The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3 Read online

  Opposite to them in the cab he radiated surprised benevolence.

  ‘You were mighty quick off the mark, Captain.’

  ‘That was Jean.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hallorsen, as if she were not present, ‘when I met her at Lippinghall I thought she could move. Is your sister pleased?’

  ‘Is she, Jean?’

  ‘Rather!’

  ‘A wonderful young lady. There’s something good in low buildings. This Whitehall of yours makes me feel fine. The more sun and stars you can see from a street the more moral sense there is to the people. Were you married in a stovepipe hat, Captain?’

  ‘No; just as I am now.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. They seem to me so cunning; like carrying a lost cause about on your head. I believe you are of an old family, too, Mrs Cherrell. Your habit over here of families that serve their country from father to son is inspiring, Captain.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

  ‘I had a talk with your brother, Ma’am, at Lippinghah, he informed me you’d had a sailor in your family for centuries. And I’m told that in yours, Captain, there’s always been a soldier. I believe in heredity. Is this the Foreign Office?’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m just wondering whether that guy will be in? I’ve a kind of impression they do most of their business over food. We should do well to go and look at the ducks in the Park till three o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll leave this card for him,’ said Jean.

  She rejoined them quickly. ‘He’s expected in at any minute.’

  ‘That’ll be half an hour,’ said Hallorsen. ‘There’s one duck here I’d like your opinion of, Captain.’

  Crossing the wide road to the water they were nearly run down by the sudden convergence of two cars embarrassed by unwonted space. Hubert clutched Jean convulsively. He had gone livid under his tan. The cars cleared away to right and left. Hallorsen, who had taken Jean’s other arm, said with an exaggeration of his drawl:

  ‘That just about took our paint off.’

  Jean said nothing.

  ‘I sometimes wonder,’ continued Hallorsen, as they reached the ducks, ‘whether we get our money’s worth out of speed. What do you say, Captain?’

  Hubert shrugged. ‘The hours lost in going by car instead of by train are just about as many as the hours saved, anyway.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Hallorsen. ‘But flying’s a real saver of time.’

  ‘Better wait for the full bill before we boast about flying.’

  ‘You’re right, Captain. We’re surely headed for hell. The next war will mean a pretty thin time for those who take part in it. Suppose France and Italy came to blows, there’d be no Rome, no Paris, no Florence, no Venice, no Lyons, no Milan, no Marseilles within a fortnight. They’d just be poisoned deserts. And the ships and armies maybe wouldn’t have fired a shot.’

  ‘Yes. And all governments know it. I’m a soldier, but I can’t see why they go on spending hundreds of millions on soldiers and sailors who’ll probably never be used. You can’t run armies and navies when the nerve centres have been destroyed. How long could France and Italy function if their big towns were gassed? England or Germany certainly couldn’t function a week.’

  ‘Your Uncle the Curator was saying to me that at the rate Man was going he would soon be back in the fish state.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Why! Surely! Reversing the process of evolution – fishes, reptiles, birds, mammals. We’re becoming birds again, and the result of that will soon be that we shall creep and crawl, and end up in the sea when land’s uninhabitable.’

  ‘Why can’t we all bar the air for war?’

  ‘How can we bar the air?’ said Jean. ‘Countries never trust each other. Besides, America and Russia are outside the League of Nations.’

  ‘We Americans would agree. But maybe not our Senate.’

  ‘That Senate of yours,’ muttered Hubert, ‘seems to be a pretty hard proposition.’

  ‘Why! It’s like your House of Lords before a whip was taken to it in 1910. That’s the duck,’ and Hallorsen pointed to a peculiar bird. Hubert stared at it.

  ‘I’ve shot that chap in India. It’s a – I’ve forgotten the name. We can get it from one of these boards – I shall remember if I see.’

  ‘No!’ said Jean; ‘it’s a quarter past three. He must be in by now.’ And, without allocating the duck, they returned to the Foreign Office.

  Bobbie Ferrar’s handshake was renowned. It pulled his adversary’s hand up and left it there. When Jean had restored her hand, she came at once to the point. ‘You know about this extradition business, Mr Ferrar?’

