“I don’t follow you.”
“We’re being cold-shouldered.”
“How? You won.”
“Yes, but you see, people resent moral superiority.”
“What’s that? Who–?” Moral superiority–he resented it himself!
“Foskisson, you know; we’re tarred with his brush. I told you I was afraid of it. It’s the being laughed at Fleur feels so bitterly.”
“Laughed at? Who has the impudence–?”
“To attack modern morality was a good stunt, sir, with the judge and the jury, and any one professionally pompous; but it makes one ridiculous nowadays in Society, you know, when everybody prides himself on lack of prejudice.”
“Society!”
“Yes, sir; but it’s what we live in. I don’t mind, got used to it over Foggartism; but Fleur’s miserable. It’s natural, if you think of it–Society’s her game.”
“She ought to have more strength of mind,” said Soames. But he was gravely perturbed. First she’d been looked on as a snob, and now there was this!
“What with that German actor hanging himself at Lippinghall,” Michael went on, “and my Foggartism, and this Ferrar rumpus, our pitch is badly queered. We’ve had a wretched week of it since the case. Fleur feels so out of her plate, that she wants me to take her round the world.”
A bomb bursting on the dove-cote down there could not have been more startling. Round the world! He heard Michael murmuring on:
“She’s quite right, too. It might be the very best thing for her; but I simply can’t leave my job until the long vacation. I’ve taken up this thing, and I must stick to it while Parliament’s sitting.”
Sitting! As if it were a hen, addling its precious eggs! Round the world!
But Michael ran on:
“It’s only today I’ve quite decided. I should feel like a deserter, and that wouldn’t be good for either of us in the long run. But she doesn’t know yet.”
For Soames the dove-cote was solidifying again, now that he knew Michael was not going to take her away for goodness knew how long!
“Round the world!” he said. “Why not–er–Pontresina?”
“I think,” answered Michael, slowly, like a doctor diagnosing, “that she wants something dramatic. Round the world at twenty-three! She feels somehow that she’s lost caste.”
“How can she think of leaving that little chap?”
“Yes, that shows it’s pretty desperate with her. I wish to goodness I COULD go.”
Soames stared. The young fellow wasn’t expecting him to do anything about it, was he? Round the world? A crazy notion!
“I must see her,” he said. “Can you leave that thing of yours in the garage and come up with me in the car? I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. You’ll find tea going down-stairs.”
Left alone with the Fred Walker still unhung, Soames gazed at his pictures. He saw them with an added clarity, a more penetrating glance, a sort of ache in his heart, as if–Well! A good lot they were, better than he had thought, of late! SHE had gone in for collecting people! And now she’d lost her collection! Poor little thing! All nonsense, of course–as if there were any satisfaction in people! Suppose he took her up that Chardin? It was a good Chardin. Dumetrius had done him over the price, but not too much. And, before Chardin was finished with, he would do Dumetrius. Still–if it would give her any pleasure! He unhooked the picture, and, carrying it under his arm, went down-stairs.
Beyond certain allusions to the characteristics of the eleventh baronet, and the regrettable tendencies of the police to compel slow travelling over the new cut constructed to speed up traffic, little was said in the car. They arrived in South Square about six o’clock. Fleur had not been in since lunch; and they sat down uneasily to wait for her. The Dandie, having descended to look for strange legs, had almost immediately ascended again, and the house was very quiet. Michael was continually looking at his watch.
“Where do you think she’s got to?” said Soames, at last.
“Haven’t an idea, sir; that’s the worst of London, it swallows people up.”
He had begun to fidget; Soames, who also wanted to fidget, was thinking of saying: “Don’t!” when from the window Michael cried:
“Here she is!” and went quickly to the door.
Soames sat on, with the Chardin resting against his chair.
They were a long time out there! Minute after minute passed, and still they did not come.
At last Michael reappeared. He looked exceedingly grave.
“She’s in her little room up-stairs, sir. I’m afraid my decision has upset her awfully. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going up.”
Soames grasped the Chardin.
“Let’s see, that’s the first door on the left, isn’t it?” He mounted slowly, his mind blank, and without waiting for her to answer his mild knock, went in.
Fleur was sitting at the satinwood bureau, with her face buried on her arms. Her hair, again in its more natural ‘bob,’ gleamed lustrously under the light. She seemed unconscious of his entry. This sight of private life affected Soames, unaccustomed to give or receive undefended glimpses of self, and he stood, uncertain. Had he the right to surprise her, with her ears muffled like that, and her feelings all upset? He would have gone out and come in again, but he was too concerned. And, moving to her side, he put his finger on her shoulder, and said:
“Tired, my child?”
