The slums? No! She possessed one of those eminently sane natures which rejected social problems, as fruitless and incalculable. An immediate job, like the canteen, in which she could shine a little–she would perform beautifully; but she would never work for a remote object, without shining! He could see her clear eyes looking at the slums as they had looked at Foggartism, and his experiment with the out-of-works. He might take her to see Hilary and Aunt May, but it would be futile in the end.
Night brought the first acute trouble. What were to be his relations with her, if her feelings were really engaged elsewhere? To wait and not see meant continuation of the married state. He suspected Soames of having wished to counsel that. Whipped by longing, stung and half numbed by a jealousy he must not show, and unwishful to wound her, he waited for a sign, feeling as if she must know why he was waiting. He received it, and was glad, but it did not convince him. Still!
He woke much lighter in spirit.
At breakfast he asked her what she would like to do, now that she was back and the season over. Did this slum scheme amuse her at all, because, if so, there was a lot to do in it; she would find Hilary and May great sports.
“Rather! Anything really useful, Michael!”
He took her round to the Meads. The result was better than he had hoped.
For his uncle and aunt were human buildings the like of which Fleur had not yet encountered–positively fashioned, concreted in tradition, but freely exposed to sun and air, tiled with taste, and windowed with humour. Michael, with something of their ‘make-up,’ had neither their poise, nor active certainty. Fleur recognized at once that those two dwelt in unity unlike any that she knew, as if, in their twenty odd years together, they had welded a single instrument to carry out a new discovery–the unselfconscious day. They were not fools, yet cleverness in their presence seemed jejune, and as if unrelated to reality. They knew–especially Hilary–a vast deal about flowers, printing, architecture, mountains, drains, electricity, the price of living, Italian cities; they knew how to treat the ailments of dogs, play musical instruments, administer first and even second aid, amuse children, and cause the aged to laugh. They could discuss anything from religion to morality with fluency, and the tolerance that came from experience of the trials of others and forgetfulness of their own. With her natural intelligence Fleur admired them. They were good, but they were not dull–very odd! Admiring them, she could not help making up to them. Their attitude in life–she recognised–was superior to her own, and she was prepared to pay at least lip-service. But lip-service ‘cut no ice’ in the Meads. Hand, foot, intellect and heart were the matter-of-course requirements. To occupy her mind, however, she took the jobs given her. Then trouble began. The jobs were not her own, and there was no career in them. Try as she would, she could not identify herself with Mrs. Corrigan or the little Topmarshes. The girls, who served at Petter and Poplins and kept their clothes in paper bags, bored her when they talked and when they didn’t. Each new type amused her for a day, and then just seemed unlovely. She tried hard, however, for her own sake, and in order to deceive Michael. She had been at it more than a week before she had an idea.
“You know, Michael, I feel I should be ever so much more interested if I ran a place of my own in the country–a sort of rest-house that I could make attractive for girls who wanted air and that.”
To Michael, remembering the canteen, it seemed “an idea” indeed. To Fleur it seemed more–a “lease and release,” as her father might have put it. Her scheming mind had seen the possibilities. She would be able to go there without let or cavil, and none would know what she did with her time. A base of operations with a fool-proof title was essential for a relationship, however innocent, with Jon. She began at once to learn to drive the car; for the “rest-house” must not be so near him as to excite suspicion. She approached her father on the finance of the matter. At first doubtfully, and then almost cordially, Soames approved. If he would pay the rent and rates of the house, she would manage the rest out of her own pocket. She could not have bettered such a policy by way of convincing him that her interest was genuine; for he emphatically distrusted the interest of people in anything that did not cost them money. A careful study of the map suggested to her the neighbourhood of Dorking. Box Hill had a reputation for air and beauty, and was within an hour’s fast drive of Wansdon. In the next three weeks she found and furnished a derelict house, rambling and cheap, close to the road on the London side of Box Hill, with a good garden and stables that could be converted easily. She completed her education with the car, and engaged a couple who could be left in charge with impunity. She consulted Michael and the Hilarys freely. In fact, like a mother cat, who carefully misleads the household as to where she is going to ‘lay’ her kittens, so Fleur, by the nature of her preparations, disguised her roundabout design. The Meads “Rest House,” as it was called, was opened at the end of August.
All this time she possessed her soul with only the scantiest news of Jon. A letter from Holly told her that negotiations for Green Hill Farm were ‘hanging fire’ over the price, though Jon was more and more taken with it; and Anne daily becoming more rural and more English. Rondavel was in great form again, and expected to win at Doncaster. Val had already taken a long shot about him for the Derby next year.
Fleur replied in a letter so worded as to give the impression that she had no other interest in the world just then but her new scheme. They must all drive over and see whether her “Rest House” didn’t beat the canteen. The people were “such dears”–it was all “terribly amusing.” She wished to convey the feeling that she had no fears of herself, no alarm in the thought of Jon; and that her work in life was serious. Michael, never wholly deserted by the naivete of a good disposition, was more and more deceived. To him her mind seemed really occupied; and certainly her body, for she ran up from Dorking almost daily and spent the week-ends with him either at “The Shelter,” where Kit was installed with his grandparents, or at Lippinghall, where they always made a fuss of Fleur. Rowing her on the river in bland weather, Michael recaptured a feeling of security. “Old Forsyte” must have let his imagination run away with him; the old boy WAS rather like a hen where Fleur was concerned, clucking and turning an inflamed eye on everything that came near!
Parliament had risen, and slum conversion work was now all that he was doing. These days on that river, which he ever associated with his wooing, were the happiest he had spent since the strike began–the strike that in narrowed form dragged wearyingly on, so that people ceased to mention it, the weather being warm.
And Soames? By his daughter’s tranquil amiability, he, too, was tranquilised. He would look at Michael and say nothing, in accordance with the best English traditions, and his own dignity. It was he who revived the idea of Fleur’s being painted by June’s “lame duck.” He felt it would occupy her mind still further. He would like, however, to see the fellow’s work first, though he supposed it would mean a visit to June’s.
“If she were to be out,” he said to Fleur, “I shouldn’t mind having a look round her studio.”
“Shall I arrange that, then, Dad?”
“Not too pointedly,” said Soames; “or she’ll get into a fantod.”
