The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3

by John Galsworthy

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t see what good that would do now.’

  ‘So I could get them cut out, if you wish, for the second edition.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ said Dinny, icily, ‘but the harm is done, Professor.’

  Hallorsen said, still lower: ‘I’m just terribly sorry to have hurt you.’

  A sensation, perhaps only to be summed up in the words: ‘You are – are you!’ flushed Dinny from top to toe with anger, triumph, calculation, humour.

  ‘It’s my brother you’ve hurt.’

  ‘Maybe that could be mended if we could get together about it.’

  ‘I wonder.’ And Dinny rose.

  Hallorsen stood up too, and bowed as she passed.

  ‘Terribly polite,’ she thought.

  She spent her morning with the diary in a part of the garden so sunk within yew hedges that it formed a perfect refuge. The sun was warm there, and the humming of the bees over zinnias, pentstemons, hollyhocks, asters, Michaelmas daisies, was very soothing. In that so sheltered garden the dislike of casting Hubert’s intimate feelings to the world’s opinion came on her again. Not that the diary whined; but it revealed the hurts of mind and body with the sharpness of a record meant for no eye but the recorder’s. The sound of shots kept floating to her; and presently, leaning her elbows on the top of the yew hedge, she looked out over the fields towards where they were shooting.

  A voice said:

  ‘There you are!’

  Her aunt, in a straw hat so broad that it covered her to the very edges of her shoulders, was standing below with two gardeners behind her.

  ‘I’m coming round to you, Dinny; Boswell, you and Johnson can go now. We’ll look at the portulaca this afternoon.’ And she gazed up from under the tilted and enormous halo of her hat. ‘It’s Majorcan,’ she said, ‘so shelterin’.’

  ‘Boswell and Johnson, Auntie!’

  ‘We had Boswell, and your uncle would look till we found Johnson. He makes them go about together. Do you believe in Doctor Johnson, Dinny?’

  ‘I think he used the word “Sir” too much.’

  ‘Fleur’s got my gardenin’ scissors. What’s that, Dinny?’

  ‘Hubert’s diary.’

  ‘Depressin’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been lookin’ at Professor Hallorsen – he wants takin’ in.’

  ‘Begin with his cheek, Aunt Em.’

  ‘I hope they’ll shoot some hares,’ said Lady Mont; ‘hare soup is such a stand-by. Wilmet and Henrietta Bentworth have agreed to differ already.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t be bothered, but I think it was about the P.M., or was it Portulaca? – they differ about everything. Hen’s always been about Court, you know.’

  ‘Is that fatal?’

  ‘She’s a nice woman. I’m fond of Hen, but she does cluck. What are you doin’ with that diary?’

  ‘I’m going to show it to Michael and ask his advice.’

  ‘Don’t take it,’ said Lady Mont; ‘he’s a dear boy, but don’t take it; he knows a lot of funny people – publishers and that.’

  ‘That’s why I’m asking him.’

  ‘Ask Fleur, she has a head. Have you got this zinnia at Condaford? D’you know, Dinny, I think Adrian’s goin’ potty.’

  ‘Aunt Em!’

  ‘He moons so; and I don’t believe there’s anywhere you could stick a pin into him. Of course I mustn’t say it to you, but I think he ought to have her.’

  ‘So do I, Auntie.’

  ‘Well, he won’t.’

  ‘Or she won’t.’

  ‘They neither of them will; so how it’s to be managed I don’t know. She’s forty.’

  ‘How old is Uncle Adrian?’

  ‘He’s the baby, all but Lionel. I’m fifty-nine,’ said Lady Mont decisively. ‘I know I’m fifty-nine, and your father is sixty; your grandmother must have been in a great tear at that time, she kept on havin’ us. What do you think about this question of havin’ children?’

  Dinny swallowed a bubble and said:

  ‘Well, for married people, perhaps, in moderation.’

  ‘Fleur’s going to have another in March; it’s a bad month – careless! When are you goin’ to get married, Dinny?’

  ‘When my young affections are engaged, not before.’

  ‘That’s very prudent. But not an American.’

  Dinny flushed, smiled dangerously and said:

  ‘Why on earth should I marry an American?’

  ‘You never know,’ said Lady Mont, twisting off a faded aster; ‘it depends on what there is about. When I married Lawrence, he was so about!’

