The Rector’s manner at lunch was still courtly, and Dinny observed him with admiring attention. Here was a widower well on in years, about to be deprived of his only daughter, who did everything about the house and parish, even to the cutting of his hair, yet he was apparently unmoved. Not a murmur escaped his lips. Was it breeding, benevolence, or unholy relief? She could not be sure; and her heart quailed a little. Hubert would soon be in his shoes. She stared at Jean. Little doubt but that she could stage her own funeral, if not other people’s; still, there would be nothing ungraceful or raucous about her dominations; no vulgar domesticity in the way she stirred her pies. If only she and Hubert had enough sense of humour!
After lunch the Rector took her apart.
“My deah Dinny—if I may call you that—how do you feel about it? And how does your Mothah feel?”
“We both feel it’s a little bit like ‘The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea!’”
“‘In a beautiful pea-green boat.’ Yes, indeed, but not ‘with plenty of money’ I feah. Still,” he added, dreamily, “Jean is a good girl; very—ah—capable. I am glad our families are to be—er—reunited. I shall miss her, but one must not be—ah—selfish.”
“‘What we lose on the swings we gain on the roundabouts,’” murmured Dinny.
The Rector’s blue eyes twinkled.
“Ah!” he said, “yes, indeed; the rough with the smooth. Jean refuses to let me give her away. Here is her birth certificate in case of—ah—questions. She is of age.”
He produced a long yellowed slip. “Deah me!” he added, sincerely: “Deah me!”
Dinny continued to feel doubtful whether she was sorry for him: and, directly after, they resumed their journey.
CHAPTER 14
Dropping Alan Tasburgh at his Club, the two girls headed the car for Chelsea. Dinny had sent no telegram, trusting to luck. On reaching the house in Oakley Street she got out and rang the bell. An elderly maid, with a frightened expression on her face, opened the door.
“Mrs. Ferse in?”
“No, Miss; Captain Ferse.”
“Captain Ferse?”
The maid, looking to right and left, spoke in a low and hurried voice.
“Yes, Miss; we’re dreadfully put about, we don’t know what to do. Captain Ferse came in sudden at lunch time, and we never knew nothing of it, beforehand. The Mistress was out. There’s been a telegram for her, but Captain Ferse took it; and someone’s been on the ‘phone for her twice but wouldn’t give a message.” Dinny sought for words in which to discover the worst.
“How—how does he seem?”
“Well, Miss, I couldn’t say. He never said nothing but ‘Where’s your mistress?’ He LOOKS all right, but not having heard anything, we’re afraid; the children are in and we don’t know where the Mistress is.”
“Wait a minute,” and Dinny went back to the car.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jean, getting out.
The two girls stood consulting on the pavement, while from the doorway the maid watched them.
“I ought to get hold of Uncle Adrian,” said Dinny. “There are the children.”
“You do that, and I’ll go in and wait for you. That maid looks scared.”
“I believe he used to be violent, Jean; he may have escaped, you know.”
“Take the car. I shall be all right.” Dinny squeezed her hand.
“I’ll take a taxi; then you’ll have the car if you want to get away.”
“Right! Tell the maid who I am, and then buzz off. It’s four o’clock.”
Dinny looked up at the house; and, suddenly, saw a face in the window of the dining-room. Though she had only twice seen Ferse, she recognised him at once. His face was not to be forgotten, it gave the impression of fire behind bars: A cut, hard face with a tooth-brush moustache, broad cheek-bones, strong-growing dark slightly-grizzled hair, and those steel-bright flickering eyes. They stared out at her now with a kind of dancing intensity that was painful, and she looked away.
“Don’t look up! He’s in there!” she said to Jean: “But for his eyes he looks quite normal—well-dressed and that. Let’s both go, Jean, or both stay.”
“No; I shall be quite all right; you go,” and she went into the house.
