So meditating, he reached his room at the House of Commons, and had settled down to the consideration of a private bill to preserve certain natural beauties when a card was brought to him:
General Sir Conway Cherrell
Can you see me?
Pencilling: ‘Delighted, sir!’ he handed the card back to the attendant and got up. Of all his uncles he knew Dinny’s father least, and he waited with some trepidation.
The General came in, saying:
‘Regular rabbit-warren this, Michael.’
He had the confirmed neatness of his profession, but his face looked worn and worried.
‘Luckily we don’t breed here, Uncle Con.’
The General emitted a short laugh.
‘No, there’s that. I hope I’m not interrupting you. It’s about Dinny. She still with you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The General hesitated, and then, crossing his hands on his stick, said firmly:
‘You’re Desert’s best friend, aren’t you?’
‘Was. What I am now, I really don’t know.’
‘Is he still in town?’
‘Yes; he’s been having a bout of malaria, I believe.’
‘Dinny still seeing him?’
‘No, sir.’
Again the General hesitated, and again seemed to firm himself by gripping his stick.
‘Her mother and I, you know, only want what’s best for her. We want her happiness; the rest doesn’t matter. What do you think?’
‘I really don’t believe it matters what any of us think.’
The General frowned.
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s just between those two.’
‘I understood that he was going away.’
‘He said so to my father, but he hasn’t gone. His publisher told me just now that he was still at his rooms this morning.’
‘How is Dinny?’
‘Very low in her mind. But she keeps her end up.’
‘He ought to do something.’
‘What, sir?’
‘It’s not fair to Dinny. He ought either to marry her or go right away.’
‘Would you find it easy, in his place, to make up your mind?’
‘Perhaps not.’
Michael made a restless tour of his little room.
‘I think the whole thing is way below any question of just yes or no. It’s a case of wounded pride, and when you’ve got that, the other emotions don’t run straight. You ought to know that, sir. You must have had similar cases, when fellows have been court-martialled.’
The word seemed to strike the General with the force of a revelation. He stared at his nephew and did not answer.
‘Wilfrid,’ said Michael, ‘is being court-martialled, and it isn’t a short sharp business like a real court-martial – it’s a desperate long-drawn-out affair, with no end to it that I can grasp.’
‘I see,’ said the General, quietly: ‘But he should never have let Dinny in for it.’
Michael smiled. ‘Does love ever do what’s correct?’
‘That’s the modern view, anyway.’
‘According to report, the ancient one, too.’
The General went to the window and stood looking out.
‘I don’t like to go and see Dinny,’ he said, without turning round; ‘it seems like worrying her. Her mother feels the same. And there’s nothing we can do.’
His voice, troubled not for himself, touched Michael.
‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that in some way it’ll all be over very soon. And whichever way will be better for them and all of us than this.’
The General turned round.
‘Let’s hope so. I wanted to ask you to keep in touch with us, and not let Dinny do anything without letting us know. It’s very hard waiting down there. I won’t keep you now; and thank you, it’s been a relief. Good-bye, Michael!’
He grasped his nephew’s hand, squeezed it firmly, and was gone.
Michael thought: ‘Hanging in the wind! There’s nothing worse. Poor old boy!’
Chapter Thirty-three
COMPSON GRICE, who had no mean disposition and a certain liking for Michael, went out to lunch mindful of his promise. A believer in the power of meals to solve difficulties, he would normally have issued an invitation and obtained his information over the second or third glass of really old brandy. But he was afraid of Wilfrid. Discussing his simple sole meunière and half-bottle of Chablis, he decided on a letter. He wrote it in the Club’s little green-panelled writing-room, with a cup of coffee by his side and a cigar in his mouth.
The Hotch Potch Club.
Friday.
DEAR DESERT,
In view of the remarkable success of The Leopard and the probability of further large sales, I feel that I ought to know definitely what you would like me to do with the royalty cheques when they fall due. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me whether you contemplate going back to the East, and if so when; and at the same time let me have an address to which I can remit with safety. Possibly you would prefer that I should simply pay your royalties into your bank, whatever that is, and take their receipt. Hitherto our financial transactions have been somewhat lean, but The Leopard will certainly have – indeed, is already having – an influence on the sales of your two previous books; and it will be advisable that you should keep me in touch with your whereabouts in future. Shall you be in Town much longer? I am always delighted to see you, if you care to look in.