  Bobbie Ferrar nodded.

  ‘This is Professor Hallorsen, who was head of the expedition. Would you like to see the scar my husband has?’

  ‘Very much,’ murmured Bobbie Ferrar, through his teeth.

  ‘Show him, Hubert.’

  Unhappily Hubert bared his arm again.

  ‘Amazing!’ said Bobbie Ferrar: ‘I told Walter.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Sir Lawrence asked me to.’

  ‘What did Wal – the Home Secretary say?’

  ‘Nothing. He’d seen Snubby; he doesn’t like Snubby, so he’s issued the order to Bow Street.’

  ‘Oh! Does that mean there will be a warrant?’

  Bobbie Ferrar nodded, examining his nails.

  The two young people stared at each other.

  Hallorsen said, gravely:

  ‘Can no one stop this gang?’

  Bobbie Ferrar shook his head, his eyes looked very round.

  Hubert rose.

  ‘I’m sorry that I let anyone bother himself in the matter. Come along, Jean!’ and with a slight bow he turned and went out. Jean followed him.

  Hallorsen and Bobbie Ferrar were left confronted.

  ‘I don’t understand this country,’ said Hallorsen. ‘What ought to have been done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Bobbie Ferrar. ‘When it comes before the magistrate, bring all the evidence you can.’

  ‘We surely will. Mr Ferrar, I am glad to have met you!’

  Bobbie Ferrar grinned. His eyes looked even rounder.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  IN the due course of justice, Hubert was brought up at Bow Street on a warrant issued by one of its magistrates. Attending, in common with other members of the family, Dinny sat through the proceedings in a state of passive protest. The sworn evidence of six Bolivian muleteers, testifying to the shooting and to its being unprovoked; Hubert’s countering statement, the exhibition of his scar, his record, and the evidence of Hallorsen, formed the material on which the magistrate was invited to come to his decision. He came to it. ‘Remanded’ till the arrival of the defendant’s supporting evidence. That principle of British law, ‘A prisoner is presumed innocent till he is proved guilty,’ so constantly refuted by its practice, was then debated in regard to bail, and Dinny held her breath. The idea of Hubert, just married, being presumed innocent in a cell, while his evidence crossed the Atlantic, was unbearable. The considerable bail offered by Sir Conway and Sir Lawrence, however, was finally accepted, and with a sigh of relief she walked out, her head held high. Sir Lawrence joined her outside.

  ‘It’s lucky,’ he said, ‘that Hubert looks so unaccustomed to lying.’

  ‘I suppose,’ murmured Dinny, ‘this will be in the papers.’

  ‘On that, my nymph, you may bet the buttoned boots you haven’t got.’

  ‘How will it affect Hubert’s career?’

  ‘I think it will be good for him. The House of Commons questions were damaging. But “British Officer versus Bolivian Half-Castes,” will rally the prejudice we all have for our kith and kin.’

  ‘I’m more sorry for Dad than for anybody. His hair is distinctly greyer since this began.’

  ‘There’s nothing dishonourable about it, Dinny.’

  Dinny’s head tilted up.

  ‘No, indeed!’

  ‘You remind
me of a two-year-old, Dinny – one of those whipcordy chestnuts that kick up their heels in the paddock, get left at the post, and come in first after all. Here’s your American bearing down on us. Shall we wait for him? He gave very useful evidence.’

  Dinny shrugged her shoulders, and almost instantly Hallorsen’s voice said:

  ‘Miss Cherrell!’

  Dinny turned.

  ‘Thank you very much, Professor, for what you said.’

  ‘I wish I could have lied for you, but I had no occasion. How is that sick gentleman?’

  ‘All right so far.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that. I have been worried thinking of you.’

  ‘What you said, Professor,’ put in Sir Lawrence, ‘about not being seen dead with any of those muleteers hit the magistrate plumb centre.’

  ‘To be seen alive with them was bad enough. I’ve an automobile here, can I take you and Miss Cherrell anywhere?’

  ‘You might take us to the borders of civilization, if you’re going West.’