  ‘And still is, Aunt Em; wonderful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be sharp!’

  And Lady Mont seemed to go into a dream, so that her hat looked more enormous than ever.

  ‘Talking of marriage, Aunt Em, I wish I knew of a girl for Hubert. He does so want distracting.’

  ‘Your uncle,’ said Lady Mont, ‘would say distract him with a dancer.’

  ‘Perhaps Uncle Hilary knows one that he could highly recommend.’

  ‘You’re naughty, Dinny. I always thought you were naughty. But let me think: there was a girl; no, she married.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s divorced by now.’

  ‘No. I think she’s divorcin’ him, but it takes time. Charmin’ little creature.’

  ‘I’m sure. Do think again, Auntie.’

  ‘These bees,’ replied her aunt, ‘belong to Boswell. They’re Italian. Lawrence says they’re Fascists.’

  ‘Black shirts and no after-thoughts. They certainly seem very active bees.’

  ‘Yes; they fly a lot and sting you at once if you annoy them. Bees are nice to me.’

  ‘You’ve got one on your hat, dear. Shall I take it off?’

  ‘Stop!’ said Lady Mont, tilting her hat back, with her mouth slightly open: ‘I’ve thought of one.’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘Jean Tasburgh, the daughter of our Rector here – very good family. No money, of course.’

  ‘None at all?’

  Lady Mont shook her head, and the hat wobbled. ‘No Jean ever has money. She’s pretty. Rather like a leopardess.’

  ‘Could I look her over, Auntie? I know fairly well what Hubert wouldn’t like.’

  ‘I’ll ask her to dinner. They feed badly. We married a Tasburgh once. I think it was under James, so she’ll be a cousin, but terribly removed. There’s a son, too; in the Navy, all there, you know, and no moustache. I believe he’s stayin’ at the Rectory on furlong.’

  ‘Furlough, Aunt Em.’

  ‘I knew that word was wrong. Take that bee off my hat, there’s a dear.’

  Dinny took the small bee off the large hat with her handkerchief, and put it to her ear.

  ‘I still like to hear them buzz,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll ask him too,’ answered her aunt; ‘his name’s Alan, a nice fellow.’ And she looked at Dinny’s hair. ‘Medlar-coloured, I call it. I think he’s got prospects, but I don’t know what they are. Blown up in the war.’

  ‘He came down again whole, I hope, Auntie?’

  ‘Yes; they gave him something or other for it. He says it’s very stuffy in the Navy now. All angles, you know, and wheels, and smells. You must ask him.’

  ‘About the girl, Aunt Em, how do you mean, a leopardess?’

  ‘Well, she looks at you, and you expect to see a cub comin’ round the corner. Her mother’s dead. She runs the parish.’

  ‘Would she run Hubert?’

  ‘No; she’d run anybody who tried to run him.’

  ‘That might do. Can I take a note for you to the Rectory?’

  ‘I’ll send Boswell and Johnson,’ Lady Mont looked at her wrist. ‘No, they’ll have gone to dinner. I always set my watch by them. We’ll go ourselves, Dinny; it’s only quarter of a mile. Does my hat matter?’

  ‘On the contrary, dear.’

  ‘Very well, then;
we can get out this way,’ and moving to the far end of the yew-treed garden, they descended some steps into a long grassy avenue, and, passing through a wicket gate, had soon arrived at the Rectory. Dinny stood in its creepered porch, behind her aunt’s hat. The door stood open, and a dim panelled hallway with a scent of pot-pourri and old wood, conveyed a kind of invitation. A female voice from within called:

  ‘A—lan!’

  A male voice answered: ‘Hal—lo!’

  ‘D’you mind cold lunch?’

  ‘There’s no bell,’ said Lady Mont; ‘we’d better clap.’ They clapped in unison.

  ‘What the deuce?’ A young man in grey flannels had appeared in a doorway. He had a broad brown face, dark hair, and grey eyes, deep and direct.

  ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Lady Mont… Hi! Jean!’ Then, meeting Dinny’s eyes round the edge of the hat, he smiled as they do in the Navy.

  ‘Alan, can you and Jean dine tonight? Dinny, this is Alan Tasburgh. D’you like my hat?’

  ‘It’s a topper, Lady Mont.’