Her face came round–queer, creased, not like her face; and Soames spoke the phrase of her childhood:
“See what I’ve brought you!”
He raised the Chardin; she gave it just a glance, and he felt hurt. After all, it was worth some hundreds of pounds! Very pale, she had crossed her arms on her chest, as if shutting herself up. He recognised the symptom. A spiritual crisis! The sort of thing his whole life had been passed in regarding as extravagant; like a case of appendicitis that will not wait decently.
“Michael,” he said, “tells me you want him to take you round the world.”
“Well, he can’t; so that ends it.”
“If she had said: ‘Yes, and why can’t he?’ Soames would have joined the opposition automatically. But her words roused his natural perversity. Here she was, and here was her heart’s desire–and she wasn’t getting it! He put the Chardin down, and took a walk over the soft carpet.
“Tell me,” he said, coming to a halt, “where do you feel it exactly?”
Fleur laughed: “In my head, and my eyes, and my ears, and my heart.”
“What business,” muttered Soames, “have they to look down their confounded noses!” And he set off again across the room. All the modern jackanapes whom from time to time he had been unable to avoid in her house, seemed to have come sniggering round him with lifted eyebrows, like a set of ghosts. The longing to put them in their places–a shallow lot–possessed him at that moment to the exclusion of a greater sanity.
“I–I don’t see how I can take you,” he said, and stopped short.
What was that he was saying? Who had asked him to take her? Her eyes, widely open, were fixed on him.
“But of course not, Dad!”
Of course not! He didn’t know about that!
“I shall get used to being laughed at, in time.” Soames growled.
“I don’t see why you should,” he said. “I suppose people do go round the world.”
Fleur’s pallor had gone, now.
“But not you, dear; why, it would bore you stiff! It’s very sweet of you, even to think of it; but of course I couldn’t let you–at your age!”
“At my age?” said Soames. “I’m not so very old.”
“No, no, Dad; I’ll just dree my weird.”
Soames took another walk, without a sound. Dree her weird, indeed!
“I won’t have it,” he ejaculated; “if people can’t behave to you, I–I’ll show them!”
She had got up, and was breathing deeply, with her lips parted, and her cheeks very flushed. So she had stood, before her first party, holding out her frock for him to see.
“We’ll go,” he said, gruffly. “Don’t make a fuss! That’s settled.”
Her arms were round his neck; his nose felt wet. What nonsense! as if–!…
He stood unbuttoning his braces that night in the most peculiar state of mind. Going round the world–was he? Preposterous! It had knocked that young fellow over anyway–he was to join them in August wherever they were by that time! Good Lord! It might be China! The thing was fantastic; and Fleur behaving like a kitten! The words of a comic ditty, sung by a clergyman, in his boyhood, kept up a tattoo within him:
“I see Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee…”
Yes! Indeed! His affairs were in apple-pie order, luckily! There was nothing to do, in Timothy’s or Winifred’s Trusts–the only two he had on his hands now; but how things would get on without him, he couldn’t tell! As to Annette! She wouldn’t be sorry, he supposed. There was no one else to care, except Winifred, a little. It was, rather, an intangible presence that troubled his thoughts, about to forsake it for months on end! Still, the cliffs of Dover would be standing, he supposed, and the river still running past his lawn, when he came back, if he ever came back! You picked up all sorts of things out there–microbes, insects, snakes–never knew what you’d run into! Pretty business, steering Fleur clear of all that. And the sightseeing he would have to do! For SHE wouldn’t miss anything! Trust her! Going round among a lot of people with their mouths open–he couldn’t stand that; but he would have to! H’m! A relief when that young fellow could join them. And yet–to have her to himself; he hadn’t, for a long time now. But she would pick up with everybody, of course. He would have to make himself agreable to Tom, Dick, and Harry. A look at Egypt, then to India, and across to China and Japan, and back through that great sprawling America–God’s own country, didn’t they call it! She had it all mapped out. Thank goodness, no question of Russia! She hadn’t even proposed that–it was all to pieces now, they said! Communism! Who knew what would happen at home before they got back? It seemed to Soames as if England, too, must all go to pieces, if he left it. Well, he’d said he would take her! And she had cried over it. Phew! He threw the window up, and in the Jaeger dressing-gown kept there for stray occasions, leaned into the mild air. No Westminster Square did he seem to see out there, but his own river and its poplars, with the full moon behind them, a bright witness–the quiet beauty he had never put into words, the green tranquility he had felt for thirty years, and only permitted to seep into