  ‘Well, Professor,’ continued Sir Lawrence, when they were seated, ‘what do you think of London? Is it the most barbarous or the most civilized town on earth?’

  ‘I just love it,’ said Hallorsen, without ever taking his eyes off Dinny.

  ‘I don’t,’ murmured Dinny; ‘I hate the contrasts and the smell of petrol.’

  ‘Well, a stranger can’t tell why he loves London, unless it’s the variety and the way you’ve gotten freedom and order all mixed up; or maybe it’s because it’s so different from our towns over there. New York is more wonderful and more exciting, but not so homey.’

  ‘New York,’ said Sir Lawrence, ‘is like strychnine. It perks you up until it lays you out.’

  ‘I certainly couldn’t live in New York. The West for me.’

  ‘The great open spaces,’ murmured Dinny.

  ‘Why yes, Miss Cherrell; you would love them.’

  Dinny smiled wanly. ‘No one can be pulled up by the roots, Professor.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Sir Lawrence, ‘my son once took up the question of Emigration in Parliament. He found that people’s roots were so strong that he had to drop it like a hot potato.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Hallorsen. ‘When I look at your town folk, undersized and pale and kind of disillusioned, I can’t help wondering what roots they can have.’

  ‘The townier the type, the more stubborn its roots – no open spaces for them; the streets, fried fish, and the pictures. Would you put me down here, Professor? Dinny, where are you bound for?’

  ‘Oakley Street.’

  Hallorsen stopped the car and Sir Lawrence got out.

  ‘Miss Cherrell, may I have the great pleasure of taking you as far as Oakley Street?’

  Dinny bowed.

  Seated thus side by side with him in the closed car, she wondered uneasily what use he would make of his opportunity. Presently, without looking at her, he said:

  ‘As soon as your brother is fixed up I shall be sailing. I’m going to take an expedition to New Mexico. I shall always count it a privilege to have known you, Miss Cherrell.’

  His ungloved hands were gripping each other between his knees; and the sight moved her.

  ‘I am very sorry for misjudging you at first, Professor, just as my brother did.’

  ‘It was natural. I shall be glad to think I have your good will when all’s been said and done.’

  Dinny put out her hand impulsively.

  ‘You have.’

  He took the hand with gravity, raised it to his lips, and returned it to her gently. Dinny felt extremely unhappy. She said, timidly: ‘You’ve made me think quite differently about Americans, Professor.’

  Hallorsen smiled.

  ‘That is something, anyway.’

  ‘I’m afraid I was very crude in my ideas. You see, I haven’t really known any.’

  ‘That is the little trouble between us; we don’t really know each other. We get on each other’s nerves, with little things, and there it ends. But I shall always remember you as the smile on the face of this country.’

  ‘That,’ said Dinny, ‘is very pretty, and I wish it were true.’

  ‘If I could have a picture of you, I should treasure it.’

  ‘Of course you shall! I don’t know if I have a decent one, but I’ll send you the best.’

  ‘I thank you. I think if you will allow me I will get out here; I am just not too sure of myself. The car will take you on.’ He tapped on the glass and spoke to the chauffeur.

  ‘Good-bye!’ he said, and took her hand again, looked at it rather long, pressed it hard, and slid his long frame through the doorway.

  ‘Good-bye!’ murmured Dinny, sitting back, with rather a choky feeling in her throat.

  Five minutes later the car pulled up before Diana’s house, and, very subdued, she went in.

  Diana, whom she had not seen that morning, opened the door of her room as she was passing.

  ‘Come in here, Dinny.’ Her voice was stealthy, and a little shudder went through Dinny. They sat down side by side on the four-poster bed, and Diana spoke low and hurriedly:

  ‘He came in here last night and insisted on staying. I didn’t dare refuse. There’s a change; I have a feeling that it’s the beginning of the end, again. His self-control is weakening, all round. I think I ought to send the children somewhere. Would Hilary take them?’

  ‘I’m sure he would; or Mother would certainly.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be better.’

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to go, yourself?’

  Diana sighed and shook her head.

  ‘That would only precipitate things. Could you take the children down for me?’