Dinny hurried away. This sudden reappearance of one whom all had assumed to be hopelessly unhinged was staggering. Ignorant of the circumstances of Ferse’s incarceration, ignorant of everything except that he had given Diana a terrible time before his break-down, she thought of Adrian as the only person likely to know enough. It was a long anxious drive. She found her uncle on the point of leaving the Museum, and told him hurriedly, while he stood looking at her with horror.
“Do you know where Diana is?” she finished.
“She was dining to-night with Fleur and Michael. I was going too, but till then I don’t know. Let’s get on back to Oakley Street. This is a thunderbolt.”
They got into the cab.
“Couldn’t you telephone to that Mental Home, Uncle?”
“Without seeing Diana, I daren’t. You say he looked normal?”
“Yes. Only his eyes—but they always were like that, I remember.”
Adrian put his hands up to his head. “It’s too horrible! My poor girl!”
Dinny’s heart began to ache—as much for him as for Diana.
“Horrible too,” said Adrian, “to be feeling like this because that poor devil has come back. Ah, me! This is a bad business, Dinny; a bad business.” Dinny squeezed his arm.
“What is the law about it, Uncle?”
“God knows! He never was certified. Diana wouldn’t have that. They took him as a private patient.”
“But surely he couldn’t come away just when he liked, without any notice being given?”
“Who knows what’s happened? He may be as crazy as ever and have got away in a flash of sanity. But whatever we do,” and Dinny felt moved by the expression on his face, “we must think of him as well as of ourselves. We mustn’t make it harder for him. Poor Ferse! Talk about trouble, Dinny—illness, poverty, vice, crime—none of them can touch mental derangement for sheer tragedy to all concerned.”
“Uncle,” said Dinny, “the night?”
Adrian groaned. “That we must save her from somehow.”
At the end of Oakley Street they dismissed the cab and walked to the door…
On going in Jean had said to the maid: “I’m Miss Tasburgh. Miss Dinny has gone for Mr. Cherrell. Drawing-room upstairs? I’ll wait there. Has he seen the children?”
“No, Miss. He’s only been here half an hour. The children are up in the schoolroom with Mam’selle.”
“Then I shall be between them,” said Jean. “Take me up.”
“Shall I wait with you, Miss?”
“No. Keep a look-out for Mrs. Ferse and tell her at once.”
The maid gazed at her admiringly and left her in the drawing-room. Setting the door ajar Jean stood listening. There was no sound. And she began to move silently up and down from door to window. If she saw Diana approaching she meant to run down to her; if Ferse came up she meant to go out to him. Her heart beat a little faster than usual, but she felt no real nervousness. She had been patrolling thus for a quarter of an hour when she heard a sound behind her, and, turning, saw Ferse just within the room.
“Oh!” she said: “I’m waiting for Mrs. Ferse; are you Captain Ferse?”
The figure bowed. “And you?”
“Jean Tasburgh. I’m afraid you wouldn’t know me.”
“Who was that with you?”
“Dinny Cherrell.”
“Where has she gone?”
“To see one of her uncles, I believe.”
Ferse uttered a queer sound—not quite a laugh.
“Adrian?”
“I think so.”
He stood turning those bright flickering eyes on the pretty room.
“Prettier than ever,” he said, “I’ve been away some time. Do you know my wife?”
&nb
sp; “I met her staying at Lady Mont’s.”
“Lippinghall? Is Diana well?”
The words came out with a sort of hungry harshness.
“Yes. Quite.”
“And beautiful?”
“Very.”
“Thank you.”
Looking at him from under her long lashes Jean could see nothing in him from top to toe that gave the impression of derangement. He looked what he was—a soldier in mufti, very neat and self-contained, all—all but those eyes.
“I haven’t seen my wife for four years,” he said, “I shall want to see her alone.”
Jean moved towards the door.
“I’ll go,” she said.
“No!” The word came out with startling suddenness: “Stay there!” And he blocked the doorway.
“Why?”
“I wish to be the first to tell her that I’m back.”
