That’s my house. Next time I must show you over it. I’m trying to be good, Jon; and you must help me… Well, here we are! Good-bye, dear Jon; and don’t worry Anne about me, I beseech you!”
A hard handgrip, and he was gone. Fleur turned from the station and drove slowly back along the road.
She put away the car, and entered her “Rest House.” It was full, late holiday time still, and seven young women were resting limbs, tired out in the service of “Petter, Poplin,” and their like.
They were at supper, and a cheery buzz assailed Fleur’s ears. These girls had nothing, and she had everything, except–the one thing that she chiefly wanted. For a moment she felt ashamed, listening to their talk and laughter. No! She would not change with them–and yet without that one thing she felt as if she could not live. And, while she went about the house, sifting the flowers, ordering for tomorrow, inspecting the bedrooms, laughter, cheery and uncontrolled, floated up and seemed to mock her.
Chapter V.
MORE TALK IN A CAR
Jon had too little sense of his own importance to be simultaneously loved with comfort to himself by two pretty and attractive young women. He drove home from Pulborough, where now daily he parked Val’s car, with a sore heart and a mind distraught. He had seen Fleur six times since his return to England, in a sort of painful crescendo. That dance with her had disclosed to him her state of heart, but still he did not suspect her of consciously pursuing him; and no amount of heart-searching seemed to make his own feelings clearer. Ought he to tell Anne about today’s meeting? In many small and silent ways she had shown that she was afraid of Fleur. Why add to her fears without real cause? The portrait was not his own doing, and only for the next few days was he likely to be seeing Fleur. After that they would meet, perhaps, two or three times a year. “Don’t tell Anne–I beseech you!” Could he tell her after that? Surely he owed Fleur that much consideration. She had never consented to give him up; she had not fallen in love with Michael, as he with Anne. Still undecided, he reached Wansdon. His mother had once said to him: “You must never tell a lie, Jon, your face will always give you away.” And so, though he did not tell Anne, her eyes following him about noted that he was keeping something from her. Her cold was in the bronchial stage, so that she was still upstairs, and tense from lack of occupation. Jon came up early again after dinner, and began to read to her. He read from ‘The Worst Journey in the World,’ and on her side she lay with her face pillowed on her arm and watched him over it. The smoke of a wood fire, the scent of balsamic remedies, the drone of his own voice, retailing that epic of a penguin’s egg, drowsed him till the book dropped from his hand.
“Have a snooze Jon, you’re tired.” Jon lay back, but he did not snooze. He thought instead. In this girl, his wife, he knew well that there was what her brother, Francis Wilmot, called ‘sand.’ She knew how to be silent when shoes pinched. He had watched her making up her mind that she was in danger; and now it seemed to him that she was biding her time. Anne always knew what she wanted. She had a singleness of purpose not confused like Fleur’s by the currents of modernity, and she was resolute. Youth in her South Carolinian home had been simple and self-reliant; and unlike most American girls, she had not had too good a time. It had been a shock to her, he knew, that she was not his first love and that his first love was still in love with him. She had shown her uneasiness at once, but now, he felt, she had closed her guard. And Jon could not help knowing, too, that she was still deeply in love with him for all that they had been married two years. He had often heard that American girls seldom really knew the men they married; but it seemed to him sometimes that Anne knew him better than he knew himself. If so, what did she know? What was he? He wanted to do something useful with his life; he wanted to be loyal and kind. But was it all just wanting? Was he a fraud? Not what she thought him? It was all confused and heavy in his mind, like the air in the room. No use thinking! Better to snooze, as Anne said–better to snooze! He woke and said:
“Hallo! Was I snoring?”
“No. But you were twitching like a dog, Jon.”
Jon got up and went to the window.
“I was dreaming. It’s a beautiful night. A fine September’s the pick of the year.”
“Yes; I love the ‘fall.’ Is your mother coming over soon?”
“Not until we’re settled in. I believe she thinks we’re better without her.”
“Your mother would always feel she was de trop before she was.”
“That’s on the right side, anyway.”
“Yes, I wonder if I should.”
Jon turned. She was sitting up, staring in front of her, frowning. He went over and kissed her.
“Careful of your chest, darling!” and he pulled up the clothes.
She lay back, gazing up at him; and again he wondered what she saw…
He was met next day by June’s: “So Fleur was here yesterday and gave you a lift! I told her what I thought this morning.”
“What DID you think?” said Jon.
“That it mustn’t begin again. She’s a spoiled child not to be trusted.”
His eyes moved angrily.
“You’d better leave Fleur alone.”
“I always leave people alone,” said June; “but this is my house, and I had to speak my mind.”
“I’d better stop sitting then.”
“Now, don’t be silly, Jon. Of course you can’t stop sitting–neither of you. Harold would be frightfully upset.”
“Damn Harold!”
June took hold of his lapel.
“That’s not what I mean at all. The pictures are going to be splendid. I only meant that you mustn’t meet here.”
“Did you tell Fleur that?”
“Yes.”
Jon laughed, and the sound of the laugh was hard.
“We’re not children, June.”
“Have you told Anne?”
“No.”
“There, you see!”
“What?”
His face had become stubborn and angry.
“You’re very like your father and grandfather, Jon–they couldn’t bear to be told anything.”
“Can YOU?”
“Of course, when it’s necessary.”
“Then please don’t interfere.”
Pink rushed into June’s cheeks, tears into her eyes; she winked them away, shook herself, and said coldly:
“I never interfere.”
“No?”
She went more pink, and suddenly stroked his sleeve. That touched Jon, and he smiled.
He “sat” disturbed all that afternoon, while the Rafaelite painted, and June hovered, sometimes with a frown, and sometimes with yearning in her face. He wondered what he should do if Fleur called for him again. But Fleur did not call, and he went home alone. The next day was Sunday, and he did not go up; but on Monday when he came out of “The Poplars,” after “sitting,” he saw Fleur’s car standing by the curb.
“I do want to show you my house today. I suppose June spoke to you, but I’m a reformed character, Jon. Get in!” And Jon got in.
The day was dull, neither lighted nor staged for emotion, and the “reformed character” played her part to perfection. Not a word suggested that they were other than best friends. She talked of America, its language and books. Jon maintained that America was violent in its repressions and in its revolt against repressions.
“In a word,” said Fleur, “young.”
