“You have.”
He took the hand with gravity, raised it to his lips, and returned it to her gently. Dinny felt extremely unhappy. She said, timidly: “You’ve made me think quite differently about Americans, Professor.”
Hallorsen smiled.
“That is something, anyway.”
“I’m afraid I was very crude in my ideas. You see, I haven’t really known any.”
“That is the little trouble between us; we don’t really know each other. We get on each other’s nerves, with little things, and there it ends. But I shall always remember you as the smile on the face of this country.”
“That,” said Dinny, “is very pretty, and I wish it were true.”
“If I could have a picture of you, I should treasure it.”
“Of course you shall! I don’t know if I have a decent one, but I’ll send you the best.”
“I thank you. I think if you will allow me I will get out here; I am just not too sure of myself. The car will take you on.” He tapped on the glass and spoke to the chauffeur.
“Good-bye!” he said, and took her hand again, looked at it rather long, pressed it hard, and slid his long frame through the doorway.
“Good-bye!” murmured Dinny, sitting back, with rather a choky feeling in her throat.
Five minutes later the car pulled up before Diana’s house, and, very subdued, she went in.
Diana, whom she had not seen that morning, opened the door of her room as she was passing.
“Come in here, Dinny.” Her voice was stealthy, and a little shudder went through Dinny. They sat down side by side on the four-poster bed, and Diana spoke low and hurriedly:
“He came in here last night and insisted on staying. I didn’t dare refuse. There’s a change; I have a feeling that it’s the beginning of the end, again. His self-control is weakening, all round. I think I ought to send the children somewhere. Would Hilary take them?”
“I’m sure he would; or Mother would certainly.”
“Perhaps that would be better.”
“Don’t you think you ought to go, yourself?”
Diana sighed and shook her head.
“That would only precipitate things. Could you take the children down for me?”
“Of course. But do you really think he—?”
“Yes. I’m sure he’s working up again. I know the signs so well. Haven’t you noticed, Dinny, he’s been drinking more each evening? It’s all of a piece.”
“If he’d get over his horror of going out.”
“I don’t believe that would help. Here at all events we know what there is to know, and the worst at once if it comes. I dread something happening with strangers, and our hands being forced.”
Dinny squeezed her arm.
“When would you like the children taken down?”
“As soon as possible. I can’t say anything to him. You must just go off as quietly as you can. Mademoiselle can go down separately, if your mother will have her too.”
“I shall come back at once, of course.”
“Dinny, it isn’t fair on you. I’ve got the maids. It’s really too bad to bother you with my troubles.”
“But of course I shall come back. I’ll borrow Fleur’s car. Will he mind the children going?”
“Only if he connects it with our feeling about his state. I can say it’s an old invitation.”
“Diana,” said Dinny, suddenly, “have you any love for him left?”
“Love? No!”
“Just pity?”
Diana shook her head.
“I can’t explain; it’s the past and a feeling that if I desert him I help the fates against him. That’s a horrible thought!”
“I understand. I’m so sorry for you both, and for Uncle Adrian.”
Diana smoothed her face with her hands, as if wiping off the marks of trouble.
“I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s no good going to meet it. As to you, my dear, don’t for God’s sake let me spoil your time.”
“That’s all right. I’m wanting something to take me out of myself. Spinsters, you know, should be well shaken before being taken.”
“Ah! When ARE you going to be taken, Dinny?”
“I have just rejected the great open spaces, and I feel a beast.”
“Between the great open spaces and the deep sea—are you?”
“And likely to remain so. The love of a good man—and all that, seems to leave me frost-bitten.”
“Wait! Your hair is the wrong colour for the cloister.”
“I’ll have it dyed and sail in my true colours. Icebergs are sea-green.”
“As I said before—wait!”
“I will,” said Dinny…
Fleur herself drove the South Square car to the door two days later. The children and some luggage were placed in it without incident, and they started.
That somewhat hectic drive, for the children were little used to cars, to Dinny was pure relief. She had not realised how much the tragic atmosphere of Oakley Street was on her nerves; and yet it was but ten days since she had come up from Condaford. The colours of ‘the fall’ were deepening already on the trees. The day had the soft and sober glow of fine October; the air, as the country deepened and grew remote, had again its beloved tang; wood smoke rose from cottage chimneys, and rooks from the bared fields.
They arrived in time for lunch, and, leaving the children with Mademoiselle, who had come down by train, Dinny went forth with the dogs alone. She stopped at an old cottage high above the sunken road. The door opened straight into the living-room, where an old woman was sitting by a thin fire of wood.
“Oh! Miss Dinny,” she said, “I am that glad. I haven’t seen you not all this month.”
“No, Betty; I’ve been away. How are you?”
The little old woman, for she was of pocket size, crossed her hands solemnly on her middle.
“My stummick’s bad again. I ‘aven’t nothin’ else the matter—the doctor says I’m wonderful. Just my stummick. ‘E says I ought to eat more; and I’ve such an appetite, Miss Dinny. But I can’t eat ‘ardly nothin’ without I’m sick, and that’s the truth.”
“Dear Betty, I’m so sorry. Tummies are a dreadful nuisance. Tummies and teeth. I can’t think why we have them. If you haven’t teeth you can’t digest; and if you have teeth you can’t digest either.”
The old lady cackled thinly.
“‘E du say I ought to ‘ave the rest of my teeth out, but I don’t like to part with ’em, Miss Dinny. Father ‘e’s got none, and ‘e can bite an apple, ‘e can. But at my age I can’t expect to live to ‘arden up like that.”
“But you could have some lovely false ones, Betty.”
“Oh! I don’t want to ‘ave no false teeth—so pretenshus. You wouldn’t never wear false teeth, would you, Miss Dinny?”
“Of course I would, Betty. Nearly all the best people have them nowadays.”
“You will ‘ave your joke. No, I shouldn’t like it. I’d as soon wear a wig. But my ‘air’s as thick as ever. I’m wonderful for my age. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for; it’s only my stummick, an’ that’s like as if there was somethin’ there.”
Dinny saw the pain and darkness in her eyes.
“How is Benjamin, Betty?”
The eyes changed, became amused and yet judgmatic, as if she were considering a child.
“Oh! Father’s all right, Miss; ‘e never ‘as anything the matter except ‘is rheumatiz; ‘e’s out now doin’ a bit o’ diggin’.”
“And how’s Goldie?” said Dinny, looking lugubriously at a goldfinch in a cage. She hated to see birds in cages, but had never been able to bring herself to say so to these old people with their small bright imprisoned pet. Besides, didn’t they say that if you released a tame goldfinch, it would soon be pecked to death?
“Oh!” said the old lady, “‘e thinks ‘e’s someone since you give him that bigger cage.” Her eyes brightened. “Fancy the Captain married, Miss Dinny, and that dreadful case against him an’ all—whatever are they thinkin’ about? I never ‘eard of such a thing in all my life. One of the Cherrell’s to be put in Court like that. It’s out of all knowledge.”
“It is, Betty.”
“I’m told she’s a fine young lady. And where’ll they be goin’ to live?”