‘To go on with our interesting conversation about the cosmos,’ he began. ‘I become more and more convinced that the various parts of the concern are fundamentally discrete. . . . But would you mind, Denis, moving a shade to your right?’ He wedged himself between them on the bench. ‘And if you would shift a few inches to the left, my dear Anne. . . . Thank you. Discrete, I think, was what I was saying.’
‘You were,’ said Anne. Denis was speechless.
They were taking their after-luncheon coffee in the library when the telegram arrived. Denis blushed guiltily as he took the orange envelope from the salver and tore it open. ‘Return at once. Urgent family business.’ It was too ridiculous. As if he had any family business! Wouldn’t it be best just to crumple the thing up and put it in his pocket without saying anything about it? He looked up; Mary’s large blue china eyes were fixed upon him, seriously, penetratingly. He blushed more deeply than ever, hesitated in a horrible uncertainty.
‘What’s your telegram about?’ Mary asked significantly.
He lost his head. ‘I’m afraid,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m afraid this means I shall have to go back to town at once.’ He frowned at the telegram ferociously.
‘But that’s absurd, impossible,’ cried Anne. She had been standing by the window talking to Gombauld; but at Denis’s words she came swaying across the room towards him.
‘It’s urgent,’ he repeated desperately.
‘But you’ve only been here such a short time,’ Anne protested.
‘I know,’ he said, utterly miserable. Oh, if only she could understand! Women were supposed to have intuition.
‘If he must go, he must,’ put in Mary firmly.
‘Yes, I must.’ He looked at the telegram again for inspiration. ‘You see, it’s urgent family business,’ he explained.
Priscilla got up from her chair in some excitement. ‘I had a distinct presentiment of this last night,’ she said. ‘A distinct presentiment.’
‘A mere coincidence, no doubt,’ said Mary, brushing Mrs Wimbush out of the conversation. ‘There’s a very good train at 3.27.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘You’ll have nice time to pack.’
‘I’ll order the motor at once.’ Henry Wimbush rang the bell. The funeral was well under way. It was awful, awful.
‘I’m wretched you should be going,’ said Anne.
Denis turned towards her; she really did look wretched. He abandoned himself hopelessly, fatalistically to his destiny. This was what came of action, of doing something decisive. If only he’d just let things drift! If only . . .
‘I shall miss your conversation,’ said Mr Scogan.
Mary looked at the clock again. ‘I think perhaps you ought to go and pack,’ she said.
Obediently Denis left the room. Never again, he said to himself, never again would he do anything decisive. Camlet, West Bowlby, Knipswich for Timpany, Spavin Delawarr; and then all the other stations; and then, finally, London. The thought of the journey appalled him. And what on earth was he going to do in London when he got there? He climbed wearily up the stairs. It was time for him to lay himself in his coffin.
The car was at the door – the hearse. The whole party had assembled to see him go. Good-bye, good-bye. Mechanically he tapped the barometer that hung in the porch; the needle stirred perceptibly to the left. A sudden smile lighted up his lugubrious face.
‘“It stinks, and I am ready to depart,”’ he said, quoting Landor with an exquisite aptness. He looked quickly round from face to face. Nobody had noticed. He climbed into the hearse.
The End
