see Tony Croom.”
“Any development?”
“No. I just wanted to tell him that I’ve seen Mr. Muskham, and he won’t lose his job.”
“Glad of that. He’s got grit, that boy. Pity he didn’t go into the army.”