The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3 Read online

  ‘Yes,’ said Dinny, very low, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Diana,’ said Ferse’s voice, but quite subdued: ‘I want her.’

  Dinny crouched forward close to the keyhole.

  ‘Diana’s not well,’ she said. ‘She’s asleep now, don’t disturb her.’

  There was silence. And then to her horror she heard a long moaning sigh; a sound so miserable, and as it were so final that she was on the point of taking out the key. The sight of Diana’s face, white and worn, stopped her. No good! Whatever that sound meant – no good! And crouching back on the bed, she listened. No more sound! Diana slept on, but Dinny could not get to sleep again. ‘If he kills himself,’ she thought, ‘shall I be to blame?’ Would that not be best for everyone, for Diana and his children, for himself? But that long sighing moan went on echoing through her nerves. Poor man, poor man! She felt nothing now but a dreadful sore pity, a sort of resentment at the inexorability of Nature that did such things to human creatures. Accept the mysterious ways of Providence? Who could? Insensate and cruel! Beside the worn-out sleeper she lay, quivering. What had they done that they ought not to have done? Could they have helped him more than they had tried to? What could they do when morning came? Diana stirred. Was she going to wake? But she just turned and sank back into her heavy slumber. And slowly a drowsy feeling stole on Dinny herself and she slept.

  A knocking on the door awakened her. It was daylight. Diana was still sleeping. She looked at her wrist watch. Eight o’clock. She was being called.

  ‘All right, Mary!’ she answered, softly: ‘Mrs Ferse is here.’

  Diana sat up, her eyes on Dinny’s half-clothed figure.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s all right, Diana. Eight o’clock! We’d better get up and put the bed back. You’ve had a real good sleep. The maids are up.’

  They put on wrappers, and pulled the bed into place. Dinny took the key from its queer hiding nook, and unlocked the door.

  ‘No good craning at it. Let’s go down!’

  They stood a moment at the top of the stairs listening, and then descended. Diana’s room was untouched. The maid had evidently been in and pulled aside the curtains. They stood at the door that led from it to Ferse’s room. No sound came from there. They went out to the other door. Still no sound!

  ‘We’d better go down,’ whispered Dinny. ‘What shall you say to Mary?’

  ‘Nothing. She’ll understand.’

  The dining-room and study doors were open. The telephone receiver still lay severed on the floor; there was no other sign of last night’s terrors.

  Suddenly, Dinny said: ‘Diana, his hat and coat are gone. They were on that chair.’

  Diana went into the dining-room and rang the bell. The elderly maid, coming from the basement stairs, had a scared and anxious look.

  ‘Have you seen Captain Ferse’s hat and coat this morning Mary?’

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  ‘What time did you come down?’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘You haven’t been to his room?’

  ‘Not yet, Ma’am.’

  ‘I was not well last night; I slept upstairs with Miss Dinny.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  They all three went upstairs.

  ‘Knock on his door.’

  The maid knocked. Dinny and Diana stood close by. There was no answer.

  ‘Knock again, Mary, louder.’

  Again and again the maid knocked. No answer. Diana put her aside and turned the handle. The door came open. Ferse was not there. The room was in disorder, as if someone had tramped and wrestled in it. The water bottle was empty, and tobacco ash was strewn about. The bed had been lain on, but not slept in. There was no sign of packing or of anything having been taken from the drawers. The three women looked at each other. Then Diana said:

  ‘Get breakfast quick, Mary. We must go out.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am – I saw the telephone.’

  ‘Hide that up, and get it mended; and don’t tell the others anything. Just say: “He’s away for a night or two.” Make things here look like that. We’ll dress quickly, Dinny.’

  The maid went downstairs again.

  Dinny said: ‘Has he any money?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can see if his cheque book has gone.’

  She ran down again, and Dinny waited. Diana came back into the hall.

  ‘No; it’s on the bureau in the dining-room. Quick, Dinny, dress!’

