“I’m off early tomorrow morning, Stack. To Siam. I probably shan’t be coming back.”
“Not at all, sir?”
“Not at all.”
“Would you like me to come too, sir?”
Wilfrid put his hand on the henchman’s shoulder.
“Jolly good of you, Stack; but you’d be bored to death.”
“Excuse me, sir, but you’re hardly fit to travel alone at present.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m going to.”
The henchman bent his eyes on Wilfrid’s face. It was a grave intent gaze, as if he were committing that face finally to heart.
“I’ve been with you a long time, sir.”
“You have, Stack; and nobody could have been nicer to me. I’ve made provision in case anything happens to me. You’d prefer to go on here, I expect, keeping the rooms for when my father wants them.”
“I should be sorry to leave here, if I can’t come with you. Are you sure about that, sir?”
Wilfrid nodded. “Quite sure, Stack. What about Foch?”
Stack hesitated, then said with a rush: “I think I ought to tell you, sir, that when Miss Cherrell was here last—the night you went off to Epping—she said that if you was to go away at any time, she would be glad to have the dog. He’s fond of her, sir.”
Wilfrid’s face became a mask.
“Take him his run,” he said, and went on up the stairs.
His mind was once again in turmoil. Murder! But it was done! One did not bring a corpse to life with longing or remorse. The dog, if she wanted him, was hers, of course! Why did women cling to memories, when all they should wish should be to forget? He sat down at his bureau and wrote:
“I am going away for good. Foch comes to you with this. He is yours if you care to have him. I am only fit to be alone. Forgive me if you can, and forget me.—WILFRID.”
He addressed it, and sat on at the bureau slowly turning his head and looking round the room. Under three months since the day he had come back. He felt as if he had lived a lifetime. Dinny over there at the hearth, after her father had been! Dinny on the divan looking up at him! Dinny here, Dinny there!
Her smile, her eyes, her hair! Dinny, and that memory in the Arab tent, pulling at each other, wrestling for him. Why had he not seen the end from the beginning? He might have known himself! He took a sheet of paper and wrote:
“MY DEAR FATHER,—
“England doesn’t seem to agree with me, and I am starting tomorrow for Siam. My bank will have my address from time to time. Stack will keep things going here as usual, so that the rooms will be ready whenever you want them. I hope you’ll take care of yourself. I’ll try and send you a coin for your collection now and then. Good-bye.
“Yours affectionately,
“WILFRID.”
His father would read it and say: “Dear me! Very sudden! Queer fellow!” And that was about all that anyone would think or say– except—!
He took another sheet of paper and wrote to his bank; then lay down, exhausted, on the divan.
Stack must pack, he hadn’t the strength. Luckily his passport was in order—that curious document which rendered one independent of one’s kind; that password to whatever loneliness one wanted. The room was very still, for at this hour of lull before dinner traffic began there was hardly any noise from the streets. The stuff which he took after attacks of malaria had opium in it, and a dreamy feeling came over him. He drew a long breath and relaxed. To his half-drugged senses scents kept coming—the scent of camels’ dung, of coffee roasting, carpets, spices, and humanity in the Suks, the sharp unscented air of the desert, and the foetid reek of some river village; and sounds—the whine of beggars, a camel’s coughing grunts, the cry of the jackal, Muezzin call, padding of donkeys’ feet, tapping of the silversmiths, the creaking and moaning of water being drawn. And before his half-closed eyes visions came floating; a sort of long dream-picture of the East as he had known it. Now it would be another East, further and more strange!… He slipped into a real dream…
CHAPTER 36
Seeing him turn away from her in the Green Park, Dinny had known for certain it was all over. The sight of his ravaged face had moved her to the depths. If only he could be happy again she could put up with it. For since the evening he left her in his rooms she had been steeling herself, never really believing in anything but this. After those moments with Michael in the dark hall she slept a little and had her coffee upstairs. A message was brought her about ten o’clock that a man with a dog was waiting to see her.
She finished dressing quickly, put on her hat, and went down.
It could only be Stack.
The henchman was standing beside the ‘sarcophagus,’ holding Foch on a lead. His face, full of understanding as ever, was lined and pale, as if he had been up all night.
“Mr. Desert sent this, miss.” He held out a note.
Dinny opened the door of the drawing-room.
“Come in here, please, Stack. Let’s sit down.”
He sat down and let go of the lead. The dog went to her and put his nose on her knee. Dinny read the note.
“Mr. Desert says that I may have Foch.”
Stack bent his gaze on his boots. “He’s gone, miss. Went by the early service to Paris and Marseilles.”
She could see moisture in the folds of his cheeks. He gave a loud sniff, and angrily brushed his hand over his face.
“I’ve been with him fourteen years, miss. It was bound to hit me. He talks of not coming back.”
“Where has he gone?”
“Siam.”
“A long way,” said Dinny with a smile. “The great thing is that he should be happy again.”
“That is so, miss. I don’t know if you’d care to hear about the dog’s food. He has a dry biscuit about nine, and shin of beef or sheep’s head, cooked, with crumbled hound-meal, between six and seven, and nothing else. A good quiet dog, he is, perfect gentleman in the house. He’ll sleep in your bedroom if you like.”
“Do you stay where you are, Stack?”
“Yes, miss. The rooms are his lordship’s. As I told you, Mr. Desert is sudden; but I think he means what he says. He never was happy in England.”
“I’m sure he means what he says. Is there anything I can do for you, Stack?”
The henchman shook his head, his eyes rested on Dinny’s face, and she knew he was debating whether he dared offer sympathy. She stood up.
“I think I’ll take Foch a walk and get him used to me.”
“Yes, miss. I don’t let him off the lead except in the parks. If there’s anything you want to know about him any time, you have the number.”
Dinny put out her hand.
“Well, good-bye, Stack, and best wishes.”
“The same to you, miss, I’m sure.” His eyes had what was more than understanding in them, and the grip of his hand had a spasmodic strength. Dinny continued to smile till he was gone and the door closed, then sat down on the sofa with her hands over her eyes. The dog, who had followed Stack to the door, whined once, and came back to her. She uncovered her eyes, took Wilfrid’s note from her lap, and tore it up.
“Well, Foch,” she said, “what shall we do? Nice walk?”
The tail moved; he again whined slightly.
“Come along, then, boy.”
She felt steady, but as if a spring had broken. With the dog on the lead she walked towards Victoria Station, and stopped before the statue. The leaves had thickened round it, and that was all the change. Man and horse, remote, active, and contained– ‘workmanlike’! A long time she stood there, her face raised, dry-eyed, thin and drawn; and the dog sat patiently beside her.
Then, with a shrug, she turned away and led him rapidly towards the Park. When she had walked some time, she went to Mount Street and asked for Sir Lawrence. He was in his study.