Accordingly at the following week-end Fleur said to him:
“If you’ll come up with me on Monday, dear, we’ll go round. The Rafaelite will be in, but June won’t. She doesn’t want to see you any more than you want to see her.”
“H’m!” said Soames. “She always spoke her mind.”
They went up, in his car. After forming his opinion Soames was to return, and Fleur to go on home. The Rafaelite met them at the head of the stairs. To Soames he suggested a bullfighter (not that he had ever seen one in the flesh), with his short whiskers, and his broad, pale face which wore the expression: “If you suppose yourself capable of appreciating my work, you make a mistake.” Soames’ face, on the other hand, wore the expression: “If you suppose that I want to see your work, you make a greater.” And, leaving him to Fleur, he began to look round. In truth he was not unfavourably impressed. The work had turned its back on modernity. The surfaces were smooth, the drawing in perspective, and the colouring full. He perceived a new note, or rather the definite revival of an old one. The chap had undoubted talent; whether it would go down in these days he did not know, but its texture was more agreeable to live with than any he had seen for some time. When he came to the portrait of June he stood for a minute, with his head on one side, and then said, with a pale smile:
“You’ve got her to the life.” It pleased him to think that June had evidently not seen in it what he saw. But when his eyes fell on the picture of Anne, his face fell, too, and he looked quickly at Fleur, who said:
“Yes, Dad? What do you think of that?”
The thought had flashed through Soames’ mind: ‘Is it to get in touch with HIM that she’s ready to be painted?’
“Finished?” he asked.
The Rafaelite answered:
“Yes. Going down to them tomorrow.”
Soames’ face rose again. That risk was over then!
“Quite clever!” he murmured. “The lily’s excellent.” And he passed on to a sketch of the woman who had opened the door to them.
“That’s recognisable! Not at all bad.”
In these quiet ways he made it clear that, while he approved on the whole, he was not going to pay any extravagant price. He took an opportunity when Fleur was out of hearing, and said:
“So you want to paint my daughter. What’s your figure?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Rather tall for these days–you’re a young man. However–so long as you make a good thing of it!”
The Rafaelite bowed ironically.
“Yes,” said Soames, “I daresay; you think all your geese are swans–never met a painter who didn’t. You won’t keep her sitting long, I suppose–she’s busy. That’s agreed, then. Goodbye! Don’t come down!”
As they went out he said to Fleur:
“I’ve fixed that. You can begin sitting when you like. His work’s better than you’d think from the look of him. Forbidding chap, I call him.”
“A painter has to be forbidding, Dad; otherwise people would think he was cadging.”
“Something in that,” said Soames. “I’ll get back now, as you won’t let me take you home. Good-bye! Take care of yourself, and don’t overdo it.” And, receiving her kiss, he got into the car.
Fleur began to walk towards her eastward-bound ‘bus as his car moved west, nor did he see her stop, give him some law, then retrace her steps to June’s.
Chapter III.
POSSESSING THE SOUL
Just as in a very old world to find things or people of pure descent is impossible, so with actions; and the psychologist who traces them to single motives is like Soames, who believed that his daughter wanted to be painted in order that she might see herself hanging on a wall. Everybody, he knew, had themselves hung sooner or later, and generally sooner. Yet Fleur, though certainly not averse to being hung, had motives that were hardly so single as all that. In the service of this complexity, she went back to June’s. That little lady, who had been lurking in her bedroom so as not to meet her kinsman, was in high feather.
“Of course the price is nominal,” she said. “Harold ought really to be getting every bit as much for his portraits as Thom or Lippen. Still, it’s so important for him to be making something while he’s waiting to take his real place. What have you come back for?
“Partly for the pleasure of seeing you,” said Fleur, “and partly because we forgot to arrange for the first sitting. I think my best time would be three o’clock.”
“Yes,” murmured June, doubtfully, not so much from doubt as from not having suggested it herself. “I think Harold could manage that. Isn’t his work exquisite?”
“I particularly like the thing he’s done of Anne. It’s going down to them tomorrow, I hear.”
“Yes; Jon’s coming to fetch it.”
Fleur looked hastily into the little dim mirror to see that she was keeping expression off her face.
“What do you think I ought to wear?”
June’s gaze swept her from side to side.
“Oh! I expect he’ll want an artificial scheme with you.”
“Exactly! But what colour? One must come in something.”
“We’ll go up and ask him.”
The Rafaelite was standing before his picture of Anne. He turned and looked at them, without precisely saying: “Good Lord! These women!” and nodded, gloomily, at the suggestion of three o’clock.
“What do you want her in?” asked June.
The Rafaelite stared at Fleur as if determining where her ribs left off and her hip bones began.
“Gold and silver,” he said, at last.
June clasped her hands.
“Now, isn’t that extraordinary? He’s seen through you at once. Your gold and silver room. Harold, how DID you?”
“I happen to have an old ‘Folly’ dress,” said Fleur, “silver and gold, with bells, that I haven’t worn since I was married.”
“A ‘Folly’!” cried June. “The very thing. If it’s pretty. Some are hideous, of course.”
“Oh! it’s pretty, and makes a charming sound.”
“He can’t paint that,” said June. Then added dreamily: “But you could suggest it, Harold–like Leonardo.”
“Leonardo!”
“Oh! Of course! I know, he wasn’t–”
The Rafaelite interrupted.
“Don’t make your face up,” he said to Fleur.
“No,” murmured Fleur. “June, I do so like that of Anne. Has it struck you that she’s sure to want Jon painted now?”
“Of course, I’ll make him promise when he comes tomorrow.”
“He’s going to begin farming, you know; he’ll make that an excuse. Men hate being painted.”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” said June. “In old days they loved it. Anyway, Jon must sit before he begins. They’ll make a splendid pair.”
Behind the Rafaelite’s back Fleur bit her lip.
“He must wear a turn-down shirt. Blue, don’t you think, Harold–to go with his hair?”
“Pink, with green spots,” muttered the Rafaelite.
“Then three o’clock tomorrow?” said Fleur, hastily.
June nodded. “Jon’s coming to lunch, so he’ll be gone before you come.”
“All right, then. Au revoir!”
She held her hand out to the Rafaelite, who seemed surprised at the gesture.
“Good-bye, June!”
June came suddenly close and kissed her on the chin. At that moment the little lady’s face looked soft and pink, and her eyes soft; her lips were warm, too, as if she were warm all through.
