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His father would read it and say: “Dear me! Very sudden! Queer fellow!” And that was about all that anyone would think or say– except—!
He took another sheet of paper and wrote to his bank; then lay down, exhausted, on the divan.
Stack must pack, he hadn’t the strength. Luckily his passport was in order—that curious document which rendered one independent of one’s kind; that password to whatever loneliness one wanted. The room was very still, for at this hour of lull before di
CHAPTER 36
Seeing him turn away from her in the Green Park, Di
She finished dressing quickly, put on her hat, and went down.
It could only be Stack.
The henchman was standing beside the ‘sarcophagus,’ holding Foch on a lead. His face, full of understanding as ever, was lined and pale, as if he had been up all night.
“Mr. Desert sent this, miss.” He held out a note.
Di
“Come in here, please, Stack. Let’s sit down.”
He sat down and let go of the lead. The dog went to her and put his nose on her knee. Di
“Mr. Desert says that I may have Foch.”
Stack bent his gaze on his boots. “He’s gone, miss. Went by the early service to Paris and Marseilles.”
She could see moisture in the folds of his cheeks. He gave a loud sniff, and angrily brushed his hand over his face.
“I’ve been with him fourteen years, miss. It was bound to hit me. He talks of not coming back.”
“Where has he gone?”
“Siam.”
“A long way,” said Di
“That is so, miss. I don’t know if you’d care to hear about the dog’s food. He has a dry biscuit about nine, and shin of beef or sheep’s head, cooked, with crumbled hound-meal, between six and seven, and nothing else. A good quiet dog, he is, perfect gentleman in the house. He’ll sleep in your bedroom if you like.”
“Do you stay where you are, Stack?”
“Yes, miss. The rooms are his lordship’s. As I told you, Mr. Desert is sudden; but I think he means what he says. He never was happy in England.”
“I’m sure he means what he says. Is there anything I can do for you, Stack?”
The henchman shook his head, his eyes rested on Di
“I think I’ll take Foch a walk and get him used to me.”
“Yes, miss. I don’t let him off the lead except in the parks. If there’s anything you want to know about him any time, you have the number.”
Di
“Well, good-bye, Stack, and best wishes.”
“The same to you, miss, I’m sure.” His eyes had what was more than understanding in them, and the grip of his hand had a spasmodic strength. Di
“Well, Foch,” she said, “what shall we do? Nice walk?”
The tail moved; he again whined slightly.
“Come along, then, boy.”
She felt steady, but as if a spring had broken. With the dog on the lead she walked towards Victoria Station, and stopped before the statue. The leaves had thickened round it, and that was all the change. Man and horse, remote, active, and contained– ‘workmanlike’! A long time she stood there, her face raised, dry-eyed, thin and drawn; and the dog sat patiently beside her.
Then, with a shrug, she turned away and led him rapidly towards the Park. When she had walked some time, she went to Mount Street and asked for Sir Lawrence. He was in his study.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “that looks a nice dog; is he yours?”
“Yes. Uncle Lawrence, will you do something for me?”
“Surely.”
“Wilfrid has gone. He went this morning. He is not coming back. Would you be so very kind as to let my people know, and Michael, and Aunt Em, and Uncle Adrian. I don’t want ever to have to speak of it.”
Sir Lawrence inclined his head, took her hand and put it to his lips. “There was something I wanted to show you, Di
Di
“Give my love to Aunt Em, please. I’m going home this afternoon.”
“God bless you, my dear,” said Sir Lawrence. “Come here, or to Lippinghall, whenever you want; we love having you.” And he kissed her forehead.
When she had gone, he went to the telephone, and then sought his wife.
“Em, poor Di
Lady Mont, who was arranging some flowers in a Chinese ginger jar, dropped them and turned round.
“Oh! dear!” she said. “Kiss me, Lawrence!”
They stood for a moment embraced. Poor Em! Her heart was soft as butter! She said into his shoulder: “Your collar’s all covered with hairs. You WILL brush your hair after you’ve put your coat on. Turn! I’ll pick them off.”
Sir Lawrence turned.
“I’ve telephoned to Condaford and Michael and Adrian. Remember, Em! The thing is as if it never was.”
“Of course I shall remember. Why did she come to you?”
Sir Lawrence shrugged. “She’s got a new dog, a black spaniel.”
“Very faithful, but they get fat. There! Did they say anything on the telephone?”
“Only: ‘Oh!’ and ‘I see,’ and ‘Of course.’”
“Lawrence, I want to cry; come back presently and take me somewhere.”
Sir Lawrence patted her shoulders and went out quickly. He, too, felt peculiar. Back in his study, he sat in thought. Desert’s flight was the only possible solution! Of all those affected by this incident, he had the clearest and most just insight into Wilfrid. True, probably, that the fellow had a vein of gold in him which his general nature did its best to hide! But to live with? Not on your life! Yellow? Of course he wasn’t that! The thing was not plain-sailing, as Jack Muskham and the pukka sahibs supposed, with their superstition that black was not white, and so on. No, no! Young Desert had been snared in a most peculiar way. Given his perverse nature, its revolts, humanitarianism, and want of belief, given his way of hob-nobbing with the Arabs, his case was as different from that of the ordinary Englishman as chalk from cheese. But, whatever his case, he was not a man to live with! Poor Di