‘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 realized 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 judgematic, 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.’