The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3

by John Galsworthy

  ‘That would appear to be the position, Your Honour. It is for you to judge whether the sworn words of six citizens are to be taken, or the sworn words of two.’

  Dinny saw the magistrate wriggle.

  ‘I am perfectly aware of that, Mr Buttall. What do you say, Captain Cherrell, to this affidavit that has been put in as to the absence of the boy Manuel?’

  Dinny’s eyes leaped to her brother’s face. It was impassive, even slightly ironic.

  ‘Nothing, Sir. I don’t know where Manuel was. I was too occupied in saving my life. All I know is that he came up to me almost immediately afterwards.’

  ‘Almost? How long afterwards?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Sir – perhaps a minute. I was trying to stop the bleeding; I fainted just as he came.’

  During the speeches of the two lawyers which followed, Dinny’s apathy returned. It fled again during the five minutes of silence which succeeded them. In all the Court the magistrate alone seemed occupied; and it was as if he would never be done. Through her lowered lashes she could see him consulting this paper, consulting that; he had a red face, a long nose, a pointed chin, and eyes which she liked whenever she could see them. Instinctively she knew that he was not at ease. At last he spoke.

  ‘In this case,’ he said, ‘I have to ask myself not whether a crime has been committed, or whether the accused has committed it; I have only to ask myself whether the evidence brought before me is such as to satisfy me that the alleged crime is an extraditable offence, that the foreign warrant is duly authenticated, and that such evidence has been produced as would in this country justify me in committing the accused to take his trial.’ He paused a moment and then added: ‘There is no question but that the crime alleged is an extraditable offence, and that the foreign warrant is duly authenticated.’ He paused again, and in the dead silence Dinny heard a long sigh, as if from a spirit, so lonely and disembodied was the sound. The Magistrate’s eyes passed to Hubert’s face, and he resumed:

  ‘I have come to the conclusion reluctantly that it is my duty on the evidence adduced to commit the accused to prison to await surrender to the foreign State on a warrant from the Secretary of State, if he sees fit to issue it. I have heard the accused’s evidence to the effect that he had an antecedent justification removing the act complained of from the category of crime, supported by the affidavit of a witness which is contradicted by the affidavit of four others. I have no means of judging between the conflicting evidence of these two affidavits except in so far that it is in the proportion of four to one, and I must therefore dismiss it from my mind. In face of the sworn testimony of six witnesses that the shooting was deliberate, I do not think that the unsupported word of the accused to the contrary would justify me in the case of an offence committed in this country in refusing to commit for trial; and I am therefore unable to accept it as justification for a refusal to commit for trial in respect of an offence committed in another country. I make no hesitation in confessing my reluctance to come to this conclusion, but I consider that I have no other course open to me. The question, I repeat, is not whether the accused is guilty or innocent, it is a question of whether or not there should be a trial. I am not able to take on myself the responsibility of saying that there should not. The final word in cases of this nature rests with the Secretary of State, who issues the surrender warrant. I commit you, therefore, to prison to await the issue of such a warrant. You will not be surrendered until after fifteen days, and you have the right to apply for a writ of habeas corpus in regard to the lawfulness of your custody. I have not the power to grant you any further bail; but it may be that you may secure it, if you so desire, by application to the King’s Bench Division.’

  Dinny’s horrified eyes saw Hubert, standing very straight, make the magistrate a little bow, and leave the dock, walking slowly and without a look back. Behind him his lawyer, too, passed out of Court.

  She herself sat as if stunned, and her only impression of those next minutes was the sight of Jean’s stony face, and of Alan’s brown hands gripping each other on the handle of his stick.

  She came to herself conscious that tears were stealing down her mother’s face, and that her father was standing up.