“Yes; but so far as I can make out, it’s getting younger every year.”
“I liked America.”
“Oh! I liked it all right. I made quite a profit, too, on my orchard when I sold.”
“I wonder you came back, Jon. The fact is–you’re old-fashioned.”
“How?”
“Take sex–I couldn’t discuss sex with you.”
“Can you with other people?”
“Oh! with nearly anyone. Don’t frown like that! You’d be awfully out of it, my dear, in London, or New York, for that matter.”
“I hate fluffy talk about sex,” said Jon gruffly. “The French are the only people who understand sex. It isn’t to be talked about as they do here and in America; it’s much too real.”
Fleur stole another look.
“Then let us drop that hot potato. I’m not sure whether I could even discuss art with you.”
“Did you see that St. Gaudens statue at Washington?”
“Yes; but that’s vieux jeu nowadays.”
“Is it?” growled Jon. “What do they want, then?”
“You know as well as I.”
“You mean it must be unintelligible?”
“Put it that way if you like. The point is that art now is just a subject for conversation; and anything that anybody can understand at first sight is not worth talking about and therefore not art.”
“I call that silly,” said Jon.
“Perhaps. But more amusing.”
“If you see through it, how can you be amused?”
“Another hot potato. Let’s try again! I bet you don’t approve of women’s dress, these days?”
“Why not? It’s jolly sensible.”
“La, la! Are we coming together on that?”
“Naturally, you’d all look better without hats. You can wash your heads easily now, you know.”
“Oh! don’t cut us off hats, Jon. All our stoicism would go. If we hadn’t to find hats that suited us, life would be much too easy.”
“But they don’t suit you.”
“I agree, my dear; but I know the feminine character better than you. One must always give babies something to cut their teeth on.”
“Fleur, you’re too intelligent to live in London.”
“My dear boy, the modern young woman doesn’t live anywhere. She floats in an ether of her own.”
“She touches earth sometimes, I suppose.”
Fleur did not answer for a minute; then, looking at him:
“Yes; she touches earth sometimes, Jon.” And in that look she seemed to say again: “Oh! what a pity we have to talk like this!”
She showed him the house in such a way that he might get the impression that she considered to some purpose the comfort of others. Even her momentary encounters with the denizens had that quality. Jon went away with a tingling in his palm, and the thought: ‘She likes to make herself out a butterfly, but at heart–!’ The memory of her clear eyes smiling at him, the half-comic quiver of her lips when she said: “Good-bye, bless you!” blurred his vision of Sussex all the way home. And who shall say that she had not so intended?
Holly had come to meet him with a hired car.
“I’m sorry, Jon, Val’s got the car. He won’t be able to drive you up and down tomorrow as he said he would. He’s had to go up today. And if he can get through his business in town, he’ll go on to Newmarket on Wednesday. Something rather beastly’s happened. His name’s been forged on a cheque for a hundred pounds by an old college friend to whom he’d been particularly decent.”
“Very adequate reasons,” said Jon. “What’s Val going to do?”
“He doesn’t know yet; but this is the third time he’s played a dirty trick on Val.”
“Is it quite certain?”
“The Bank described him unmistakably. He seems to think Val will stand anything; but it can’t be allowed to go on.”
“I should say not.”
“Yes, dear boy; but what would you do? Prosecute an old College friend? Val has a queer feeling that it’s only a sort of accident that he himself has kept straight.”
Jon stared. WAS it an accident that one kept straight?
“Was this fellow in the war?” he asked.
“I doubt it. He seems to be an absolute rotter. I saw his face once–bone slack and bone selfish.”
“Beastly for Val!” said Jon.
“He’s going to consult his uncle, Fleur’s father. By the way, have you seen Fleur lately?”
“Yes. I saw her today. She brought me as far as Dorking, and showed me her house there.”
The look on Holly’s face, the reflective shadow between her eyes, were not lost on him.
“Is there any objection to my seeing her?” he said, abruptly.
“Only you can know that, dear boy.”
Jon did not answer, but the moment he saw Anne he told her. She showed him nothing by face or voice, just asked how Fleur was and how he liked the house. That night, after she seemed asleep, he lay awake, gnawed by uncertainty. WAS it an accident that one kept straight–was it?
Chapter VI.
SOAMES HAS BRAIN WAVES
The first question Soames put to his nephew in Green Street, was: “How did he get hold of the cheque form? Do you keep your cheque books lying about?”
“I’m afraid I do, rather, in the country, Uncle Soames.”
“Um,” said Soames, “then you deserve all you get. What about your signature?”
“He wrote from Brighton asking if he could see me.”
“You should have made your wife sign your answer.”
Val groaned. “I didn’t think he’d run to forgery.”
“They run to anything when they’re as far gone as that. I suppose when you said ‘No,’ he came over from Brighton all the same?”
“Yes, he did; but I wasn’t in.”
“Exactly; and he sneaked a form. Well, if you want to stop him, you’d better prosecute. He’ll get three years.”
“That’d kill him,” said Val, “to judge by his looks.”
Soames shook his head. “Improve his health–very likely. Has he ever been in prison?”
“Not that I know of.”
“H’m!”
Silence followed this profound remark.
“I can’t prosecute,” said Val suddenly. “College pal. There, but for the grace of God and all that, don’t you know; one might have gone to the dogs oneself.”
Soames stared at him.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you might. Your father was always in some scrape or other.”
Val frowned. He had suddenly remembered an evening at the Pandemonium, when, in company with another College friend, he had seen his own father, drunk.
“But somehow,” he said, “I’ve got to see that he doesn’t do it again. If he didn’t look such a ‘heart’ subject, one could give him a hiding.”
Soames shook his head. “Personal violence–besides, he’s probably out of England by now.”
“No; I called at his club on the way here–he’s in town all right.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“No. I wanted to see you first.”
Flattered in spite of himself, Soames said sardonically:
“Perhaps he’s got what they call a better nature?”
“By Jove, Uncle Soames, I believe that’s a brain wave!”
Soames shook his head. “Not to judge by his face.”
“I don’t know,” said Val. “After all, he was born a gentleman.”
“That means nothing nowadays. And, apropos, before I forget it: Do you remember a young fellow called Butterfield, in the Elderson affair–no, you wouldn’t. Well, I’m going to take him out of his publishing firm, and put him under old Gradman, to learn about your mother’s and the other family Trusts. Old Gradman’s on his last legs, and this young man can step into his shoes–it’s a permanent job, and better pay than he’s getting now. I can rely on him, and that’s something in these days. I thought I’d tell you.”
