but she was consumptive, you know, and of course he felt he couldn’t marry her–it wouldn’t have been prudent, he felt, because of children. And then she died, and he married Edith Moor.” Funny how that had stuck in her ten-year-old mind! And she stared at Jon. Old Jolyon–as they called him in the family–had been his grandfather. She had seen his photograph in Holly’s album–a domed head, a white moustache, eyes deep-set under the brows, like Jon’s. “It wouldn’t have been prudent!” How Victorian! Was Jon, too, Victorian? She felt as if she would never know what Jon was. And she became suddenly cautious. A single step too far, or too soon, and he might be gone from her again for good! He was not–no, he was not modern! For all she knew, there might be something absolute, not relative, in his “make-up,” and to Fleur the absolute was strange, almost terrifying. But she had not spent six years in social servitude without learning to adjust herself swiftly to the playing of a new part. She spoke in a calmer tone, almost a drawl; her eyes became cool and quizzical. What did Jon think about the education of boys–before he knew where he was, of course, he would be having one himself? It hurt her to say that, and, while saying it, she searched his face; but it told her nothing.
“We’ve put Kit down for Winchester. Do you believe in the Public Schools, Jon? Or do you think they’re out of date?”
“Yes; and a good thing, too.”
“How?”
“I mean I should send him there.”
“I see,” said Fleur. “Do you know, Jon, you really have changed. You wouldn’t have said that, I believe, six years ago.”
“Perhaps not. Being out of England makes you believe in dams. Ideas can’t be left to swop around in the blue. In England they’re not, and that’s the beauty of it.”
“I don’t care what happens to ideas,” said Fleur, “but I don’t like stupidity. The Public Schools–”
“Oh, no; not really. Certain things get cut and dried there, of course; but then, they ought to.”
Fleur leaned forward, and with faint malice said: “Have you become a moralist, my dear?”
Jon answered glumly:
“Why, no–no more than reason!”
“Do you remember our walk by the river?”
“I told you before–I remember everything.”
Fleur restrained her hand from a heart which had given a jump.
“We nearly quarrelled because I said I hated people for their stupid cruelties, and wanted them to stew in their own juice.”
“Yes; and I said I pitied them. Well?”
“Repression is stupid, you know, Jon.” And, by instinct, added: “That’s why I doubt the Public Schools. They teach it.”
“They’re useful socially, Fleur,” and his eyes twinkled.
Fleur pursed her lips. She did not mind. But she would make him sorry for that; because his compunction would be a trump card in her hand.
“I know perfectly well,” she said, “that I’m a snob–I was called so publicly.”
“What!”
“Oh, yes; there was a case about it.”
“Who dared?”
“Oh! my dear, that’s ancient history. But of course you knew–Francis Wilmot must have–”
Jon made a horrified gesture.
“Fleur, you never thought I–”
“Oh, but, of course! Why not?” A trump, indeed!
Jon seized her hand.
“Fleur, say you knew I didn’t–”
Fleur shrugged her shoulders. “My dear, you have lived too long among the primitives. Over here we stab each other daily, and no harm done.”
He dropped her hand, and she looked at him from beneath her lids.
“I was only teasing, Jon. It’s good for primitives to have their legs pulled. Parlons d’autre chose. Have you found your place, to grow things, yet?”
“Practically.”
“Where?”
“About four miles from Wansdon, on the south side of the Downs–Green Hill Farm. Fruit–a lot of glass; and some arable.”
“Why, it must be close to where I’m going with Kit. That’s on the sea and only five miles from Wansdon. No, Jon; don’t be alarmed. We shall only be there three weeks at most.”
“Alarmed! It’s very jolly. We shall see you there. Perhaps we shall meet at Goodwood anyway.”
“I’ve been thinking–” Fleur paused, and again she stole a look. “We CAN be steady friends, Jon, can’t we?”
Jon answered, without looking up. “I hope so.”
If his face had cleared, and his voice had been hearty, how different–how much slower–would have been the beating of her heart!
“Then that’s all right,” she murmured. “I’ve been wanting to say that to you ever since Ascot. Here we are, and here we shall be–and anything else would be silly, wouldn’t it? This is not the romantic age.”
“H’m!”
“What do you mean by that unpleasant noise?”
“I always think it’s rot to talk about ages being this or that. Human feelings remain the same.”
“Do you really think they do? The sort of life we live affects them. Nothing’s worth more than a year or two, Jon. I found that out. But I forgot–you hate cynicism. Tell me about Anne. Is she still liking England?”
“Loving it. You see, she’s pure Southern, and the South’s old still, too, in a way–or some of it is. What she likes here is the grass, the birds, and the villages. She doesn’t feel homesick. And, of course, she loves the riding.”
“I suppose she’s picking up English fast?”
And to his stare she made her face quite candid.
“I should like you to like her,” he said, wistfully.
“Oh! of course I shall, when I know her.”
But a fierce little wave of contempt passed up from her heart. What did he think she was made of? Like her! A girl who lay in his arms, who would be the mother of his children. Like her! And she began to talk about the preservation of Box Hill. And all the rest of the way till Jon got out at Pulborough, she was more wary than a cat–casual and friendly, with clear candid eyes, and a little tremble up at him when she said:
“Au revoir, then, at Goodwood, if not before! This HAS been a jolly accident!”
But on the way to her hotel, driving in a station fly through air that smelled of oysters, she folded her lips between her teeth, and her eyes were damp beneath her frowning brows.
Chapter IX.
BUT–JON
But Jon, who had over five miles to walk, started with the words of the old English song beating a silent tattoo within him:
“How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away!”
To such confusion had he come, contrary to intention, but in accordance with the impulses of a loyal disposition. Fleur had been his first love, Anne his second. But Anne was his wife, and Fleur the wife of another. A man could not be in love with two women at once, so he was tempted to conclude that he was not in love with either. Why, then, the queer sensations of his circulatory system? Was popular belief in error? A French, or Old–English way of looking at his situation, did not occur to him. He had married Anne, he loved Anne–she was a darling! There it ended! Why, then, walking along a grassy strip beside the road, did he think almost exclusively of Fleur? However cynical, or casual, or just friendly she might seem, she no more deceived him than she at heart wished to. He knew she had her old feeling for him, just as he knew he had it, or some of it, for her. But then he had feeling for another, too. Jon was not more of a fool than other men, nor was he more self-deceiving. Like other men before him, he intended to face what was, and to do what he believed to be right; or, rather, not to do what he believed to be wrong. Nor had he any doubt as to what was wrong. His trouble was more simple. It consisted of not having a control of his thoughts and feelings greater than that with which any man has hitherto been endowed. After all, it had not been his fault that he had once been wholly in love with Fleur, nor that she had been wholly in love with him; not his fault that he had met her again, nor that she was still in love with him. Nor again was it his fault that he was in love with his native land and tired of being out of it.
