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The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(116)

By:John Galsworthy


‘None! Oh, none! It was all written out there at the time.’ And she rose to her feet.

‘May I ask how you know that?’

‘My brother –’ Only then did she realize that throughout she had nothing but Hubert’s word – ‘my brother told me so.’

‘His word is gospel to you?’

She retained enough sense of humour not to ‘draw herself up’, but her head tilted.

‘Gospel. My brother is a soldier and – ’

She stopped short, and, watching that superior lower lip, hated herself for using that cliché.

‘No doubt, no doubt! But you realize, of course, the importance of the point?’

‘There is the original –’ stammered Dinny. Oh! Why hadn’t she brought it! ‘It shows clearly – I mean it’s all messy and stained. You can see it at any time. Shall –?’

He again put out a restraining hand.

‘Never mind that. Very devoted to your brother, Miss Cherrell?’

Dinny’s lips quivered.

‘Absolutely. We all are.’

‘He’s just married, I hear?’

‘Yes, just married.’

‘Your brother wounded in the war?’

‘Yes. He had a bullet through his left leg.’

‘Neither arm touched?’

Again that sting!

‘No!’ The little word came out like a shot fired. And they stood looking at each other half a minute – a minute; words of appeal, of resentment, incoherent words were surging to her lips, but she kept them closed; she put her hand over them. He nodded.

‘Thank you, Miss Cherrell. Thank you.’ His head went a little to one side; he turned, and rather as if carrying that head on a charger, walked to the inner door. When he had passed through, Dinny covered her face with her hands. What had she done? Antagonized him? She ran her hands down over her face, over her body, and stood with them clenched at her sides, staring at the door through which he had passed, quivering from head to foot. A minute passed. The door was opened again, and Bobbie Ferrar came in. She saw his teeth. He nodded, shut the door, and said:

‘It’s all right.’

Dinny spun round to the window. Dark had fallen, and if it hadn’t, she couldn’t have seen. All right! All right! She dashed her knuckles across her eyes, turned round, and held out both hands, without seeing where to hold them.

They were not taken, but his voice said:

‘I’m very happy.’

‘I thought I’d spoiled it.’

She saw his eyes then, round as a puppy dog’s.

‘If he hadn’t made up his mind already he wouldn’t have seen you, Miss Cherrell. He’s not as case-hardened as all that. As a matter of fact, he’d seen the Magistrate about it at lunch time – that helped a lot.’

‘Then I had all that agony for nothing,’ thought Dinny.

‘Did he have to see the preface, Mr Ferrar?’

‘No, and just as well – it might have worked the other way. We really owe it to the Magistrate. But you made a good impression on him. He said you were transparent.’

‘Oh!’

Bobbie Ferrar took the little red book from the table, looked at it lovingly, and placed it in his pocket. ‘Shall we go?’

In Whitehall Dinny took a breath so deep that the whole November dusk seemed to pass into her with the sensation of a long, and desperately wanted drink.

‘A Post Office!’ she said. ‘He couldn’t change his mind, could he?’

‘I have his word. Your brother will be released tonight.’

‘Oh! Mr Ferrar!’ Tears suddenly came out of her eyes. She turned away to hide them, and when she turned back to him, he was not there.





Chapter Thirty-seven




WHEN from that Post Office she had despatched telegrams to her father and Jean, and telephoned to Fleur, to Adrian and Hilary, she took a taxi to Mount Street, and opened the door of her Uncle’s study. Sir Lawrence, before the fire with a book he was not reading, looked up.

‘What’s your news, Dinny?’

‘Saved!’

‘Thanks to you!’

‘Bobbie Ferrar says, thanks to the Magistrate. I nearly wrecked it, Uncle.’

‘Ring the bell!’ Dinny rang.

‘Blore, tell Lady Mont I want her.’

‘Good news, Blore; Mr Hubert’s free.’

‘Thank you, Miss; I was laying six to four on it.’

‘What can we do to relieve our feelings, Dinny?’

‘I must go to Condaford, Uncle.’

‘Not till after dinner. You shall go drunk. What about Hubert? Anybody going to meet him?’

‘Uncle Adrian said I’d better not, and he would go. Hubert will make for the flat, of course, and wait for Jean.’