“Another brain wave, Uncle Soames. But about your first. Could you see Stainford, and follow that up?”
“Why should I see him?”
“You carry so much more weight than I do.”
“H’m! Seems to me I always have to do the unpleasant thing. However, I expect it’s better than your seeing him.”
Val grinned. “I shall feel much happier if you do it.”
“I shan’t,” said Soames. “That Bank cashier hasn’t made a mistake, I suppose?”
“Who could mistake Stainford?”
“Nobody,” said Soames. “Well, if you won’t prosecute, you’d better leave it to me.”
When Val was gone he remained in thought. Here he was, still keeping the family affairs straight; he wondered what they would do without him some day. That young Butterfield might be a brain wave, but who could tell–the fellow was attached to him, though, in a curious sort of way, with his eyes of a dog! He should put that in hand at once, before old Gradman dropped off. Must give old Gradman a bit of plate, too, with his name engraved, while he could still appreciate it. Most people only got them when they were dead or dotty. Young Butterfield knew Michael, too, and that would make him interested in Fleur’s affairs. But as to this infernal Stainford? How was he going to set about it? He had better get the fellow here if possible, rather than go to his club. If he’d had the brass to stay in England after committing such a bare-faced forgery, he would have the brass to come here again and see what more he could get. And, smiling sourly, Soames went to the telephone.
“Mr. Stainford in the club? Ask him if he’d be good enough to step over and see Mr. Forsyte at Green Street.”
After a look round to see that there were no ornaments within reach, he seated himself in the dining-room and had Smither in.
“I’m expecting that Mr. Stainford, Smither. If I ring, while he’s here, pop out and get a policeman.”
At the expression on Smither’s face he added:
“I don’t anticipate it, but one never knows.”
“There’s no danger, I hope, Mr. Soames?”
“Nothing of the sort, Smither; I may want him arrested–that’s all.”
“Do you expect him to take something again, sir?”
Soames smiled, and waved his hand at the lack of ornaments. “Very likely he won’t come, but if he does, show him in here.”
When she had gone, he settled down with the clock–a Dutch piece too heavy to take away; it had been ‘picked up’ by James, chimed every thing, and had a moon and a lot of stars on its face. He did not feel so ‘bobbish’ before this third encounter with that fellow; the chap had scored twice, and so far as he could see, owing to Val’s reluctance to prosecute, was going to score a third time. And yet there was a sort of fascination in dealing with what they called ‘the limit,’ and a certain quality about the fellow which raised him almost to the level of romance. It was as if the idolised maxim of his own youth ‘Show no emotion,’ and all the fashionableness that, under the aegis of his mother Emily, had clung about Park Lane, were revisiting him in the shape of this languid beggar. And probably the chap wouldn’t come!
“Mr. Stainford, sir.”
When Smither–very red–had withdrawn, Soames did not know how to begin, the fellow’s face, like old parchment, was as if it had come from some grave or other. At last he said:
“I wanted to see you about a cheque. My nephew’s name’s been forged.”
The eyebrows rose, the eyelids drooped still further.
“Yes. Dartie won’t prosecute.”
Soames’ gorge rose.
“You seem very cocksure,” he said; “my nephew has by no means made up his mind.”
“We were at college together, Mr. Forsyte.”
“You trade on that, do you? There’s a limit, Mr. Stainford. That was a very clever forgery, for a first.”
There was just a flicker of the face; and Soames drew the forged cheque from his pocket. Inadequately protected, of course, not even automatically crossed! Val’s cheques would have to have the words “Not negotiable; Credit payee” stamped on them in future. But how could he give this fellow a thorough scare?
“I have a detective at hand,” he said, “only waiting for me to ring. This sort of thing must stop. As you don’t seem to understand that–” and he took a step towards the bell.
A faint and bitter smile had come on those pale lips.
“You’ve never been down and out, I imagine, Mr. Forsyte?”
“No,” answered Soames, with a certain disgust.
“I always am. It’s very wearing.”
“In that case,” said Soames, “you’ll find prison a rest.” But even as he spoke them, the words seemed futile and a little brutal. The fellow wasn’t a man at all–he was a shade, a languid bitter shade. It was as if one were bullying a ghost.
“Look here!” he said. “As a gentleman by birth, give me your word not to try it on again with my nephew, or any of my family, and I won’t ring.”
“Very well, you have my word–such as it is!”
“We’ll leave it at that, then,” said Soames. “But this is the last time. I shall keep the evidence of this.”
“One must live, Mr. Forsyte.”
“I don’t agree,” said Soames.
The “Shade” uttered a peculiar sound–presumably a laugh, and Soames was alone again. He went hastily to the door, and watched the fellow into the street. Live? Must one? Wouldn’t a fellow like that be better dead? Wouldn’t most people be better dead? And, astonished at so extravagant a thought, he went up to the drawing room. Forty-five years since he had laid its foundations, and there it was, as full of marqueterie as ever. On the mantlepiece was a little old daguerreotype, slightly pinked in the cheeks, of his grandfather–‘Superior Dosset’ set in a deep, enamelled frame. Soames contemplated it. The chin of the founder of the Forsyte clan was settled comfortably between the widely separated points of an old-fashioned collar. The eyes–with thick under-lids, were light and shrewd and rather japing; the side-whiskers grey; the mouth looked as if it could swallow a lot; the old-time tail-coat was of broadcloth; the hands those of a man of affairs. A stocky old boy, with a certain force, and a deal of character! Well-nigh a hundred years since that was taken of him. Refreshing to look at character, after that languid seedy specimen! He would like to see where that old chap had been born and bred before he emerged at the end of the eighteenth century and built the house of Forsyte. He would take Riggs, and go down, and if Fleur wouldn’t come–perhaps all the better! Be dull for her! Roots were nothing to young people. Yes, he would go and look at his roots while the weather was still fine. But first to put old Gradman in order. It would do him good to see the old fellow after this experience–he never left the office till half-past five. And, replacing the daguerreotype, Soames took a taxi to the Poultry, reflecting as he went. How difficult it was to keep things secure, with chaps like Elderson and this fellow Stainford always on the look-out. There was the country too, – no sooner was it out of one than it was into another mess; the coal strike would end when people began to feel the winter pinch, but something else would crop up, some war or disturbance or other. And then there was Fleur–she had fifty thousand of her own. Had he been wrong to make her so independent? And yet–the idea of controlling her through money had always been repulsive to him. Whatever she did–she was his only child, one might say his only love. If she couldn’t keep straight for love of her infant and himself, to say nothing of her husband–he couldn’t do it for her by threat of cutting her off or anything like that! Anyway, things were looking better with her, and perhaps he had been wrong.