It was not his fault that he had fallen in love a second time or married the object of his affections. Nor, so far as he could see, was it his fault that the sight and the sound and the scent and the touch of Fleur had revived some of his former feelings. He was none the less disgusted at his double-heartedness; and he walked now fast, now slow, while the sun shifted over and struck on a neck always sensitive since his touch of the sun in Granada. Presently, he stopped and leaned over a gate. He had not been long enough back in England to have got over its beauty on a fine day. He was always stopping and leaning over gates, or in other ways, as Val called it, mooning!
Though it was already the first day of the Eton and Harrow Match, which his father had been wont to attend so religiously, hay harvest was barely over, and the scent of stacked hay still in the air. The Downs lay before him to the south, lighted along their northern slopes. Red Sussex cattle were standing under some trees close to the gate, dribbling and slowly swishing their tails. And away over there he could see others lingering along the hill-side. Peace lay thick on the land. The corn in that next field had an unearthly tinge, neither green nor gold, under the slanting sunlight. And in the restful beauty of the evening Jon could well perceive the destructiveness of love–an emotion so sweet, restless, and thrilling, that it drained Nature of its colour and peace, made those who suffered from it bores to their fellows and useless to the life of everyday. To work–and behold Nature in her moods! Why couldn’t he get away to that, away from women? Why–like Holly’s story of the holiday slum girl, whose family came to see her off by train–why couldn’t he just get away and say: “Thank Gawd! I’m shut o’ that lot!”
The midges were biting, and he walked on. Should he tell Anne that he had come down with Fleur? Not to tell her was to stress the importance of the incident; but to tell her was somehow disagreeable to him. And then he came on Anne herself, without a hat, sitting on a gate, her hands in the pockets of her jumper. Very lissome and straight she looked.
“Lift me down, Jon!”
He lifted her down in a prolonged manner. And, almost instantly, said:
“Whom do you think I travelled with? Fleur Mont. We ran up against each other at Victoria. She’s taking her boy to Loring next week, to convalesce him.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in love with you, Jon.” She tilted her chin, so that her straight and shapely nose looked a little more sudden.
“I don’t see–” began Jon.
“You see she’s another. I saw that at Ascot. I reckon I’m old-fashioned, Jon.”
“That’s all right, so am I.”
She turned her eyes on him, eyes not quite civilised, nor quite American, and put her arm round his waist.
“Rondavel’s off his feed. Greenwater’s very upset about it.”
“‘Very,’ Anne.”
“Well, you can’t pronounce ‘very’ as I pronounce it, any more than I can as you do.”
“Sorry. But you told me to remind you. It’s silly, though: why shouldn’t you speak your own lingo?”
“Because I want to speak like you.”
“Want, then, not waunt.”
“Damn!”
“All right, darling. But isn’t your lingo just as good?”
Anne disengaged her arm.
“No, you don’t think that. You’re awfully glad to be through with the American accent–you ARE, Jon.”
“It’s natural to like one’s own country’s best.”
“Well, I do want–there! – to speak English. I’m English by law, now, and by descent, all but one French great-grandmother. If we have children, they’ll be English, and we’re going to live in England. Shall you take Greenhill Farm?”
“Yes. And I’m not going to play at things any more. I’ve played twice, and this time I’m going all out.”
“You weren’t playing in North Carolina.”
“Not exactly. But this is different. It didn’t matter there. – What are peaches, anyway? It does here–it matters a lot. I mean to make it pay.”
“Bully!” said Anne: “I mean–er–splendid. But I never believed you’d say that.”
“Paying the only proof. I’m going in for tomatoes, onions, asparagus, and figs; and I mean to work the arable for all it’s worth; and if I can get any more land, I will.”
“Jon! What energy!” And she caught hold of his chin.
“All right!” said Jon, grimly. “You watch out, and see if I don’t mean it.”
“And you’ll leave the house to me? I’ll make it just too lovely!”
“That’s a bargain.”
“Kiss me, then.”
With her lips parted and her eyes looking into his, with just that suspicion of a squint which made them so enticing, Jon thought: ‘It’s quite simple. The other thing’s absurd. Why, of course!’ He kissed her forehead and lips, but, even while he did so, he seemed to see Fleur trembling up at him, and to hear her words: “Au revoir! It WAS a jolly accident!”
“Let’s go and have a look at Rondavel,” he said.
In his box, when those two went in, the grey colt stood by the far wall, idly contemplating a carrot in the hand of Greenwater.
“Clean off!” said the latter over his shoulder: “It’s goodbye to Goodwood! The colt’s sick.”
What had Fleur said: “Au revoir at Goodwood, if not before!”
“Perhaps it’s just a megrim, Greenwater,” said Anne.
“No, Ma’am; the horse has got a temperature. Well, we’ll win the Middle Park Plate with him yet!”
Jon passed his hand over the colt’s quarter: “Poor old son! Funny! You can tell he’s not fit by the feel of his coat!”
“You can that,” replied Greenwater: “But where’s he got it from? There isn’t a sick horse that I know of anywhere about. If there’s anything in the world more perverse than horses! – We didn’t train him for Ascot, and he goes and wins. We meant him for Goodwood, and he’s gone amiss. Mr. Dartie wants me to give him some South African stuff I never heard of.”
“They have a lot of horse sickness out there,” said Jon.
“See,” said the trainer, stretching his hand up to the colt’s ears; “no kick in him at all! Looks like blackberry sickness out of season. I’d give a good deal to know how he picked it up.”
The two young people left him standing by the colt’s dejected head, his dark, hawk-like face thrust forward, as if trying to read the sensations within his favourite.