the back of his being. He would miss it–the scents, the sighs of the river under the wind, the chuckle down at the weir, the stars. They had stars out there, of course, but not English stars. And the grass–those great places had no grass, he believed! The blossom, too, was late this year–no blossom before they left! Well, the milk was spilled! And that reminded him: The dairyman would be certain to let the cows go out of milk–he was a ‘natural,’ that chap! He would have to warn Annette. Women never seemed to understand that a cow didn’t go on giving milk for ever, without being attended to. If he only had a man to rely on in the country, like old Gradman in Town! H’m! Old Gradman’s eyes would drop out when he heard this news! Bit of old England there; and wouldn’t be left long, now! It would be queer to come back and find old Gradman gone. One–Two–Three–Eleven! That clock! It had kept him awake before now; still–it was a fine old clock! That young fellow was to go on sitting under it. And was there anything in the notions that kept him sitting there, or were they just talk? Well, he was right to stick to his guns, anyway. But five months away from his young wife–great risk in that! ‘Youth’s a stuff’–Old Shakespeare knew the world. Well! Risk, or no risk, there it was! After all, Fleur had a good head; and young Michael had a good heart. Fleur had a good heart, too; he wouldn’t have it said that she hadn’t! She would feel leaving the baby when it came to the point. She didn’t realise, yet. And Soames felt within him the stir of a curious conflict, between hope that, after all, she might give it up, and apprehension lest she should. Funny–that! His habits, his comfort, his possessions… and here he was, flinging them all over the windmill! Absurd! And yet–!
Chapter XII.
ENVOI
Away from Fleur five months at least!
Soames’ astounding conduct had indeed knocked Michael over. And yet, after all, they had come to a crisis in their life together, the more serious because concerned with workaday feelings. Perhaps out there she would become afflicted, like himself, with an enlarged prospect; lose her idea that the world consisted of some five thousand people of advanced tastes, of whom she knew at the outside five hundred. It was she who had pushed him into Parliament, and until he was hoofed therefrom as a failure, their path was surely conjoined along the crest of a large view. In the fortnight before her departure he suffered and kept smiling; wryly thankful that she was behaving ‘like a kitten,’ as her father called it. Her nerves had been on edge ever since the autumn over that wretched case–what more natural than this reaction? At least she felt for him sufficiently to be prodigal of kisses–great consolation to Michael while it lasted. Once or twice he caught her hanging with wet eyes over the eleventh baronet; once found her with a wet face when he awoke in the morning. These indications were a priceless assurance to him that she meant to come back. For there were moments when possibilities balled into a nightmare. Absurd! She was going with her father, that embodiment of care and prudence! Who would have thought Old Forsyte could uproot himself like this? He, too, was leaving a wife, though Michael saw no signs of it. One didn’t know much about Old Forsyte’s feelings, except that they centred round his daughter, and that he was continually asking questions about labels and insects. He had bought himself, too, a life-saving waistcoat and one for Fleur. Michael held with him only one important conversation.
“I want you,” Soames said, “to keep an eye on my wife, and see she doesn’t go getting into a mess with the cows. She’ll have her mother with her, but women are so funny. You’ll find her first-rate with the baby. How will you be off for money?”
“Perfectly all right, sir.”
“Well, if you want some for any good purpose, go to old Gradman in the City; you remember him, perhaps?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid he’ll remember me.”
“Never mind; he’s a faithful old fellow.” And Michael heard him sigh. “I’d like you to look in at Green Street, too, now and then. Your aunt-inlaw may feel my being away a little. I’ll let you have news of Fleur from time to time–now they’ve got this wireless she’ll want to know about the baby. I’m taking plenty of quinine. Fleur says she’s a good sailor. There’s nothing like champagne for that, I’m told. And, by the way, you know best, but I shouldn’t press your notions too far in Parliament; they’re easily bored there, I believe. We’ll meet you at Vancouver, at the end of August. She’ll be tired of travelling by then. She’s looking forward to Egypt and Japan, but I don’t know. Seems to me it’ll be all travelling.”
“Have you plenty of ducks, sir? You’ll want them at this time of year in the Red Sea; and I should take a helmet.”
“I’ve got one,” said Soames; “they’re heavy great things,” and, looking suddenly at Michael, he added:
“I shall look after her, and you’ll look after yourself, I hope.”
Michael understood him.
