“H’m!” said Hilary, emitting a cloud of smoke.
“I’m sure you believe in birth control?”
“Well,” said Hilary, “the position there is ironical for us parsons. It used to be considered unpatriotic to believe in limiting our population. But now that flying and poison gas have made food for powder unnecessary, and unemployment is rampant, I’m afraid there’s no question but that it’s unpatriotic NOT to believe in limiting our population. As for our Christian principles; being patriots, we didn’t apply the Christian principle ‘Thou shalt not kill’ during the war, so, being patriots, we can’t logically apply the Christian principle ‘Thou shalt not limit’ now. Birth control is essential for the slums anyway.”
“And you don’t believe in hell.”
“I do, they’ve got it.”
“You support games on Sundays, don’t you?” Hilary nodded. “And sun bathing with nothing on?”
“I might, if there were any sun.”
“And pyjamas and smoking for women.”
“Not stinkers; emphatically not stinkers.”
“I call that undemocratic.”
“I can’t help it, Dinny. Sniff!” And he puffed some smoke at her.
Dinny sniffed. “There’s latakia in that, it does smell good; but women can’t smoke pipes. I suppose we all have a blind spot somewhere, and yours is: ‘No stinkers.’ Apart from that you’re amazingly modern, Uncle. When I was in that Court looking at all those people, it seemed to me that yours was the only really modern face.”
“It’s a Cathedral town, my dear.”
“Well, I think the amount of modernity is awfully overestimated.”
“You don’t live in London, Dinny. All the same, you’re right in a way. Frankness about things is not change. The difference between the days of my youth and today is only the difference of expression. We had doubts, we had curiosity, we had desires; but we didn’t express them. Now they do. I see a lot of young ‘Varsity men—they come and work in the Meads, you know. Well, from their cradles they’ve been brought up to say whatever comes into their heads, and just don’t they? We didn’t, you know; but the same things came into our heads. That’s all the difference. That and cars.”
“Then I’m still old-fashioned. I’m not a bit good at expressing things.”
“That’s your sense of humour, Dinny. It acts as a restraint, and keeps you self-conscious. Few young people nowadays seem to have much sense of humour; they often have wit—it isn’t the same thing. Our young writers, and painters and musicians, could they carry on as they do if they could see a joke against themselves? Because that’s the real test of humour.”
“I’ll think that over.”
“Yes, but don’t lose your sense of humour, Dinny. It’s the scent to the rose. Are you going back to Condaford now?”
“I expect so, Hubert’s remand won’t be till after that mail boat comes in, and that’s not for ten days yet.”
“Well, give my love to Condaford. I don’t suppose I’ll ever have days again quite so good as when we were children there.”
“That’s what I was thinking, Uncle, when I was waiting to be the last little nigger boy.”
“You’re a bit young for that conclusion, Dinny. Wait till you’re in love.”
“I am.”
“What, in love?”
“No, in waiting.”
“Fearsome process, being in love,” said Hilary. “Still, I never regretted it.”
Dinny gazed at him sideways, and her teeth showed.
“What if you took it again, Uncle?”
“Ah! there,” said Hilary, knocking his pipe out on a pillar box, “I’m definitely out of it. In my profession we can’t run to it. Besides, I’ve never really got over my first attack.”
“No,” said Dinny, with compunction, “Aunt May’s such a duck.”
“You’ve said a mouthful. Here’s the station. Good-bye, and bless you! I sent my bag down this morning.” He waved his hand and was gone.
On reaching the hotel Dinny sought Adrian. He was not in, and, rather disconsolate, she wandered out again into the Cathedral. She was just about to sit down and take its restful beauty in, when she saw her Uncle standing against a column with his eyes fixed on the rose window. Going up she slid her arm through his. He squeezed it, but said nothing.
“Fond of glass, Uncle?”
“Terribly fond of good glass, Dinny. Ever see York Minster?”
Dinny shook her head; then, conscious that nothing she could say would lead up to what she wanted to say, she asked directly: “What are you going to do now, Uncle dear?”
“Have you been talking to Hilary?”
“Yes.”
“He wants me to keep away for a year.”
“So do I.”
“It’s a long time, Dinny; I’m getting on.”
“Would you go on Professor Hallorsen’s expedition if he wanted you?”
“He wouldn’t want me.”
“Yes, he would.”
“I could only go if I were certain that Diana wished it.”
“She would never say so, but I’m quite sure she wants complete rest for a long time.”
“When you worship the sun,” said Adrian, very low, “it is hard to go where the sun never shines.”
Dinny squeezed his arm. “I know; but you’d have it to look forward to. And it’s a nice healthy expedition this time, only to New Mexico. You’d come back very young, with hair all down the outsides of your legs. They do in the films. You’d be irresistible, Uncle; and I do want you to be irresistible. All that’s wanted is to let the tumult and the shouting die.”
“And my job?”
“Oh! that can be wangled all right. If Diana doesn’t have to think of anything for a year, she’ll be a different creature, and you will seem like the promised land. I do feel I know what I’m talking about.”
“You’re an endearing little serpent,” said Adrian, with his shadowy smile.
“Diana is pretty badly wounded.”
“I sometimes think it’s a mortal wound, Dinny.”
“No, no!”
“Why should she think of me again, if I once go away?”
“Because women are like that.”
“What do you know about women, at your age? I went away long ago, and she thought of Ferse. I fancy I’m made of the wrong stuff.”
“If you are, New Mexico’s the very place. You’ll come back a ‘he-man’. Think of that! I promise to watch over her, and the children will keep you to the fore. They’re always talking of you. And I’ll see that they go on doing it.”
“It’s certainly curious,” said Adrian, impersonally, “but I feel she’s further from me now than when Ferse was alive.”
“For the moment, and it’ll be a long moment. But I know it’ll dry straight in the long run. Really, Uncle.”
Adrian was silent a long time. Then he said:
“I’ll go, Dinny, if Hallorsen will take me.”
“He shall. Bend down, Uncle. I MUST kiss you.”
Adrian bent down. The kiss lighted on his nose. A verger coughed…
The return to Condaford was made by car that afternoon in precisely the same order, young Tasburgh driving. He had been extremely tactful during these twenty-four hours, had not proposed at all, and Dinny was proportionately grateful. If Diana wanted peace, so did she. Alan left that same evening, Diana and the children the following day, and Clare came back from her long stay in Scotland, so that none but her own family were at the Grange. Yet had she no peace. For now that the preoccupation with poor Ferse was gone, she was oppressed and worried by the thought of Hubert. Extraordinary what power of disturbance was in that overhanging issue! He and Jean wrote cheerfully from the East Coast. According to themselves they were not worrying. Dinny was. And she knew that her mother, and even more her father, were. Clare was more angry than worried, and the effect of anger on her was to stimulate her energy, so that she went out ‘cubbing’ with her father; and in the afternoons would disappear with the car to neighbouring houses, where she would often stay till after dinner. The festive member of the family, she was always in great request. Dinny had her anxiety to herself. She had written to Hallorsen about her uncle, sending him the promised photograph, which depicted her in her presentation frock of two years back, when she and Clare had been economically presented together. Hallorsen answered promptly: “The picture is just too lovely. Nothing will please me more than to take your uncle, I am getting in touch with him rightaway”: he signed himself “Always your devoted servant.”