While the maid was gone upstairs she strained her ears, but no sound reached them till the maid came back.
“Mrs. Ferse says, Miss, to thank you very heartily, and to say she won’t fail to send for you if she needs you. She’s all right at present, Miss; but, oh dear! we ARE put about, hoping for the best. And she sends her love, Miss; and Mr. Cherrell’s not to worry.”
“Thank you,” said Dinny: “Give her our love and say there we are—all ready.”
Then, swiftly, looking neither to left nor right, she returned to Adrian. The message repeated, they walked on.
“Hanging in the wind,” said Adrian, “is there anything more dreadful? And how long—oh, Lord! How long? But as she says, we mustn’t worry,” and he uttered an unhappy little laugh. It began to grow dusk, and in that comfortless light, neither day nor night, the ragged ends of the streets and bridges seemed bleak and unmeaning. Twilight passed, and with the lamps form began again and contours softened.
“Dinny, my dear,” said Adrian, “I’m not fit to walk with; we’d better get back.”
“Come and dine at Michael’s then, Uncle—do!”
Adrian shook his head.
“Skeletons should not be at feasts. I don’t know how to abide myself, as your Nurse used to say, I’m sure.”
“She did not; she was Scotch. Is Ferse a Scottish name?”
“May have been originally. But Ferse came from West Sussex, somewhere in the Downs—an old family.”
“Do you think old families are queer?”
“I don’t see why. When there’s a case of queerness in an old family, it’s conspicuous of course, instead of just passing without notice. Old families are not inbred like village folk.” By instinct for what might distract him, Dinny went on:
“Do you think age in families has any points to it at all, Uncle?”
“What is age? All families are equally old, in one sense. But if you’re thinking of quality due to mating for generations within a certain caste, well, I don’t know—there’s certainly ‘good breeding’ in the sense that you’d apply it to dogs or horses, but you can get that in any favourable physical circumstances—in the dales, by the sea; wherever conditions are good. Sound stock breeds sound stock—that’s obvious. I know villages in the very North of Italy where there isn’t a person of rank, and yet not one without beauty and a look of breeding. But when you come to breeding from people with genius or those exceptional qualities which bring men to the front, I’m very doubtful whether you don’t get distortion rather than symmetry. Families with military or naval origin and tradition have the best chance, perhaps—good physique and not too much brain; but Science and the Law and Business are very distorting. No! where I think ‘old’ families may have a pull is in the more definite sense of direction their children get in growing up, a set tradition, a set objective; also perhaps to a better chance in the marriage market; and in most cases to more country life, and more encouragement to taking their own line and more practice in taking it. What’s talked of as ‘breeding’ in humans is an attribute of mind rather than of body. What one thinks and feels is mainly due to tradition, habit and education. But I’m boring you, my dear.”
“No, no, Uncle; I’m terribly interested. You believe then in the passing on of an attitude to life rather than in blood.”
“Yes, but the two are very mixed.”
“And do you think ‘oldness’ is going out and soon nothing will be handed on?”
“I wonder. Tradition is extraordinarily strong, and in this country there’s a lot of machinery to keep it alive. You see, there are such a tremendous lot of directive jobs to be done; and the people most fit for such jobs are those who, as children, have had most practice in taking their own line, been taught not to gas about themselves, and to do things because it’s their duty. It’s they, for instance, who run the Services, and they’ll go on running them, I expect. But privilege is only justified nowadays by running till you drop.”
“A good many,” said Dinny, “seem to drop first, and then do the running. Well, here we are again, at Fleur’s. Now do come in, Uncle! If Diana did want anything you’d be on the spot.”
“Very well, my dear, and bless you—you got me on a subject I often think about. Serpent!”
CHAPTER 18
By pertinacious use of the telephone, Jean had discovered Hubert at ‘The Coffee House’ and learned his news. She passed Dinny and Adrian as they were coming in.
“Whither away?”
“Shan’t be long,” said Jean, and walked round the corner.
Her knowledge of London was small, and she hailed the first cab. Arriving in Eaton Square before a mansion of large and dreary appearance, she dismissed the cab and rang the bell.
“Lord Saxenden in Town?”
“Yes, my lady, but he’s not in.”
“When will he be in?”
“His lordship will be in to dinner, but—”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“Excuse me—my lady—”
“Not my lady,” said Jean, handing him a card; “but he’ll see me, all the same.”
The man struggled a moment, received a look straight between the eyes, and said:
“Will you come in here, my—Miss?”
Jean went. The little room was barren except for gilt-edged chairs of the Empire period, a chandelier, and two marble-topped console tables.
“Please give him my card the moment he comes in.”
The man seemed to rally.
“His Lordship will be pressed for time, Miss.”
“Not more than I am, don’t worry about that.” And on a gilt-edged chair she sat down. The man withdrew. With her eyes now on the darkening Square, now on a marble and gilt clock, she sat slim, trim, vigorous, interlacing the long fingers of browned hands from which she had removed her gloves. The man came in again and drew the curtains.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, “like to leave a message, Miss, or write a note?”
“Thank you, no.”
He stood a moment, looking at her as if debating whether she was armed.
“Miss Tasburgh?” he said.
“Tasborough,” answered Jean. “Lord Saxenden knows me,” and raised her eyes.
“Quite so, Miss,” said the man, hastily, and again withdrew.
The clock’s hands crept on to seven before she heard voices in the hall. A moment later the door was opened and Lord Saxenden came in with her card in his hand, and a face on which his past, present, and future seemed to agree.
“Pleasure!” he said: “A pleasure.”
Jean raised her eyes, and the thought went through her: ‘Purring stockfish.’ She extended her hand.
“It’s terribly nice of you to see me.”
“Not at all.”
“I wanted to tell you of my engagement to Hubert Cherrell—you remember his sister at the Monts’. Have you heard of this absurd request for his extradition? It’s too silly for words—the shooting was in pure self-defence—he’s got a most terrible scar he could show you at any time.”
Lord Saxenden murmured something inaudible. His eyes had become somewhat frosted.
“So you see, I wanted to ask you to put a stop to it. I know you have the power.”
“Power? Not a bit—none at all.”
Jean smiled.
“Of course you have the power. Everybody knows that. This means such a lot to me.”
“But you weren’t engaged, were you, the other night?”
“No.”
“Very sudden!”
“Aren’t all engagements sudden?” She could not perhaps realise the impact of her news on a man over fifty who had entered the room with at all events vague hopes of having made an impression on Youth; but she did realise that she was not all that he had thought her, and that he was not all that she had thought him. A wary and polite look had come over his face.
‘More hard-boiled than I imagined,’ was her reflection. And changing her tone, she said coldly: “After all, Captain Cherrell is a D.S.O. and one of you. Englishmen don’t let each other down, do they? Especially when they’ve been to the same school.”