Fleur went away thinking: ‘Ought I to have asked her not to tell Jon I was going to be painted?’ But surely June, the warm, the single-eyed, would never tell Jon anything that might stop him being useful to her Rafaelite. She stood, noting the geography around “the Poplars.” The only approach to this backwater was by a road that dipped into it and came out again. Just here, she would not be seen from the house, and could see Jon leaving after lunch whichever way he went. But then he would have to take a taxi, for the picture. It struck her bitterly that she, who had been his first-adored, should have to scheme to see him. But if she didn’t, she would never see him! Ah! what a ninny she had been at Wansdon in those old days when her room was next to his. One little act, and nothing could have kept him from her for all time, not his mother nor the old feud; not her father; nothing; and then there had been no vows of hers or his, no Michael, no Kit, no nymph-eyed girl in barrier between them; nothing but youth and innocence. And it seemed to her that youth and innocence were over-rated.
She lit on no plan by which she could see him without giving away the fact that she had schemed. She would have to possess her soul a little longer. Let him once get his head into the painter’s noose, and there would be not one but many chances.
She arrived at three o’clock with her Folly’s dress, and was taken into June’s bedroom to put it on.
“It’s just right,” said June; “delightfully artificial. Harold will love it.”
“I wonder,” said Fleur. The Rafaelite’s temperament had not yet struck her as very loving. They went up to the studio without having mentioned Jon.
The portrait of Anne was gone. And when June went to fetch “the exact thing” to cover a bit of background, Fleur said at once:
“Well? Are you going to paint my cousin Jon?”
The Rafaelite nodded.
“He didn’t want to be, but SHE made him.”
“When do you begin?”
“To-morrow,” said the Rafaelite. “He’s coming every morning for a week. What’s the good of a week?”
“If he’s only got a week I should have thought he’d better stay here.”
“He won’t without his wife, and his wife’s got a cold.”
“Oh!” said Fleur, and she thought rapidly. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient, then, for him to sit early in the afternoons? I could come in the mornings; in fact, I’d rather–one feels fresher. June could give him a trunk call.”
The Rafaelite uttered what she judged to be an approving sound. When she left, she said to June: “I want to come at ten every morning, then I get my afternoons free for my ‘Rest House’ down at Dorking. Couldn’t you get Jon to come in the afternoons instead? It would suit him better. Only don’t let him know I’m being painted–my picture won’t be recognisable for a week, anyway.”
“Oh!” said June, “you’re quite wrong, there. Harold always gets an unmistakable likeness at once; but of course he’ll put it face to the wall, he always does while he’s at work on a picture.”
“Good! He’s made quite a nice start. Then if you’ll telephone to Jon, I’ll come tomorrow at ten.” And for yet another day she possessed her soul. On the day after, she nodded at a canvas whose face was to the wall, and asked:
“Do you find my cousin a good sitter?”
“No,” said the Rafaelite; “he takes no interest. Got something on his mind, I should think.”
“He’s a poet, you know,” said Fleur.
The Rafaelite gave her an epileptic stare. “Poet! His head’s the wrong shape–too much jaw, and the eyes too deep in.”
“But his hair! Don’t you find him an attractive subject?”
“Attractive!” replied the Rafaelite–“I paint anything, whether it’s pretty or ugly as sin. Look at Rafael’s Pope–did you ever see a better portrait, or an uglier man? Ugliness is not attractive, but it’s there.”
“That’s obvious,” said Fleur.
“I state the obvious. The only real novelties now are platitudes. That’s why my work is important and seems new. People have got so far away from the obvious that the obvious startles them, and nothing else does. I advise you to think that over.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot in it,” said Fleur.
“Of course,” said the Rafaelite, “a platitude has to be stated with force and clarity. If you can’t do that, you’d better go on slopping around and playing parlour tricks like the Ga-gaists. They’re a bathetic lot, trying to prove that cocktails are a better drink than old brandy. I met a man last night who told me he’d spent four years writing twenty-two lines of poetry that nobody can understand. How’s that for bathos? But it’ll make him quite a reputation, till somebody writes twenty-three lines in five years still more unintelligible. Hold your head up… Your cousin’s a silent beggar.”
“Silence is quite a quality,” said Fleur.
The Rafaelite grinned. “I suppose you think I haven’t got it. But you’re wrong, madam. Not long ago I went a fortnight without opening my lips except to eat and say yes or no. SHE got quite worried.”
“I don’t think you’re very nice to her,” said Fleur.
“No, I’m not. She’s after my soul. That’s the worst of women–saving your presence–they’re not content with their own.”
“Perhaps they haven’t any,” said Fleur.
“The Mohammedan view–well, there’s certainly something in it. A woman’s always after the soul of a man, a child, or a dog. Men are content with wanting bodies.”
“I’m more interested in your platitudinal theory, Mr. Blade.”
“Can’t afford to be interested in the other? Eh! Strikes home? Turn your shoulder a bit, will you? No, to the left… Well, it’s a platitude that a woman always wants some other soul–only people have forgotten it. Look at the Sistine Madonna! The baby has a soul of its own, and the Madonna’s floating on the soul of the baby. That’s what makes it a great picture, apart from the line and colour. It states a great platitude; but nobody sees it, now. None of the cognoscenti, anyway–they’re too far gone.”
“What platitude are you going to state in your picture of me?”
“Don’t you worry,” said the Rafaelite. “There’ll be one all right when it’s finished, though I shan’t know what it is while I’m at it. Character will out, you know. Like a rest?”
“Enormously. What platitude did you express in the portrait of my cousin’s wife?”
“Coo Lummy!” said the Rafaelite. “Some catechism!”
“You surely didn’t fail with that picture? Wasn’t it platitudinous?”
“It got her all right. She’s not a proper American.”
“How?”
“Throws back to something–Irish, perhaps, or Breton. There’s nymph in her.”
“She was brought up in the backwoods, I believe,” said Fleur, acidly.
The Rafaelite eyed her.
“You don’t like the lady?”
“Certainly I do, but haven’t you noticed that picturesque people are generally tame? And my cousin–what’s his platitude to be?”
“Conscience,” said the Rafaelite; “that young man will go far on the straight and narrow. He worries.”
A sharp movement shook all Fleur’s silver bells.
