“Exactly, darling. So we go up tomorrow, and Jean and I stay with Diana till it’s over. Hubert will tell Father.”
“But, Dinny, really—!”
Dinny came through the barrage of muslin, knelt down and put her arm round her mother.
“I feel exactly like you,” she said, “only different, because after all I didn’t produce him; but, Mother darling, it is all right. Jean is a marvellous creature, and Hubert’s head over ears. It’s done him a lot of good already, and she’ll see to it that he goes ahead, you know.”
“But, Dinny—money?”
“They’re not expecting Dad to do anything. They’ll just be able to manage, and they needn’t have children, you know, till later.”
“I suppose not. It’s terribly sudden. Why a special licence?”
“Intuition,” and, with a squeeze of her mother’s slender body, she added: “Jean has them. Hubert’s position IS awkward, Mother.”
“Yes; I’m scared about it, and I know your father is, though he’s not said much.”
This was as far as either of them would go in disclosure of their uneasiness, and they went into committee on the question of a perch for the adventuring couple.
“But why shouldn’t they live here until things are settled?” said Lady Cherrell.
“They’ll find it more exciting if they have to do their own washing up. The great thing is to keep Hubert’s mind active just now.”
Lady Cherrell sighed. Correspondence, gardening, giving household orders, and sitting on village committees were certainly not exciting, and Condaford would be even less exciting if, like the young, one had none of these distractions.
“Things ARE quiet here,” she admitted.
“And thank God for it,” murmured Dinny; “but I feel Hubert wants the strenuous life just now, and he’ll get it with Jean in London. They might take a workman’s flat. It can’t be for long, you know. So, Mother dear, you’ll not seem to know anything about it this evening, and we shall all know you do. That’ll be so restful for everybody.” And, kissing the rueful smile on her mother’s face, she went away.
Next morning the conspirators were early afoot, Hubert looking, so Jean put it, as though he were ‘riding at a bullfinch’; Dinny resolutely whimsical. Alan had the handy air of a best man in embryo; Jean alone appeared unmoved. They set forth in the Tasburghs’ brown roadster, dropping Hubert at the station and proceeding towards Lippinghall. Jean drove. The other two sat behind.
“Dinny,” said young Tasburgh, “couldn’t WE have a special licence, too?”
“Reduction on taking a quantity. Behave yourself. You will go to sea and forget all about me in a month.”
“Do I look like that?”
Dinny regarded his brown face.
“Well, in spots.”
“Do be serious!”
“I can’t; I keep seeing Jean snipping a lock and saying: ‘Now Dad, bless me or I’ll tonsure you!’ and the Rector answering ‘I—er—nevah—!’ and Jean snipping another lock and saying: ‘That’s all right then, and I must have a hundred a year or off go your eyebrows!’”
“Jean’s a holy terror. Promise me anyway, Dinny, not to marry anyone else?”
“But suppose I met someone I liked terribly, would you wish to blight my young life?”
“Yes.”
“Not so do they answer on the ‘screen.’”
“You’d make a saint swear.”
“But not a naval lieutenant. Which reminds me: Those texts at the head of the fourth column of the ‘Times.’ It struck me this morning what a splendid secret code could be made out of ‘The Song of Solomon,’ or that Psalm about the Leviathan. ‘My beloved is like a young roe’ might mean ‘Eight German battleships in Dover harbour. Come quickly.’ ‘And there is that Leviathan that takes his pastime therein’ could be ‘Tirpirz in command,’ and so on. No one could possibly decipher it unless they had a copy of the code.”
“I’m going to speed,” said Jean, looking back. The speedometer rose rapidly: Forty—forty-five—fifty—fifty-five—!
The sailor’s hand slipped under Dinny’s arm.
“This can’t last, the car will bust. But it’s a tempting bit of road.”
Dinny sat with a fixed smile; she hated being driven really fast, and, when Jean had dropped again to her normal thirty-five, said plaintively:
“Jean, I have a nineteenth century inside.”
At Folwell she leaned forward again: “I don’t want them to see me at Lippinghall. Please go straight to the Rectory and hide me somewhere while you deal with your parent.”
Refuged in the dining-room opposite the portrait of which Jean had spoken, Dinny studied it curiously. Underneath were the words: “1553, Catherine Tastburgh, nйe Fitzherbert, жtate 35; wife of Sir Walter Tastburgh.”
Above the ruff encircling the long neck, that time-yellowed face might truly have been Jean fifteen years hence, the same tapering from the broad cheek-bones to the chin, the same long dark-lashed luring eyes; even the hands, crossed on the stomacher, were the very spit of Jean’s. What had been the history of that strange prototype; did they know it, and would it be repeated by her descendant?
“Awfully like Jean, isn’t she?” said young Tasburgh: “She was a corker, from all accounts; they say she staged her own funeral, and got out of the country when Elizabeth set about the Catholics in the fifteen-sixties. D’you know what was the fate of anyone who celebrated Mass just then? Ripping up was a mere incident in it. The Christian religion! What oh! That lady had a hand in most pies, I fancy. I bet she speeded when she could.”
“Any news from the front?”
“Jean went into the study with an old ‘Times,’ a towel, and a pair of scissors. The rest is silence.”
“Isn’t there anywhere from which we can see them when they come out?”
“We could sit on the stairs. They wouldn’t notice us, there, unless they happen to go up.”
They went out and sat in a dark corner of the stairway, whence through the bannisters they could see the study door. With some of the thrill of childhood Dinny watched for it to open. Suddenly Jean came forth, with a sheet of newspaper folded as a receptacle in one hand, and in the other a pair of scissors. They heard her say:
“Remember, dear, you’re not to go out without a hat today.”
An inarticulate answer was shut off by the closing of the door. Dinny rose above the bannisters: “Well?”
“It’s all right. He’s a bit grumpy—doesn’t know who’ll cut his hair and that; thinks a special licence a waste of money; but he’s going to give me the hundred a year. I left him filling his pipe.” She stood still, looking into the sheet of newspaper. “There was an awful lot to come away. We’ll have lunch in a minute, Dinny, and then be off again.”
The Rector’s manner at lunch was still courtly, and Dinny observed him with admiring attention. Here was a widower well on in years, about to be deprived of his only daughter, who did everything about the house and parish, even to the cutting of his hair, yet he was apparently unmoved. Not a murmur escaped his lips. Was it breeding, benevolence, or unholy relief? She could not be sure; and her heart quailed a little. Hubert would soon be in his shoes. She stared at Jean. Little doubt but that she could stage her own funeral, if not other people’s; still, there would be nothing ungraceful or raucous about her dominations; no vulgar domesticity in the way she stirred her pies. If only she and Hubert had enough sense of humour!
After lunch the Rector took her apart.
“My deah Dinny—if I may call you that—how do you feel about it? And how does your Mothah feel?”
“We both feel it’s a little bit like ‘The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea!’”
“‘In a beautiful pea-green boat.’ Yes, indeed, but not ‘with plenty of money’ I feah. Still,” he added, dreamily, “Jean is a good girl; very—ah—capable. I am glad our families are to be—er—reunited. I shall miss her, but one must not be—ah—selfish.”
“‘What we lose on the swings we gain on the roundabouts,’” murmured Dinny.