“Yes, sir. And thank you very much. I think it’s most frightfully sporting of you.”
“It’s to be hoped it’ll do her good; and that the little chap won’t miss her.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Soames, who was seated in front of ‘The White Monkey,’ seemed to go into a trance. At last he stirred in his chair, and said:
“The war’s left everything very unsettled. I suppose people believe in something nowadays, but I don’t know what it is.”
Michael felt a fearful interest.
“Do you mind telling me, sir, what you believe in yourself?”
“What was good enough for my fathers is good enough for me. They expect too much now; there’s no interest taken in being alive.”
“Interest taken in being alive!” The words were singularly comprehensive. Were they the answer to all modern doubt?
The last night, the last kiss came; and the glum journey to the Docks in Soames’ car. Michael alone went to see them off! The gloomy dockside, and the grey river; the bustle with baggage, and the crowded tender. An aching business! Even for her, he almost believed–an aching business. And the long desultory minutes on the ship; the initiation of Soames into its cramped, shining, strangely odoured mysteries. The ghastly smile one had to keep on the lips, the inane jokes one had to make. And then that moment, apart, when she pressed her breast to his and gave him a clinging kiss.
“Good-bye, Michael; it’s not for very long.”
“Good-bye, darling! Take care of yourself. You shall have all the news I can send you, and don’t worry about Kit.”
His teeth were clinched, and her eyes–he saw–were wet! And, then, once more:
“Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
Back on the tender, with the strip of grey water opening, spreading, between him and the ship’s side, and that high line of faces above the bulwark–Fleur’s face under the small fawn hat, her waving hand; and, away to the left, seen out of the tail of his eye, Old Forsyte’s face alone–withdrawn so that they might have their parting to themselves–long, chinny, grey-moustached, very motionless; absorbed and lonely, as might be that of some long-distance bird arrived on an unknown shore, and looking back towards the land of its departure. Smaller and smaller they grew, merged in blur, vanished.
For the whole journey back to Westminster, Michael smoked cigarette on cigarette, and read the same sentence over and over in the same journal, and the sentence was:
‘Robbery at Highgate, Cat Burglar gets clear away.’
He went straight into the House of Commons. And all the afternoon sat listening and taking in a few words now and then, of a debate on education. What chance–what earthly chance–had his skyscraping in this place, where they still talked with calm disagreement, as if England were the England of 1906, and where the verdict on him was: ‘Amiable but very foolish young man!’ National unity–national movement! No jolly fear! The country wouldn’t have it! One was battering at a door which everybody said must be opened, but through which nobody could pass. And a long strip of grey water kept spreading between him and the talkers; the face under the fawn hat confused itself with that of the Member for Wasbaston; the face of Old Forsyte above the bulwark rail appeared suddenly between two Labour Leaders; and the lines of faces faded to a blur on a grey river where gulls were flighting.
Going out, he passed a face that had more reality–MacGown’s! Grim! It wasn’t the word. No one had got any change out of that affair. Multum ex parvo! Parvum ex multo! That was the modern comedy!
Going home to have a look at Kit and send Fleur a wireless, he passed four musicians playing four instruments with a sort of fury. They had able bodies in shabby clothes. ‘By Jove!’ thought Michael, ‘I know that chap’s face! – surely he was in my Company, in France!’ He watched till the cheeks collapsed. Yes! A good man, too! But they had all been good men. By George, they had been wonders! And here they were! And he within an ace of abandoning them! Though everybody had his nostrum, and one perhaps was as good as another, still one could only follow what light one had! And if the Future was unreadable, and Fate grinned, well–let it grin!
How empty the house felt! To-morrow Kit and the dog were to go down to ‘The Shelter’ in the car, and it would be still emptier. From room after room he tried to retrieve some sight or scent of Fleur. Too painful! His dressing-room, his study were the only places possible–in them he would abide.
He went to the nursery, and opened the door softly. Whiteness and dimity; the dog on his fat silver side, the Magicoal fire burning; the prints on the white walls so carefully selected for the moment when the eleventh baronet should begin to take notice–prints slightly comic, to avoid a moral; the high and shining fender-guard that even Magicoal might not be taken too seriously; the light coming in between bright chintz. A charming room! The nurse, in blue, was standing with her back to the door, and did not see him. And, in his little high chair, the eleventh baronet was at table; on his face, beneath its dark chestnut curls, was a slight frown; and in his tiny hand he held a silver spoon, with which over the bowl before him he was making spasmodic passes.
