‘Oh! my darling!’ she thought, and put it away.
She went to her window and leaned out. A beautiful evening – the Friday of Ascot week, the first of those two weeks when in England fine weather is almost certain! On Wednesday there had been a deluge, but today had the feel of real high summer. Down below a taxi drew up – her Uncle and Aunt were going out to dinner. There they came, with Blore putting them in and standing to look after them. Now the staff would turn on the wireless. Yes! Here it was! She opened her door. Grand opera! Rigoletto! The twittering of those tarnished melodies came up to her in all the bravura of an age which knew better than this, it seemed, how to express the emotions of wayward hearts.
The gong! She did not want to go down and eat, but she must, or Blore and Augustine would be upset. She washed hastily, compromised with her dress, and went down.
But while she ate she grew more restless, as if stitting still and attending to a single function were sharpening the edge of her anxiety. A duel! Fantastic, in these days! And yet – Uncle Lawrence was uncanny, and Wilfrid in just the mood to do anything to show himself unafraid. Were duels illegal in France? Thank heaven she had all that money. No! It was absurd! People had called each other names with impunity for nearly a century. No good to fuss; tomorrow she would go with Uncle Lawrence and see that man. It was all, in some strange way, on her account. What would one of her own people do if called a coward and a cad – her father, her brother, Uncle Adrian? What could they do? Horsewhips, fists, law courts – all such hopeless, coarse, ugly remedies! And she felt for the first time that Wilfrid had been wrong to use such words. Ah! But was he not entitled to hit back? Yes, indeed! She could see again his head jerked up and hear his: ‘Ah! That’s better!’
Swallowing down her coffee, she got up and sought the drawing-room. On the sofa was her Aunt’s embroidery thrown down, and she gazed at it with a feeble interest. An intricate old French design needing many coloured wools – grey rabbits looking archly over their shoulders at long, curious, yellow dogs seated on yellower haunches, with red eyes and tongues hanging out; leaves and flowers, too, and here and there a bird, all set in a background of brown wool. Tens of thousands of stitches, which, when finished, would lie under glass on a little table, and last till they were all dead and no one knew who had wrought them. Tout lasse, tout passe! The strains of Rigoletto still came floating from the basement. Really Augustine must have drama in her soul, to be listening to a whole opera.
‘La Donna è mobile!’
Dinny took up her book, the Memoirs of Harriette Wilson; a tome in which no one kept any faith to speak of except the authoress, and she only in her own estimation; a loose, bright, engaging, conceited minx, with a good heart and one real romance among a peck of love affairs.
‘La Donna è mobile!’ It came mocking up the stairs, fine and free, as if the tenor had reached his Mecca. Mobile! No! That was more true of men than of women! Women did not change. One loved – one lost, perhaps! She sat with closed eyes till the last notes of that last act had died away, then went up to bed. She passed a night broken by dreams, and was awakened by a voice saying:
‘Someone on the telephone for you, Miss Dinny.’
‘For me? Why! What time is it?’
‘Half past seven, miss.’
She sat up startled.
‘Who is it?’
‘No name, miss; but he wants to speak to you special.’
With the thought ‘Wilfrid!’ she jumped up, put on a dressing-gown and slippers, and ran down.
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘Stack, miss. I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I thought it best. Mr Desert, miss, went to bed as usual last night, but this morning the dog was whining in his room, and I went in, and I see he’s not been in bed at all. He must have gone out very early, because I’ve been about since half past six. I shouldn’t have disturbed you, miss, only I didn’t like the look of him last night… Can you hear me, miss?’
‘Yes. Has he taken any clothes or anything?’
‘No, miss.’
‘Did anybody come to see him last night?’
‘No, miss. But a letter came by hand about half past nine. I noticed him distraight, miss, when I took the whisky in. Perhaps it’s nothing, but being so sudden, I… Can you hear me, miss?’
‘Yes. I’ll dress at once and come round. Stack, can you get me a taxi, or, better, a car, by the time I’m there?’
‘I’ll get a car, miss.’
‘Is there any service to the Continent he could have caught?’
‘Nothing before nine o’clock.’