Over the River eotc-3 Read online

  Someone trod on her toe. She opened her eyes, and said: “I beg your pardon.”

  “Granted, I’m sure.”

  Very polite! People were more polite every year!

  The bus had stopped. Dinny hurried from it. She went down Conduit Street, passing her father’s tailors. Poor darling, he never went there now. Clothes were so dear; and, of course, he loathed new clothes! She came to Bond Street.

  The traffic staggered to a standstill, the whole street seemed one long line of held-up cars. And England ruined! She crossed into Bruton Street. And then, in front of her, she saw a familiar figure, walking slowly with his head down! She came up with him.

  “Stack!”

  He raised his head; tears were trickling down his cheeks. He blinked his large dark prominent eyes, and passed his hand over his face.

  “You miss? I was just coming to you.” And he held out a telegram.

  Holding it up in the dim light, she read:

  “Henry Stack, 50a Cork Street, London. Very sorry to inform you Honourable Wilfrid Desert drowned on expedition up-country some weeks ago. Body recovered and buried on spot. Report only just come in. No possible doubt. Condolences. British Consulate, Bangkok.”

  Stonily she stood, seeing nothing. Stack’s fingers came up and detached the telegram.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Show it to Mr. Mont, Stack. Don’t grieve.”

  “Oh, miss!”

  Dinny laid her fingers on his sleeve, gave it a little pull, and walked swiftly on.

  Don’t grieve! Sleet was falling now. She raised her face to feel the tingling touch of those small flakes. No more dead to her than he had already been. But—DEAD! Away over there—utterly far! Lying in the earth by the river that had drowned him, in forest silence, where no one would ever see his grave. Every memory she had of him came to life with an intensity that seemed to take all strength from her limbs, so that she nearly collapsed in the snowy street. She stood for a minute with her gloved hand on the railing of a house. An evening postman stopped and looked round at her. Perhaps some tiny flame of hope—that some day he would come back—had flickered deep down within her; perhaps only the snowy cold was creeping into her bones; but she felt deadly cold and numb.

  She reached Mount Street at last and let herself in. And there a sudden horror of betraying that anything had happened to awaken pity for her, interest in her, any sort of feeling, beset her, and she fled to her room. What was it to anyone but her? And pride so moved within her that even her heart felt cold as stone.

  A hot bath revived her a little. She dressed for dinner early and went down.

  The evening was one of silences more tolerable than the spasmodic spurts of conversation. Dinny felt ill. When she went up to bed her Aunt came to her room.

  “Dinny, you look like a ghost.”

  “I got chilled, Auntie.”

  “Lawyers!—they do. I’ve brought you a posset.”

  “Ah! I’ve always longed to know what a posset is.”

  “Well, drink it.”

  Dinny drank, and gasped.

  “Frightfully strong.”

  “Yes. Your Uncle made it. Michael rang up.” And taking the glass, Lady Mont bent forward and kissed her cheek. “That’s all,” she said. “Now go to bed, or you’ll be ill.”

  Dinny smiled. “I’m not going to be ill, Aunt Em.”

  In pursuance of that resolve she went down to breakfast next morning.

  The oracle, it seemed, had spoken in a typewritten letter signed Kingson, Cuthcott and Forsyte. It recommended putting in a defence, and had so advised Lady Corven and Mr. Croom. When it had taken the necessary proceedings it would advise further.

  And that coldness in the pit of the stomach which follows the receipt of lawyers’ letters was felt even by Dinny, the pit of whose stomach was already deadly cold.

  She went back to Condaford with her father by the morning train, repeating to her Aunt the formula: “I’m not going to be ill.”

  CHAPTER 24

  But she WAS ill, and for a month in her conventual room at Condaford often wished she were dead and done with. She might, indeed, quite easily have died if such belief as she had in a future life had grown instead of declining as her strength ebbed. To rejoin Wilfrid, where this world’s pain and judgments were not, had a fatal attraction. To fade out into the sleep of nothingness was not hard, but had no active enticement; and, as the tide of health turned back within her, seemed less and less natural. The solicitude of people had a subtle, pervasive healing influence. The village required a daily bulletin, her mother had been writing or ‘phoning almost daily to a dozen people. Clare had been down every week-end, bringing flowers from Dornford. Aunt Em had been sending twice a week the products of Boswell and Johnson; Fleur bombarding her with the products of Piccadilly. Adrian had come down three times without warning. Hilary began sending funny little notes the moment she had turned the corner.

  On March the thirtieth, spring visited her room with southwest airs, a small bowl of the first spring flowers, some pussy willows and a sprig of gorse. She was picking up rapidly now, and three days later was out of doors. For everything in nature she felt a zest such as she had not known for a long time. Crocuses, daffodil clumps, swelling buds, sun on the fantails’ wings, shapes and colour of the clouds, scent of the wind, all affected her with an almost painful emotion. Yet she had no desire to do anything or see anybody. In this queer apathy she accepted an invitation from Adrian to go abroad with him on his short holiday.