Michael heard the nurse saying:
“Now that mother’s gone, you must be a little man, Kit, and learn to use your spoon.”
Michael saw his offspring dip at the bowl and throw some of its contents into the air.
“That’s not the way at all.”
The eleventh baronet repeated the performance, and looked for applause, with a determined smile.
“Naughty!”
“A–a!” said the eleventh baronet, plopping the spoon. The contents spurted wastefully.
“Oh! you spoiled boy!”
“‘England, my England!’” thought Michael, “as the poet said.”
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
“We’re being cold-shouldered.”
“How? You won.”
“Yes, but you see, people resent moral superiority.”
“What’s that? Who–?” Moral superiority–he resented it himself!
“Foskisson, you know; we’re tarred with his brush. I told you I was afraid of it. It’s the being laughed at Fleur feels so bitterly.”
“Laughed at? Who has the impudence–?”
“To attack modern morality was a good stunt, sir, with the judge and the jury, and any one professionally pompous; but it makes one ridiculous nowadays in Society, you know, when everybody prides himself on lack of prejudice.”
“Society!”
“Yes, sir; but it’s what we live in. I don’t mind, got used to it over Foggartism; but Fleur’s miserable. It’s natural, if you think of it–Society’s her game.”
“She ought to have more strength of mind,” said Soames. But he was gravely perturbed. First she’d been looked on as a snob, and now there was this!
“What with that German actor hanging himself at Lippinghall,” Michael went on, “and my Foggartism, and this Ferrar rumpus, our pitch is badly queered. We’ve had a wretched week of it since the case. Fleur feels so out of her plate, that she wants me to take her round the world.”
A bomb bursting on the dove-cote down there could not have been more startling. Round the world! He heard Michael murmuring on:
“She’s quite right, too. It might be the very best thing for her; but I simply can’t leave my job until the long vacation. I’ve taken up this thing, and I must stick to it while Parliament’s sitting.”
Sitting! As if it were a hen, addling its precious eggs! Round the world!
But Michael ran on:
“It’s only today I’ve quite decided. I should feel like a deserter, and that wouldn’t be good for either of us in the long run. But she doesn’t know yet.”
For Soames the dove-cote was solidifying again, now that he knew Michael was not going to take her away for goodness knew how long!
“Round the world!” he said. “Why not–er–Pontresina?”
“I think,” answered Michael, slowly, like a doctor diagnosing, “that she wants something dramatic. Round the world at twenty-three! She feels somehow that she’s lost caste.”
“How can she think of leaving that little chap?”
“Yes, that shows it’s pretty desperate with her. I wish to goodness I COULD go.”
Soames stared. The young fellow wasn’t expecting him to do anything about it, was he? Round the world? A crazy notion!
“I must see her,” he said. “Can you leave that thing of yours in the garage and come up with me in the car? I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. You’ll find tea going down-stairs.”
Left alone with the Fred Walker still unhung, Soames gazed at his pictures. He saw them with an added clarity, a more penetrating glance, a sort of ache in his heart, as if–Well! A good lot they were, better than he had thought, of late! SHE had gone in for collecting people! And now she’d lost her collection! Poor little thing! All nonsense, of course–as if there were any satisfaction in people! Suppose he took her up that Chardin? It was a good Chardin. Dumetrius had done him over the price, but not too much. And, before Chardin was finished with, he would do Dumetrius. Still–if it would give her any pleasure! He unhooked the picture, and, carrying it under his arm, went down-stairs.
Beyond certain allusions to the characteristics of the eleventh baronet, and the regrettable tendencies of the police to compel slow travelling over the new cut constructed to speed up traffic, little was said in the car. They arrived in South Square about six o’clock. Fleur had not been in since lunch; and they sat down uneasily to wait for her. The Dandie, having descended to look for strange legs, had almost immediately ascended again, and the house was very quiet. Michael was continually looking at his watch.
“Where do you think she’s got to?” said Soames, at last.
“Haven’t an idea, sir; that’s the worst of London, it swallows people up.”
He had begun to fidget; Soames, who also wanted to fidget, was thinking of saying: “Don’t!” when from the window Michael cried:
“Here she is!” and went quickly to the door.
Soames sat on, with the Chardin resting against his chair.
They were a long time out there! Minute after minute passed, and still they did not come.
At last Michael reappeared. He looked exceedingly grave.
“She’s in her little room up-stairs, sir. I’m afraid my decision has upset her awfully. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going up.”
Soames grasped the Chardin.