“Naturally.”
“Stay there, then!”
Jean moved back to the window. “Just as you like,” she said. There was a silence.
“Have you heard about me?” he asked, suddenly.
“Very little. I know you haven’t been well.”
He came from the door. “Do you see anything the matter with me?”
Jean looked up, her eyes held his till they went flickering away.
“Nothing. You look very fit.”
“I am. Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” Jean sat down.
“That’s right,” he said. “Keep your eyes on me.”
Jean looked at her feet. Again Ferse uttered that travesty of a laugh.
“You’ve never been mentally sick, I take it. If you had you’d know that everybody keeps their eyes on you; and you keep your eyes on everybody. I must go down now. Au revoir!”
He turned quickly and went out, shutting the door. Jean continued to sit quite still, expecting him to open it again. She had a feeling of having been worsted, and a curious tingling all over, as if she had been too close to a fire. He did not open the door again, and she got up to do so herself. It was locked. She stood looking at it. Ring the bell? Hammer on it and attract the maid? She decided to do neither, but went to the window and stood watching the street. Dinny would be back soon and she could call to her. Very coolly she reviewed the scene she had been through. He had locked her in because he meant no one to interfere before he saw his wife—suspicious of everyone—very natural! A dim sense of what it meant to be looked on as deranged penetrated her young hard intelligence. Poor man! She wondered if she could get out of the window without being noticed, and, deciding that she couldn’t, continued to stand watching the end of the street for the appearance of relief. And, suddenly, without anything to cause it, a shiver ran through her, the aftermath of that encounter. His eyes! It must be terrible to be his wife. She threw the window wider, and leaned out…
CHAPTER 15
The sight of Jean at the window stayed Dinny and her uncle on the doorstep.
“I’m locked in the drawing-room,” said Jean, quietly; “you might let me out.”
Adrian took his niece to the car.
“Stay here, Dinny. I’ll send her out to you. We mustn’t make a show of this.”
“Take care, Uncle! I feel as if you were Daniel going into—”
With a wan smile Adrian rang the bell. Ferse himself opened the door.
“Ah! Cherrell? Come in.”
Adrian held out his hand; but it was not taken.
“I can hardly expect a welcome,” said Ferse.
“My dear fellow!”
“No, I can hardly expect a welcome, but I’m going to see Diana. Don’t try and prevent me, Cherrell—you or anyone.”
“Of course not! Do you mind if I fetch young Jean Tasburgh? Dinny is waiting for her in the car.”
“I locked her in,” said Ferse, sombrely. “Here’s the key. Send her away.”
He went into the dining-room.
Jean was standing just inside the door.
“Go out to Dinny,” said Adrian, “and take her away. I’ll manage. No trouble, I hope?”
“Only being locked in.”
“Tell Dinny,” said Adrian, “that Hilary is almost sure to be able to put you both up; if you go on there now I shall know where you are if I want you. You have pluck, young lady.”
“Oh, not specially!” said Jean: “Good-bye!” and ran downstairs. Adrian heard the front door close and went slowly down to the dining-room. Ferse was at the window watching the girls start the car. He turned round sharply. The movement was that of a man used to being spied on. There was little change in him, less thin, less haggard, and his hair greyer—that was all. His dress as neat as ever, his manner composed; his eyes—but then—his eyes!
“Yes,” said Ferse, uncannily, “you can’t help pitying me, but you’d like to see me dead. Who wouldn’t? A fellow has no business to go off his chump. But I’m sane enough now, Cherrell, don’t make any mistake.”
Sane? Yes, he seemed sane. But what strain could he stand?