  That meant… What did it mean? A strange conflict of hopes and fears raged within Dinny. She flew upstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  OVER a hasty breakfast they consulted. To whom should they go?

  ‘Not to the police,’ said Dinny.

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘I think we should go to Uncle Adrian first.’

  They sent the maid for a taxi, and set out for Adrian’s rooms. It was not quite nine o’clock. They found him over tea and one of those fishes which cover the more ground when eaten, and explain the miracle of the seven baskets full.

  Seeming to have grown greyer in these few days he listened to them, filling his pipe, and at last said:

  ‘You must leave it to me now. Dinny, can you take Diana down to Condaford?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Before you go, could you get young Alan Tasburgh to go down to that Home and ask if Ferse is there, without letting them know that he’s gone off on his own? Here’s the address.’

  Dinny nodded.

  Adrian raised Diana’s hand to his lips.

  ‘My dear, you look worn out. Don’t worry; just rest down there with the children. We’ll keep in touch with you.’

  ‘Will there be publicity, Adrian?’

  ‘Not if we can prevent it. I shall consult Hilary; we’ll try everything first. Do you know how much money he had?’

  ‘The last cheque cashed was for five pounds two days ago, but all yesterday he was out.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘Blue overcoat, blue suit, bowler hat.’

  ‘And you don’t know where he went yesterday?’

  ‘No. Until yesterday he was never out at all.’

  ‘Does he still belong to any Club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has any old friend been told of his return?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he took no cheque book? How soon can you get hold of that young man, Dinny?’

  ‘Now, if I could telephone, Uncle; he’s sleeping at his Club.’

  ‘Try, then.’

  Dinny went out to the telephone. She soon reported that Alan would go down at once, and let Adrian know. He would ask as an old friend, with no knowledge that Ferse had ever left. He would beg them to let him know if Ferse came back, so that he might come and see him.

  ‘Good,’ said Adrian; ‘you have a head, my child. And now go off and look after Diana. Give me your number at Condaford.’

  Having jotted it down, he saw them back into their cab.

  ‘Uncle Adrian is the best man in the world,’ said Dinny.

  ‘No one should know that better than I, Dinny.’

  Back in Oakley Street, they went upstairs to pack. Dinny was afraid that at the last minute Diana might refuse to go. But she had given her word to Adrian, and they were soon on the way to the station. They spent a very silent hour and a half on the journey, leaning back in their corners, tired out. Dinny, indeed, was only now realizing the strain she had been through. And yet, what had it amounted to? No violence, no attack, not even a great scene. How uncannily disturbing was insanity! What fear it inspired; what nerve-racking emotions! Now that she was free from chance of contact with Ferse he again seemed to her just pitiful. She pictured him wandering and distraught, with nowhere to lay his head and no one to take him by the hand; on the edge, perhaps already over that edge! The worst tragedies were always connected with fear. Criminality, leprosy, insanity, anything that inspired fear in other people – the victims of such were hopelessly
alone in a frightened world. Since last night she understood far better Ferse’s outburst about the vicious circle in which insanity moved. She knew now that her own nerves were not strong enough, her own skin not thick enough, to bear contact with the insane; she understood the terrible treatment of the insane in old days. It was like the way dogs had, of setting on an hysterical dog, their own nerves jolted beyond bearing. The contempt lavished on the imbecile, the cruelty and contempt had been defensive – defensive revenge on something which outraged the nerves. All the more pitiable, all the more horrible to think about. And, while the train bore her nearer to her peaceful home, she was more and more torn between the wish to shut away all thought of the unhappy outcast and feelings of pity for him. She looked across at Diana lying back in the corner opposite with closed eyes. What must she be feeling, bound to Ferse by memory, by law, by children of whom he was the father? The face under the close casque hat had the chiselling of prolonged trial – fine-lined and rather hard. By the faint movement of the lips she was not asleep. ‘What keeps her going?’ thought Dinny. ‘She’s not religious; she doesn’t believe much in anything. If I were she I should throw everything up and rush to the ends of the earth – or should I?’ Was there perhaps something inside one, some sense of what was due to oneself, that kept one unyielding and unbroken?

