The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3

by John Galsworthy

  One morning she got Clare to run her over to Lippinghall. Dinny hated driving, and not without reason, for her peculiar way of seeing the humours of what she was passing had often nearly brought her to grief. They arrived at lunch time. Lady Mont was just sitting down, and greeted them with:

  ‘My dear, but how provokin’! Unless you can eat carrots – your Uncle’s away – so purifyin’. Blore, see if Augustine has a cooked bird somewhere. Oh! and, Blore, ask her to make those nice pancakes with jam, that I can’t eat.’

  ‘Oh! but, Aunt Em, nothing that you can’t eat, please.’

  ‘I can’t eat anythin’ just now. Your Uncle’s fattin’, so I’m slimmin’. And, Blore, cheese ramequins, and a nice wine – and coffee.’

  ‘But this is awful, Aunt Em.’

  ‘Grapes, Blore. And those cigarettes up in Mr Michael’s room. Your Uncle doesn’t smoke them, and I smoke gaspers, so we run low. And, Blore.’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Cocktails, Blore.’

  ‘Aunt Em, we never drink cocktails.’

  ‘You do; I’ve seen you. Clare, you’re lookin’ thin; are you slimmin’ too?’

  ‘No. I’ve been in Scotland, Aunt Em.’

  ‘Followin’ the guns, and fishin’. Now run about the house. I’ll wait for you.’

  When they were running about the house, Clare said to Dinny:

  ‘Where on earth did Aunt Em learn to drop her g’s?’

  ‘Father told me once that she was at a school where an un-dropped “g” was worse than a dropped “h”. They were bringin’ in a county fashion then, huntin’ people, you know. Isn’t she a dear?’

  Clare nodded, slightly brightening her lips.

  Re-entering the dining-room, they heard Lady Mont say:

  ‘James’s trousers, Blore.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘They look as if they were comin’ down. Can somethin’ be done about it?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Here you are! Your Aunt Wilmet’s gone to stay with Hen, Dinny. They’ll be differin’ all over the place. You’ve got a cold bird each. Dinny, what have you been doin’ with Alan? He’s lookin’ so interestin’, and his leave’s up tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve not been doing anything with him, Aunt Em.’

  ‘That’s it, then. No. Give me my carrots, Blore. Aren’t you goin’ to marry him? I know he has prospects in Chancery – somewhere – Wiltshire, is it? He comes and puts his head in my hand about you.’

  Under Clare’s gaze Dinny sat with fork suspended.

  ‘If you don’t take care, he’ll be gettin’ transferred to China and marryin’ a purser’s daughter. They say Hong Kong’s full of them. Oh! And my portulaca’s dead, Dinny. Boswell and Johnson went and watered it with liquid manure. They’ve no sense of smell. D’you know what they did once?’

  ‘No, Aunt Em.’

  ‘Had hay fever all over my pedigree rabbit – sneezin’ about the hutch, and the poor thing died. I gave them notice, but they didn’t go. They don’t, you know. Your Uncle pets them. Are you to wed, Clare?’

  ‘To “wed”! Aunt Em!’

  ‘I think it’s rather sweet, the uneducated papers use it. But are you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why? Haven’t you the time? I don’t like carrots really – so depressin’. But your Uncle’s gettin’ to a time of life – I have to be careful. I don’t know why men have a time of life. By rights he ought to be over it.’

  ‘He is, Aunt Em. Uncle Lawrence is sixty-nine; didn’t you know?’

  ‘Well, he’s never shown any signs yet. Blore!’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Go away!’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘There are some things,’ said Lady Mont, as the door closed, ‘that you can’t talk about before Blore – birth control, and your uncle, and that. Poor Pussy!’

  She rose, went to the window, and dropped a cat into a flower bed.

  ‘How perfectly sweet Blore is with her!’ murmured Dinny.

  ‘They stray,’ she said, as she came back, ‘at forty-five, and they stray at sixty-five, and I don’t know when after that. I never strayed. But I’m thinkin’ of it with the Rector.’

  ‘Is he very lonely now, Auntie?’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Mont, ‘he’s enjoyin’ himself. He comes up here a lot.’

  ‘It would be delicious if you could work up a scandal.’

  ‘Dinny!’