The City had just begun to disgorge its daily life. Its denizens were scurrying out like rabbits; they didn’t scurry in like that, he would bet–work-shy, nowadays! Ten where it used to be nine; five where it used to be six. Still, with the telephone and one thing and another, they got through as much perhaps; and didn’t drink all the beer and sherry and eat all the chops they used to–a skimpier breed altogether, compared with that old boy whose effigy he had just been gazing at, a shadowy, narrow-headed lot, with a nervy, anxious look, as if they’d invested in life and found it a dropping stock. And not a tailcoat or a silk hat to be seen. Settling his own more firmly on his head, he got out at the familiar backwater off the Poultry, and entered the offices of Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte.
Old Gradman was still there, his broad, bent back just divested of its workaday coat.
“Ah! Mr. Soames, I was just going. Excuse me while I put on my coat.”
A frock-coat made in the year one, to judge by the cut of it!
“I go at half-past five now. There isn’t much to do as a rule. I like to get a nap before supper. It’s a pleasure to see you; you’re quite a stranger.”
“Yes,” said Soames. “I don’t come in much, but I’ve been thinking. If anything should happen to either or both of us, things would soon be in Queer Street, Gradman.”
“Aow! We won’t think about tha-at!”
“But we must; we’re neither of us young men.”
“Well, I’m not a chicken, but you’re NO age, Mr. Soames.”
“Seventy-one.”
“Dear, dear! It seems only the other day since I took you down to school at Slough. I remember what happened then better than I do what happened yesterday.”
“So do I, Gradman; and that’s a sign of age. Do you recollect that young chap who came here and told me about Elderson?”
“Aow, yes! Nice young feller. Buttermilk or some such name.”
“Butterfield. Well, I’m going to put him under you here, and I want you to get him au fait with everything.”
The old fellow seemed standing very still; his face, in its surround of grey beard and hair, was quite expressionless. Soames hurried on:
“It’s just precautionary. Some day you’ll be wanting to retire.”
Gradman lifted his hand with a heavy gesture.
“I’ll die in ‘arness, I ‘ope,” he said.
“That’s as you like, Gradman. You’ll remain as you always have been–in full charge; but you’ll have someone to rely on if you don’t feel well or want a holiday or what not.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Soames. To have a young man about the place–“
“A good young fellow, Gradman. And, for some reason, grateful to me and to my son-inlaw. He won’t give you any trouble. We none of us live for ever, you know.”
The old chap’s face had puckered queerly, his voice grated more than usual.
“It seems going to meet trouble. I’m quite up to the work, Mr. Soames.”
“Oh! I know how you feel,” said Soames. “I feel much the same myself, but Time stands still for no man, and we must look to the future.”
A sigh escaped from its grizzled prison.
“Well, Mr. Soames, if you’ve made up your mind, we’ll say no more; but I don’t like it.”
“Let me give you a lift to your station.”
“I’d rather walk, thank you; I like the air. I’ll just lock up.”
Soames perceived that not only drawers but feeling required locking-up, and went out.
Faithful old chap! One might go round to Polkingford’s and see if one could pick up that bit of plate.
In that emporium, so lined with silver and gold, that a man wondered whether anything had ever been sold there, Soames stood considering. Must be something that a man could swear by–nothing arty or elegant. He supposed the old chap didn’t drink punch–a chapel-goer! How about those camels in silvergilt with two humps each and candles coming out of them? “Joseph Gradman, in gratitude from the Forsyte family” engraved between the humps? Gradman lived somewhere near the Zoo. M’m! Camels? No! A bowl was better. If he didn’t drink punch he could put rose-leaves or flowers into it.
“I want a bowl,” he said, “a really good one.”
“Yes, sir, I think we have the very article.”
They always had the very article!
“How about this, sir–massive silver–a very chaste design.”
“Chaste!” said Soames. “I wouldn’t have it at a gift.”
“No, sir; it isn’t perhaps EXACTLY what you require. Now, this is a nice little bowl.”
“No, no; something plain and solid that would hold about a gallon.”
“Mr. Bankwait–come here a minute. This gentleman wants an old-fashioned bowl.”
“Yes, sir; I think we have the very thing.”
Soames uttered an indistinguishable sound.
“There isn’t much demand for the old-fashioned bowl; but we have a very fine second-hand, that used to be in the Rexborough family.”
“With arms on?” said Soames. “That won’t do. It must be new, or free from arms, anyway.”
“Ah! Then this will be what you want, sir.”
“My Lord!” said Soames; and raising his umbrella he pointed in the opposite direction. “What’s that thing?”
With a slightly chagrined air the shopman brought the article from its case.
Upon a swelling base, with a waist above, a silver bowl sprang generously forth. Soames flipped it with his finger.
“Pure silver, sir; and, as you see, very delicate edging; not too bacchanalian in design; the best gilt within. I should say the very thing you want.”
“It might do. What’s the price?”
The shopman examined a cabalistic sign.
“Thirty-five pounds, sir.”
“Quite enough,” said Soames. Whether it would please old Gradman, he didn’t know, but the thing was in good taste, and would not do the family discredit. “I’ll have that, then,” he said. “Engrave these words on it,” and he wrote them down. “Send it to that address, and the account to me; and don’t be long about it.”
“Very good, sir. You wouldn’t like those goblets? – they’re perfect in their way.”
“Nothing more!” said Soames. “Good evening!” And, handing the shopman his card, with a cold circular glance, he went out. That was off his mind!
September sun sprinkled him, threading his way West along Piccadilly into the Green Park. These gentle autumn days were very pleasant. He didn’t get hot, and he didn’t feel cold. And the plane-trees looked their best, just making up their minds to turn; nice trees, shapely. And, crossing the grassy spaces, Soames felt almost mellow. A rather more rapid step behind impinged on his consciousness. A voice said:
“Ah! Forsyte! Bound for the meeting at Michael’s?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
A hard handgrip, and he was gone. Fleur turned from the station and drove slowly back along the road.