  ‘Come!’ he said: ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  At that moment she was more sorry for her father than for any other of them all. Since this thing began he had said so little and had felt so much. It was ghastly for him! Dinny understood very well his simple feelings. To him, in the refusal of Hubert’s word, an insult had been flung not merely in his son’s face, and his own as Hubert’s father, but in the face of what they stood for and believed in; in the face of all soldiers and all gentlemen! Whatever happened now, he would never quite get over this. Between justice and what was just, what inexorable incompatibility! Were there men more honourable than her father and her brother, or than that magistrate, perhaps? Following him out into that dishevelled backwater of life and traffic, Bow Street, she noted that they were all there except Jean, Alan and Hallorsen. Sir Lawrence said:

  ‘We must just “take cabs and go about!” Better come to Mount Street and consult what we can each best do.’

  When half an hour later they assembled in Aunt Em’s drawing-room, those three were still absent.

  ‘What’s happened to them?’ asked Sir Lawrence.

  ‘I expect they went after Hubert’s lawyer,’ answered Dinny; but she knew better. Some desperate plan was being hatched, and she brought but a distracted mind to council.

  In Sir Lawrence’s opinion Bobbie Ferrar was still their man. If he could do nothing with ‘Walter’, nothing could be done. He proposed to go again to him and to the Marquess.

  The General said nothing. He stood a little apart, staring at one of his brother-in-law’s pictures, evidently without seeing it. Dinny realized that he did not join in because he could not. She wondered of what he was thinking. Of when he was young like his son, just married; of long field-days under burning sun among the sands and stones of India and South Africa; of longer days of administrative routine; of strenuous poring over maps with his eyes on the clock and his ear to the telephone; of his wounds and his son’s long sickness; of two lives given to service and this strange reward at the end?

  She herself stood close to Fleur, with the instinctive feeling that from that clear, quick brain might come a suggestion of real value.

  ‘The Squire carries weight with the Government; I might go to Bentworth,’ she heard Hilary say, and the Rector add:

  ‘Ah! I knew him at Eton, I’ll come with you.’

  She heard her Aunt Wilmet’s gruff: ‘I’ll go to Hen again about Royalty.’ And Michael’s:

  ‘In a fortnight the House will be sitting’; and Fleur’s impatient:

  ‘No good, Michael. The Press is no use either. I’ve got a hunch.’

  ‘Ah!’ she thought, and moved closer.

  ‘We haven’t gone deep enough. What’s at the back of it? Why should the Bolivian Government care about a half-caste Indian? It’s not the actual shooting, it’s the slur on their country. Floggings and shootings by foreigners! What’s wanted is something done to the Bolivian Minister that will make him tell “Walter” that they don’t really care.’

  ‘We can’t kidnap him,’ muttered Michael; ‘it’s not done in the best circles.’

  A faint smile came on Dinny’s lips; she was not so sure.

  ‘I’ll see,’ said Fleur, as if to herself. ‘Dinny, you must come to us. They’ll get no further here.’ And her eyes roved swiftly over the nine elders. ‘I shall go to Uncle Lionel and Alison. He won’t dare move, being a new judge, but she will, and she knows all the Legation people. Will you come, Dinny?’

  ‘I ought to be with mother and father.’

  ‘They’ll be here, Em’s just asked them. Well, if you stay here too, come round as much as you can; you might help.’

  Dinny nodded, relieved at staying in town; for the thought of Condaford during this suspense oppressed
her.

  ‘We’ll go now,’ said Fleur, ‘and I’ll get on to Alison at once.’

  Michael lingered to squeeze Dinny’s arm.

  ‘Buck up, Dinny! We’ll get him out of it somehow. If only it wasn’t “Walter!” He’s the worst kind of egg. To fancy yourself “just” is simply to addle.’

  When all except her own people had gone, Dinny went up to her father. He was still standing before a picture, but not the same one. Slipping her hand under his arm, she said:

  ‘It’s going to be all right, Dad dear. You could see the magistrate was really sorry. He hadn’t the power, but the Home Secretary must have.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ said the General, ‘what the people of this country would do if we didn’t sweat and risk our lives for them.’ He spoke without bitterness, or even emphasis: ‘I was thinking why we should go on doing our jobs, if our words aren’t to be believed. I was wondering where that magistrate would be – oh! I dare say he’s all right according to his lights – if boys like Hubert hadn’t gone off before their time. I was wondering why we’ve chosen lives that have landed me on the verge of bankruptcy, and Hubert in this mess, when we might have been snug and comfortable in the City or the Law. Isn’t a man’s whole career to weigh a snap when a thing like this happens? I feel the insult to the Service, Dinny.’