That night, Jon went up, bemused by Val’s opinions on Communism, the Labour Party, the qualities inherent in the off-spring of “Sleeping Dove,” with a dissertation on a horse-sickness in South Africa. He entered a dim bedroom. A white figure was standing at the window. It turned when he came near and flung its arms round him.
“Jon, you mustn’t stop loving me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because men do. Besides, it’s not the fashion to be faithful.”
“Bosh!” said Jon, gently; “it’s just as much the fashion as it ever was.”
“I’m glad we shan’t be going to Goodwood. I’m afraid of her. She’s so clever.”
“Fleur?”
“You WERE in love with her, Jon; I feel it in my bones. I wish you’d told me.”
Jon leaned beside her in the window.
“Why?” he said, dully.
She did not answer. They stood side by side in the breathless warmth, moths passed their faces, a night-jar churred in the silence, and now and then, from the stables, came the stamp of a sleepless horse. Suddenly Anne stretched out her hand:
“Over there–somewhere–she’s awake, and wanting you. I’m not happy, Jon.”
“Don’t be morbid, darling!”
“But I’m NOT happy, Jon.”
Like a great child–slim within his arm, her cheek pressed to his, her dark earlock tickling his neck! And suddenly her lips came round to his, vehement.
“Love me!”
But when she was asleep, Jon lay wakeful. Moonlight had crept in and there was a ghost in the room–a ghost in a Goya dress, twirling, holding out its skirts, beckoning with its eyes, and with its lips seeming to whisper: “Me, too! Me, too!”
And, raising himself on his elbow, he looked resolutely at the dark head beside him. No! There was–there should be nothing but that in the room! Reality–reality!
Chapter X.
THAT THING AND THIS THING
On the following Monday at breakfast Val said to Holly: Listen to this!
“DEAR DARTIE, –
“I think I can do you a good turn. I have some information that concerns your ‘Sleeping Dove’ colt and your stable generally, worth a great deal more than the fifty pounds which I hope you may feel inclined to pay for it. Are you coming up to town this week-end? If so, can I see you at the Brummell? Or I could come to Green Street if you prefer it. It’s really rather vital.
“Sincerely yours,
“AUBREY STAINFORD.”
“That fellow again!”
“Pay no attention, Val.”
“I don’t know,” said Val, glumly. “Some gang or other are taking altogether too much interest in the colt. Greenwater’s very uneasy. I’d better get to the bottom of it, if I can.”
“Consult your uncle, then, first. He’s still at your mother’s.”
Val made a wry face.
“Yes,” said Holly, “but he’ll know what you can do and what you can’t. You really mustn’t deal single-handed with people like that.”
“All right, then. There’s hanky-panky in the wind, I’m sure. Somebody knew all about the colt at Ascot.”
He took the morning train and arrived at his mother’s at lunch time. She and Annette were lunching-out, but Soames, who was lunching-in, crossed a cold hand with his nephew’s.
“Have you still got that young man and his wife staying with you?”
“Yes,” said Val.
“Isn’t he ever going to do anything?”
On being told that Jon was about to do something, Soames grunted.
“Farm–in England? What’s he want to do that for? He’ll only throw his money away. Much better go back to America, or some other new country. Why doesn’t he try South Africa? His half-brother died out there.”
“He won’t leave England again, Uncle Soames–seems to have developed quite a feeling for the old country.”
Soames masticated.
“Amateurs,” he said, “all the young Forsytes. How much has he got a year?”
“The same as Holly and her half-sister–only about two thousand, so long as his mother’s alive.”
Soames looked into his wineglass and took from it an infinitesimal piece of cork. His mother! She was in Paris again, he was told. SHE must have three thousand a year, now, at least. He remembered when she had nothing but a beggarly fifty pounds a year, and that fifty pounds too much, putting the thought of independence into her head. In Paris again! The Bois de Boulogne, that Green Niobe–all drinking water, he remembered it still, and the scene between them, there…
“What have YOU come up for?” he said to Val.
“This, Uncle Soames.”
Soames fixed on his nose the glasses he had just begun to need for reading purposes, read the letter, and returned it to his nephew.
“I’ve known impudence in my time, but this chap–!”
“What do you recommend me to do?”
“Pitch it into the waste-paper basket.”
Val shook his head.
“Stainford dropped in on me one day at Wansdon. I told him nothing; but you remember we couldn’t get more than fours at Ascot, and it was Rondavel’s first outing. And now the colt’s sick just before Goodwood; there’s a screw loose somewhere.”
“What do you think of doing, then?”
“I thought I’d see him, and that perhaps you’d like to be present, to keep me from making a fool of myself.”
“There’s something in that,” said Soames. “This fellow’s the coolest ruffian I ever came across.”
“He’s pedigree stock, Uncle Soames. Blood will tell.”
“H’m!” muttered Soames. “Well, have him here, if you must see him, but clear the room first and tell Smither to put away the umbrellas.”
Having seen Fleur and his grandson off to the sea that morning, he felt flat, especially as, since her departure, he had gathered from the map of Sussex that she would be quite near to Wansdon and the young man who was always now at the back of his thoughts. The notion of a return match with “this ruffian” Stainford, was, therefore, in the nature of a distraction. And, as soon as the messenger was gone, he took a chair whence he could see the street. On second thoughts he had not spoken about the umbrellas–it was not quite dignified; but he had counted them. The day was warm and rainy, and, through the open window of that ground-floor dining-room, the air of Green Street came in, wetted and a little charged with the scent of servants’ dinners.
“Here he is,” he said, suddenly, “languid beggar!”
Val crossed from the sideboard and stood behind his Uncle’s chair. Soames moved uneasily. This fellow and his nephew had been at College together, and had–goodness knew what other vices in common.
“By Jove!” he heard Val mutter: “He does look ill.”
The “languid beggar” wore the same dark suit and hat, and the same slow elegance that Soames had first noted on him; a raised eyebrow and the half-lidded eyes despised as ever the bitter crow’s-footed exhaustion on his face. And that indefinable look of a damned soul, lost to all but its contempt for emotion, awakened within Soames, just as it had before, the queerest little quirk of sympathy.
“He’d better have a drink,” he said.
Val moved back to the sideboard.
They heard the bell, voices in the hall; then Smither appeared, red, breathless, deprecatory.
“Will you see that gentleman, sir, who took the you know what, sir?”