She put away the car, and entered her “Rest House.” It was full, late holiday time still, and seven young women were resting limbs, tired out in the service of “Petter, Poplin,” and their like.
They were at supper, and a cheery buzz assailed Fleur’s ears. These girls had nothing, and she had everything, except–the one thing that she chiefly wanted. For a moment she felt ashamed, listening to their talk and laughter. No! She would not change with them–and yet without that one thing she felt as if she could not live. And, while she went about the house, sifting the flowers, ordering for tomorrow, inspecting the bedrooms, laughter, cheery and uncontrolled, floated up and seemed to mock her.
Chapter V.
MORE TALK IN A CAR
Jon had too little sense of his own importance to be simultaneously loved with comfort to himself by two pretty and attractive young women. He drove home from Pulborough, where now daily he parked Val’s car, with a sore heart and a mind distraught. He had seen Fleur six times since his return to England, in a sort of painful crescendo. That dance with her had disclosed to him her state of heart, but still he did not suspect her of consciously pursuing him; and no amount of heart-searching seemed to make his own feelings clearer. Ought he to tell Anne about today’s meeting? In many small and silent ways she had shown that she was afraid of Fleur. Why add to her fears without real cause? The portrait was not his own doing, and only for the next few days was he likely to be seeing Fleur. After that they would meet, perhaps, two or three times a year. “Don’t tell Anne–I beseech you!” Could he tell her after that? Surely he owed Fleur that much consideration. She had never consented to give him up; she had not fallen in love with Michael, as he with Anne. Still undecided, he reached Wansdon. His mother had once said to him: “You must never tell a lie, Jon, your face will always give you away.” And so, though he did not tell Anne, her eyes following him about noted that he was keeping something from her. Her cold was in the bronchial stage, so that she was still upstairs, and tense from lack of occupation. Jon came up early again after dinner, and began to read to her. He read from ‘The Worst Journey in the World,’ and on her side she lay with her face pillowed on her arm and watched him over it. The smoke of a wood fire, the scent of balsamic remedies, the drone of his own voice, retailing that epic of a penguin’s egg, drowsed him till the book dropped from his hand.
“Have a snooze Jon, you’re tired.” Jon lay back, but he did not snooze. He thought instead. In this girl, his wife, he knew well that there was what her brother, Francis Wilmot, called ‘sand.’ She knew how to be silent when shoes pinched. He had watched her making up her mind that she was in danger; and now it seemed to him that she was biding her time. Anne always knew what she wanted. She had a singleness of purpose not confused like Fleur’s by the currents of modernity, and she was resolute. Youth in her South Carolinian home had been simple and self-reliant; and unlike most American girls, she had not had too good a time. It had been a shock to her, he knew, that she was not his first love and that his first love was still in love with him. She had shown her uneasiness at once, but now, he felt, she had closed her guard. And Jon could not help knowing, too, that she was still deeply in love with him for all that they had been married two years. He had often heard that American girls seldom really knew the men they married; but it seemed to him sometimes that Anne knew him better than he knew himself. If so, what did she know? What was he? He wanted to do something useful with his life; he wanted to be loyal and kind. But was it all just wanting? Was he a fraud? Not what she thought him? It was all confused and heavy in his mind, like the air in the room. No use thinking! Better to snooze, as Anne said–better to snooze! He woke and said:
“Hallo! Was I snoring?”
“No. But you were twitching like a dog, Jon.”
Jon got up and went to the window.
“I was dreaming. It’s a beautiful night. A fine September’s the pick of the year.”
“Yes; I love the ‘fall.’ Is your mother coming over soon?”
“Not until we’re settled in. I believe she thinks we’re better without her.”
“Your mother would always feel she was de trop before she was.”
“That’s on the right side, anyway.”
“Yes, I wonder if I should.”
Jon turned. She was sitting up, staring in front of her, frowning. He went over and kissed her.
“Careful of your chest, darling!” and he pulled up the clothes.
She lay back, gazing up at him; and again he wondered what she saw…
He was met next day by June’s: “So Fleur was here yesterday and gave you a lift! I told her what I thought this morning.”
“What DID you think?” said Jon.
“That it mustn’t begin again. She’s a spoiled child not to be trusted.”
His eyes moved angrily.
“You’d better leave Fleur alone.”
“I always leave people alone,” said June; “but this is my house, and I had to speak my mind.”
“I’d better stop sitting then.”
“Now, don’t be silly, Jon. Of course you can’t stop sitting–neither of you. Harold would be frightfully upset.”
“Damn Harold!”
June took hold of his lapel.
“That’s not what I mean at all. The pictures are going to be splendid. I only meant that you mustn’t meet here.”
“Did you tell Fleur that?”
“Yes.”
Jon laughed, and the sound of the laugh was hard.
“We’re not children, June.”
“Have you told Anne?”
“No.”
“There, you see!”
“What?”
His face had become stubborn and angry.
“You’re very like your father and grandfather, Jon–they couldn’t bear to be told anything.”
“Can YOU?”
“Of course, when it’s necessary.”
“Then please don’t interfere.”
Pink rushed into June’s cheeks, tears into her eyes; she winked them away, shook herself, and said coldly:
“I never interfere.”
“No?”
She went more pink, and suddenly stroked his sleeve. That touched Jon, and he smiled.
He “sat” disturbed all that afternoon, while the Rafaelite painted, and June hovered, sometimes with a frown, and sometimes with yearning in her face. He wondered what he should do if Fleur called for him again. But Fleur did not call, and he went home alone. The next day was Sunday, and he did not go up; but on Monday when he came out of “The Poplars,” after “sitting,” he saw Fleur’s car standing by the curb.
“I do want to show you my house today. I suppose June spoke to you, but I’m a reformed character, Jon. Get in!” And Jon got in.
The day was dull, neither lighted nor staged for emotion, and the “reformed character” played her part to perfection. Not a word suggested that they were other than best friends. She talked of America, its language and books. Jon maintained that America was violent in its repressions and in its revolt against repressions.
“In a word,” said Fleur, “young.”
“Yes; but so far as I can make out, it’s getting younger every year.”
“I liked America.”