  She watched the convulsive movement of his thin brown hands, clasped as if he were standing at ease, and her whole heart went out to him, though she could perfectly well see the unreason of the exemption he was claiming. ‘It is easier for Heaven and Earth to pass than for one tittle of the Law to fail.’ Wasn’t that the text she had just read in what she had suggested might be made into a secret naval code?

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must go out now with Lawrence. See to your mother, Dinny, her head’s bad.’

  When she had darkened her mother’s bedroom, applied the usual remedies, and left her to try and sleep, she went downstairs again. Clare had gone out, and the drawing-room, just now so full, seemed deserted. She passed down its length and opened the piano. A voice said:

  ‘No, Polly, you must go to bed, I feel too sad’; and she became aware of her Aunt in the alcove at the end placing her parakeet in its cage.

  ‘Can we be sad together, Aunt Em?’

  Lady Mont turned round.

  ‘Put your cheek against mine, Dinny.’

  Dinny did so. The cheek was pink and round and smooth and gave her a sense of relaxation.

  ‘From the first I knew what he would say,’ said Lady Mont, ‘his nose was so long. In ten years’ time it’ll touch his chin. Why they allow them, I don’t know. You can do nothing with a man like that. Let’s cry, Dinny. You sit there, and I’ll sit here.’

  ‘Do you cry high or low, Aunt Em?’

  ‘Either. You begin. A man who can’t take a responsibility. I could have taken that responsibility perfectly, Dinny. Why didn’t he just say to Hubert “Go and sin no more”?’

  ‘But Hubert hasn’t sinned.’

  ‘It makes it all the worse. Payin’ attention to foreigners! The other day I was sittin’ in the window at Lippin’hall, and there were three starlin’s on the terrace, and I sneezed twice. D’you think they paid any attention? Where is Bolivia?’

  ‘In South America Aunt Em.’

  ‘I never could learn geography. My maps were the worst ever made at my school, Dinny. Once they asked me where Livin’stone kissed Stanley, and I answered: “Niagara Falls.” And it wasn’t.’

  ‘You were only a continent wrong there, Auntie.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve never seen anybody laugh as my schoolmistress laughed when I said that. Excessive – she was fat. I thought Hubert lookin’ thin.’

  ‘He’s always thin, but he’s looking much less “tucked up” since his marriage.’

  ‘Jean’s fatter, that’s natural. You ought, Dinny, you know.’

  ‘You never used to be so keen on people getting married, Auntie.’

  ‘What happened on the tiger the other day?’

  ‘I can’t possibly tell you that, Aunt Em.’

  ‘It must have been pretty bad, then.’

  ‘Or do you mean good?’

  ‘You’re laughin’ at me.’

  ‘Did you ever know me disrespectful, Auntie?’

  ‘Yes. I perfectly well remember you writin’ a poem about

  I do not care for Auntie Em,

  She says I cannot sew or hem.

  Does she? Well! I can sew a dem

  Sight better than my Auntie Em.

  I kept it. I thought it showed character.’

  ‘Was I such a little demon?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no way, is there, of shortenin’ dogs?’ And she pointed to the golden retriever lying on a rug. ‘Bonzo’s middle is really too long.’

  ‘I told you that, Aunt Em, when he was a puppy.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t notice it till he began to scratch for rabbits. He can’t get over the hole properly. It makes him look so weak. Well! If we’re not goin’ to cry, Dinny, what shall we do?’

  ‘Laugh?’ murmured Dinny.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  HER father and Sir Lawrence not coming back to dinner, and her mother remaining in bed, Dinny dined alone with her aunt, for Clare was staying with friends.

  ‘Aunt Em,’ she said, when they had finished, ‘do you mind if I go round to Michael’s? Fleur has had a hunch.’

  ‘Why?’ said Lady Mont: ‘It’s too early for that – not till March.’