“What a dreadful prophecy! Shall I stand again?”
Chapter IV.
TALK IN A CAR
For yet one more day Fleur possessed her soul; then, at the morning’s sitting, accidentally left her vanity bag, behind her, in the studio. She called for it the same afternoon. Jon had not gone. Just out of the sitter’s chair, he was stretching himself and yawning.
“Go on, Jon! Every morning I wish I had your mouth. Mr. Blade, I left my bag; it’s got my cheque book in it, and I shall want it down at Dorking to-night: By the way, I shall be half an hour late for my sitting tomorrow, I’m afraid. Did you know I was your fellow victim, Jon? We’ve been playing ‘Box and Cox.’ How are you? I hear Anne’s got a cold. Give her my sympathy. Is the picture going well? Might I have a peep, Mr. Blade, and see how the platitude is coming out? Oh! It’s going to be splendid! I can quite see the line.”
“Can you?” said the Rafaelite: “I can’t.”
“Here’s my wretched bag! If you’ve finished, Jon, I could run you out as far as Dorking; you’d catch an earlier train. Do come and cheer me on my way. Haven’t seen you for such ages!”
Threading over Hammersmith Bridge, Fleur regained the self-possession she had never seemed to lose. She spoke lightly of light matters, letting Jon grow accustomed to proximity.
“I go down every evening about this time, to see to my chores, and drive up in the morning early. So any afternoon you like I can take you as far as Dorking. Why shouldn’t we see a little of each other in a friendly way, Jon?”
“When we do, it doesn’t seem to make for happiness, Fleur.”
“My dear boy, what is happiness? Surely life should be as harmlessly full as it can be?”
“Harmlessly!”
“The Rafaelite says you have a terrible conscience, Jon.”
“The Rafaelite’s a bounder.”
“Yes; but a clever one. You HAVE changed, you usen’t to have that line between your eyes, and your jaw’s getting too strong. Look, Jon dear, be a friend to me–as they say, and we won’t think of anything else. I always like Wimbledon Common–it hasn’t been caught up yet. Have you bought that farm?”
“Not quite.”
“Let’s go by way of Robin Hill, and look at it through the trees? It might inspire you to a poem.”
“I shall never write any more verse. It’s quite gone.”
“Nonsense, Jon. You only want stirring up. Don’t I drive well, considering I’ve only been at it five weeks?”
“You do everything well, Fleur.”
“You say that as if you disapproved. Do you know we’d never danced together before that night at Nettlefold? Shall we ever dance together again?”
“Probably not.”
“Optimistic Jon! That’s right–smile! Look! Is that the church where you were baptized?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh! No. That was the period, of course, when people were serious about those things. I believe I was done twice over–R.C. and Anglican. That’s why I’m not so religious as you, Jon.”
“Religious? I’m not religious.”
“I fancy you ARE. You have moral backbone, anyway.”
“Really!”
“Jon, you remind me of American notices outside their properties–‘Stop–look–take care–keep out!’ I suppose you think me a frightful butterfly.”
“No, Fleur. Far from it. The butterfly has no knowledge of a straight line between two points.”
“Now what do you mean by that?”
“That you set your heart on things.”
“Did you get that from the Rafaelite?”
“No, but he confirmed it.”
“He did–did he? That young man talks too much. Has he expounded to you his theory that a woman must possess the soul of someone else, and that a man is content with bodies?”
“He has.”
“Is it true?”
“I hate to agree with him, but I think it is, in a way.”
“Well, I can tell you there are plenty of women about now who keep their own souls and are content with other people’s bodies.”
“Are you one of them, Fleur?”
“Ask me another! There’s Robin Hill!”
The fount of Forsyte song and story stood grey and imposing among its trees, with the sinking sun aslant on a front where green sunblinds were still down.
Jon sighed. “I had a lovely time there.”
“Till I came and spoiled it.”
“No; that’s blasphemy.”
Fleur touched his arm.
“That’s nice of you, dear Jon. You always were nice, and I shall always love you–in a harmless way. The coppice looks jolly. God had a brain-wave when he invented larches.”
“Yes, Holly says that the coppice was my grandfather’s favourite spot.”
“Old Jolyon–who wouldn’t marry his beloved, because she was consumptive?”
“I never heard that. But he was a great old fellow, my mother and father adored him.”
“I’ve seen his photograph–don’t get a chin like his, Jon! The Forsytes all have such chins. June’s frightens me.”
“June is one of the best people on earth.”
“Oh! Jon, you are horribly loyal.”
“Is that an offence?”
“It makes everything terribly earnest in a world that isn’t worth it. No, don’t quote Longfellow. When you get home, shall you tell Anne you’ve been driving with me?”
“Why not?”
“She’s uneasy about me as it is, isn’t she? You needn’t answer, Jon. But I think it’s unfair of her. I want so little, and you’re so safe.”
“Safe?” It seemed to Fleur that he closed his teeth on the word, and for a moment she was happy.
“Now you’ve got your lion-cub look. Do lion-cubs have consciences? It’s going to be rather interesting for the Rafaelite. I think your conscience might stop before telling Anne, though. It’s a pity to worry her if she has a talent for uneasiness.” Then, by the silence at her side, she knew she had made a mistake.
“This is where I put in my clutch,” she said, “as they say in the ‘bloods!’” And through Epsom and Leatherhead they travelled in silence.
“Do you love England as much as ever, Jon?”
“More.”
“It IS a gorgeous country.”
“The last word I should have used–a great and lovely country.”
“Michael says its soul is grass.”
“Yes, and if I get my farm, I’ll break some up, all right.”
“I can’t see you as a real farmer.”
“You can’t see me as a real anything–I suppose. – Just an amateur.”
“Don’t be horrid! I mean you’re too sensitive to be a farmer.”
“No. I want to get down to the earth, and I will.”
“You must be a throw-back, Jon. The primeval Forsytes were farmers. My father wants to take me down and show me where they lived.”
“Have you jumped at it?”
“I’m not sentimental; haven’t you realised that? I wonder if you’ve realised anything about me?” And drooping forward over her wheel, she murmured: “Oh! it’s a pity we have to talk like this!”
“I said it wouldn’t work!”
“No, you’ve got to let me see you sometimes, Jon. This is harmless enough. I must and will see you now and then. It’s owed to me!”