“Oh! I liked it all right. I made quite a profit, too, on my orchard when I sold.”
“I wonder you came back, Jon. The fact is–you’re old-fashioned.”
“How?”
“Take sex–I couldn’t discuss sex with you.”
“Can you with other people?”
“Oh! with nearly anyone. Don’t frown like that! You’d be awfully out of it, my dear, in London, or New York, for that matter.”
“I hate fluffy talk about sex,” said Jon gruffly. “The French are the only people who understand sex. It isn’t to be talked about as they do here and in America; it’s much too real.”
Fleur stole another look.
“Then let us drop that hot potato. I’m not sure whether I could even discuss art with you.”
“Did you see that St. Gaudens statue at Washington?”
“Yes; but that’s vieux jeu nowadays.”
“Is it?” growled Jon. “What do they want, then?”
“You know as well as I.”
“You mean it must be unintelligible?”
“Put it that way if you like. The point is that art now is just a subject for conversation; and anything that anybody can understand at first sight is not worth talking about and therefore not art.”
“I call that silly,” said Jon.
“Perhaps. But more amusing.”
“If you see through it, how can you be amused?”
“Another hot potato. Let’s try again! I bet you don’t approve of women’s dress, these days?”
“Why not? It’s jolly sensible.”
“La, la! Are we coming together on that?”
“Naturally, you’d all look better without hats. You can wash your heads easily now, you know.”
“Oh! don’t cut us off hats, Jon. All our stoicism would go. If we hadn’t to find hats that suited us, life would be much too easy.”
“But they don’t suit you.”
“I agree, my dear; but I know the feminine character better than you. One must always give babies something to cut their teeth on.”
“Fleur, you’re too intelligent to live in London.”
“My dear boy, the modern young woman doesn’t live anywhere. She floats in an ether of her own.”
“She touches earth sometimes, I suppose.”
Fleur did not answer for a minute; then, looking at him:
“Yes; she touches earth sometimes, Jon.” And in that look she seemed to say again: “Oh! what a pity we have to talk like this!”
She showed him the house in such a way that he might get the impression that she considered to some purpose the comfort of others. Even her momentary encounters with the denizens had that quality. Jon went away with a tingling in his palm, and the thought: ‘She likes to make herself out a butterfly, but at heart–!’ The memory of her clear eyes smiling at him, the half-comic quiver of her lips when she said: “Good-bye, bless you!” blurred his vision of Sussex all the way home. And who shall say that she had not so intended?
Holly had come to meet him with a hired car.
“I’m sorry, Jon, Val’s got the car. He won’t be able to drive you up and down tomorrow as he said he would. He’s had to go up today. And if he can get through his business in town, he’ll go on to Newmarket on Wednesday. Something rather beastly’s happened. His name’s been forged on a cheque for a hundred pounds by an old college friend to whom he’d been particularly decent.”
“Very adequate reasons,” said Jon. “What’s Val going to do?”
“He doesn’t know yet; but this is the third time he’s played a dirty trick on Val.”
“Is it quite certain?”
“The Bank described him unmistakably. He seems to think Val will stand anything; but it can’t be allowed to go on.”
“I should say not.”
“Yes, dear boy; but what would you do? Prosecute an old College friend? Val has a queer feeling that it’s only a sort of accident that he himself has kept straight.”
Jon stared. WAS it an accident that one kept straight?
“Was this fellow in the war?” he asked.
“I doubt it. He seems to be an absolute rotter. I saw his face once–bone slack and bone selfish.”
“Beastly for Val!” said Jon.
“He’s going to consult his uncle, Fleur’s father. By the way, have you seen Fleur lately?”
“Yes. I saw her today. She brought me as far as Dorking, and showed me her house there.”
The look on Holly’s face, the reflective shadow between her eyes, were not lost on him.
“Is there any objection to my seeing her?” he said, abruptly.
“Only you can know that, dear boy.”
Jon did not answer, but the moment he saw Anne he told her. She showed him nothing by face or voice, just asked how Fleur was and how he liked the house. That night, after she seemed asleep, he lay awake, gnawed by uncertainty. WAS it an accident that one kept straight–was it?
Chapter VI.
SOAMES HAS BRAIN WAVES
The first question Soames put to his nephew in Green Street, was: “How did he get hold of the cheque form? Do you keep your cheque books lying about?”
“I’m afraid I do, rather, in the country, Uncle Soames.”
“Um,” said Soames, “then you deserve all you get. What about your signature?”
“He wrote from Brighton asking if he could see me.”
“You should have made your wife sign your answer.”
Val groaned. “I didn’t think he’d run to forgery.”
“They run to anything when they’re as far gone as that. I suppose when you said ‘No,’ he came over from Brighton all the same?”
“Yes, he did; but I wasn’t in.”
“Exactly; and he sneaked a form. Well, if you want to stop him, you’d better prosecute. He’ll get three years.”
“That’d kill him,” said Val, “to judge by his looks.”
Soames shook his head. “Improve his health–very likely. Has he ever been in prison?”
“Not that I know of.”
“H’m!”
Silence followed this profound remark.
“I can’t prosecute,” said Val suddenly. “College pal. There, but for the grace of God and all that, don’t you know; one might have gone to the dogs oneself.”
Soames stared at him.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you might. Your father was always in some scrape or other.”
Val frowned. He had suddenly remembered an evening at the Pandemonium, when, in company with another College friend, he had seen his own father, drunk.
“But somehow,” he said, “I’ve got to see that he doesn’t do it again. If he didn’t look such a ‘heart’ subject, one could give him a hiding.”
Soames shook his head. “Personal violence–besides, he’s probably out of England by now.”
“No; I called at his club on the way here–he’s in town all right.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“No. I wanted to see you first.”
Flattered in spite of himself, Soames said sardonically:
“Perhaps he’s got what they call a better nature?”
“By Jove, Uncle Soames, I believe that’s a brain wave!”
Soames shook his head. “Not to judge by his face.”
“I don’t know,” said Val. “After all, he was born a gentleman.”
“That means nothing nowadays. And, apropos, before I forget it: Do you remember a young fellow called Butterfield, in the Elderson affair–no, you wouldn’t. Well, I’m going to take him out of his publishing firm, and put him under old Gradman, to learn about your mother’s and the other family Trusts. Old Gradman’s on his last legs, and this young man can step into his shoes–it’s a permanent job, and better pay than he’s getting now. I can rely on him, and that’s something in these days. I thought I’d tell you.”