  A girl, made all of a piece and moving as if on steel springs, was coming towards them. She wore a fawn-coloured sleeveless jumper and skirt, and her arms and cheeks were fully as brown. Dinny saw what her aunt meant. The face, broad across the cheek-bones, tapered to the chin, the eyes were greenish grey and sunk right in under long black lashes; they looked straight out with a light in them; the nose was fine, the brow low and broad, the shingled hair dark brown. ‘I wonder!’ thought Dinny. Then, as the girl smiled, a little thrill went through her.

  ‘This is Jean,’ said her aunt: ‘my niece, Dinny Cherrell.’

  A slim brown hand clasped Dinny’s firmly.

  ‘Where’s your father?’ continued Lady Mont.

  ‘Dad’s away at some parsonical Conference. I wanted him to take me, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then I expect he’s in London really, doin’ theatres.’

  Dinny saw the girl flash a look at her aunt, decide that it was Lady Mont, and smiled. The young man laughed.

  ‘So you’ll both come to dinner? Eight-fifteen. Dinny, we must go back to lunch. Swallows!’ added Lady Mont round the brim of her hat, and passed out through the porch.

  ‘There’s a house-party,’ said Dinny to the young man’s elevated eyebrows. ‘She means tails and white tie.’

  ‘Oh! Ah! Best bib and tucker, Jean.’

  The two stood in the porchway arm in arm. ‘Very attractive!’ Dinny thought.

  ‘Well?’ said her aunt, in the grass avenue again.

  ‘Yes, I quite saw the cub. She’s beautiful, I think. But I should keep her on a lead.’

  ‘There’s Boswell and Johnson!’ exclaimed Lady Mont, as if they were in the singular. ‘Gracious! It must be past two, then!’

  Chapter Nine

  SOME time after lunch, for which Dinny and her aunt were late, Adrian and the four younger ladies, armed with such shooting sticks as had been left by the ‘guns’, proceeded down a farm lane towards where the main ‘drive’ of the afternoon would debouch. Adrian walked with Diana and Cicely Muskham, and ahead of them Dinny walked with Fleur. These cousins by marriage had not met for nearly a year, and had in any case but slender knowledge of each other. Dinny studied the head which her aunt had recommended to her. It was round and firm and well carried under a small hat. The pretty face wore a rather hard but, she decided, very capable expression. The trim figure was as beautifully tailored as if it had belonged to an American.

  Dinny felt that she would at least get common-sense from a source so neat.

  ‘I heard your testimonial read in the Police Court, Fleur.’

  ‘Oh! that. It was what Hilary wanted, of course. I really don’t know anything about those girls. They simply don’t let one. Some people, of course, can worm themselves into anybody’s confidence. I can’t; and I certainly don’t want to. Do you find the country girls about you any easier?’

  ‘Round us they’ve all had to do with our family so long that one knows pretty well all there is to know before they do themselves.’

  Fleur scrutinized her.

  ‘Yes, I daresay you’ve got the knack, Dinny. You’ll make a wonderful ancestress; but I don’t quite know who ought to paint you. It’s time someone came along with the Early Italian touch. The pre-Raphaelites hadn’t got it a bit; their pictures lacked music and humour. You’ll have to be done with both.’

  ‘Do tell me,’ said Dinny, disconcerted, ‘was Michael in the House when those questions were asked about Hubert?’

  ‘Yes; he came home very angry.’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘He thought of bringing the thing up again, but it was the day but one before they rose. Besides, what does the House matter? It’s about the last thing people pay attention to nowadays.’

  ‘My father, I’m afraid, paid terrific attention to those questions.’

  ‘Yes, the last generation. But the only thing Parliament does that really gets the Public now, is the Budget. And no wonder; it all comes back to money.’

  ‘Do you say that to Michael?’

  ‘I don’t have to. Parliament now is just a taxing machine.’

  ‘Surely it still makes laws?’

  ‘Yes, my dear; but always after the event; it consolidates what has become public practice, or at least public feeling. It never initiates. How can it? That’s not a democratic function. If you want proof, look at the state of the country! It’s the last thing Parliament bothers about.’

  ‘Who does initiate, then?’

  ‘Whence doth the wind blow? Well, the draughts begin in the coulisses. Great places, the coulisses! Whom do you want to stand with when we get to the guns?’

  ‘Lord Saxenden.’

  Fleur gazed at her: ‘Not for his beaux yeux, and not for his beau titre. Why, then?’