  ‘Uncle Lawrence would love it.’

  Lady Mont seemed to go into a sort of coma.

  ‘Where’s Blore?’ she said: ‘I want one of those pancakes after all.’

  ‘You sent him away.’

  ‘Oh! yes.’

  ‘Shall I tread on the gas, Aunt Em?’ said Clare; ‘it’s under my chair.’

  ‘I had it put there for your Uncle. He’s been readin’ me Gulliver’s Travels, Dinny. The man was coarse, you know.’

  ‘Not so coarse as Rabelais, or even as Voltaire.’

  ‘Do you read coarse books?’

  ‘Oh! well, those are classics.’

  ‘They say there was a book – Achilles, or something; your Uncle bought it in Paris; and they took it away from him at Dover. Have you read that?’

  ‘No,’ said Dinny.

  ‘I have,’ said Clare.

  ‘From what your Uncle tells me, you oughtn’t to.’

  ‘Oh! one reads anything now, Auntie, it never makes any difference.’

  Lady Mont looked from one niece to the other.

  ‘Well,’ she said, cryptically, ‘there’s the Bible. Blore!’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Coffee in the hall on the tiger. And put a sniff on the fire, Blore. My Vichy.’

  When she had drunk her glass of Vichy they all rose.

  ‘Marvellous!’ whispered Clare in Dinny’s ear.

  ‘What are you doin’ about Hubert?’ said Lady Mont, in front of the hall fire.

  ‘Sweating in our shoes, Auntie.’

  ‘I told Wilmet to speak to Hen. She sees Royalty, you know. Then there’s flyin’. Couldn’t he fly somewhere?’

  ‘Uncle Lawrence went bail for him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t mind. We would do without James, he’s got adenoids; and we could have one man instead of Boswell and Johnson.’

  ‘Hubert would mind, though.’

  ‘I’m fond of Hubert,’ said Lady Mont: ‘and bein’ married – it’s too soon. Here’s the sniff.’

  Blore, bearing coffee and cigarettes, was followed by James bearing a cedar log; and a religious silence ensued while Lady Mont made coffee.

  ‘Sugar, Dinny?’

  ‘Two spoonfuls, please.’

  ‘Three for me. I know it’s fattenin’. Clare?’

  ‘One, please.’

  The girls sipped, and Clare sighed out:

  ‘Amazing!’

  ‘Yes. Why is your coffee so much better than anybody else’s, Aunt Em?’

  ‘I agree,’ said her aunt. ‘About that poor man, Dinny: I was so relieved that he didn’t bite either of you after all. Adrian will get her now. Such a comfort.’

  ‘Not for some time, Aunt Em: Uncle Adrian’s going to America.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘We all thought it best. Even he did.’

  ‘When he goes to Heaven,’ said Lady Mont, ‘someone will have to go with him, or he won’t get in.’

  ‘Surely he’ll have a seat reserved!’

  ‘You never know. The Rector was preachin’ on that last Sunday.’

  ‘Does he preach well?’

  ‘Well, cosy.’

  ‘I expect Jean wrote his sermons.’

  ‘Yes, they used to have more zip. Where did I get that word, Dinny?’

  ‘From Michael, I expect.’

  ‘He always caught everythin’. The rector said we were to deny ourselves; he came here to lunch.’

  ‘And had a whacking good feed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  �
��What does he weigh, Aunt Em?’

  ‘Without his clothes – I don’t know.’

  ‘But with?’

  ‘Oh! quite a lot. He’s goin’ to write a book.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The Tasburghs. There was that one that was buried, and lived in France afterwards, only she was a Fitzherbert by birth. Then there was the one that fought the battle of – not Spaghetti – the other word, Augustine gives it us sometimes.’

  ‘Navarino? But did he?’

  ‘Yes, but they said he didn’t. The rector’s goin’ to put that right. Then there was the Tasburgh that got beheaded, and forgot to put it down anywhere. The rector’s nosed that out.’

  ‘In what reign?’

  ‘I never can be bothered with reigns, Dinny. Edward the Sixth – or Fourth, was it? He was a red rose. Then there was the one that married into us. Roland his name was – or was it? But he did somethin’ strikin’ – and they took away his land. Recusancy – what is that?’