Tears stood in her eyes, and rolled slowly down. She felt Jon touch her arm.
“Oh! Fleur, don’t!”
“I’ll put you out at North Dorking now, you’ll just catch the five forty-six.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
Night brought the first acute trouble. What were to be his relations with her, if her feelings were really engaged elsewhere? To wait and not see meant continuation of the married state. He suspected Soames of having wished to counsel that. Whipped by longing, stung and half numbed by a jealousy he must not show, and unwishful to wound her, he waited for a sign, feeling as if she must know why he was waiting. He received it, and was glad, but it did not convince him. Still!
He woke much lighter in spirit.
At breakfast he asked her what she would like to do, now that she was back and the season over. Did this slum scheme amuse her at all, because, if so, there was a lot to do in it; she would find Hilary and May great sports.
“Rather! Anything really useful, Michael!”
He took her round to the Meads. The result was better than he had hoped.
For his uncle and aunt were human buildings the like of which Fleur had not yet encountered–positively fashioned, concreted in tradition, but freely exposed to sun and air, tiled with taste, and windowed with humour. Michael, with something of their ‘make-up,’ had neither their poise, nor active certainty. Fleur recognized at once that those two dwelt in unity unlike any that she knew, as if, in their twenty odd years together, they had welded a single instrument to carry out a new discovery–the unselfconscious day. They were not fools, yet cleverness in their presence seemed jejune, and as if unrelated to reality. They knew–especially Hilary–a vast deal about flowers, printing, architecture, mountains, drains, electricity, the price of living, Italian cities; they knew how to treat the ailments of dogs, play musical instruments, administer first and even second aid, amuse children, and cause the aged to laugh. They could discuss anything from religion to morality with fluency, and the tolerance that came from experience of the trials of others and forgetfulness of their own. With her natural intelligence Fleur admired them. They were good, but they were not dull–very odd! Admiring them, she could not help making up to them. Their attitude in life–she recognised–was superior to her own, and she was prepared to pay at least lip-service. But lip-service ‘cut no ice’ in the Meads. Hand, foot, intellect and heart were the matter-of-course requirements. To occupy her mind, however, she took the jobs given her. Then trouble began. The jobs were not her own, and there was no career in them. Try as she would, she could not identify herself with Mrs. Corrigan or the little Topmarshes. The girls, who served at Petter and Poplins and kept their clothes in paper bags, bored her when they talked and when they didn’t. Each new type amused her for a day, and then just seemed unlovely. She tried hard, however, for her own sake, and in order to deceive Michael. She had been at it more than a week before she had an idea.
“You know, Michael, I feel I should be ever so much more interested if I ran a place of my own in the country–a sort of rest-house that I could make attractive for girls who wanted air and that.”
To Michael, remembering the canteen, it seemed “an idea” indeed. To Fleur it seemed more–a “lease and release,” as her father might have put it. Her scheming mind had seen the possibilities. She would be able to go there without let or cavil, and none would know what she did with her time. A base of operations with a fool-proof title was essential for a relationship, however innocent, with Jon. She began at once to learn to drive the car; for the “rest-house” must not be so near him as to excite suspicion. She approached her father on the finance of the matter. At first doubtfully, and then almost cordially, Soames approved. If he would pay the rent and rates of the house, she would manage the rest out of her own pocket. She could not have bettered such a policy by way of convincing him that her interest was genuine; for he emphatically distrusted the interest of people in anything that did not cost them money. A careful study of the map suggested to her the neighbourhood of Dorking. Box Hill had a reputation for air and beauty, and was within an hour’s fast drive of Wansdon. In the next three weeks she found and furnished a derelict house, rambling and cheap, close to the road on the London side of Box Hill, with a good garden and stables that could be converted easily. She completed her education with the car, and engaged a couple who could be left in charge with impunity. She consulted Michael and the Hilarys freely. In fact, like a mother cat, who carefully misleads the household as to where she is going to ‘lay’ her kittens, so Fleur, by the nature of her preparations, disguised her roundabout design. The Meads “Rest House,” as it was called, was opened at the end of August.
All this time she possessed her soul with only the scantiest news of Jon. A letter from Holly told her that negotiations for Green Hill Farm were ‘hanging fire’ over the price, though Jon was more and more taken with it; and Anne daily becoming more rural and more English. Rondavel was in great form again, and expected to win at Doncaster. Val had already taken a long shot about him for the Derby next year.
Fleur replied in a letter so worded as to give the impression that she had no other interest in the world just then but her new scheme. They must all drive over and see whether her “Rest House” didn’t beat the canteen. The people were “such dears”–it was all “terribly amusing.” She wished to convey the feeling that she had no fears of herself, no alarm in the thought of Jon; and that her work in life was serious. Michael, never wholly deserted by the naivete of a good disposition, was more and more deceived. To him her mind seemed really occupied; and certainly her body, for she ran up from Dorking almost daily and spent the week-ends with him either at “The Shelter,” where Kit was installed with his grandparents, or at Lippinghall, where they always made a fuss of Fleur. Rowing her on the river in bland weather, Michael recaptured a feeling of security. “Old Forsyte” must have let his imagination run away with him; the old boy WAS rather like a hen where Fleur was concerned, clucking and turning an inflamed eye on everything that came near!
Parliament had risen, and slum conversion work was now all that he was doing. These days on that river, which he ever associated with his wooing, were the happiest he had spent since the strike began–the strike that in narrowed form dragged wearyingly on, so that people ceased to mention it, the weather being warm.
And Soames? By his daughter’s tranquil amiability, he, too, was tranquilised. He would look at Michael and say nothing, in accordance with the best English traditions, and his own dignity. It was he who revived the idea of Fleur’s being painted by June’s “lame duck.” He felt it would occupy her mind still further. He would like, however, to see the fellow’s work first, though he supposed it would mean a visit to June’s.
“If she were to be out,” he said to Fleur, “I shouldn’t mind having a look round her studio.”
“Shall I arrange that, then, Dad?”
“Not too pointedly,” said Soames; “or she’ll get into a fantod.”
Accordingly at the following week-end Fleur said to him:
“If you’ll come up with me on Monday, dear, we’ll go round. The Rafaelite will be in, but June won’t. She doesn’t want to see you any more than you want to see her.”
“H’m!” said Soames. “She always spoke her mind.”