  The memorable things about their fortnight’s stay at Argelès in the Pyrenees, were the walks they took, the flowers they picked, the Pyrenean sheep-dogs, the almond blossom they saw, the conversations they held. They were out all day, taking lunch with them, and the opportunities for talk were unlimited. Adrian became eloquent on mountains. He had never got over his climbing days. Dinny suspected him of trying to rouse her from the lethargy in which she was sunk.

  “When I went up ‘the little Sinner’ in the Dolomites with Hilary before the war,” he said one day, “I got as near to God as I ever shall. Nineteen years ago—dash it! What’s the nearest to God you ever got, Dinny?”

  She did not answer.

  “Look here, my dear, what are you now—twenty-seven?”

  “Nearly twenty-eight.”

  “On the threshold still. I suppose talking it out wouldn’t help?”

  “You ought to know, Uncle, that talking one’s heart out is not in the family.”

  “True! The more we’re hurt the silenter we get. But one mustn’t inbreed to sorrow, Dinny.”

  Dinny said suddenly: “I understand perfectly how women go into convents, or give themselves up to good works. I always used to think it showed a lack of humour.”

  “It can show a lack of courage, or too much courage, of the sort fanatical.”

  “Or broken springs.”

  Adrian looked at her.

  “Yours are not broken, Dinny—badly bent, not broken.”

  “Let’s hope so, Uncle; but they ought to be straightening by now.”

  “You’re beginning to look fine.”

  “Yes, I’m eating enough even for Aunt Em. It’s taking interest in oneself that’s the trouble.”

  “I agree. I wonder if—”

  “Not iron, darling. It sews me up inside.”

  Adrian smiled. “I was thinking more of children.”

  “They’re not synthetic, yet. I’m all right, and very lucky, as things go. Did I tell you old Betty died?”

  “Good old soul! She used to give me bulls’-eyes.”

  “SHE was the real thing. We read too many books, Uncle.”

  “Indubitably. Walk more, read less! Let’s have our lunch.”

  On the way back to England they stayed two nights in Paris at a little hotel over a restaurant near the Gare St. Lazare. They had wood fires, and their beds were comfortable.

  “Only the French know what a bed should be,” said Adrian.

  The co
oking down below was intended for racing men and such as go where they can appreciate food. The waiters, who wore aprons, looked, as Adrian expressed it, “like monks doing a spot of work,” pouring the wine and mixing the salads with reverence. He and Dinny were the only foreigners in either hotel or restaurant, not far from being the only foreigners in Paris.

  “Marvellous town, Dinny. Except for cars in place of fiacres and the Eiffel Tower, I don’t see any real change by daylight since I was first here in ‘88, when your grandfather was Minister at Copenhagen. There’s the same tang of coffee and wood smoke in the air; people have the same breadth of back, the same red buttons in their coats; there are the same tables outside the same cafés, the same affiches, the same funny little stalls for selling books, the same violently miraculous driving, the same pervading French grey, even in the sky; and the same rather ill-tempered look of not giving a damn for anything outside Paris. Paris leads fashion, and yet it’s the most conservative place in the world. They say the advanced literary crowd here regard the world as having begun in 1914 at earliest, have scrapped everything that came before the war, despise anything that lasts, are mostly Jews, Poles and Irishmen, and yet have chosen this changeless town to function in. The same with the painters and musicians, and every other extremist. Here they gather and chatter and experiment themselves to death. And good old Paris laughs and carries on, as concerned with reality and flavours and the past as it ever was. Paris produces anarchy exactly as stout produces froth.”

  Dinny pressed his arm.

  “That was a good effort, Uncle. I must say I feel more alive here than I have for ages.”

  “Ah! Paris pets the senses. Let’s go in here—too cold to sit out. What’ll you have, tea or—absinthe?”

  “Absinthe.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “All right—tea with lemon.”

  Waiting for her tea in the quiet hurly-burly of the Café de la Paix, Dinny watched her Uncle’s thin, bearded form, and thought that he looked quite ‘in his plate,’ but with a queer, interested contentment that identified him with the life around.

  To be interested in life and not pet oneself! And she looked about her. Her neighbours were neither remarkable nor demonstrative, but they gave an impression of doing what they liked, not of being on the way to somewhere else.

  “They dig into the moment, don’t they?” said Adrian suddenly.

  “Yes, I was thinking that.”

  “The French make an art of living. We hope for the future or regret the past. Precious little ‘present’ about the English!”

  “Why are these so different?”

  “Less northern blood, more wine and oil; their heads are rounder than ours, their bodies more stocky, and their eyes are mainly brown.”

  “Those are things we can’t alter, anyway.”

  “The French are essentially the medium people. They’ve brought equilibrium to a high point. Their senses and intellects balance.”

  “But they get fat, Uncle.”

  “Yes, but all over; they don’t jut, and they hold themselves up. I’d rather be English, of course; but if I weren’t, I’d rather be French.”

  “Isn’t there anything in having an itch for something better than you’ve got?”