  ‘Because I’ve got to get at him about Hubert, and I haven’t much time.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll give you a warning, my dear. Don’t take Saxenden at his face value. He’s an astute old fox, and not so old either. And if there is one thing he enjoys more than another, it’s his quid pro quo. Have you got a quid for him? He’ll want cash down.’

  Dinny grimaced.

  ‘I shall do what I can. Uncle Lawrence has already given me some pointers.’

  ‘ “Have a care; she’s fooling thee,” ’ hummed Fleur. ‘Well, I shall go to Michael; it makes him shoot better, and he wants it, poor dear. The Squire and Bart will be glad to do without us. Cicely, of course, will go to Charles; she’s still honey-moonish. That leaves Diana for the American.’

  ‘And I hope,’ said Dinny, ‘she’ll put him off his shots.’

  ‘I should say nothing would. I forgot Adrian; he’ll have to sit on his stick and think about bones and Diana. Here we are. See? Through this gate. There’s Saxenden, they’ve given him the warm corner. Go round by that stile and come on him from behind. Michael will be jammed away at the end, he always gets the worst stand.’

  She parted from Dinny and went on down the lane. Conscious that she had not asked Fleur what she had wanted to, Dinny crossed to the stile, and climbing over, stalked Lord Saxenden warily from the other side. The peer was moving from one hedge to the other in the corner of the field to which he had been assigned. Beside a tall stick, to a cleft in which was attached a white card with a number on it, stood a young keeper holding two guns, and at his feet a retriever dog was lying with his tongue out. The fields of roots and stubble on the far side of the lane rose rather steeply, and it was evident to Dinny – something of an expert – that birds driven off them would come high and fast. ‘Unless,’ she thought, ‘there’s fresh cover just behind,’ and she turned to look. There was not. She was in a very large grass field and the nearest roots were three hundred yards away at least. ‘I wonder,’ she thought, ‘if he shoots better or worse with a woman watching. Shouldn’t think he had any nerves.’ Turning again, she saw that he had noticed her.

  ‘Do you mind me, Lord Saxenden? I’ll be very quiet.’<
br />
  The peer plucked at his cap, which had special peaks before and behind.

  ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘H’m!’

  ‘That sounds as if you did. Shall I go?’

  ‘No, no! That’s all right. Can’t touch a feather today, anyway. You’ll bring me luck.’

  Dinny seated herself on her stick alongside the retriever, and began playing with its ears.

  ‘That American chap has wiped my eye three times.’

  ‘What bad taste!’

  ‘He shoots at the most impossible birds, but, dash it, he hits ’em. All the birds I miss he gets on the horizon. Got the style of a poacher; lets everything go by, then gets a right and left about seventy yards behind him. Says he can’t see them when they sit on his foresight.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Dinny, with a little burst of justice.

  ‘Don’t believe he’s missed today,’ added Lord Saxenden, resentfully. ‘I asked him why he shot so damned well, and he said: “Why! I’m used to shoot for the pot, where I can’t afford to miss.” ’

  ‘The “beat’s” beginning, my lord,’ said the young keeper’s voice.

  The retriever began to pant slightly. Lord Saxenden grasped a gun; the keeper held the other ready.

  ‘Covey to the left, my lord,’ Dinny heard a creaky whirring, and saw eight birds stringing towards the lane. Bang-bang… bang-bang!

  ‘God bless my soul!’ said Lord Saxenden: ‘What the deuce –!’

  Dinny saw the same eight birds swoop over the hedge at the other end of the grass field.

  The retriever uttered a little choked sound, panting horribly.

  ‘The light,’ she said, ‘must be terribly puzzling!’

  ‘It’s not the light,’ said Lord Saxenden, ‘it’s the liver!’

  ‘Three birds coming straight, my lord.’

  Bang!… Bang-bang! A bird jerked, crumpled, turned over and pitched four yards behind her. Something caught Dinny by the throat. That anything so alive should be so dead! Often as she had seen birds shot, she had never before had that feeling. The other two birds were crossing the far hedge; she watched them vanish, with a faint sigh. The retriever, with the dead bird in his mouth, came up to the keeper, who took it from him. Sitting on his haunches, the dog continued to gaze at the bird, with his tongue out. Dinny saw the tongue drip, and closed her eyes.