“Another brain wave, Uncle Soames. But about your first. Could you see Stainford, and follow that up?”
“Why should I see him?”
“You carry so much more weight than I do.”
“H’m! Seems to me I always have to do the unpleasant thing. However, I expect it’s better than your seeing him.”
Val grinned. “I shall feel much happier if you do it.”
“I shan’t,” said Soames. “That Bank cashier hasn’t made a mistake, I suppose?”
“Who could mistake Stainford?”
“Nobody,” said Soames. “Well, if you won’t prosecute, you’d better leave it to me.”
When Val was gone he remained in thought. Here he was, still keeping the family affairs straight; he wondered what they would do without him some day. That young Butterfield might be a brain wave, but who could tell–the fellow was attached to him, though, in a curious sort of way, with his eyes of a dog! He should put that in hand at once, before old Gradman dropped off. Must give old Gradman a bit of plate, too, with his name engraved, while he could still appreciate it. Most people only got them when they were dead or dotty. Young Butterfield knew Michael, too, and that would make him interested in Fleur’s affairs. But as to this infernal Stainford? How was he going to set about it? He had better get the fellow here if possible, rather than go to his club. If he’d had the brass to stay in England after committing such a bare-faced forgery, he would have the brass to come here again and see what more he could get. And, smiling sourly, Soames went to the telephone.
“Mr. Stainford in the club? Ask him if he’d be good enough to step over and see Mr. Forsyte at Green Street.”
After a look round to see that there were no ornaments within reach, he seated himself in the dining-room and had Smither in.
“I’m expecting that Mr. Stainford, Smither. If I ring, while he’s here, pop out and get a policeman.”
At the expression on Smither’s face he added:
“I don’t anticipate it, but one never knows.”
“There’s no danger, I hope, Mr. Soames?”
“Nothing of the sort, Smither; I may want him arrested–that’s all.”
“Do you expect him to take something again, sir?”
Soames smiled, and waved his hand at the lack of ornaments. “Very likely he won’t come, but if he does, show him in here.”
When she had gone, he settled down with the clock–a Dutch piece too heavy to take away; it had been ‘picked up’ by James, chimed every thing, and had a moon and a lot of stars on its face. He did not feel so ‘bobbish’ before this third encounter with that fellow; the chap had scored twice, and so far as he could see, owing to Val’s reluctance to prosecute, was going to score a third time. And yet there was a sort of fascination in dealing with what they called ‘the limit,’ and a certain quality about the fellow which raised him almost to the level of romance. It was as if the idolised maxim of his own youth ‘Show no emotion,’ and all the fashionableness that, under the aegis of his mother Emily, had clung about Park Lane, were revisiting him in the shape of this languid beggar. And probably the chap wouldn’t come!
“Mr. Stainford, sir.”
When Smither–very red–had withdrawn, Soames did not know how to begin, the fellow’s face, like old parchment, was as if it had come from some grave or other. At last he said:
“I wanted to see you about a cheque. My nephew’s name’s been forged.”
The eyebrows rose, the eyelids drooped still further.
“Yes. Dartie won’t prosecute.”
Soames’ gorge rose.
“You seem very cocksure,” he said; “my nephew has by no means made up his mind.”
“We were at college together, Mr. Forsyte.”
“You trade on that, do you? There’s a limit, Mr. Stainford. That was a very clever forgery, for a first.”
There was just a flicker of the face; and Soames drew the forged cheque from his pocket. Inadequately protected, of course, not even automatically crossed! Val’s cheques would have to have the words “Not negotiable; Credit payee” stamped on them in future. But how could he give this fellow a thorough scare?
“I have a detective at hand,” he said, “only waiting for me to ring. This sort of thing must stop. As you don’t seem to understand that–” and he took a step towards the bell.
A faint and bitter smile had come on those pale lips.
“You’ve never been down and out, I imagine, Mr. Forsyte?”
“No,” answered Soames, with a certain disgust.
“I always am. It’s very wearing.”
“In that case,” said Soames, “you’ll find prison a rest.” But even as he spoke them, the words seemed futile and a little brutal. The fellow wasn’t a man at all–he was a shade, a languid bitter shade. It was as if one were bullying a ghost.
“Look here!” he said. “As a gentleman by birth, give me your word not to try it on again with my nephew, or any of my family, and I won’t ring.”
“Very well, you have my word–such as it is!”
“We’ll leave it at that, then,” said Soames. “But this is the last time. I shall keep the evidence of this.”
“One must live, Mr. Forsyte.”
“I don’t agree,” said Soames.
The “Shade” uttered a peculiar sound–presumably a laugh, and Soames was alone again. He went hastily to the door, and watched the fellow into the street. Live? Must one? Wouldn’t a fellow like that be better dead? Wouldn’t most people be better dead? And, astonished at so extravagant a thought, he went up to the drawing room. Forty-five years since he had laid its foundations, and there it was, as full of marqueterie as ever. On the mantlepiece was a little old daguerreotype, slightly pinked in the cheeks, of his grandfather–‘Superior Dosset’ set in a deep, enamelled frame. Soames contemplated it. The chin of the founder of the Forsyte clan was settled comfortably between the widely separated points of an old-fashioned collar. The eyes–with thick under-lids, were light and shrewd and rather japing; the side-whiskers grey; the mouth looked as if it could swallow a lot; the old-time tail-coat was of broadcloth; the hands those of a man of affairs. A stocky old boy, with a certain force, and a deal of character! Well-nigh a hundred years since that was taken of him. Refreshing to look at character, after that languid seedy specimen! He would like to see where that old chap had been born and bred before he emerged at the end of the eighteenth century and built the house of Forsyte. He would take Riggs, and go down, and if Fleur wouldn’t come–perhaps all the better! Be dull for her! Roots were nothing to young people. Yes, he would go and look at his roots while the weather was still fine. But first to put old Gradman in order. It would do him good to see the old fellow after this experience–he never left the office till half-past five. And, replacing the daguerreotype, Soames took a taxi to the Poultry, reflecting as he went. How difficult it was to keep things secure, with chaps like Elderson and this fellow Stainford always on the look-out. There was the country too, – no sooner was it out of one than it was into another mess; the coal strike would end when people began to feel the winter pinch, but something else would crop up, some war or disturbance or other. And then there was Fleur–she had fifty thousand of her own. Had he been wrong to make her so independent? And yet–the idea of controlling her through money had always been repulsive to him. Whatever she did–she was his only child, one might say his only love. If she couldn’t keep straight for love of her infant and himself, to say nothing of her husband–he couldn’t do it for her by threat of cutting her off or anything like that! Anyway, things were looking better with her, and perhaps he had been wrong.