“Let’s see, that’s the first door on the left, isn’t it?” He mounted slowly, his mind blank, and without waiting for her to answer his mild knock, went in.
Fleur was sitting at the satinwood bureau, with her face buried on her arms. Her hair, again in its more natural ‘bob,’ gleamed lustrously under the light. She seemed unconscious of his entry. This sight of private life affected Soames, unaccustomed to give or receive undefended glimpses of self, and he stood, uncertain. Had he the right to surprise her, with her ears muffled like that, and her feelings all upset? He would have gone out and come in again, but he was too concerned. And, moving to her side, he put his finger on her shoulder, and said:
“Tired, my child?”
Her face came round–queer, creased, not like her face; and Soames spoke the phrase of her childhood:
“See what I’ve brought you!”
He raised the Chardin; she gave it just a glance, and he felt hurt. After all, it was worth some hundreds of pounds! Very pale, she had crossed her arms on her chest, as if shutting herself up. He recognised the symptom. A spiritual crisis! The sort of thing his whole life had been passed in regarding as extravagant; like a case of appendicitis that will not wait decently.
“Michael,” he said, “tells me you want him to take you round the world.”
“Well, he can’t; so that ends it.”
“If she had said: ‘Yes, and why can’t he?’ Soames would have joined the opposition automatically. But her words roused his natural perversity. Here she was, and here was her heart’s desire–and she wasn’t getting it! He put the Chardin down, and took a walk over the soft carpet.
“Tell me,” he said, coming to a halt, “where do you feel it exactly?”
Fleur laughed: “In my head, and my eyes, and my ears, and my heart.”
“What business,” muttered Soames, “have they to look down their confounded noses!” And he set off again across the room. All the modern jackanapes whom from time to time he had been unable to avoid in her house, seemed to have come sniggering round him with lifted eyebrows, like a set of ghosts. The longing to put them in their places–a shallow lot–possessed him at that moment to the exclusion of a greater sanity.
“I–I don’t see how I can take you,” he said, and stopped short.
What was that he was saying? Who had asked him to take her? Her eyes, widely open, were fixed on him.
“But of course not, Dad!”
Of course not! He didn’t know about that!
“I shall get used to being laughed at, in time.” Soames growled.
“I don’t see why you should,” he said. “I suppose people do go round the world.”
Fleur’s pallor had gone, now.
“But not you, dear; why, it would bore you stiff! It’s very sweet of you, even to think of it; but of course I couldn’t let you–at your age!”
“At my age?” said Soames. “I’m not so very old.”
“No, no, Dad; I’ll just dree my weird.”
Soames took another walk, without a sound. Dree her weird, indeed!
“I won’t have it,” he ejaculated; “if people can’t behave to you, I–I’ll show them!”
She had got up, and was breathing deeply, with her lips parted, and her cheeks very flushed. So she had stood, before her first party, holding out her frock for him to see.
“We’ll go,” he said, gruffly. “Don’t make a fuss! That’s settled.”
Her arms were round his neck; his nose felt wet. What nonsense! as if–!…
He stood unbuttoning his braces that night in the most peculiar state of mind. Going round the world–was he? Preposterous! It had knocked that young fellow over anyway–he was to join them in August wherever they were by that time! Good Lord! It might be China! The thing was fantastic; and Fleur behaving like a kitten! The words of a comic ditty, sung by a clergyman, in his boyhood, kept up a tattoo within him:
“I see Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee…”
Yes! Indeed! His affairs were in apple-pie order, luckily! There was nothing to do, in Timothy’s or Winifred’s Trusts–the only two he had on his hands now; but how things would get on without him, he couldn’t tell! As to Annette! She wouldn’t be sorry, he supposed. There was no one else to care, except Winifred, a little. It was, rather, an intangible presence that troubled his thoughts, about to forsake it for months on end! Still, the cliffs of Dover would be standing, he supposed, and the river still running past his lawn, when he came back, if he ever came back! You picked up all sorts of things out there–microbes, insects, snakes–never knew what you’d run into! Pretty business, steering Fleur clear of all that. And the sightseeing he would have to do! For SHE wouldn’t miss anything! Trust her! Going round among a lot of people with their mouths open–he couldn’t stand that; but he would have to! H’m! A relief when that young fellow could join them. And yet–to have her to himself; he hadn’t, for a long time now. But she would pick up with everybody, of course. He would have to make himself agreable to Tom, Dick, and Harry. A look at Egypt, then to India, and across to China and Japan, and back through that great sprawling America–God’s own country, didn’t they call it! She had it all mapped out. Thank goodness, no question of Russia! She hadn’t even proposed that–it was all to pieces now, they said! Communism! Who knew what would happen at home before they got back? It