“Show him in, Smither.”
Val turned towards the door. Soames remained seated.
The “languid beggar” entered, nodded to Val, and raised his eyebrows at Soames, who said:
“How d’you do, Mr. Stainford?”
“Mr. Forsyte, I think?”
“Whisky or brandy, Stainford?”
“Brandy, thanks.”
“Smoke, won’t you? You wanted to see me. My uncle here is my solicitor.”
Soames saw Stainford smile. It was as if he had said: “Really! How wonderful these people are!” He lighted the proffered cigar, and there was silence.
“Well?” said Val, at last.
“I’m sorry your ‘Sleeping Dove’ colt’s gone amiss, Dartie.”
“How did you know that?”
“Exactly! But before I tell you, d’you mind giving me fifty pounds and your word that my name’s not mentioned.”
Soames and his nephew stared in silence. At last Val said:
“What guarantee have I that your information’s worth fifty pounds, or even five?”
“The fact that I knew your colt had gone amiss.”
However ignorant of the turf, Soames could see that the fellow had scored.
“You mean you know where the leakage is?”
Stainford nodded.
“We were College pals,” said Val. “What would you expect me to do if I knew that about a stable of yours?”
“My dear Dartie, there’s no analogy. You’re a man of means, I’m not.”
Trite expressions were knocking against Soames’ palate. He swallowed them. What use in talking to a chap like this!
“Fifty pounds is a lot,” said Val. “Is your information of real value?”
“Yes–on my word of honour.”
Soames sniffed audibly.
“If I buy this leakage from you,” said Val, “can you guarantee that it won’t break out, in another direction?”
“Highly improbable that two pipes will leak in your stable.”
“I find it hard to believe there’s one.”
“Well, there is.”
Soames saw his nephew move up to the table and begin counting over a roll of notes.
“Tell me what you know, first, and I’ll give them to you if on the face of it your information’s probable. I won’t mention your name.”
Soames saw the languid eyebrows lift.
“I’m not so distrustful as you, Dartie. Get rid of a boy called Sinnet–that’s where your stable leaks.”
“Sinnet?” said Val; “My best boy? What proof have you?”
Stainford took out a dirty piece of writing paper and held it up. Val read aloud:
“‘The grey colt’s amiss all right–he’ll be no good for Goodwood.’ All right?” he repeated: “Does that mean he engineered it?”
Stainford shrugged his shoulders.
“Can I have this bit of paper?” said Val.
“If you’ll promise not to show it to him.”
Val nodded and took the paper.
“Do you know his writing?” asked Soames: “All this is very fishy.”
“Not yet,” said Val, and to Soames’ horror, put the notes into the outstretched hand. The little sigh the fellow gave was distinctly audible. Val said suddenly:
“Did you get at him the day you came down to see me?”
Stainford smiled faintly, shrugged his shoulders again and turned to the door. “Good-bye, Dartie,” he said.
Soames’ mouth fell open. The return match was over! The fellow had gone!
“Here!” he said. “Don’t let him go like that. It’s monstrous.”
“Dam’ funny!” said Val suddenly, and began to laugh. “Oh! dam’ funny!”
“Funny!” muttered Soames. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
“Never mind, Uncle Soames. He’s taken fifty of the best of me, but it was worth it. Sinnet, my best boy!”
Soames continued to mutter:
“To corrupt one of your men, and get you to pay him for it. It’s the limit.”
“That’s what tickles me, Uncle Soames. Well, I’ll go back to Wansdon now, and get rid of that young blackguard.”
“I shouldn’t have any scruple, if I were you, in telling him exactly how you got the knowledge.”
“Well, I don’t know. Stainford’s on his beam ends. I’m not a moralist, but I think I’ll keep my word to him.”
For a moment Soames said nothing; then, with a sidelong glance at his nephew:
“Well, perhaps. But he ought to be locked up.”
With those words he walked into the hall and counted the umbrellas. Their number was undiminished, and taking one of them, he went out. He felt in need of air. With the exception of that Elderson affair, he had encountered little flagrant dishonesty in his time, and that only in connection with the lower classes. One could forgive a poor devil of a tramp, or even a clerk or domestic servant. They had temptations, and no particular traditions to live up to. But what was coming to the world, if you couldn’t rely on gentlemen in a simple matter like honesty! Every day one read cases, and for every one that came into Court one might be sure there were a dozen that didn’t! And when you added all the hanky-panky in the City, all the dubious commissions, bribery of the police, sale of honours–though he believed that had been put a stop to–all the dicky-dealing over contracts, it was enough to make one’s hair stand on end. They might sneer at the past, and no doubt there was more temptation in the present, but something simple and straightforward seemed to have perished out of life. By hook or by crook people had to get their ends, would no longer wait for their ends to come to them. Everybody was in such a hurry to make good, or rather bad! Get money at all costs-look at the quack remedies they sold and the books they published now-a-days, without caring for truth or decency or anything. And the advertisements! Good Lord!
In the gloom of these reflections he had come to Westminster. He might as well call in at South Square and see if Fleur had telephoned her arrival at the sea! In the hall eight hats of differing shape and colour lay on the coat-sarcophagus. What the deuce was going on? A sound of voices came from the dining-room, then the peculiar drone of somebody making a speech. Some meeting or other of Michael’s, and the measles only just out of the house!
“What’s going on here?” he said to Coaker.
“Something to do with the slums, sir. I believe; they’re converting of them, I heard Mr. Mont say.”
“Don’t put my hat with those,” said Soames; “have you had any message from your mistress?”
“Yes, sir. They had a good journey. The little dog was sick, I believe. He will have his own way.”
“Well,” said Soames, “I’ll go up and wait in the study.”
On getting there, he noticed a water-colour drawing on the bureau: a tree with large dark green leaves and globular golden fruit, against a silvery sort of background–peculiar thing, amateurish, but somehow arresting. Underneath, he recognized his daughter’s handwriting:
“The Golden Apple: F.M. 1926.”
Really he had no idea that she could use water-colour as well as that! She was a clever little thing! And he put the drawing up on end where he could see it better! Apple? Passion-fruit, he would have said, of an exaggerated size. Thoroughly uneatable–they had a glow like lanterns. Forbidden fruit! Eve might have given them to Adam. Was this thing symbolic? Did it fancifully reveal her thoughts? And in front of it he fell into sombre mood, which was broken by the opening of the door. Michael had entered.
