The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(315)

Telling her mother that he was coming, she added:

‘I’ll try and get Clare; and don’t you think, mother, that we ought to ask Michael and Fleur? They were very sweet to put us up so long.’

Lady Charwell sighed.

‘One gets into a way of just going on. But do, dear.’

‘They’ll talk tennis, and that’ll be so nice and useful.’

Lady Charwell looked at her daughter, in whose voice something recalled the Dinny of two years back.

When Dinny knew that Clare was coming, as well as Michael and Fleur, she debated whether to tell Tony Croom. In the end she decided not to, sorrowfully, for she had for him the fellow feeling of one who had been through the same mill.

The camouflage above her father’s and mother’s feelings touched her. Dornford – high time, of course, he was down in the constituency again! Pity he hadn’t a place of his own – didn’t do to get out of touch with the electors! Presumably he’d come by car, and bring Clare; or Michael and Fleur could call for her! By such remarks they hid their nervousness about Clare and about herself.

She had just put the last flower in the last bedroom when the first car slid up the driveway; and she came down the stairs to see Dornford standing in the hall.

‘This place has a soul, Dinny. It may be the fantails on the stone roof, or perhaps the deep way it’s settled in, but you catch it at once.’

She left her hand in his longer than she had meant to.

‘It’s being so overgrown. There’s the smell, too – old hay and flowering verbena, and perhaps the mullions being crumbled.’

‘You look well, Dinny.’

‘I am, thank you. You haven’t had time for Wimbledon, I suppose?’

‘No. But Clare’s been going – she’s coming straight from it with the young Monts.’

‘What did you mean in your letter by “restive”?’

‘Well, as I see Clare, she must be in the picture, and just now she isn’t.’

Dinny nodded.

‘Has she said anything to you about Tony Croom?’

‘Yes. She laughed and said he’d dropped her like a hot potato.’

Dinny took his hat and hung it up.

‘About those costs?’ she said, without turning.

‘Well, I went to see Forsyte specially, but I got nothing out of him.’

‘Oh! Would you like a wash, or would you rather go straight up? Dinner’s at quarter-past eight. It’s half-past seven now.’

‘Straight up, if I may.’

‘You’re in a different room; I’ll show you.’

She preceded him to the foot of the little stairway leading to the priest’s room.

‘That’s your bathroom. Up here, now.’

‘The priest’s room?’

‘Yes. There’s no ghost.’ She crossed to the window. ‘See! He was fed here at night from the roof. Do you like the view? Better in the spring when the blossom’s out, of course.’

‘Lovely!’ He stood beside her at the window, and she could see his hands clenched so hard on the stone sill that the knuckles showed white. A bitter wind swept through her being. Here she had dreamed of standing with Wilfrid beside her. She leaned against the side of the embrasured window and closed her eyes. When she opened them he was facing her, she could see his lips trembling, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes fixed on her face. She moved across to the door.

‘I’ll have your things brought up and unpacked at once. Would you answer me one question: Did you pay those costs yourself?’

He gave a start and a little laugh, as if he had been suddenly switched from tragedy to comedy.

‘I? No. Never even thought of it.’

‘Oh!’ said Dinny again. ‘You’ve lots of time.’ And she went down the little stairway.

Did she believe him? Whether she believed him or not, did it make any difference? The question would be asked and must be answered. ‘One more river – one more river to cross!’ And at the sound of the second car she went hurrying down the stairs.





Chapter Thirty-eight




DURING that strange week-end, with only Michael and Fleur at ease, Dinny received one piece of enlightenment as she strolled in the garden.

‘Em tells me,’ said Fleur, ‘you’re all worked up about those costs – she says you think Dornford paid them, and that it’s giving you a feeling of obligation?’

‘Oh? Well, it is worrying, like finding you owe nothing to your dressmaker.’

‘My dear,’ said Fleur, ‘for your strictly private ear, I paid them. Roger came to dinner and made a song about hating to send in such a bill to people who had no money to spare, so I talked it over with Michael and sent Roger a cheque. My Dad made his money out of the Law, so it seemed appropriate.’