The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(26)

‘The “beat’s” beginning, my lord,’ said the young keeper’s voice.

The retriever began to pant slightly. Lord Saxenden grasped a gun; the keeper held the other ready.

‘Covey to the left, my lord,’ Dinny heard a creaky whirring, and saw eight birds stringing towards the lane. Bang-bang… bang-bang!

‘God bless my soul!’ said Lord Saxenden: ‘What the deuce –!’

Dinny saw the same eight birds swoop over the hedge at the other end of the grass field.

The retriever uttered a little choked sound, panting horribly.

‘The light,’ she said, ‘must be terribly puzzling!’

‘It’s not the light,’ said Lord Saxenden, ‘it’s the liver!’

‘Three birds coming straight, my lord.’

Bang!… Bang-bang! A bird jerked, crumpled, turned over and pitched four yards behind her. Something caught Dinny by the throat. That anything so alive should be so dead! Often as she had seen birds shot, she had never before had that feeling. The other two birds were crossing the far hedge; she watched them vanish, with a faint sigh. The retriever, with the dead bird in his mouth, came up to the keeper, who took it from him. Sitting on his haunches, the dog continued to gaze at the bird, with his tongue out. Dinny saw the tongue drip, and closed her eyes.

Lord Saxenden said something inaudibly.

Lord Saxenden said the same word more inaudibly, and, opening her eyes, Dinny saw him put up his gun.

‘Hen pheasant, my lord!’ warned the young keeper.

A hen pheasant passed over at a most reasonable height, as if aware that her time was not yet.

‘H’m!’ said Lord Saxenden, resting the butt on his bent knee.

‘Covey to the right; too far, my lord!’

Several shots rang out, and beyond the hedge Dinny saw two birds only flying on, one of which was dropping feathers.

‘That’s a dead bird,’ said the keeper, and Dinny saw him shade his eyes, watching its flight. ‘Down!’ he said; the dog panted, and looked up at him.

Shots rang out to the left.

‘Damn!’ said Lord Saxenden, ‘nothing comes my way.’

‘Hare, my lord!’ said the keeper, sharply. ‘Along the hedge.’

Lord Saxenden wheeled and raised his gun.

‘Oh, no!’ said Dinny, but her words were drowned by the report. The hare, struck behind, stopped short, then wriggled forward, crying pitifully.

‘Fetch it, boy!’ said the keeper.

Dinny put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes.

‘Blast!’ muttered Lord Saxenden. ‘Tailored!’ Through her eyelids Dinny felt his frosty stare. When she opened her eyes the hare was lying dead beside the bird. It looked incredibly soft. Suddenly she rose, meaning to go, but sat down again. Until the beat was over she could go nowhere without interfering with the range of the shots. She closed her eyes again; and the shooting went on.

‘That’s the lot, my lord.’

Lord Saxenden was handing over his gun, and three more birds lay beside the hare.

Rather ashamed of her new sensations, she rose, closed her shooting stick, and moved towards the stile. Regardless of the old convention, she crossed it and waited for him.

‘Sorry I tailored that hare,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been seeing spots all day. Do you ever see spots?’

‘No. Stars once in a way. A hare’s crying is dreadful, isn’t it?’

‘I agree – never liked it.’

‘Once when we were having a picnic I saw a hare sitting up behind us like a dog – and the sun through its ears all pink. I’ve always liked hares since.’

‘They’re not a sporting shot,’ admitted Lord Saxenden; ‘personally I prefer ’em roast to jugged.’

Dinny stole a glance at him. He looked red and fairly satisfied.

‘Now’s my chance,’ she thought.

‘Do you ever tell Americans that they won the war, Lord Saxenden?’

He stared frostily.

‘Why should I?’

‘But they did, didn’t they?’

‘Does that Professor chap say so?’

‘I’ve never heard him, but I feel sure he thinks so.’

Again Dinny saw that sharp look come on his face. ‘What do you know about him?’

‘My brother went on his expedition.’

‘Your brother? Ah!’ It was just as if he had said to himself out loud: ‘This young woman wants something out of me.’

Dinny felt suddenly that she was on very thin ice.

‘If you read Professor Hallorsen’s book,’ she said, ‘I hope you will also read my brother’s diary.’

‘I never read anything,’ said Lord Saxenden; ‘haven’t time. But I remember now. Bolivia – he shot a man, didn’t he, and lost the transport?’