“Hallo, sir!”
“Hallo!” replied Soames: “What’s this thing?”
Chapter XI.
CONVERTING THE SLUMS
In an Age governed almost exclusively by Committees, Michael knew fairly well what Committees were governed by. A Committee must not meet too soon after food, for then the Committeemen would sleep; nor too soon before food, because then the Committeemen would be excitable. The Committeemen should be allowed to say what they liked, without direction, until each was tired of hearing the others say it.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
“We’ve put Kit down for Winchester. Do you believe in the Public Schools, Jon? Or do you think they’re out of date?”
“Yes; and a good thing, too.”
“How?”
“I mean I should send him there.”
“I see,” said Fleur. “Do you know, Jon, you really have changed. You wouldn’t have said that, I believe, six years ago.”
“Perhaps not. Being out of England makes you believe in dams. Ideas can’t be left to swop around in the blue. In England they’re not, and that’s the beauty of it.”
“I don’t care what happens to ideas,” said Fleur, “but I don’t like stupidity. The Public Schools–”
“Oh, no; not really. Certain things get cut and dried there, of course; but then, they ought to.”
Fleur leaned forward, and with faint malice said: “Have you become a moralist, my dear?”
Jon answered glumly:
“Why, no–no more than reason!”
“Do you remember our walk by the river?”
“I told you before–I remember everything.”
Fleur restrained her hand from a heart which had given a jump.
“We nearly quarrelled because I said I hated people for their stupid cruelties, and wanted them to stew in their own juice.”
“Yes; and I said I pitied them. Well?”
“Repression is stupid, you know, Jon.” And, by instinct, added: “That’s why I doubt the Public Schools. They teach it.”
“They’re useful socially, Fleur,” and his eyes twinkled.
Fleur pursed her lips. She did not mind. But she would make him sorry for that; because his compunction would be a trump card in her hand.
“I know perfectly well,” she said, “that I’m a snob–I was called so publicly.”
“What!”
“Oh, yes; there was a case about it.”
“Who dared?”
“Oh! my dear, that’s ancient history. But of course you knew–Francis Wilmot must have–”
Jon made a horrified gesture.
“Fleur, you never thought I–”
“Oh, but, of course! Why not?” A trump, indeed!
Jon seized her hand.
“Fleur, say you knew I didn’t–”
Fleur shrugged her shoulders. “My dear, you have lived too long among the primitives. Over here we stab each other daily, and no harm done.”
He dropped her hand, and she looked at him from beneath her lids.
“I was only teasing, Jon. It’s good for primitives to have their legs pulled. Parlons d’autre chose. Have you found your place, to grow things, yet?”
“Practically.”
“Where?”
“About four miles from Wansdon, on the south side of the Downs–Green Hill Farm. Fruit–a lot of glass; and some arable.”
“Why, it must be close to where I’m going with Kit. That’s on the sea and only five miles from Wansdon. No, Jon; don’t be alarmed. We shall only be there three weeks at most.”
“Alarmed! It’s very jolly. We shall see you there. Perhaps we shall meet at Goodwood anyway.”
“I’ve been thinking–” Fleur paused, and again she stole a look. “We CAN be steady friends, Jon, can’t we?”
Jon answered, without looking up. “I hope so.”
If his face had cleared, and his voice had been hearty, how different–how much slower–would have been the beating of her heart!
“Then that’s all right,” she murmured. “I’ve been wanting to say that to you ever since Ascot. Here we are, and here we shall be–and anything else would be silly, wouldn’t it? This is not the romantic age.”
“H’m!”
“What do you mean by that unpleasant noise?”
“I always think it’s rot to talk about ages being this or that. Human feelings remain the same.”
“Do you really think they do? The sort of life we live affects them. Nothing’s worth more than a year or two, Jon. I found that out. But I forgot–you hate cynicism. Tell me about Anne. Is she still liking England?”
“Loving it. You see, she’s pure Southern, and the South’s old still, too, in a way–or some of it is. What she likes here is the grass, the birds, and the villages. She doesn’t feel homesick. And, of course, she loves the riding.”
“I suppose she’s picking up English fast?”
And to his stare she made her face quite candid.
“I should like you to like her,” he said, wistfully.
“Oh! of course I shall, when I know her.”
But a fierce little wave of contempt passed up from her heart. What did he think she was made of? Like her! A girl who lay in his arms, who would be the mother of his children. Like her! And she began to talk about the preservation of Box Hill. And all the rest of the way till Jon got out at Pulborough, she was more wary than a cat–casual and friendly, with clear candid eyes, and a little tremble up at him when she said:
“Au revoir, then, at Goodwood, if not before! This HAS been a jolly accident!”
But on the way to her hotel, driving in a station fly through air that smelled of oysters, she folded her lips between her teeth, and her eyes were damp beneath her frowning brows.
Chapter IX.
BUT–JON
But Jon, who had over five miles to walk, started with the words of the old English song beating a silent tattoo within him:
“How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away!”
To such confusion had he come, contrary to intention, but in accordance with the impulses of a loyal disposition. Fleur had been his first love, Anne his second. But Anne was his wife, and Fleur the wife of another. A man could not be in love with two women at once, so he was tempted to conclude that he was not in love with either. Why, then, the queer sensations of his circulatory system? Was popular belief in error? A French, or Old–English way of looking at his situation, did not occur to him. He had married Anne, he loved Anne–she was a darling! There it ended! Why, then, walking along a grassy strip beside the road, did he think almost exclusively of Fleur? However cynical, or casual, or just friendly she might seem, she no more deceived him than she at heart wished to. He knew she had her old feeling for him, just as he knew he had it, or some of it, for her. But then he had feeling for another, too. Jon was not more of a fool than other men, nor was he more self-deceiving. Like other men before him, he intended to face what was, and to do what he believed to be right; or, rather, not to do what he believed to be wrong. Nor had he any doubt as to what was wrong. His trouble was more simple. It consisted of not having a control of his thoughts and feelings greater than that with which any man has hitherto been endowed. After all, it had not been his fault that he had once been wholly in love with Fleur, nor that she had been wholly in love with him; not his fault that he had met her again, nor that she was still in love with him. Nor again was it his fault that he was in love with his native land and tired of being out of it.