They went up, in his car. After forming his opinion Soames was to return, and Fleur to go on home. The Rafaelite met them at the head of the stairs. To Soames he suggested a bullfighter (not that he had ever seen one in the flesh), with his short whiskers, and his broad, pale face which wore the expression: “If you suppose yourself capable of appreciating my work, you make a mistake.” Soames’ face, on the other hand, wore the expression: “If you suppose that I want to see your work, you make a greater.” And, leaving him to Fleur, he began to look round. In truth he was not unfavourably impressed. The work had turned its back on modernity. The surfaces were smooth, the drawing in perspective, and the colouring full. He perceived a new note, or rather the definite revival of an old one. The chap had undoubted talent; whether it would go down in these days he did not know, but its texture was more agreeable to live with than any he had seen for some time. When he came to the portrait of June he stood for a minute, with his head on one side, and then said, with a pale smile:
“You’ve got her to the life.” It pleased him to think that June had evidently not seen in it what he saw. But when his eyes fell on the picture of Anne, his face fell, too, and he looked quickly at Fleur, who said:
“Yes, Dad? What do you think of that?”
The thought had flashed through Soames’ mind: ‘Is it to get in touch with HIM that she’s ready to be painted?’
“Finished?” he asked.
The Rafaelite answered:
“Yes. Going down to them tomorrow.”
Soames’ face rose again. That risk was over then!
“Quite clever!” he murmured. “The lily’s excellent.” And he passed on to a sketch of the woman who had opened the door to them.
“That’s recognisable! Not at all bad.”
In these quiet ways he made it clear that, while he approved on the whole, he was not going to pay any extravagant price. He took an opportunity when Fleur was out of hearing, and said:
“So you want to paint my daughter. What’s your figure?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Rather tall for these days–you’re a young man. However–so long as you make a good thing of it!”
The Rafaelite bowed ironically.
“Yes,” said Soames, “I daresay; you think all your geese are swans–never met a painter who didn’t. You won’t keep her sitting long, I suppose–she’s busy. That’s agreed, then. Goodbye! Don’t come down!”
As they went out he said to Fleur:
“I’ve fixed that. You can begin sitting when you like. His work’s better than you’d think from the look of him. Forbidding chap, I call him.”
“A painter has to be forbidding, Dad; otherwise people would think he was cadging.”
“Something in that,” said Soames. “I’ll get back now, as you won’t let me take you home. Good-bye! Take care of yourself, and don’t overdo it.” And, receiving her kiss, he got into the car.
Fleur began to walk towards her eastward-bound ‘bus as his car moved west, nor did he see her stop, give him some law, then retrace her steps to June’s.
Chapter III.
POSSESSING THE SOUL
Just as in a very old world to find things or people of pure descent is impossible, so with actions; and the psychologist who traces them to single motives is like Soames, who believed that his daughter wanted to be painted in order that she might see herself hanging on a wall. Everybody, he knew, had themselves hung sooner or later, and generally sooner. Yet Fleur, though certainly not averse to being hung, had motives that were hardly so single as all that. In the service of this complexity, she went back to June’s. That little lady, who had been lurking in her bedroom so as not to meet her kinsman, was in high feather.
“Of course the price is nominal,” she said. “Harold ought really to be getting every bit as much for his portraits as Thom or Lippen. Still, it’s so important for him to be making something while he’s waiting to take his real place. What have you come back for?
“Partly for the pleasure of seeing you,” said Fleur, “and partly because we forgot to arrange for the first sitting. I think my best time would be three o’clock.”
“Yes,” murmured June, doubtfully, not so much from doubt as from not having suggested it herself. “I think Harold could manage that. Isn’t his work exquisite?”
“I particularly like the thing he’s done of Anne. It’s going down to them tomorrow, I hear.”
“Yes; Jon’s coming to fetch it.”
Fleur looked hastily into the little dim mirror to see that she was keeping expression off her face.
“What do you think I ought to wear?”
June’s gaze swept her from side to side.
“Oh! I expect he’ll want an artificial scheme with you.”
“Exactly! But what colour? One must come in something.”
“We’ll go up and ask him.”
The Rafaelite was standing before his picture of Anne. He turned and looked at them, without precisely saying: “Good Lord! These women!” and nodded, gloomily, at the suggestion of three o’clock.
“What do you want her in?” asked June.
The Rafaelite stared at Fleur as if determining where her ribs left off and her hip bones began.
“Gold and silver,” he said, at last.
June clasped her hands.
“Now, isn’t that extraordinary? He’s seen through you at once. Your gold and silver room. Harold, how DID you?”
“I happen to have an old ‘Folly’ dress,” said Fleur, “silver and gold, with bells, that I haven’t worn since I was married.”
“A ‘Folly’!” cried June. “The very thing. If it’s pretty. Some are hideous, of course.”
“Oh! it’s pretty, and makes a charming sound.”
“He can’t paint that,” said June. Then added dreamily: “But you could suggest it, Harold–like Leonardo.”
“Leonardo!”
“Oh! Of course! I know, he wasn’t–”
The Rafaelite interrupted.
“Don’t make your face up,” he said to Fleur.
“No,” murmured Fleur. “June, I do so like that of Anne. Has it struck you that she’s sure to want Jon painted now?”
“Of course, I’ll make him promise when he comes tomorrow.”
“He’s going to begin farming, you know; he’ll make that an excuse. Men hate being painted.”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” said June. “In old days they loved it. Anyway, Jon must sit before he begins. They’ll make a splendid pair.”
Behind the Rafaelite’s back Fleur bit her lip.
“He must wear a turn-down shirt. Blue, don’t you think, Harold–to go with his hair?”
“Pink, with green spots,” muttered the Rafaelite.
“Then three o’clock tomorrow?” said Fleur, hastily.
June nodded. “Jon’s coming to lunch, so he’ll be gone before you come.”
“All right, then. Au revoir!”
She held her hand out to the Rafaelite, who seemed surprised at the gesture.
“Good-bye, June!”
June came suddenly close and kissed her on the chin. At that moment the little lady’s face looked soft and pink, and her eyes soft; her lips were warm, too, as if she were warm all through.