  ‘You’re thinking of the hump, Auntie. A “hunch” means an idea.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she say so?’ And, with that simple dismissal of the more fashionable forms of speech, Lady Mont rang the bell.

  ‘Blore, a taxi for Miss Dinny. And, Blore, when Sir Lawrence comes in, let me know; I’m goin’ to have a hot bath, and wash my hair.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Do you wash your hair when you’re sad, Dinny?’

  Driving through the misty dark evening to South Square, Dinny experienced melancholy beyond all she had felt yet. The thought of Hubert actually in a prison cell, torn from a wife not more than three weeks married, facing separation that might be permanent, and a fate that would not beat thinking of; and all because they were too scrupulous to stretch a point and take his word, caused fear and rage to bank up in her spirit, as unspent heat before a storm.

  She found Fleur and her Aunt Lady Alison discussing ways and means. The Bolivian Minister, it appeared, was away convalescing after an illness, and a subordinate was in charge. This in Lady Alison’s opinion made it more difficult, for he would probably not take any responsibility. She would, however, arrange a luncheon to which Fleur and Michael should be bidden, and Dinny, too, if she wished; but Dinny shook her head – she had lost faith in her power of manipulating public men.

  ‘If you and Fleur can’t manage it, Aunt Alison, I certainly can’t. But Jean is singularly attractive when she likes.’

  ‘Jean telephoned just now, Dinny. If you came in tonight, would you go round and see her at their flat; otherwise she was writing to you.’

  Dinny stood up. ‘I’ll go at once.’

  She hurried through the mist along the Embankment and turned down towards the block of workmen’s flats where Jean had found her lodgment. At the corner boys were crying the more sanguinary tidings of the day; she bought a paper to see if Hubert’s case was mentioned, and opened it beneath a lamp. Yes! There it was! ‘British officer committed. Extradition on shooting charge.’ How little attention she would have given to that, if it had not concerned her! This, that was agony to her and hers, was to the Public just a little pleasurable excitement. The misfortunes of others were a distraction; and the papers made their living out of it! The man who had sold the paper to her had a thin face, dirty clothes, and was lame; and, throwing a libationary drop out of her bitter cup, she gave him back the paper and a shilling. His eyes widened in a puzzled stare, his mouth remained a little open. Had she backed the winner –
that one?

  Dinny went up the bricked stairs. The flat was on the second floor. Outside its door a grown black cat was spinning round after its own tail. It flew round six times on the same spot, then sat down, lifted one of its back legs high into the air, and licked it.

  Jean herself opened the door. She was evidently in the throes of packing, having a pair of combinations over her arm. Dinny kissed her and looked round. She had not been here before. The doors of the small sitting-room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom were open; the walls were distempered apple green, the floors covered with dark-green linoleum. For furniture there was a double bed, and some suit-cases in the bedroom, two armchairs and a small table in the sitting-room; a kitchen table and some bath salts in a glass jar; no rugs, no pictures, no books, but some printed linen curtains to the windows and a hanging cupboard along one whole side of the bedroom, from which Jean had been taking the clothes piled on the bed. A scent of coffee and lavender bags distinguished the atmosphere from that on the stairs.

  Jean put down the combinations.

  ‘Have some coffee, Dinny? I’ve just made it.’

  She poured out two cups, sweetened them, handed Dinny one and a paper packet of cigarettes, then pointed to one of the armchairs and sat down in the other.

  ‘You got my message, then? I’m glad you’ve come – saves my making up a parcel. I hate making parcels, don’t you?’

  Her coolness and unharassed expression seemed to Dinny miraculous.

  ‘Have you seen Hubert since?’

  ‘Yes. He’s fairly comfortable. It’s not a bad cell, he says, and they’ve given him books and writing paper. He can have food in, too; but he’s not allowed to smoke. Someone ought to move about that. According to English law Hubert’s still as innocent as the Home Secretary; there’s no law to prevent the Home Secretary smoking, is there? I shan’t be seeing him again, but you’ll be going, Dinny – so give him my special love, and take him some cigarettes in case they let him.’

  Dinny stared at her.

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’