It was not his fault that he had fallen in love a second time or married the object of his affections. Nor, so far as he could see, was it his fault that the sight and the sound and the scent and the touch of Fleur had revived some of his former feelings. He was none the less disgusted at his double-heartedness; and he walked now fast, now slow, while the sun shifted over and struck on a neck always sensitive since his touch of the sun in Granada. Presently, he stopped and leaned over a gate. He had not been long enough back in England to have got over its beauty on a fine day. He was always stopping and leaning over gates, or in other ways, as Val called it, mooning!
Though it was already the first day of the Eton and Harrow Match, which his father had been wont to attend so religiously, hay harvest was barely over, and the scent of stacked hay still in the air. The Downs lay before him to the south, lighted along their northern slopes. Red Sussex cattle were standing under some trees close to the gate, dribbling and slowly swishing their tails. And away over there he could see others lingering along the hill-side. Peace lay thick on the land. The corn in that next field had an unearthly tinge, neither green nor gold, under the slanting sunlight. And in the restful beauty of the evening Jon could well perceive the destructiveness of love–an emotion so sweet, restless, and thrilling, that it drained Nature of its colour and peace, made those who suffered from it bores to their fellows and useless to the life of everyday. To work–and behold Nature in her moods! Why couldn’t he get away to that, away from women? Why–like Holly’s story of the holiday slum girl, whose family came to see her off by train–why couldn’t he just get away and say: “Thank Gawd! I’m shut o’ that lot!”
The midges were biting, and he walked on. Should he tell Anne that he had come down with Fleur? Not to tell her was to stress the importance of the incident; but to tell her was somehow disagreeable to him. And then he came on Anne herself, without a hat, sitting on a gate, her hands in the pockets of her jumper. Very lissome and straight she looked.
“Lift me down, Jon!”
He lifted her down in a prolonged manner. And, almost instantly, said:
“Whom do you think I travelled with? Fleur Mont. We ran up against each other at Victoria. She’s taking her boy to Loring next week, to convalesce him.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in love with you, Jon.” She tilted her chin, so that her straight and shapely nose looked a little more sudden.
“I don’t see–” began Jon.
“You see she’s another. I saw that at Ascot. I reckon I’m old-fashioned, Jon.”
“That’s all right, so am I.”
She turned her eyes on him, eyes not quite civilised, nor quite American, and put her arm round his waist.
“Rondavel’s off his feed. Greenwater’s very upset about it.”
“‘Very,’ Anne.”
“Well, you can’t pronounce ‘very’ as I pronounce it, any more than I can as you do.”
“Sorry. But you told me to remind you. It’s silly, though: why shouldn’t you speak your own lingo?”
“Because I want to speak like you.”
“Want, then, not waunt.”
“Damn!”
“All right, darling. But isn’t your lingo just as good?”
Anne disengaged her arm.
“No, you don’t think that. You’re awfully glad to be through with the American accent–you ARE, Jon.”
“It’s natural to like one’s own country’s best.”
“Well, I do want–there! – to speak English. I’m English by law, now, and by descent, all but one French great-grandmother. If we have children, they’ll be English, and we’re going to live in England. Shall you take Greenhill Farm?”
“Yes. And I’m not going to play at things any more. I’ve played twice, and this time I’m going all out.”
“You weren’t playing in North Carolina.”
“Not exactly. But this is different. It didn’t matter there. – What are peaches, anyway? It does here–it matters a lot. I mean to make it pay.”
“Bully!” said Anne: “I mean–er–splendid. But I never believed you’d say that.”
“Paying the only proof. I’m going in for tomatoes, onions, asparagus, and figs; and I mean to work the arable for all it’s worth; and if I can get any more land, I will.”
“Jon! What energy!” And she caught hold of his chin.
“All right!” said Jon, grimly. “You watch out, and see if I don’t mean it.”
“And you’ll leave the house to me? I’ll make it just too lovely!”
“That’s a bargain.”
“Kiss me, then.”
With her lips parted and her eyes looking into his, with just that suspicion of a squint which made them so enticing, Jon thought: ‘It’s quite simple. The other thing’s absurd. Why, of course!’ He kissed her forehead and lips, but, even while he did so, he seemed to see Fleur trembling up at him, and to hear her words: “Au revoir! It WAS a jolly accident!”
“Let’s go and have a look at Rondavel,” he said.
In his box, when those two went in, the grey colt stood by the far wall, idly contemplating a carrot in the hand of Greenwater.
“Clean off!” said the latter over his shoulder: “It’s goodbye to Goodwood! The colt’s sick.”
What had Fleur said: “Au revoir at Goodwood, if not before!”
“Perhaps it’s just a megrim, Greenwater,” said Anne.
“No, Ma’am; the horse has got a temperature. Well, we’ll win the Middle Park Plate with him yet!”
Jon passed his hand over the colt’s quarter: “Poor old son! Funny! You can tell he’s not fit by the feel of his coat!”
“You can that,” replied Greenwater: “But where’s he got it from? There isn’t a sick horse that I know of anywhere about. If there’s anything in the world more perverse than horses! – We didn’t train him for Ascot, and he goes and wins. We meant him for Goodwood, and he’s gone amiss. Mr. Dartie wants me to give him some South African stuff I never heard of.”
“They have a lot of horse sickness out there,” said Jon.
“See,” said the trainer, stretching his hand up to the colt’s ears; “no kick in him at all! Looks like blackberry sickness out of season. I’d give a good deal to know how he picked it up.”
The two young people left him standing by the colt’s dejected head, his dark, hawk-like face thrust forward, as if trying to read the sensations within his favourite.
That night, Jon went up, bemused by Val’s opinions on Communism, the Labour Party, the qualities inherent in the off-spring of “Sleeping Dove,” with a dissertation on a horse-sickness in South Africa. He entered a dim bedroom. A white figure was standing at the window. It turned when he came near and flung its arms round him.
“Jon, you mustn’t stop loving me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because men do. Besides, it’s not the fashion to be faithful.”
“Bosh!” said Jon, gently; “it’s just as much the fashion as it ever was.”
“I’m glad we shan’t be going to Goodwood. I’m afraid of her. She’s so clever.”
“Fleur?”
