The brothers shook hands, and, grasping each a candle, sought their rooms.
Chapter Two
CONDAFORD GRANGE had passed from the de Campforts (whence its name) into possession of the Cherrells in 1217, when their name was spelt Kerwell and still at times Keroual, as the spirit moved the scribe. The story of its passing was romantic, for the Kerwell who got it by marrying a de Campfort had got the de Campfort by rescuing her from a wild boar. He had been a landless wight whose father, a Frenchman from Guienne, had come to England after Richard’s crusade; and she had been the heiress of the landed de Campforts. The boar was incorporated on the family ‘shield’, and some doubted whether the boar on the shield did not give rise to the story, rather than the story to the boar. In any case parts of the house were certified by expert masons to go back to the twelfth century. It had undoubtedly been moated; but under Queen Anne a restorative Cherrell, convinced of the millennium perhaps, and possibly inconvenienced by insects, had drained off the water, and there was now little sign that a moat had ever been.
The late Sir Conway, elder brother of the bishop, knighted in 1901 on his appointment to Spain, had been in the diplomatic service. He had therefore let the place down badly. He had died in 1904, at his post, and the letting-down process had been continued by his eldest son, the present Sir Conway, who, continually on Service, had enjoyed only spasmodic chances of living at Condaford till after the Great War. Now that he did live there, the knowledge that folk of his blood had been encamped there practically since the Conquest had spurred him to do his best to put it in order, so that it was by now unpretentiously trim without and comfortable within, and he was almost too poor to live in it. The estate contained too much covert to be profitable, and, though unencumbered, brought in but a few hundreds a year of net revenue. The pension of a General and the slender income of his wife (by birth the Honourable Elizabeth Frensham) enabled the General to incur a very small amount of supertax, to keep two hunters, and live quietly on the extreme edge of his means. His wife was one of those Englishwomen who seem to count for little, but for that very reason count for a good deal. She was unobtrusive, gentle, and always busy. In a word, she was background; and her pale face, reposeful, sensitive, a little timid, was a continual reminder that culture depends but slightly on wealth or intellect. Her husband and her three children had implicit confidence in her coherent sympathy. They were all of more vivid nature, more strongly coloured, and she was a relief.
She had not accompanied the General to Porthminster and was therefore awaiting his return. The furniture was about to come out of chintz, and she was standing in the tea room wondering whether that chintz would last another season, when a Scotch terrier came in, followed by her eldest daughter Elizabeth – better known as ‘Dinny’. Dinny was slight and rather tall; she had hair the colour of chestnuts, an imperfect nose, a Botticellian mouth, eyes cornflower blue and widely set, and a look rather of a flower on a long stalk that might easily be broken off, but never was. Her expression suggested that she went through life trying not to see it as a joke. She was, in fact, like one of those natural wells, or springs, whence one cannot procure water without bubbles: ‘Dinny’s bubble and squeak’, her uncle Sir Lawrence Mont called it. She was by now twenty-four.
‘Mother, do we have to go into black edging for Uncle Cuffs?’
‘I don’t think so, Dinny; or very slight.’
‘Is he to be planted here?’
‘I expect in the Cathedral, but Father will know.’
‘Tea, darling? Scaramouch, up you come, and don’t bob your nose into the Gentleman’s Relish.’
‘Dinny, I’m so worried about Hubert.’
‘So am I, dear; he isn’t Hubert at all, he’s like a sketch of himself by Thom the painter, all on one side. He ought never to have gone on that ghastly expedition, Mother. There’s a limit to hitting it off with Americans, and Hubert reaches it sooner than almost anybody I know. He never could get on with them. Besides, I don’t believe civilians ever ought to have soldiers with them.’
‘Why, Dinny?’
‘Well, soldiers have the static mind. They know God from Mammon. Haven’t you noticed it, dear?’
Lady Cherrell had. She smiled timidly, and asked:
‘Where is Hubert? Father will be home directly.’
