The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(21)

A ship, an isle, a sickle moon,

With few but with how splendid stars.



If only I could sleep!…’





Chapter Eight




THAT essential private irregularity, room by room, which differentiates the old English from every other variety of country house, was patent at Lippinghall Manor. People went into rooms as if they meant to stay there, and while there inhaled an atmosphere and fitted into garniture different from those in any of the other rooms; nor did they feel that they must leave the room as they found it, if indeed they knew how that was. Fine old furniture stood in careless partnership with fill-up stuff acquired for the purposes of use or ease. Portraits of ancestors, dark or yellow, confronted Dutch or French landscapes still more yellow or dark, with here and there delightful old prints, and miniatures not without charm. In two rooms at least were beautiful old fireplaces, defiled by the comfort of a fender which could be sat on. Staircases appeared unexpectedly in the dark. The position of a bedroom was learned with difficulty and soon forgotten. In it would be, perhaps, a priceless old chestnut wood wardrobe and a four-poster bed of an excellent period; a window-seat with cushions, and some French prints. To it would be conjoined a small room with narrow bed; and bathroom that might or might not need a stroll, but would have salts in it. One of the Monts had been an Admiral; queer old charts, therefore, with dragons lashing the seas, lurked in odd corners of the corridors; one of the Monts, Sir Lawrence’s grandfather, seventh baronet, had been a racing man, and the anatomy of the thoroughbred horse, and jockety of his period (1860–83) could be studied on the walls. The sixth baronet, who, being in politics, had lived longer than the rest, had left imprints of the earlier Victorian period, his wife and daughters in crinolines, himself in whiskers. The outside of the house was Carolean, tempered here and there by Georgian, and even Victorian fragments where the sixth baronet had given way to his feeling for improvement. The only thing definitely modern was the plumbing.

When Dinny came down to breakfast on the Wednesday morning – the shoot being timed to start at ten – three of the ladies and all the men except Hallorsen were already sitting or wandering to the side-tables. She slipped into a chair next to Lord Saxenden, who rose slightly with the word:

‘Morning!’

‘Dinny,’ called Michael from a sideboard, ‘coffee, cocoatina or ginger beer?’

‘Coffee and a kipper, Michael.’

‘There are no kippers.’

Lord Saxenden looked up: ‘No kippers?’ he muttered, and resumed his sausage.

‘Haddock?’ said Michael.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Anything for you, Aunt Wilmet?’

‘Kedgeree.’

‘There is no kedgeree. Kidneys, bacon, scrambled eggs, haddock, ham, cold partridge pie.’

Lord Saxenden rose. ‘Ah! Ham!’ and went over to the side table.

‘Well, Dinny?’

‘Just some jam, please, Michael.’

‘Goose-gog, strawberry, blackcurrant, marmalade.’

‘Gooseberry.’

Lord Saxenden resumed his seat with a plate of ham, and began reading a letter as he ate. She did not quite know what to make of his face, because she could not see his eyes, and his mouth was so full. But she seemed to gather why he had been nicknamed ‘Snubby’. He was red, had a light moustache and hair, both going grey, and a square seat at table. Suddenly he turned to her and said:

‘Excuse my reading this. It’s from my wife. She’s on her back, you know.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Horrible business! Poor thing!’

He put the letter in his pocket, filled his mouth with ham, and looked at Dinny. She saw that his eyes were blue, and that his eyebrows, darker than his hair, looked like clumps of fishhooks. His eyes goggled a little, as though he were saying: ‘I’m a lad – I’m a lad.’ But at this moment she noticed Hallorsen coming in. He stood uncertain, then, seeing her, came to the empty seat on her other side.

‘Miss Cherrell,’ he said, with a bow, ‘can I sit right here?’

‘Of course: the food is all over there, if you’re thinking of any.’

‘Who’s that fellow?’ said Lord Saxenden, as Hallorsen went foraging: ‘He’s an American.’

‘Professor Hallorsen.’

‘Oh! Ah! Wrote a book on Bolivia? What!’

‘Yes.’

‘Good-looking chap.’

‘A he-man.’

He looked round at her with surprise.

‘Try this ham. I used to know an uncle of yours at Harrow, I think.’

‘Uncle Hilary!’ said Dinny. ‘He told me.’

‘I once laid him three strawberry mashes to two on myself in a race down the Hill steps to the Gym.’