Fleur went away thinking: ‘Ought I to have asked her not to tell Jon I was going to be painted?’ But surely June, the warm, the single-eyed, would never tell Jon anything that might stop him being useful to her Rafaelite. She stood, noting the geography around “the Poplars.” The only approach to this backwater was by a road that dipped into it and came out again. Just here, she would not be seen from the house, and could see Jon leaving after lunch whichever way he went. But then he would have to take a taxi, for the picture. It struck her bitterly that she, who had been his first-adored, should have to scheme to see him. But if she didn’t, she would never see him! Ah! what a ninny she had been at Wansdon in those old days when her room was next to his. One little act, and nothing could have kept him from her for all time, not his mother nor the old feud; not her father; nothing; and then there had been no vows of hers or his, no Michael, no Kit, no nymph-eyed girl in barrier between them; nothing but youth and innocence. And it seemed to her that youth and innocence were over-rated.
She lit on no plan by which she could see him without giving away the fact that she had schemed. She would have to possess her soul a little longer. Let him once get his head into the painter’s noose, and there would be not one but many chances.
She arrived at three o’clock with her Folly’s dress, and was taken into June’s bedroom to put it on.
“It’s just right,” said June; “delightfully artificial. Harold will love it.”
“I wonder,” said Fleur. The Rafaelite’s temperament had not yet struck her as very loving. They went up to the studio without having mentioned Jon.
The portrait of Anne was gone. And when June went to fetch “the exact thing” to cover a bit of background, Fleur said at once:
“Well? Are you going to paint my cousin Jon?”
The Rafaelite nodded.
“He didn’t want to be, but SHE made him.”
“When do you begin?”
“To-morrow,” said the Rafaelite. “He’s coming every morning for a week. What’s the good of a week?”
“If he’s only got a week I should have thought he’d better stay here.”
“He won’t without his wife, and his wife’s got a cold.”
“Oh!” said Fleur, and she thought rapidly. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient, then, for him to sit early in the afternoons? I could come in the mornings; in fact, I’d rather–one feels fresher. June could give him a trunk call.”
The Rafaelite uttered what she judged to be an approving sound. When she left, she said to June: “I want to come at ten every morning, then I get my afternoons free for my ‘Rest House’ down at Dorking. Couldn’t you get Jon to come in the afternoons instead? It would suit him better. Only don’t let him know I’m being painted–my picture won’t be recognisable for a week, anyway.”
“Oh!” said June, “you’re quite wrong, there. Harold always gets an unmistakable likeness at once; but of course he’ll put it face to the wall, he always does while he’s at work on a picture.”
“Good! He’s made quite a nice start. Then if you’ll telephone to Jon, I’ll come tomorrow at ten.” And for yet another day she possessed her soul. On the day after, she nodded at a canvas whose face was to the wall, and asked:
“Do you find my cousin a good sitter?”
“No,” said the Rafaelite; “he takes no interest. Got something on his mind, I should think.”
“He’s a poet, you know,” said Fleur.
The Rafaelite gave her an epileptic stare. “Poet! His head’s the wrong shape–too much jaw, and the eyes too deep in.”
“But his hair! Don’t you find him an attractive subject?”
“Attractive!” replied the Rafaelite–“I paint anything, whether it’s pretty or ugly as sin. Look at Rafael’s Pope–did you ever see a better portrait, or an uglier man? Ugliness is not attractive, but it’s there.”
“That’s obvious,” said Fleur.
“I state the obvious. The only real novelties now are platitudes. That’s why my work is important and seems new. People have got so far away from the obvious that the obvious startles them, and nothing else does. I advise you to think that over.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot in it,” said Fleur.
“Of course,” said the Rafaelite, “a platitude has to be stated with force and clarity. If you can’t do that, you’d better go on slopping around and playing parlour tricks like the Ga-gaists. They’re a bathetic lot, trying to prove that cocktails are a better drink than old brandy. I met a man last night who told me he’d spent four years writing twenty-two lines of poetry that nobody can understand. How’s that for bathos? But it’ll make him quite a reputation, till somebody writes twenty-three lines in five years still more unintelligible. Hold your head up… Your cousin’s a silent beggar.”
“Silence is quite a quality,” said Fleur.
The Rafaelite grinned. “I suppose you think I haven’t got it. But you’re wrong, madam. Not long ago I went a fortnight without opening my lips except to eat and say yes or no. SHE got quite worried.”
“I don’t think you’re very nice to her,” said Fleur.
“No, I’m not. She’s after my soul. That’s the worst of women–saving your presence–they’re not content with their own.”
“Perhaps they haven’t any,” said Fleur.
“The Mohammedan view–well, there’s certainly something in it. A woman’s always after the soul of a man, a child, or a dog. Men are content with wanting bodies.”
“I’m more interested in your platitudinal theory, Mr. Blade.”
“Can’t afford to be interested in the other? Eh! Strikes home? Turn your shoulder a bit, will you? No, to the left… Well, it’s a platitude that a woman always wants some other soul–only people have forgotten it. Look at the Sistine Madonna! The baby has a soul of its own, and the Madonna’s floating on the soul of the baby. That’s what makes it a great picture, apart from the line and colour. It states a great platitude; but nobody sees it, now. None of the cognoscenti, anyway–they’re too far gone.”
“What platitude are you going to state in your picture of me?”
“Don’t you worry,” said the Rafaelite. “There’ll be one all right when it’s finished, though I shan’t know what it is while I’m at it. Character will out, you know. Like a rest?”
“Enormously. What platitude did you express in the portrait of my cousin’s wife?”
“Coo Lummy!” said the Rafaelite. “Some catechism!”
“You surely didn’t fail with that picture? Wasn’t it platitudinous?”
“It got her all right. She’s not a proper American.”
“How?”
“Throws back to something–Irish, perhaps, or Breton. There’s nymph in her.”
“She was brought up in the backwoods, I believe,” said Fleur, acidly.
The Rafaelite eyed her.
“You don’t like the lady?”
“Certainly I do, but haven’t you noticed that picturesque people are generally tame? And my cousin–what’s his platitude to be?”
“Conscience,” said the Rafaelite; “that young man will go far on the straight and narrow. He worries.”
A sharp movement shook all Fleur’s silver bells.
“What a dreadful prophecy! Shall I stand again?”
Chapter IV.