‘He went out with Don, to get a leash of partidges for dinner. Ten to one he’ll forget to shoot them, and anyway they’ll be too fresh. He’s in that state of mind into which it has pleased God to call him; except that for God read the devil. He broods over that business, Mother. Only one thing would do him good, and that’s to fall in love. Can’t we find the perfect girl for him? Shall I ring for tea?’
‘Yes, dear. And this room wants fresh flowers.’
‘I’ll get them. Come along, Scaramouch!’
Passing out into September sunshine, Dinny noted a green woodpecker on the lower lawn, and thought: ‘If seven birds with seven beaks should peck for half a term, do you suppose, the lady thought, that they could find a worm?’ It was dry! All the same the zinnias were gorgeous this year; and she proceeded to pick some. They ran the gamut in her hand from deepest red through pink to lemon-yellow – handsome blossoms, but not endearing. ‘Pity,’ she thought, ‘we can’t go to some bed of modern maids and pick one for Hubert.’ She seldom showed her feelings, but she had two deep feelings not for show – one for her brother, the other for Condaford, and they were radically entwined. All the coherence of her life belonged to Condaford; she had a passion for the place which no one would have suspected from her way of talking of it, and she had a deep and jealous desire to bind her only brother to the same devotion. After all, she had been born there while it was shabby and run-down, and had survived into the period of renovation. To Hubert it had only been a holiday and leave-time perch. Dinny, though the last person in the world to talk of her roots, or to take them seriously in public, had a private faith in the Cherrells, their belongings and their works, which nothing could shake. Every Condaford beast, bird and tree, even the flowers she was plucking, were a part of her, just as were the simple folk around in their thatched cottages, and the Early-English church, where she attended without belief to speak of, and the grey Condaford dawns which she seldom saw, the moonlit, owl-haunted nights, the long sunlight over the stubble, and the scents and the sounds and the feel of the air. When she was away from home she never said she was homesick, but she was; when she was at home she never said she revelled in it, but she did. If Condaford should pass from the Cherrells, she would not moan, but would feel like a plant pulled up by its roots. Her father had for it the indifferent affection of a man whose active life had been passed elsewhere; her mother the acquiescence of one who had always done her duty by what had kept her nose to the grindstone and was not exactly hers; her sister treated it with the matter-of-fact tolerance of one who would rather be somewhere more exciting; and Hubert – what had Hubert? She really did not know. With her hands full of zinnias and her neck warm from the lingering sunshine, she returned to the drawing-room.
Her mother was standing by the tea table.
‘The train’s late,’ she said. ‘I do wish Clare wouldn’t drive so fast.’
‘I don’t see the connexion, darling.’ But she did. Mother was always fidgety when Father was behind time.
‘Mother, I’m all for Hubert sending his version to the papers.’
‘We shall see what your Father says – he’ll have talked to your Uncle Lionel.’
‘I hear the car now,’ said Dinny.
The General was followed into the room by his younger daughter. Clare was the most vivid member of the family. She had dark fine shingled hair and a pale expressive face, of which the lips were slightly brightened. The eyes were brown, with a straight and eager glance, the brow low and very white. Her expression was old for a girl of twenty, being calm and yet adventurous. She had an excellent figure and walked with an air.
‘This poor dear has had no lunch, Mother,’ she
said.
‘Horrible cross-country journey, Liz. Whisky-and-soda and a biscuit’s all I’ve had since breakfast.’
‘You shall have an egg-nogg, darling,’ said Dinny, and left the room. Clare followed her.
The General kissed his wife. ‘The old boy looked very fine, my dear, though, except for Adrian, we only saw him after. I shall have to go back for the funeral. It’ll be a swell affair, I expect. Great figure – Uncle Cuffs. I spoke to Lionel about Hubert; he doesn’t see what can be done. But I’ve been thinking.’
‘Yes, Con?’
‘The whole point is whether or not the Authorities are going to take any notice of that attack in the House. They might ask him to send in his commission. That’d be fatal. Sooner than that he’d better hand it in himself. He’s due for his medical on October the first. Can we pull any strings without his knowing ? – the boy’s proud. I can go and see Topsham and you could get at Follanby, couldn’t you?’
Lady Cherrell made wry her face.
