Dinny saw her uncle turn more definitely to the magistrate.
“Her father and mother, sir, were people for whom I had every respect; they brought up their children well. He was a shoemaker—poor, of course; we’re all poor in my parish. I might almost say they died of poverty five and six years ago, and their two daughters have been more or less under my eye since. They work at Petter and Poplin’s. I’ve never heard anything against Millicent here. So far as I know, she’s a good honest girl.”
“I take it, Mr. Cherrell, your opportunities of judging of her are not very great?”
“Well, I visit the house in which she lodges with her sister. If you saw it, sir, you would agree that it requires some self-respect to deal as well as they do with the conditions there.”
“Is she a member of your congregation?”
A smile came on her uncle’s lips, and was reflected on the magistrate’s.
“Hardly, sir. Their Sundays are too precious to young people nowadays. But Millicent is one of the girls who goes for her holidays to our Rest House near Dorking. They are always very good girls down there. My niece by marriage, Mrs. Michael Mont, who runs the house, has reported well of her. Shall I read what she says?
“‘DEAR UNCLE HILARY,
“‘You ask about Millicent Pole. She has been down three times, and the matron reports that she is a nice girl and not at all flighty. My own impression of her is the same.’”
“Then it comes to this, Mr. Cherrelclass="underline" in your view a mistake has been made in this case?”
“Yes, sir; I am convinced of it.”
The girl in the dock put her handkerchief to her eyes. And Dinny felt, suddenly, indignant at the extreme wretchedness of her position. To stand there before all those people, even if she had done as they said! And why shouldn’t a girl ask a man for his companionship? He wasn’t obliged to give it.
The tall policeman stirred, looked down at her, as if scenting unorthodoxy, and cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Mr. Cherrell.”
Hilary stepped out of the witness box and in doing so caught sight of his niece and waved a finger. Dinny became aware that the case was over, the magistrate making up his mind. He sat perfectly silent, pressing his finger-tips together and staring at the girl, who had finished mopping her eyes and was staring back at him. Dinny held her breath. On the next minute—a life, perhaps, hung in the balance! The tall policeman changed his feet. Was his sympathy with his fellow in the force, or with that girl? All the little noises in the Court had ceased, the only sound was the scratching of a pen. The magistrate held his finger-tips apart and spoke:
“I am not satisfied that this case has been made out. The defendant will be dismissed. You may go.”
The girl made a little choking sound. To her right the candlestick-maker uttered a hoarse: “‘Ear! ‘ear!”
“‘Ush!” said the tall policeman. Dinny saw her uncle walking out beside the girl; he smiled as he passed.
“Wait for me, Dinny—shan’t be two minutes!”
Slipping out behind the tall policeman, Dinny waited in the lobby. The nature of things around gave her the shuddery feeling one had turning up the light in a kitchen at night; the scent of Condy’s Fluid assailed her nostrils; she moved nearer to the outer door. A police sergeant said:
“Anything I can do for you, Miss?”
“Thank you, I’m waiting for my uncle; he’s just coming.”
“The reverend gentleman?”
Dinny nodded.
“Ah! He’s a good man, is the Vicar. That girl got off?”
“Yes.”
“Well! Mistakes will ‘appen. Here he is, Miss.”
Hilary came up and put his arm through Dinny’s.
“Ah! Sergeant,” he said, “how’s the Missis?”
“Prime, Sir. So you pulled her out of it?”
“Yes,” said Hilary; “and I want a pipe. Come along, Dinny.” And, nodding to the sergeant, he led her into the air.
“What brought YOU into this galley, Dinny?”
“I came after you, Uncle. Aunt May brought me. Did that girl really not do it?”
“Ask me another. But to convict her was the surest way to send her to hell. She’s behind with her rent, and her sister’s ill. Hold on a minute while I light up.” He emitted a cloud of smoke and resumed her arm. “What do you want of me, my dear?”
“An introduction to Lord Saxenden.”
“Snubby Bantham? Why?”
“Because of Hubert.”
“Oh! Going to vamp him?”
“If you’ll bring us together.”
“I was at Harrow with Snubby, he was only a baronet then—I haven’t seen him since.”
“But you’ve got Wilfred Bentworth in your pocket, Uncle, and their estates march.”
“Well, I daresay Bentworth will give me a note to him for you.”
“That’s not what I want. I want to meet him socially.”
“Um! Yes, you can hardly vamp him without. What’s the point, exactly?”
“Hubert’s future. We want to get at the fountain-head before worse befalls.”
“I see. But look here, Dinny, Lawrence is your man. He has Bentworth going to them at Lippinghall on Tuesday next week, for partridge driving. You could go too.”
“I thought of Uncle Lawrence, but I couldn’t miss the chance of seeing you, Uncle.”
“My dear,” said Hilary, “attractive nymphs mustn’t say things like that. They go to the head. Well, here we are! Come in and have tea.”
In the drawing room of the Vicarage Dinny was startled to see again her Uncle Adrian. He was sitting in a corner with his long legs drawn in, surrounded by two young women who looked like teachers. He waved his spoon, and presently came over to her.
“After we parted, Dinny, who should appear but the man of wrath himself, to see my Peruvians.”
“Not Hallorsen?”
Adrian held out a card: ‘Professor Edward Hallorsen,’ and in pencil, ‘Piedmont Hotel.’
“He’s a much more personable bloke than I thought when I met him husky and bearded in the Dolomites; and I should say he’s no bad chap if taken the right way. And what I was going to say to you was: Why not take him the right way?”
“You haven’t read Hubert’s diary, Uncle.”
“I should like to.”
“You probably will. It may be published.”
Adrian whistled faintly.
“Perpend, my dear. Dog-fighting is excellent for all except the dogs.”
“Hallorsen’s had his innings. It’s Hubert’s turn to bat.”
“Well, Dinny—no harm in having a look at the bowling before he goes in. Let me arrange a little dinner. Diana Ferse will have us at her house, and you can stay the night with her for it. So what about Monday?”
Dinny wrinkled her rather tip-tilted nose. If, as she intended, she went to Lippinghall next week, Monday WOULD be handy. It might, after all, be as well to see this American before declaring war on him.
“All right, Uncle, and thank you very much. If you’re going West may I come with you? I want to see Aunt Emily and Uncle Lawrence. Mount Street’s on your way home.”
“Right! When you’ve had your fill, we’ll start.”
“I’m quite full,” said Dinny, and got up.
CHAPTER 6
Her luck held, and she flushed her third Uncle contemplating his own house in Mount Street, as if he were about to make an offer for it.
“Ah! Dinny, come along; your Aunt’s moulting, and she’ll be glad to see you. I miss old Forsyte,” he added in the hall. “I was just considering what I ought to ask for this house if we let it next season. You didn’t know old Forsyte—Fleur’s father: he was a character.”
“What is the matter with Aunt Em, Uncle Lawrence?”
“Nothing, my dear. I think the sight of poor old Uncle ‘Cuffs’ has made her dwell on the future. Ever dwell on the future, Dinny? It’s a dismal period, after a certain age.”
He opened a door.
“My dear, here’s Dinny.”
Emily, Lady Mont, was standing in her panelled drawing-room flicking a feather brush over a bit of Famille Verte, with her parakeet perched on her shoulder. She lowered the brush, advanced with a far-away look in her eyes, said “Mind, Polly,” and kissed her niece. The parakeet transferred itself to Dinny’s shoulder and bent its head round enquiringly to look in her face.