  “Ah! Ever noticed, Dinny, that when we say ‘Be good!’ they say ‘Soyez sage!’? There’s a lot in that. I’ve heard Frenchmen put our unease down to the Puritan tradition. But that’s to mistake effect for cause, symptoms for roots. I admit we’ve got an urge towards the promised land, but Puritanism was part of that urge, so’s our wanderlust and colonising quality; so’s our Protestantism, Scandinavian blood, the sea and the climate. None of that helps us in the art of living. Look at our industrialism, our old maids, cranks, humanitarianisms, poetry! We jut in every direction. We’ve got one or two highly mediumising institutions—the public schools, ‘cricket’ in its various forms—but as a people we’re chock-full of extremism. The average Briton is naturally exceptional, and underneath his dread of being conspicuous, he’s really proud of it. Where, on earth, will you see more diverse bone formation than in England, and all of it peculiar? We do our level best to be average, but, by George, we jut!”

  “You’re inspired, Uncle.”

  “Well, you look about you when you get home.”

  “I will,” said Dinny.

  They had a good crossing the next day, and Adrian dropped her at Mount Street.

  In kissing him good-bye, she squeezed his little finger.

  “You’ve done me a tremendous amount of good, Uncle.”

  During those six weeks she had scarcely thought at all about Clare’s troubles, and she asked at once for the latest news. A defence had been delivered and issue joined; the case would probably be on in a few weeks.

  “I’ve not seen either Clare or young Croom,” said Sir Lawrence, “but I gathered from Dornford that they go about as before. ‘Very young’ Roger still harps on the need for getting her to speak about her life out there. Lawyers seem to regard the Courts as confessional boxes in which to confess the sins of your opponent.”

  “Well, aren’t they?”

  “Judging by the papers, yes.”

  “Well, Clare can’t and won’t. They’ll make a great mistake if they try to force her. Has anything been heard of Jerry?”

  “He must have started, if he’s to be here in time.”

  “Suppose they lose, what is to be done about Tony Croom?”

  “Put yourself in his place, Dinny. Whatever happens, he’ll probably come in for a slating from the judge. He won’t be in a mood to accept favours. If he can’t pay up I don’t quite know what they can do to him; something unpleasant, no doubt. And there’s the question of Jack Muskham’s attitude—he’s queer.”

  “Yes,” said Dinny under her breath.

  Sir Lawrence dropped his monocle.

  “Your Aunt suggests that young Croom should go gold-digging, come back rich, and marry Clare.”

  “But Clare?”

  “Isn’t she in love with him?”

  Dinny shook her head. “She might be if he’s ruined.”

  “H’m! And how are YOU, my dear? Really yourself again?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Michael would like to see you some time.”

  “I’ll go round tomorrow.”

  And that, meaning much, was all that was said about the news that had caused her illness.

  CHAPTER 25

  Dinny made the effort needed to go round to South Square next morning. Except with Clare on her arrival from Ceylon, she had not been there since the day of Wilfrid’s departure to Siam.

  “Up in his workroom, miss.”

  “Thank you, Coaker, I’ll go up.”

  Michael did not hear her come in, and she stood for a moment looking at the caricature-covered walls. It always seemed to her so odd that Michael, inclined to over-estimate human virtues, should surround himself with the efforts of those who live by exaggerating human defects.

  “Am I interrupting, Michael?”

  “Dinny! You’re looking a treat! You gave us a bad turn, old thing. Sit down! I was only looking into potatoes—their figures are so puzzling.”

  They talked for some time, and then, the knowledge of what she had come for invading both, fell silent.

  “You’ve something to give or tell me, Michael.”

  He went to a drawer, and took out a little packet. Dinny unwrapped it in her lap. There was a letter, a little photograph, a badge.

  “It’s his passport photo, and D.S.O. ribbon. In the letter there’s something for you; in fact, the whole letter is really for you. They’re all for you. Excuse me, I have to see Fleur before she goes out.”

  Dinny sat motionless, looking at the photograph. Yellowed with damp and heat, it had the uncompromising reality that characterises passport photographs. “Wilfrid Desert” was written across it, and he looked straight at her out of the pasteboard. She turned it face down on her lap, and smoothed the ri
bbon, which was stained and crushed. Then, nerving herself, she opened the letter. From it dropped a folded sheet, which she set apart. The letter was to Michael.

  “New Year’s Day.

  “DEAR OLD M. M.,—

  “Greetings to you and Fleur, and many good years! I’m far up north in a very wild part of this country with an objective that I may reach or not—the habitation of a tribe quite definitely pre-Siamese and non-Mongolian. Adrian Charwell would be interested. I’ve often meant to let you know my news, but, when it came to writing, didn’t—partly because if you don’t know this part of the world description’s no use, and partly because it’s difficult for me to believe that anybody can be interested. I’m writing now really to ask you to tell Dinny that I am at peace with myself at last. I don’t know whether it’s the strength and remoteness of the atmosphere out here, or whether I’ve gained some of the Eastern conviction that the world of other men does not matter; one’s alone from birth to death, except for that fine old companion, the Universe—of which one is the microcosm. It’s a kind of queer peace, and I often wonder how I could have been so torn and tortured. Dinny, I think, will be glad to know this; just as I would be truly glad to know that she, too, is at peace.

  “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.