‘I know,’ said the General, ‘it’s rotten; but the real chance would be Saxenden, only I don’t know how to get at him.’
‘Dinny might suggest something.’
‘Dinny? Well, I suppose she has more brains than any of us, except you, my dear.’
‘I,’ said Lady Cherrell, ‘have no brains at all.’
‘Bosh! Oh! Here she is.’
Dinny advanced, bearing a frothy liquor in a glass.
‘Dinny, I was saying to your mother that we want to get into touch with Lord Saxenden about Hubert’s position. Can you suggest any way?’
‘Through a country neighbour, Dad. Has he any?’
‘His place marches with Wilfred Bentworth’s.’
‘There it is, then. Uncle Hilary or Uncle Lawrence.’
‘How?’
‘Wilfred Bentworth is Chairman of Uncle Hilary’s Slum Conversion Committee. A little judicious nepotism, dear.’
‘Um! Hilary and Lawrence were both at Porthminster – wish I’d thought of that.’
‘Shall I talk to them for you, Father?’
‘By George, if you would, Dinny! I hate pushing our affairs.’
‘Yes, dear. It’s a woman’s job, isn’t it?’
The General looked at his daughter dubiously – he never quite knew when she was serious.
‘Here’s Hubert,’ said Dinny, quickly.
Chapter Three
HUBERT CHERRELL, followed by a spaniel dog and carrying a gun, was crossing the old grey flagstones of the terrace. Rather over middle height, lean and erect, with a head not very large and a face weathered and seamed for so young a man, he wore a little darkish moustache cut just to the edge of his lips, which were thin and sensitive, and hair with already a touch of grey at the sides. His browned cheeks were thin too, but with rather high cheek-bones, and his eyes hazel, quick and glancing, set rather wide apart over a straight thin nose under gabled eyebrows. He was, in fact a younger edition of his father. A man of action, forced into a state of thought, is unhappy until he can get out of it; and, ever since his late leader had launched that attack on his conduct, he had chafed, conscious of having acted rightly, or rather, in accordance with necessity. And he chafed the more because his training and his disposition forbade him giving tongue. A soldier by choice, not accident, he saw his soldiering imperilled, his name as an officer, and even as a gentleman, aspersed, and no way of hitting back at those who had aspersed it. His head seemed to him to be in Chancery for anyone to punch, most galling of experiences to anyone of high spirit. He came in through the French window, leaving dog and gun outside, aware that he was being talked about. He was now constantly interrupting discussions on his position, for in this family the troubles of one were the troubles of all. Having taken a cup of tea from his mother, he remarked that birds were getting wild already, covert was so sparse, and there was silence.
‘Well, I’m going to look at my letters,’ said the General, and went out followed by his wife.
Left alone with her brother, Dinny hardened her heart, and said:
‘Something must be done, Hubert.’
‘Don’t worry, old girl; it’s rotten, but there’s nothing one can do.’
‘Why don’t you write your own account of what happened, from your diary? I could type it, and Michael will find you a publisher, he knows all those sort of people. We simply can’t sit down under this.’
‘I loathe the idea of trotting my private feelings into the open; and it means that or nothing.’
Dinny wrinkled her brows.
‘I loathe letting that Yank put his failure on to you. You owe it to the British Army, Hubert.’
‘Bad as that? I went as a civilian.’
‘Why not publish your diary as it is?’
‘That’d be worse. You haven’t seen it.’
‘We could expurgate, and embroider, and all that. You see, the Dad feels this.’
‘Perhaps you’d better read the thing. It’s full of “miserable Starkey”. When one’s alone like that, one lets oneself go.’
‘You can cut out what you like.’
‘It’s no end good of you, Dinny.’
Dinny stroked his sleeve.
‘What sort of man is this Hallorsen?’
‘To be just, he has lots of qualities: hard as nails, plenty of pluck, and no nerves; but it’s Hallorsen first with him all the time. It’s not in him to fail, and when he does, someone else has to stand the racket. According to him, he failed for want of transport: and I was his transport officer. But if he’d left the Angel Gabriel as he left me, he’d have done no better. He just miscalculated, and won’t admit it. You’ll find it all in my diary.’