seemed to Soames as if England, too, must all go to pieces, if he left it. Well, he’d said he would take her! And she had cried over it. Phew! He threw the window up, and in the Jaeger dressing-gown kept there for stray occasions, leaned into the mild air. No Westminster Square did he seem to see out there, but his own river and its poplars, with the full moon behind them, a bright witness–the quiet beauty he had never put into words, the green tranquility he had felt for thirty years, and only permitted to seep into the back of his being. He would miss it–the scents, the sighs of the river under the wind, the chuckle down at the weir, the stars. They had stars out there, of course, but not English stars. And the grass–those great places had no grass, he believed! The blossom, too, was late this year–no blossom before they left! Well, the milk was spilled! And that reminded him: The dairyman would be certain to let the cows go out of milk–he was a ‘natural,’ that chap! He would have to warn Annette. Women never seemed to understand that a cow didn’t go on giving milk for ever, without being attended to. If he only had a man to rely on in the country, like old Gradman in Town! H’m! Old Gradman’s eyes would drop out when he heard this news! Bit of old England there; and wouldn’t be left long, now! It would be queer to come back and find old Gradman gone. One–Two–Three–Eleven! That clock! It had kept him awake before now; still–it was a fine old clock! That young fellow was to go on sitting under it. And was there anything in the notions that kept him sitting there, or were they just talk? Well, he was right to stick to his guns, anyway. But five months away from his young wife–great risk in that! ‘Youth’s a stuff’–Old Shakespeare knew the world. Well! Risk, or no risk, there it was! After all, Fleur had a good head; and young Michael had a good heart. Fleur had a good heart, too; he wouldn’t have it said that she hadn’t! She would feel leaving the baby when it came to the point. She didn’t realise, yet. And Soames felt within him the stir of a curious conflict, between hope that, after all, she might give it up, and apprehension lest she should. Funny–that! His habits, his comfort, his possessions… and here he was, flinging them all over the windmill! Absurd! And yet–!
Chapter XII.
ENVOI
Away from Fleur five months at least!
Soames’ astounding conduct had indeed knocked Michael over. And yet, after all, they had come to a crisis in their life together, the more serious because concerned with workaday feelings. Perhaps out there she would become afflicted, like himself, with an enlarged prospect; lose her idea that the world consisted of some five thousand people of advanced tastes, of whom she knew at the outside five hundred. It was she who had pushed him into Parliament, and until he was hoofed therefrom as a failure, their path was surely conjoined along the crest of a large view. In the fortnight before her departure he suffered and kept smiling; wryly thankful that she was behaving ‘like a kitten,’ as her father called it. Her nerves had been on edge ever since the autumn over that wretched case–what more natural than this reaction? At least she felt for him sufficiently to be prodigal of kisses–great consolation to Michael while it lasted. Once or twice he caught her hanging with wet eyes over the eleventh baronet; once found her with a wet face when he awoke in the morning. These indications were a priceless assurance to him that she meant to come back. For there were moments when possibilities balled into a nightmare. Absurd! She was going with her father, that embodiment of care and prudence! Who would have thought Old Forsyte could uproot himself like this? He, too, was leaving a wife, though Michael saw no signs of it. One didn’t know much about Old Forsyte’s feelings, except that they centred round his daughter, and that he was continually asking questions about labels and insects. He had bought himself, too, a life-saving waistcoat and one for Fleur. Michael held with him only one important conversation.
“I want you,” Soames said, “to keep an eye on my wife, and see she doesn’t go getting into a mess with the cows. She’ll have her mother with her, but women are so funny. You’ll find her first-rate with the baby. How will you be off for money?”
“Perfectly all right, sir.”
“Well, if you want some for any good purpose, go to old Gradman in the City; you remember him, perhaps?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid he’ll remember me.”
“Never mind; he’s a faithful old fellow.” And Michael heard him sigh. “I’d like you to look in at Green Street, too, now and then. Your aunt-inlaw may feel my being away a little. I’ll let you have news of Fleur from time to time–now they’ve got this wireless she’ll want to know about the baby. I’m taking plenty of quinine. Fleur says she’s a good sailor. There’s nothing like champagne for that, I’m told. And, by the way, you know best, but I shouldn’t press your notions too far in Parliament; they’re easily bored there, I believe. We’ll meet you at Vancouver, at the end of August. She’ll be tired of travelling by then. She’s looking forward to Egypt and Japan, but I don’t know. Seems to me it’ll be all travelling.”