  ‘It means he was a Catholic, Auntie, in a Protestant reign.’

  ‘They burnt his house first. He’s in Mercurius Rusticus, or some book. The rector says he was greatly beloved. They burnt his house twice, I think, and then robbed it – or was it the other way? It had a moat. And there’s a list of what they took.’

  ‘How entrancing!’

  ‘Jam, and silver, and chickens, and linen, and I think his umbrella, or something funny.’

  ‘When was all this, Auntie?’

  ‘In the Civil War. He was a Royalist. Now I remember his name wasn’t Roland, and she was Elizabeth after you, Dinny. History repeatin’ itself.’

  Dinny looked at the log.

  ‘Then there was the last Admiral – under William the Fourth – he died drunk, not William. The Rector says he didn’t, so he’s writin’ to prove it. He says he caught cold and took rum for it; and it didn’t click – where did I get that word?’

  ‘I sometimes use it, Auntie.’

  ‘Yes. So there’s quite a lot, you see, besides all the dull ones, right away back to Edward the Confessor or somebody. He’s tryin’ to make out they’re older than we are. So unreasonable.’

  ‘My Aunt!’ murmured Clare. ‘Who would read a book like that?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. But he’ll simply love snobbin’ into it: and it’ll keep him awake. Here’s Alan! Clare, you haven’t seen where my portulaca was. Shall we take a turn?’

  ‘Aunt Em, you’re shameless,’ said Dinny in her ear; ‘and it’s no good.’

  ‘ “If at first you don’t succeed” – d’you remember every mornin’ when we were little? Wait till I get my hat, Clare.’

  They passed away.

  ‘So your leave’s up, Alan?’ said Dinny, alone with the young man. ‘Where shall you be?’

  ‘Portsmouth.’

  ‘Is that nice?’

  ‘Might be worse. Dinny, I want to talk to you about Hubert. If things go wrong at the Court next time, what’s going to happen?’

  All ‘bubble and squeak’ left Dinny, she sank down on a fireside cushion, and gazed up with troubled eyes.

  ‘I’ve been inquiring,’ said young Tasburgh; ‘they leave it two or three weeks for the Home Secretary to go into, and then, if he confirms, cart them off as soon as they can. From Southampton it would be, I expect.’

  ‘You don’t really think it will come to that, do you?’

  He said gloomily: ‘I don’t know. Suppose a Bolivian had killed somebody, here, and gone back, we should want him rather badly, shouldn’t we, and put the screw on to get him?’

  ‘But it’s fantastic!’

  The young man looked at her with an extremely resolute compassion.

  ‘We’ll hope for the best; but if it goes wrong something’s got to be done about it. I’m not going to stand for it, nor is Jean.’

  ‘But what could be done?’

  Young Tasburgh walked round the hall looking at the doors; then, leaning above her, he said:

  ‘Hubert can fly, and I’ve been up every day since Chichester. Jean and I are working the thing out – in case.’

  Dinny caught his hand.

  ‘My dear boy, that’s crazy!’

  ‘No crazier than thousands of things done in the war.’

  ‘But it would ruin your career.’

  ‘Blast my career! Look on and see you and Jean miserable for years, perhaps, and a man like Hubert broken rottenly like that – what d’you think?’

  Dinny squeezed his hand convulsively and let it go.

  ‘It can’t, it shan’t come to that. Besides, how could you get Hubert? He’d be under arrest.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I shall know all right if and when the time comes. What’s certain is that if they once get him over there, he’ll have a damned thin chance.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Hubert?’

  ‘No. It’s all perfectly vague as yet.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t consent.’

  ‘Jean will see to that.’

  Dinny shook her head. ‘You don’t know Hubert; he would never let you.’

  Alan grinned, and she suddenly recognized that in him there was something formidably determined.

  ‘Does Professor Hallorsen know?’

  ‘No, and he won’t, unless it’s absolutely necessary. But he’s a good egg, I admit.’

  She smiled faintly. ‘Yes, he’s a good egg; but an outsize.’

  ‘Dinny, you’re not gone on him, are you?’

  ‘No, my dear.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that! You see,’ he went on, ‘they’re not likely to treat Hubert as an ordinary criminal. That will make things easier perhaps.’