Ferse spoke again: “You all thought I was gone for good. About three months ago I began to mend. As soon as I realised that—I kept dark. Those who look after us”—he spoke with concentrated bitterness—“must be so certain of our sanity that if it were left to them we should never be sane again. It’s to their interest, you see.” And his eyes, burning into Adrian’s seemed to add: ‘And to yours, and to hers?’ “So I kept dark. I had the will-power to keep dark in that place for three months, in my right mind. It’s only this last week or so that I’ve shown them I’m responsible. They want much more than a week before they’ll write home about it. I didn’t want them writing home. I wanted to come straight here and show myself as I am. I didn’t want Diana or anybody warned. And I wanted to make sure of myself, and I have.”
“Terrible!” said Adrian below his breath.
Ferse’s eyes seemed to burn into him again.
“You used to be in love with my wife, Cherrell; you still are. Well?”
“We are just as we were,” said Adrian, “friends.”
“You’d say that anyway.”
“Perhaps. But there is no more to say, except that I’m bound to think of her first, as I always have.”
“That’s why you’re here, then?”
“Gracious, man! Haven’t you realised the shock it will be to her? Perhaps you can’t remember the life you led her before you went in there? But do you think she’s forgotten? Wouldn’t it be fairer to her and to yourself if you came to my room, say, at the Museum, and saw her there for the first time?”
“No; I’ll see her here in my own house.”
“This is where she went through hell, Ferse. You may have been right to keep dark, as you call it, so far as the doctors are concerned, but you’re certainly not right to spring your recovery on her like this.”
Ferse made a violent gesture.
“You want her kept from me.”
Adrian bowed his head.
“That may be,” he said, gently. “But look here, Ferse, you’re just as well able to gauge this situation as myself. Put yourself in her place. Imagine her coming in, as she may at any minute, seeing you without warning, knowing nothing of your recovery, needing time to believe in it—with all her memories of you as you were. What chance are you giving yourself?”
Ferse groaned. “What chance shall I be given, if I don’t take any chance I can? Do you think I trust anyone now? Try it—try four years of it, and see!” and his eyes went swiftly round: “Try being watched, try being treated like a dangerous child. I’ve looked on at my own treatment, as a perfectly sane man, for the last three months. If my own wife can’t take me for what I am—clothed and in my right mind, who will or can?”
Adrian went up to him.
“Gently!” he said: “That’s where you’re wrong. Only SHE knew you at the worst. It should be more difficult for her than for anyone.”
Ferse covered his face.
Adrian waited, g
rey with anxiety; but when Ferse uncovered his face again he could not bear the look on it, and turned his eyes away.
“Talk of loneliness!” said Ferse. “Go off your chump, Cherrell, then you’ll know what it means to be lonely for the rest of your days.”
Adrian put a hand on his shoulder.
“Look here, my dear fellow, I’ve got a spare room at my digs, come and put up with me till we get things straightened out.” Sudden suspicion grinned from Ferse’s face, an intense searching look came into his eyes; it softened as if with gratitude, grew bitter, softened again.
“You were always a white man, Cherrell; but no, thanks—I couldn’t. I must be here. Foxes have holes, and I’ve still got this.”
Adrian sighed.
“Very well; then we must wait for her. Have you seen the children?”
“No. Do they remember me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do they know I’m alive?”
“Yes. They know that you’re away, ill.”
“Not—?” Ferse touched his forehead.
“No. Shall we go up to them?”
Ferse shook his head, and at that moment through the window Adrian saw Diana coming. He moved quietly towards the door. What was he to do or say? His hand was on the knob when Ferse pushed by him into the hall. Diana had come in with her latchkey. Adrian could see her face grow deadly pale below the casque of her close hat. She recoiled against the wall.
“It’s all right, Diana,” he said quickly, and held open the dining-room door. She came from the wall, passed them both into the room, and Ferse followed.
“If you want to consult me I shall be here,” said Adrian, and closed the door…
Husband and wife stood breathing as if they had run a hundred yards instead of walking three.
“Diana!” said Ferse: “Diana!”
It seemed as if she couldn’t speak, and his voice rose:
“I’m all right. Don’t you believe me?”
She bent her head, and still didn’t speak.
“Not a word to throw to a dog?”
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