“You WERE in love with her, Jon; I feel it in my bones. I wish you’d told me.”
Jon leaned beside her in the window.
“Why?” he said, dully.
She did not answer. They stood side by side in the breathless warmth, moths passed their faces, a night-jar churred in the silence, and now and then, from the stables, came the stamp of a sleepless horse. Suddenly Anne stretched out her hand:
“Over there–somewhere–she’s awake, and wanting you. I’m not happy, Jon.”
“Don’t be morbid, darling!”
“But I’m NOT happy, Jon.”
Like a great child–slim within his arm, her cheek pressed to his, her dark earlock tickling his neck! And suddenly her lips came round to his, vehement.
“Love me!”
But when she was asleep, Jon lay wakeful. Moonlight had crept in and there was a ghost in the room–a ghost in a Goya dress, twirling, holding out its skirts, beckoning with its eyes, and with its lips seeming to whisper: “Me, too! Me, too!”
And, raising himself on his elbow, he looked resolutely at the dark head beside him. No! There was–there should be nothing but that in the room! Reality–reality!
Chapter X.
THAT THING AND THIS THING
On the following Monday at breakfast Val said to Holly: Listen to this!
“DEAR DARTIE, –
“I think I can do you a good turn. I have some information that concerns your ‘Sleeping Dove’ colt and your stable generally, worth a great deal more than the fifty pounds which I hope you may feel inclined to pay for it. Are you coming up to town this week-end? If so, can I see you at the Brummell? Or I could come to Green Street if you prefer it. It’s really rather vital.
“Sincerely yours,
“AUBREY STAINFORD.”
“That fellow again!”
“Pay no attention, Val.”
“I don’t know,” said Val, glumly. “Some gang or other are taking altogether too much interest in the colt. Greenwater’s very uneasy. I’d better get to the bottom of it, if I can.”
“Consult your uncle, then, first. He’s still at your mother’s.”
Val made a wry face.
“Yes,” said Holly, “but he’ll know what you can do and what you can’t. You really mustn’t deal single-handed with people like that.”
“All right, then. There’s hanky-panky in the wind, I’m sure. Somebody knew all about the colt at Ascot.”
He took the morning train and arrived at his mother’s at lunch time. She and Annette were lunching-out, but Soames, who was lunching-in, crossed a cold hand with his nephew’s.
“Have you still got that young man and his wife staying with you?”
“Yes,” said Val.
“Isn’t he ever going to do anything?”
On being told that Jon was about to do something, Soames grunted.
“Farm–in England? What’s he want to do that for? He’ll only throw his money away. Much better go back to America, or some other new country. Why doesn’t he try South Africa? His half-brother died out there.”
“He won’t leave England again, Uncle Soames–seems to have developed quite a feeling for the old country.”
Soames masticated.
“Amateurs,” he said, “all the young Forsytes. How much has he got a year?”
“The same as Holly and her half-sister–only about two thousand, so long as his mother’s alive.”
Soames looked into his wineglass and took from it an infinitesimal piece of cork. His mother! She was in Paris again, he was told. SHE must have three thousand a year, now, at least. He remembered when she had nothing but a beggarly fifty pounds a year, and that fifty pounds too much, putting the thought of independence into her head. In Paris again! The Bois de Boulogne, that Green Niobe–all drinking water, he remembered it still, and the scene between them, there…
“What have YOU come up for?” he said to Val.
“This, Uncle Soames.”
Soames fixed on his nose the glasses he had just begun to need for reading purposes, read the letter, and returned it to his nephew.
“I’ve known impudence in my time, but this chap–!”
“What do you recommend me to do?”
“Pitch it into the waste-paper basket.”
Val shook his head.
“Stainford dropped in on me one day at Wansdon. I told him nothing; but you remember we couldn’t get more than fours at Ascot, and it was Rondavel’s first outing. And now the colt’s sick just before Goodwood; there’s a screw loose somewhere.”
“What do you think of doing, then?”
“I thought I’d see him, and that perhaps you’d like to be present, to keep me from making a fool of myself.”
“There’s something in that,” said Soames. “This fellow’s the coolest ruffian I ever came across.”
“He’s pedigree stock, Uncle Soames. Blood will tell.”
“H’m!” muttered Soames. “Well, have him here, if you must see him, but clear the room first and tell Smither to put away the umbrellas.”
Having seen Fleur and his grandson off to the sea that morning, he felt flat, especially as, since her departure, he had gathered from the map of Sussex that she would be quite near to Wansdon and the young man who was always now at the back of his thoughts. The notion of a return match with “this ruffian” Stainford, was, therefore, in the nature of a distraction. And, as soon as the messenger was gone, he took a chair whence he could see the street. On second thoughts he had not spoken about the umbrellas–it was not quite dignified; but he had counted them. The day was warm and rainy, and, through the open window of that ground-floor dining-room, the air of Green Street came in, wetted and a little charged with the scent of servants’ dinners.
“Here he is,” he said, suddenly, “languid beggar!”
Val crossed from the sideboard and stood behind his Uncle’s chair. Soames moved uneasily. This fellow and his nephew had been at College together, and had–goodness knew what other vices in common.
“By Jove!” he heard Val mutter: “He does look ill.”
The “languid beggar” wore the same dark suit and hat, and the same slow elegance that Soames had first noted on him; a raised eyebrow and the half-lidded eyes despised as ever the bitter crow’s-footed exhaustion on his face. And that indefinable look of a damned soul, lost to all but its contempt for emotion, awakened within Soames, just as it had before, the queerest little quirk of sympathy.
“He’d better have a drink,” he said.
Val moved back to the sideboard.
They heard the bell, voices in the hall; then Smither appeared, red, breathless, deprecatory.
“Will you see that gentleman, sir, who took the you know what, sir?”
“Show him in, Smither.”
Val turned towards the door. Soames remained seated.
The “languid beggar” entered, nodded to Val, and raised his eyebrows at Soames, who said:
“How d’you do, Mr. Stainford?”
“Mr. Forsyte, I think?”
“Whisky or brandy, Stainford?”
“Brandy, thanks.”
“Smoke, won’t you? You wanted to see me. My uncle here is my solicitor.”
Soames saw Stainford smile. It was as if he had said: “Really! How wonderful these people are!” He lighted the proffered cigar, and there was silence.
“Well?” said Val, at last.