  Dinny gazed at him, thrilled to her very marrow. Somehow that last remark convinced her of the reality of his purpose. ‘I’m beginning to understand Zeebrugge. But – ’

  ‘No buts, and buck up! That boat arrives the day after tomorrow, and then the case will be on again. I shall see you in Court, Dinny. I must go now – got my daily flight. I just thought I’d like you to know that if the worst comes to the worst, we aren’t going to take it lying down. Give my love to Lady Mont; shan’t be seeing her again. Good-bye, and bless you!’ And, kissing her hand, he was out of the hall before she could speak.

  Dinny sat on beside the cedar log, very still, and strangely moved. The idea of defiance had not before occurred to her, mainly perhaps because she had never really believed that Hubert would be committed for trial. She did not really believe it now, and that made this ‘crazy’ idea the more thrilling; for it has often been noticed that the less actual a risk, the more thrilling it seems. And to the thrill was joined a warmer feeling for Alan. The fact that he had not even proposed added to the conviction that he was in dead earnest. And on that tiger-skin, which had provided very little thrill to the eighth baronet, who from an elephant had shot its owner while it was trying to avoid notice, Dinny sat, warming her body in the glow from the cedar log, and her spirit in the sense of being closer to the fires of life than she had ever yet been. Her Uncle’s old black and white spaniel dog, Quince, who in his master’s absences, which were frequent, took little interest in human beings, came slowly across the hall and, lying down four-square, put his head on his forepaws and looked up at her with eyes that showed red rims beneath them. ‘It may be all that, and it may not,’ he seemed to say. The log hissed faintly, and a grandfather clock on the far side of the hall struck three with its special slowness.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  OVER any impending issue, whether test match, ultimatum, the Cambridgeshire, or the hanging of a man, excitement beats up in the last few hours, and the feeling of suspense in the Cherrell family became painful when the day of Hubert’s remand was reached. As some Highland clan of old, without summons issued, assembled when one of its number was threatened, so were Hubert’s relatives collected in the Police Court. Except Lionel, who was in session, and his and Hilary’s children, who were at school, they were all there. It might have been a
wedding or a funeral, but for the grimness of their faces, and the sense of unmerited persecution at the back of every mind. Dinny and Clare sat between their father and mother, with Jean, Alan, Hallorsen and Adrian next them; just behind them were Hilary and his wife, Fleur and Michael and Aunt Wilmet; behind them again sat Sir Lawrence and Lady Mont, and in the extreme rear the Rector formed the spear tail of an inverted phalanx.

  Coming in with his lawyer, Hubert gave them a clansman’s smile.

  Now that she was actually in Court, Dinny felt almost apathetic. Her brother was innocent of all save self-defence. If they committed him, he would still be innocent. And, after she had answered Hubert’s smile, her attention was given to Jean’s face. If ever the girl looked like a leopardess, it was now; her strange, deep-set eyes kept sliding from her ‘cub’ to him who threatened to deprive her of it.

  The evidence from the first hearing having been read over, the new evidence – Manuel’s affidavit – was produced by Hubert’s lawyer. But then Dinny’s apathy gave way, for this affidavit was countered by the prosecution with another, sworn by four muleteers, to the effect that Manuel had not been present at the shooting.

  That was a moment of real horror.

  Four half-castes against one!

  Dinny saw a disconcerted look flit across the magistrate’s face.

  ‘Who procured this second affidavit, Mr Buttall?’

  ‘The lawyer in charge of the case in La Paz, Your Honour. It became known to him that the boy Manuel was being asked to give evidence.’

  ‘I see. What do you say now on the question of the scar shown us by the accused?’

  ‘Beyond the accused’s own statement there is no evidence whatever before you, Sir, or before me, as to how or when that scar was inflicted.’

  ‘That is so. You are not suggesting that this scar could have been inflicted by the dead man after he was shot?’

  ‘If Castro, having drawn a knife, had fallen forward after he was shot, it is conceivable, I suppose.’

  ‘Not likely, I think, Mr Buttall.’

  ‘No. But my evidence, of course, is that the shooting was deliberate, cold-blooded, and at a distance of some yards. I know nothing of Castro’s having drawn a knife.’

  ‘It comes to this, then: Either your six witnesses are lying, or the accused and the boy Manuel are.’