  There was nothing to meet them at the station, so, leaving their things, they set forth for the Grange on foot, taking a path across the fields.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Dinny, suddenly, ‘how little excitement one could do with in these days? Should I be happy if I lived down here all my time, like the old cottage folk? Clare is never happy here. She has to be on the go all the time. There is a kind of jack-in-the-box inside one.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it popping out of you, Dinny.’

  ‘I wish I’d been older during the war. I was only fourteen when it stopped.’

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘I don’t know. You must have had a terribly exciting time, Diana.’

  ‘I was your present age when the war began.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Just.’

  ‘I suppose he was right through it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that the cause?’

  ‘An aggravation, perhaps.’

  ‘Uncle Adrian spoke of heredity.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dinny pointed to a thatched cottage.

  ‘In that cottage an old pet couple of mine have lived fifty years. Could you do that, Diana?’

  ‘I could now; I want peace, Dinny.’

  They reached the house in silence. A message had come through from Adrian: Ferse was not back at the Home: but he and Hilary believed they were on the right track.

  After seeing the children Diana went to her bedroom to lie down, and Dinny to her Mother’s sitting-room.

  ‘Mother, I must say it to someone – I am praying for his death.’

  ‘Dinny!’

  ‘For his own sake, for Diana’s, for the children’s, for everybody’s; even my own.’

  ‘Of course, if it’s hopeless –’

  ‘Hopeless or not, I don’t care. It’s too dreadful. Providence is a wash-out, Mother.’

  ‘My dear! ’

  ‘It’s too remote. I suppose there is an eternal Plan – but we’re like gnats for all the care it has for us as individuals.’

  ‘You want a good sleep, darling.’

  ‘Yes. But that won’t make any difference.’

  ‘Don’t encourage such feelings, Dinny; they affect one’s character.’

  ‘I don’t see the connexion between beliefs and character. I’m not going to behave any worse because I cease to believe in Providence or an after life.’

  ‘Surely, Dinny – ’

  ‘No; I’m going to behave better; if I’m decent it’s because decency’s the decent thing; and not because I’m going to get anything by it.’

  ‘But why is decency the decent thing, Dinny, if there’s no God?’

  ‘O subtle and dear mother, I didn’t say there wasn’t God. I only said his Plan was too remote. Can’t you hear God saying: “By the way, is that ball the Earth still rolling?” And an angel answering: “Oh! Yes, Sir, quite nicely.” “Let’s see, it must be fungused over by now. Wasn’t there some particularly busy little parasite – ” ’

  ‘Dinny!’

  ‘ “Oh! Yes, Sir, you mean man!” “Quite! I remember we called it that.” ’

  ‘Dinny, how dreadful!’

  ‘No, mother, if I’m decent, it will be because decency is devised by humans for the benefit of humans; just as beauty is devised by humans for the delight of humans. Am I looking awful, darling? I feel as if I had no eyes. I think I’ll go and lie down. I don’t know why I’ve got so worked up about this, Mother. I think it must be looking at his face.’ And with suspicious swiftness Dinny turned and went away.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  FERSE’s disappearance was a holiday to the feelings of one who had suffered greatly since his return. That he had engaged to end that holiday by finding him was not enough to spoil Adrian’s relief. Almost with zest he set out for Hilary’s in a taxi, applying his wits to the problem. Fear of publicity cut him off from those normal and direct resorts – Police, Radio, and Press. Such agencies would bring on Ferse too fierce a light. And in considering what means were left he felt as when confronted with a crossword puzzle, many of which he had solved in his time, like other men of noted intellect. From Dinny’s account he could not tell within several hours at what time Ferse had gone out, and the longer he left inquiry in the neighbourhood of the house, the less chance one would have of stumbling on anyone who had seen him. Should he, then, stop the cab and go back to Chelsea? In holding on towards the Meads, he yielded to instinct rather than to reason. To turn to Hilary was second nature with him – and, surely, in such a task two heads were better than one! He reached the Vicarage without forming any plan save that of inquiring vaguely along the Embankment and the King’s Road. It was not yet half past nine, and Hilary was still at his correspondence. On hearing the news, he called his wife into the study.