TALK IN A CAR
For yet one more day Fleur possessed her soul; then, at the morning’s sitting, accidentally left her vanity bag, behind her, in the studio. She called for it the same afternoon. Jon had not gone. Just out of the sitter’s chair, he was stretching himself and yawning.
“Go on, Jon! Every morning I wish I had your mouth. Mr. Blade, I left my bag; it’s got my cheque book in it, and I shall want it down at Dorking to-night: By the way, I shall be half an hour late for my sitting tomorrow, I’m afraid. Did you know I was your fellow victim, Jon? We’ve been playing ‘Box and Cox.’ How are you? I hear Anne’s got a cold. Give her my sympathy. Is the picture going well? Might I have a peep, Mr. Blade, and see how the platitude is coming out? Oh! It’s going to be splendid! I can quite see the line.”
“Can you?” said the Rafaelite: “I can’t.”
“Here’s my wretched bag! If you’ve finished, Jon, I could run you out as far as Dorking; you’d catch an earlier train. Do come and cheer me on my way. Haven’t seen you for such ages!”
Threading over Hammersmith Bridge, Fleur regained the self-possession she had never seemed to lose. She spoke lightly of light matters, letting Jon grow accustomed to proximity.
“I go down every evening about this time, to see to my chores, and drive up in the morning early. So any afternoon you like I can take you as far as Dorking. Why shouldn’t we see a little of each other in a friendly way, Jon?”
“When we do, it doesn’t seem to make for happiness, Fleur.”
“My dear boy, what is happiness? Surely life should be as harmlessly full as it can be?”
“Harmlessly!”
“The Rafaelite says you have a terrible conscience, Jon.”
“The Rafaelite’s a bounder.”
“Yes; but a clever one. You HAVE changed, you usen’t to have that line between your eyes, and your jaw’s getting too strong. Look, Jon dear, be a friend to me–as they say, and we won’t think of anything else. I always like Wimbledon Common–it hasn’t been caught up yet. Have you bought that farm?”
“Not quite.”
“Let’s go by way of Robin Hill, and look at it through the trees? It might inspire you to a poem.”
“I shall never write any more verse. It’s quite gone.”
“Nonsense, Jon. You only want stirring up. Don’t I drive well, considering I’ve only been at it five weeks?”
“You do everything well, Fleur.”
“You say that as if you disapproved. Do you know we’d never danced together before that night at Nettlefold? Shall we ever dance together again?”
“Probably not.”
“Optimistic Jon! That’s right–smile! Look! Is that the church where you were baptized?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh! No. That was the period, of course, when people were serious about those things. I believe I was done twice over–R.C. and Anglican. That’s why I’m not so religious as you, Jon.”
“Religious? I’m not religious.”
“I fancy you ARE. You have moral backbone, anyway.”
“Really!”
“Jon, you remind me of American notices outside their properties–‘Stop–look–take care–keep out!’ I suppose you think me a frightful butterfly.”
“No, Fleur. Far from it. The butterfly has no knowledge of a straight line between two points.”
“Now what do you mean by that?”
“That you set your heart on things.”
“Did you get that from the Rafaelite?”
“No, but he confirmed it.”
“He did–did he? That young man talks too much. Has he expounded to you his theory that a woman must possess the soul of someone else, and that a man is content with bodies?”
“He has.”
“Is it true?”
“I hate to agree with him, but I think it is, in a way.”
“Well, I can tell you there are plenty of women about now who keep their own souls and are content with other people’s bodies.”
“Are you one of them, Fleur?”
“Ask me another! There’s Robin Hill!”
The fount of Forsyte song and story stood grey and imposing among its trees, with the sinking sun aslant on a front where green sunblinds were still down.
Jon sighed. “I had a lovely time there.”
“Till I came and spoiled it.”
“No; that’s blasphemy.”
Fleur touched his arm.
“That’s nice of you, dear Jon. You always were nice, and I shall always love you–in a harmless way. The coppice looks jolly. God had a brain-wave when he invented larches.”
“Yes, Holly says that the coppice was my grandfather’s favourite spot.”
“Old Jolyon–who wouldn’t marry his beloved, because she was consumptive?”
“I never heard that. But he was a great old fellow, my mother and father adored him.”
“I’ve seen his photograph–don’t get a chin like his, Jon! The Forsytes all have such chins. June’s frightens me.”
“June is one of the best people on earth.”
“Oh! Jon, you are horribly loyal.”
“Is that an offence?”
“It makes everything terribly earnest in a world that isn’t worth it. No, don’t quote Longfellow. When you get home, shall you tell Anne you’ve been driving with me?”
“Why not?”
“She’s uneasy about me as it is, isn’t she? You needn’t answer, Jon. But I think it’s unfair of her. I want so little, and you’re so safe.”
“Safe?” It seemed to Fleur that he closed his teeth on the word, and for a moment she was happy.
“Now you’ve got your lion-cub look. Do lion-cubs have consciences? It’s going to be rather interesting for the Rafaelite. I think your conscience might stop before telling Anne, though. It’s a pity to worry her if she has a talent for uneasiness.” Then, by the silence at her side, she knew she had made a mistake.
“This is where I put in my clutch,” she said, “as they say in the ‘bloods!’” And through Epsom and Leatherhead they travelled in silence.
“Do you love England as much as ever, Jon?”
“More.”
“It IS a gorgeous country.”
“The last word I should have used–a great and lovely country.”
“Michael says its soul is grass.”
“Yes, and if I get my farm, I’ll break some up, all right.”
“I can’t see you as a real farmer.”
“You can’t see me as a real anything–I suppose. – Just an amateur.”
“Don’t be horrid! I mean you’re too sensitive to be a farmer.”
“No. I want to get down to the earth, and I will.”
“You must be a throw-back, Jon. The primeval Forsytes were farmers. My father wants to take me down and show me where they lived.”
“Have you jumped at it?”
“I’m not sentimental; haven’t you realised that? I wonder if you’ve realised anything about me?” And drooping forward over her wheel, she murmured: “Oh! it’s a pity we have to talk like this!”
“I said it wouldn’t work!”
“No, you’ve got to let me see you sometimes, Jon. This is harmless enough. I must and will see you now and then. It’s owed to me!”
Tears stood in her eyes, and rolled slowly down. She felt Jon touch her arm.
“Oh! Fleur, don’t!”
“I’ll put you out at North Dorking now, you’ll just catch the five forty-six.
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