‘Have you seen this?’ She held up a newspaper cutting, and read:
‘ “We understand that action will be taken by Captain Charwell, D.S.O., to vindicate his honour in face of the statements made in Professor Hallorsen’s book on his Bolivian Expedition, the failure of which he attributed to Captain Charwell’s failure to support him at the critical moment.” Someone’s trying to get a dog-fight out of it, you see.’
‘Where was that?’
‘In the Evening Sun.’
‘Steps!’ said Hubert bitterly; ‘what steps? I’ve nothing but my word, he took care of that when he left me alone with all those dagoes.’
‘It’s the diary then, or nothing.’
‘I’ll get you the damned thing.…’
That night Dinny sat at her window reading ‘the damned thing’. A full moon rode between the elm trees and there was silence as of the grave. Just one sheep-bell tinkled from a fold on the rise; just one magnolia flower bloomed close to her window. All seemed unearthly, and now and then she stopped reading to gaze at the unreality. So had some ten thousand full moons ridden since her forebears received this patch of ground; the changeless security of so old a home heightened the lonely discomfort, the tribulation in the pages she was reading. Stark notes about stark things – one white man among a crew of half-caste savages, one animal-lover among half-starved animals and such men as knew not compassion. And with that cold and settled loveliness out there to look upon, she read and grew hot and miserable.
‘That lousy brute Castro has been digging his infernal knife into the mules again. The poor brutes are thin as rails, and haven’t half their strength. Warned him for the last time. If he does it again, he’ll get the lash…. Had fever.’
‘Castro got it good and strong this morning – a dozen; we’ll see if that will stop him. Can’t get on with these brutes; they don’t seem human. Oh! for a day on a horse at Condaford and forget these swamps and poor ghastly skeletons of mules…’
‘Had to flog another of these brutes – their treatment of the mules is simply devilish, blast them!… Fever again…’
‘Hell and Tommy to pay – had mutiny this morning. They laid for me. Luckily Manuel had warned me – he’s a good boy. As it was, Castro nearly had his knife through my gizzard. Got my left arm badly. Shot him with my own hand.
Now perhaps they’ll toe the mark. Nothing from Hallorsen. How much longer does he expect me to hold on in this dump of hell? My arm is giving me proper gee-up….’
‘The lid is on at last, those devils stampeded the mules in the dark while I was asleep, and cleared out. Manuel and two other boys are all that’s left. We trailed them a long way – came on the carcasses of two mules, that’s all; the beggars have dispersed and you might as well look for a star in the Milky Way. Got back to camp dead beat.… Whether we shall ever get out of this alive, goodness knows. My arm very painful, hope it doesn’t mean blood-poisoning…’
‘Meant to trek today as best we could. Set up a pile of stones and left despatch for Hallorsen, telling him the whole story in case he ever does send back for me; then changed my mind. I shall stick it out here till he comes or till we’re dead, which is on the whole more likely…’
And so on through a tale of struggle to the end. Dinny laid down the dim and yellowed record and leaned her elbow on the sill. The silence and the coldness of the light out there had chilled her spirit. She no longer felt in fighting mood. Hubert was right. Why show one’s naked soul, one’s sore finger, to the public? No! Better anything than that. Private strings – yes, they should be pulled; and she would pull them for all she was worth.
Chapter Four
ADRIAN CHERRELL was one of those confirmed countrymen who live in towns. His job confined him to London, where he presided over a collection of anthropological remains. He was poring over a maxilla from New Guinea, which had been accorded a very fine reception in the Press, and had just said to himself: ‘The thing’s a phlizz. Just a low type of Homo Sapiens,’ when his janitor announced:
‘Young lady to see you, sir – Miss Cherrell, I think.’
‘Ask her in, James’; and he thought: ‘If that’s Dinny, where did I put my wits?’
‘Oh! Dinny! Canrobert says that this maxilla is pre-Trinil. Mokley says Paulo-post-Piltdown; and Eldon P. Burbank says propter Rhodesian. I say Sapiens; observe that molar.’
The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3 Page 2