  ‘Let’s think for three minutes,’ he said, ‘and pool the result.’

  The three stood in a triangle before the fire, the two men smoking, and the woman sniffing at an October rose.

  ‘Well?’ said Hilary at last: ‘Any light, May?’

  ‘Only,’ said Mrs Hilary, wrinkling her forehead, ‘if the poor man was as Dinny describes, you can’t leave out the hospitals. I could telephone to the three or four where there was most chance of his having been taken in, if he’s made an accident for himself. It’s so early still, they can hardly have had anybody in.’

  ‘Very sweet of you, my dear; and we can trust your wits to keep his name out of it.’

  Mrs Hilary went out.

  ‘Adrian?’

  ‘I’ve got a hunch, but I’d rather hear you first.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hilary, ‘two things occur to me: It’s obvious we must find out from the Police if anyone’s been taken from the river. The other contingency, and I think it’s the more likely, is drink.’

  ‘But he couldn’t get drink so early.’

  ‘Hotels. He had money.’

  ‘I agree, we must try them, unless you think my idea any good.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to put myself in poor Ferse’s shoes. I think, Hilary, if I had a doom over me, I might run for Condaford; not the place itself, perhaps, but round about, where we haunted as boys; where I’d been, in fact, before Fate got hold of me at all. A wounded animal goes home.’

  Hilary nodded.

  ‘Where was his home?’

  ‘West Sussex – just under the Downs to the north. Petworth was the station.’

  ‘Oh! I know that country. Before the war May and I used to stay a lot at Bignor and walk. We could have a shot at Victoria station, and see if anyone like him has taken train. But I think I’ll try the Poli
ce about the river first. I can say a parishioner is missing. What height is Ferse?’

  ‘About five feet ten, square, broad head and cheek-bones, strong jaw, darkish hair, steel-blue eyes, a blue suit and overcoat.’

  ‘Right!’ said Hilary: ‘I’ll get on to them as soon as May is through.’

  Left to himself before the fire, Adrian brooded. A reader of detective novels, he knew that he was following the French, inductive method of a psychological shot in the blue, Hilary and May following the English model of narrowing the issue by elimination – excellent, but was there time for excellence? One vanished in London as a needle vanishes in hay; and they were so handicapped by the need for avoiding publicity. He waited in anxiety for Hilary’s report. Curiously ironical that he – he – should dread to hear of poor Ferse being found drowned or run over, and Diana free!

  From Hilary’s table he took up an A.B.C. There had been a train to Petworth at 8.50, another went at 9.56. A near thing! And he waited again, his eyes on the door. Useless to hurry Hilary, a past-master in saving time.

  ‘Well?’ he said when the door was opened.

  Hilary shook his head.

  ‘No go! Neither hospitals nor Police. No one received or heard of anywhere.’

  ‘Then,’ said Adrian, ‘let’s try Victoria – there’a a train in twenty minutes. Can you come rightaway?’

  Hilary glanced at his table. ‘I oughtn’t to, but I will. There’s something unholy in the way a search gets hold of you. Hold on, old man, I’ll tell May and nick my hat. You might look for a taxi. Go St Pancras way and wait for me.’

  Adrian strode along looking for a taxi. He found one issuing from the Euston Road, turned it round, and stood waiting. Soon Hilary’s thin dark figure came hurrying into view.

  ‘Not in the training I was,’ he said, and got in.

  Adrian leaned through the window.

  ‘Victoria, quick as you can!’

  Hilary’s hand slipped through his arm.

  ‘I haven’t had a jaunt with you, old man, since we went up the Carmarthen Van in that fog the year after the war. Remember?’