There was nothing to meet them at the station, so, leaving their things, they set forth for the Grange on foot, taking a path across the fields.
“I wonder,” said Dinny, suddenly, “how little excitement one could do with in these days? Should I be happy if I lived down here all my time, like the old cottage folk? Clare is never happy here. She has to be on the go all the time. There IS a kind of jack-inthe-box inside one.”
“I’ve never seen it popping out of you, Dinny.”
“I wish I’d been older during the war. I was only fourteen when it stopped.”
“You were lucky.”
“I don’t know. You must have had a terribly exciting time, Diana.”
“I was your present age when the war began.”
“Married?”
“Just.”
“I suppose he was right through it?”
“Yes.”
“Was that the cause?”
“An aggravation, perhaps.”
“Uncle Adrian spoke of heredity.”
“Yes.”
Dinny pointed to a thatched cottage.
“In that cottage an old pet couple of mine have lived fifty years. Could you do that, Diana?”
“I could now; I want peace, Dinny.”
They reached the house in silence. A message had come through from Adrian: Ferse was not back at the Home: but he and Hilary believed they were on the right track.
After seeing the children Diana went to her bedroom to lie down, and Dinny to her Mother’s sitting-room.
“Mother, I must say it to someone—I am praying for his death.”
“Dinny!”
“For his own sake, for Diana’s, for the children’s, for everybody’s; even my own.”
“Of course, if it’s hopeless—”
“Hopeless or not, I don’t care. It’s too dreadful. Providence is a wash-out, Mother.”
“My dear!”
“It’s too remote. I suppose there is an eternal Plan—but we’re like gnats for all the care it has for us as individuals.”
“You want a good sleep, darling.”
“Yes. But that won’t make any difference.”
“Don’t encourage such feelings, Dinny; they affect one’s character.”
“I don’t see the connection between beliefs and character. I’m not going to behave any worse because I cease to believe in Providence or an after life.”
“Surely, Dinny—”
“No; I’m going to behave BETTER; if I’m decent it’s because decency’s the decent thing; and not because I’m going to get anything by it.”
“But why is decency the decent thing, Dinny, if there’s no God?”
“O subtle and dear mother, I didn’t say there wasn’t God. I only said his Plan was too remote. Can’t you hear God saying: ‘By the way, is that ball the Earth still rolling?’ And an angel answering: ‘Oh! Yes, Sir, quite nicely.’ ‘Let’s see, it must be fungused over by now. Wasn’t there some particularly busy little parasite—’”
“Dinny!”
“‘Oh! Yes, Sir, you mean man!’ ‘Quite! I remember we called it that.’”
“Dinny, how dreadful!”
“No, mother, if I’m decent, it will be because decency is devised by humans for the benefit of humans; just as beauty is devised by humans for the delight of humans. Am I looking awful, darling? I feel as if I had no eyes. I think I’ll go and lie down. I don’t know why I’ve got so worked up about this, Mother. I think it must be looking at his face.” And with suspicious swiftness Dinny turned and went away.
CHAPTER 27
Ferse’s disappearance was a holiday to the feelings of one who had suffered greatly since his return. That he had engaged to end that holiday by finding him was not enough to spoil Adrian’s relief. Almost with zest he set out for Hilary’s in a taxi, applying his wits to the problem. Fear of publicity cut him off from those normal and direct resorts—Police, Radio, and Press. Such agencies would bring on Ferse too fierce a light. And in considering what means were left he felt as when confronted with a cross-word puzzle, many of which he had solved in his time, like other men of noted intellect. From Dinny’s account he could not tell within several hours at what time Ferse had gone out, and the longer he left enquiry in the neighbourhood of the house, the less chance one would have of stumbling on anyone who had seen him. Should he, then, stop the cab and go back to Chelsea? In holding on towards the Meads, he yielded to instinct rather than to reason. To turn to Hilary was second nature with him—and, surely, in such a task two heads were better than one! He reached the Vicarage without forming any plan save that of enquiring vaguely along the Embankment and the King’s Road. It was not yet half past nine, and Hilary was still at his correspondence. On hearing the news, he called his wife into the study.
“Let’s think for three minutes,” he said, “and pool the result.”
The three stood in a triangle before the fire, the two men smoking, and the woman sniffing at an October rose.
“Well?” said Hilary at last: “Any light, May?”
“Only,” said Mrs. Hilary, wrinkling her forehead, “if the poor man was as Dinny describes, you can’t leave out the hospitals. I could telephone to the three or four where there was most chance of his having been taken in, if he’s made an accident for himself. It’s so early still, they can hardly have had anybody in.”
“Very sweet of you, my dear; and we can trust your wits to keep his name out of it.”
Mrs. Hilary went out.
“Adrian?”
“I’ve got a hunch, but I’d rather hear you first.”
“Well,” said Hilary, “two things occur to me: It’s obvious we must find out from the Police if anyone’s been taken from the river. The other contingency, and I think it’s the more likely, is drink.”
“But he couldn’t get drink so early.”
“Hotels. He had money.”
“I agree, we must try them, unless you think my idea any good.”
“Well?”
“I’ve been trying to put myself in poor Ferse’s shoes. I think, Hilary, if I had a doom over me, I might run for Condaford; not the place itself, perhaps, but round about, where we haunted as boys; where I’d been, in fact, before Fate got hold of me at all. A wounded animal goes home.”
Hilary nodded.
“Where WAS his home?”
“West Sussex—just under the Downs to the north. Petworth was the station.”
“Oh! I know that country. Before the war May and I used to stay a lot at Bignor and walk. We could have a shot at Victoria station, and see if anyone like him has taken train. But I think I’ll try the Police about the river first. I can say a parishioner is missing. What height is Ferse?”