“I’m sorry your ‘Sleeping Dove’ colt’s gone amiss, Dartie.”
“How did you know that?”
“Exactly! But before I tell you, d’you mind giving me fifty pounds and your word that my name’s not mentioned.”
Soames and his nephew stared in silence. At last Val said:
“What guarantee have I that your information’s worth fifty pounds, or even five?”
“The fact that I knew your colt had gone amiss.”
However ignorant of the turf, Soames could see that the fellow had scored.
“You mean you know where the leakage is?”
Stainford nodded.
“We were College pals,” said Val. “What would you expect me to do if I knew that about a stable of yours?”
“My dear Dartie, there’s no analogy. You’re a man of means, I’m not.”
Trite expressions were knocking against Soames’ palate. He swallowed them. What use in talking to a chap like this!
“Fifty pounds is a lot,” said Val. “Is your information of real value?”
“Yes–on my word of honour.”
Soames sniffed audibly.
“If I buy this leakage from you,” said Val, “can you guarantee that it won’t break out, in another direction?”
“Highly improbable that two pipes will leak in your stable.”
“I find it hard to believe there’s one.”
“Well, there is.”
Soames saw his nephew move up to the table and begin counting over a roll of notes.
“Tell me what you know, first, and I’ll give them to you if on the face of it your information’s probable. I won’t mention your name.”
Soames saw the languid eyebrows lift.
“I’m not so distrustful as you, Dartie. Get rid of a boy called Sinnet–that’s where your stable leaks.”
“Sinnet?” said Val; “My best boy? What proof have you?”
Stainford took out a dirty piece of writing paper and held it up. Val read aloud:
“‘The grey colt’s amiss all right–he’ll be no good for Goodwood.’ All right?” he repeated: “Does that mean he engineered it?”
Stainford shrugged his shoulders.
“Can I have this bit of paper?” said Val.
“If you’ll promise not to show it to him.”
Val nodded and took the paper.
“Do you know his writing?” asked Soames: “All this is very fishy.”
“Not yet,” said Val, and to Soames’ horror, put the notes into the outstretched hand. The little sigh the fellow gave was distinctly audible. Val said suddenly:
“Did you get at him the day you came down to see me?”
Stainford smiled faintly, shrugged his shoulders again and turned to the door. “Good-bye, Dartie,” he said.
Soames’ mouth fell open. The return match was over! The fellow had gone!
“Here!” he said. “Don’t let him go like that. It’s monstrous.”
“Dam’ funny!” said Val suddenly, and began to laugh. “Oh! dam’ funny!”
“Funny!” muttered Soames. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
“Never mind, Uncle Soames. He’s taken fifty of the best of me, but it was worth it. Sinnet, my best boy!”
Soames continued to mutter:
“To corrupt one of your men, and get you to pay him for it. It’s the limit.”
“That’s what tickles me, Uncle Soames. Well, I’ll go back to Wansdon now, and get rid of that young blackguard.”
“I shouldn’t have any scruple, if I were you, in telling him exactly how you got the knowledge.”
“Well, I don’t know. Stainford’s on his beam ends. I’m not a moralist, but I think I’ll keep my word to him.”
For a moment Soames said nothing; then, with a sidelong glance at his nephew:
“Well, perhaps. But he ought to be locked up.”
With those words he walked into the hall and counted the umbrellas. Their number was undiminished, and taking one of them, he went out. He felt in need of air. With the exception of that Elderson affair, he had encountered little flagrant dishonesty in his time, and that only in connection with the lower classes. One could forgive a poor devil of a tramp, or even a clerk or domestic servant. They had temptations, and no particular traditions to live up to. But what was coming to the world, if you couldn’t rely on gentlemen in a simple matter like honesty! Every day one read cases, and for every one that came into Court one might be sure there were a dozen that didn’t! And when you added all the hanky-panky in the City, all the dubious commissions, bribery of the police, sale of honours–though he believed that had been put a stop to–all the dicky-dealing over contracts, it was enough to make one’s hair stand on end. They might sneer at the past, and no doubt there was more temptation in the present, but something simple and straightforward seemed to have perished out of life. By hook or by crook people had to get their ends, would no longer wait for their ends to come to them. Everybody was in such a hurry to make good, or rather bad! Get money at all costs-look at the quack remedies they sold and the books they published now-a-days, without caring for truth or decency or anything. And the advertisements! Good Lord!
In the gloom of these reflections he had come to Westminster. He might as well call in at South Square and see if Fleur had telephoned her arrival at the sea! In the hall eight hats of differing shape and colour lay on the coat-sarcophagus. What the deuce was going on? A sound of voices came from the dining-room, then the peculiar drone of somebody making a speech. Some meeting or other of Michael’s, and the measles only just out of the house!
“What’s going on here?” he said to Coaker.
“Something to do with the slums, sir. I believe; they’re converting of them, I heard Mr. Mont say.”
“Don’t put my hat with those,” said Soames; “have you had any message from your mistress?”
“Yes, sir. They had a good journey. The little dog was sick, I believe. He will have his own way.”
“Well,” said Soames, “I’ll go up and wait in the study.”
On getting there, he noticed a water-colour drawing on the bureau: a tree with large dark green leaves and globular golden fruit, against a silvery sort of background–peculiar thing, amateurish, but somehow arresting. Underneath, he recognized his daughter’s handwriting:
“The Golden Apple: F.M. 1926.”
Really he had no idea that she could use water-colour as well as that! She was a clever little thing! And he put the drawing up on end where he could see it better! Apple? Passion-fruit, he would have said, of an exaggerated size. Thoroughly uneatable–they had a glow like lanterns. Forbidden fruit! Eve might have given them to Adam. Was this thing symbolic? Did it fancifully reveal her thoughts? And in front of it he fell into sombre mood, which was broken by the opening of the door. Michael had entered.
“Hallo, sir!”
“Hallo!” replied Soames: “What’s this thing?”
Chapter XI.
CONVERTING THE SLUMS
In an Age governed almost exclusively by Committees, Michael knew fairly well what Committees were governed by. A Committee must not meet too soon after food, for then the Committeemen would sleep; nor too soon before food, because then the Committeemen would be excitable. The Committeemen should be allowed to say what they liked, without direction, until each was tired of hearing the others say it.
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