  ‘Of course. But do you really think he –?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure he’s working up again. I know the signs so well. Haven’t you noticed, Dinny, he’s been drinking more each evening? It’s all of a piece.’

  ‘If he’d get over his horror of going out.’

  ‘I don’t believe that would help. Here at all events we know what there is to know, and the worst at once if it comes. I dread something happening with strangers, and our hands being forced.’

  Dinny squeezed her arm.

  ‘When would you like the children taken down?’

  ‘As soon as possible. I can’t say anything to him. You must just go off as quietly as you can. Mademoiselle can go down separately, if your mother will have her too.’

  ‘I shall come back at once, of course.’

  ‘Dinny, it isn’t fair on you. I’ve got the maids. It’s really too bad to bother you with my troubles.’

  ‘But of course I shall come back. I’ll borrow Fleur’s car. Will he mind the children going?’

  ‘Only if he connects it with our feeling about his state. I can say it’s an old invitation.’

  ‘Diana,’ said Dinny, suddenly, ‘have you any love for him left?’

  ‘Love? No!’

  ‘Just pity?’

  Diana shook her head.

  ‘I can’t explain; it’s the past and a feeling that if I desert him I help the fates against him. That’s a horrible thought!’

  ‘I understand. I’m so sorry for you both, and for Uncle Adrian.’

  Diana smoothed her face with her hands, as if wiping off the marks of trouble.

  ‘I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s no good going to meet it. As to you, my dear, don’t for God’s sake let me spoil your time.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’m wanting something to take me out of myself. Spinsters, you know, should be well shaken before being taken.’

  ‘Ah! When are you going to be taken, Dinny?’

  ‘I have just rejected the great open spaces, and I feel a beast.’

  ‘Between the great open spaces and the deep sea – are you?’

  ‘And likely to remain so. The love of a good man – and all that, seems to leave me frost-bitten.’

  ‘Wait! Your hair is the wrong colour for the cloister.’
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  ‘I’ll have it dyed and sail in my true colours. Icebergs are sea-green.’

  ‘As I said before – wait!’

  ‘I will,’ said Dinny….

  Fleur herself drove the South Square car to the door two days later. The children and some luggage were placed in it without incident, and they started.

  That somewhat hectic drive, for the children were little used to cars, to Dinny was pure relief. She had not realized how much the tragic atmosphere of Oakley Street was on her nerves; and yet it was but ten days since she had come up from Condaford. The colours of ‘the fall’ were deepening already on the trees. The day had the soft and sober glow of fine October; the air, as the country deepened and grew remote, had again its beloved tang; wood smoke rose from cottage chimneys, and rooks from the bared fields.

  They arrived in time for lunch, and, leaving the children with Mademoiselle, who had come down by train, Dinny went forth with the dogs alone. She stopped at an old cottage high above the sunken road. The door opened straight into the living-room, where an old woman was sitting by a thin fire of wood.

  ‘Oh! Miss Dinny,’ she said, ‘I am that glad. I haven’t seen you not all this month.’

  ‘No, Betty; I’ve been away. How are you?’

  The little old woman, for she was of pocket size, crossed her hands solemnly on her middle.

  ‘My stummick’s bad again. I’aven’t nothin’ else the matter – the doctor says I’m wonderful. Just my stummick. ’E says I ought to eat more; and I’ve such an appetite, Miss Dinny. But I can’t eat ’ardly nothin’ without I’m sick, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Dear Betty, I’m so sorry. Tummies are a dreadful nuisance. Tummies and teeth. I can’t think why we have them. If you haven’t teeth you can’t digest; and if you have teeth you can’t digest either.’

  The old lady cackled thinly.

  ‘ ’E du say I ought to ’ave the rest of my teeth out, but I don’t like to part with ’em, Miss Dinny. Father ’e’s got none, and ’e can bite an apple, ’e can. But at my age I can’t expect to live to ’arden up like that.’

  ‘But you could have some lovely false ones, Betty.’

  ‘Oh! I don’t want to ’ave no false teeth – so pretenshus. You wouldn’t never wear false teeth, would you, Miss Dinny?’