The City had just begun to disgorge its daily life. Its denizens were scurrying out like rabbits; they didn’t scurry in like that, he would bet–work-shy, nowadays! Ten where it used to be nine; five where it used to be six. Still, with the telephone and one thing and another, they got through as much perhaps; and didn’t drink all the beer and sherry and eat all the chops they used to–a skimpier breed altogether, compared with that old boy whose effigy he had just been gazing at, a shadowy, narrow-headed lot, with a nervy, anxious look, as if they’d invested in life and found it a dropping stock. And not a tailcoat or a silk hat to be seen. Settling his own more firmly on his head, he got out at the familiar backwater off the Poultry, and entered the offices of Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte.
Old Gradman was still there, his broad, bent back just divested of its workaday coat.
“Ah! Mr. Soames, I was just going. Excuse me while I put on my coat.”
A frock-coat made in the year one, to judge by the cut of it!
“I go at half-past five now. There isn’t much to do as a rule. I like to get a nap before supper. It’s a pleasure to see you; you’re quite a stranger.”
“Yes,” said Soames. “I don’t come in much, but I’ve been thinking. If anything should happen to either or both of us, things would soon be in Queer Street, Gradman.”
“Aow! We won’t think about tha-at!”
“But we must; we’re neither of us young men.”
“Well, I’m not a chicken, but you’re NO age, Mr. Soames.”
“Seventy-one.”
“Dear, dear! It seems only the other day since I took you down to school at Slough. I remember what happened then better than I do what happened yesterday.”
“So do I, Gradman; and that’s a sign of age. Do you recollect that young chap who came here and told me about Elderson?”
“Aow, yes! Nice young feller. Buttermilk or some such name.”
“Butterfield. Well, I’m going to put him under you here, and I want you to get him au fait with everything.”
The old fellow seemed standing very still; his face, in its surround of grey beard and hair, was quite expressionless. Soames hurried on:
“It’s just precautionary. Some day you’ll be wanting to retire.”
Gradman lifted his hand with a heavy gesture.
“I’ll die in ‘arness, I ‘ope,” he said.
“That’s as you like, Gradman. You’ll remain as you always have been–in full charge; but you’ll have someone to rely on if you don’t feel well or want a holiday or what not.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Soames. To have a young man about the place–“
“A good young fellow, Gradman. And, for some reason, grateful to me and to my son-inlaw. He won’t give you any trouble. We none of us live for ever, you know.”
The old chap’s face had puckered queerly, his voice grated more than usual.
“It seems going to meet trouble. I’m quite up to the work, Mr. Soames.”
“Oh! I know how you feel,” said Soames. “I feel much the same myself, but Time stands still for no man, and we must look to the future.”
A sigh escaped from its grizzled prison.
“Well, Mr. Soames, if you’ve made up your mind, we’ll say no more; but I don’t like it.”
“Let me give you a lift to your station.”
“I’d rather walk, thank you; I like the air. I’ll just lock up.”
Soames perceived that not only drawers but feeling required locking-up, and went out.
Faithful old chap! One might go round to Polkingford’s and see if one could pick up that bit of plate.
In that emporium, so lined with silver and gold, that a man wondered whether anything had ever been sold there, Soames stood considering. Must be something that a man could swear by–nothing arty or elegant. He supposed the old chap didn’t drink punch–a chapel-goer! How about those camels in silvergilt with two humps each and candles coming out of them? “Joseph Gradman, in gratitude from the Forsyte family” engraved between the humps? Gradman lived somewhere near the Zoo. M’m! Camels? No! A bowl was better. If he didn’t drink punch he could put rose-leaves or flowers into it.
“I want a bowl,” he said, “a really good one.”
“Yes, sir, I think we have the very article.”
They always had the very article!
“How about this, sir–massive silver–a very chaste design.”
“Chaste!” said Soames. “I wouldn’t have it at a gift.”
“No, sir; it isn’t perhaps EXACTLY what you require. Now, this is a nice little bowl.”
“No, no; something plain and solid that would hold about a gallon.”
“Mr. Bankwait–come here a minute. This gentleman wants an old-fashioned bowl.”
“Yes, sir; I think we have the very thing.”
Soames uttered an indistinguishable sound.
“There isn’t much demand for the old-fashioned bowl; but we have a very fine second-hand, that used to be in the Rexborough family.”
“With arms on?” said Soames. “That won’t do. It must be new, or free from arms, anyway.”
“Ah! Then this will be what you want, sir.”
“My Lord!” said Soames; and raising his umbrella he pointed in the opposite direction. “What’s that thing?”
With a slightly chagrined air the shopman brought the article from its case.
Upon a swelling base, with a waist above, a silver bowl sprang generously forth. Soames flipped it with his finger.
“Pure silver, sir; and, as you see, very delicate edging; not too bacchanalian in design; the best gilt within. I should say the very thing you want.”
“It might do. What’s the price?”
The shopman examined a cabalistic sign.
“Thirty-five pounds, sir.”
“Quite enough,” said Soames. Whether it would please old Gradman, he didn’t know, but the thing was in good taste, and would not do the family discredit. “I’ll have that, then,” he said. “Engrave these words on it,” and he wrote them down. “Send it to that address, and the account to me; and don’t be long about it.”
“Very good, sir. You wouldn’t like those goblets? – they’re perfect in their way.”
“Nothing more!” said Soames. “Good evening!” And, handing the shopman his card, with a cold circular glance, he went out. That was off his mind!
September sun sprinkled him, threading his way West along Piccadilly into the Green Park. These gentle autumn days were very pleasant. He didn’t get hot, and he didn’t feel cold. And the plane-trees looked their best, just making up their minds to turn; nice trees, shapely. And, crossing the grassy spaces, Soames felt almost mellow. A rather more rapid step behind impinged on his consciousness. A voice said:
“Ah! Forsyte! Bound for the meeting at Michael’s?
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