“Have you plenty of ducks, sir? You’ll want them at this time of year in the Red Sea; and I should take a helmet.”
“I’ve got one,” said Soames; “they’re heavy great things,” and, looking suddenly at Michael, he added:
“I shall look after her, and you’ll look after yourself, I hope.”
Michael understood him.
“Yes, sir. And thank you very much. I think it’s most frightfully sporting of you.”
“It’s to be hoped it’ll do her good; and that the little chap won’t miss her.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Soames, who was seated in front of ‘The White Monkey,’ seemed to go into a trance. At last he stirred in his chair, and said:
“The war’s left everything very unsettled. I suppose people believe in something nowadays, but I don’t know what it is.”
Michael felt a fearful interest.
“Do you mind telling me, sir, what you believe in yourself?”
“What was good enough for my fathers is good enough for me. They expect too much now; there’s no interest taken in being alive.”
“Interest taken in being alive!” The words were singularly comprehensive. Were they the answer to all modern doubt?
The last night, the last kiss came; and the glum journey to the Docks in Soames’ car. Michael alone went to see them off! The gloomy dockside, and the grey river; the bustle with baggage, and the crowded tender. An aching business! Even for her, he almost believed–an aching business. And the long desultory minutes on the ship; the initiation of Soames into its cramped, shining, strangely odoured mysteries. The ghastly smile one had to keep on the lips, the inane jokes one had to make. And then that moment, apart, when she pressed her breast to his and gave him a clinging kiss.
“Good-bye, Michael; it’s not for very long.”
“Good-bye, darling! Take care of yourself. You shall have all the news I can send you, and don’t worry about Kit.”
His teeth were clinched, and her eyes–he saw–were wet! And, then, once more:
“Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
Back on the tender, with the strip of grey water opening, spreading, between him and the ship’s side, and that high line of faces above the bulwark–Fleur’s face under the small fawn hat, her waving hand; and, away to the left, seen out of the tail of his eye, Old Forsyte’s face alone–withdrawn so that they might have their parting to themselves–long, chinny, grey-moustached, very motionless; absorbed and lonely, as might be that of some long-distance bird arrived on an unknown shore, and looking back towards the land of its departure. Smaller and smaller they grew, merged in blur, vanished.
For the whole journey back to Westminster, Michael smoked cigarette on cigarette, and read the same sentence over and over in the same journal, and the sentence was:
‘Robbery at Highgate, Cat Burglar gets clear away.’
He went straight into the House of Commons. And all the afternoon sat listening and taking in a few words now and then, of a debate on education. What chance–what earthly chance–had his skyscraping in this place, where they still talked with calm disagreement, as if England were the England of 1906, and where the verdict on him was: ‘Amiable but very foolish young man!’ National unity–national movement! No jolly fear! The country wouldn’t have it! One was battering at a door which everybody said must be opened, but through which nobody could pass. And a long strip of grey water kept spreading between him and the talkers; the face under the fawn hat confused itself with that of the Member for Wasbaston; the face of Old Forsyte above the bulwark rail appeared suddenly between two Labour Leaders; and the lines of faces faded to a blur on a grey river where gulls were flighting.
Going out, he passed a face that had more reality–MacGown’s! Grim! It wasn’t the word. No one had got any change out of that affair. Multum ex parvo! Parvum ex multo! That was the modern comedy!
Going home to have a look at Kit and send Fleur a wireless, he passed four musicians playing four instruments with a sort of fury. They had able bodies in shabby clothes. ‘By Jove!’ thought Michael, ‘I know that chap’s face! – surely he was in my Company, in France!’ He watched till the cheeks collapsed. Yes! A good man, too! But they had all been good men. By George, they had been wonders! And here they were! And he within an ace of abandoning them! Though everybody had his nostrum, and one perhaps was as good as another, still one could only follow what light one had! And if the Future was unreadable, and Fate grinned, well–let it grin!
How empty the house felt! To-morrow Kit and the dog were to go down to ‘The Shelter’ in the car, and it would be still emptier. From room after room he tried to retrieve some sight or scent of Fleur. Too painful! His dressing-room, his study were the only places possible–in them he would abide.
He went to the nursery, and opened the door softly. Whiteness and dimity; the dog on his fat silver side, the Magicoal fire burning; the prints on the white walls so carefully selected for the moment when the eleventh baronet should begin to take notice–prints slightly comic, to avoid a moral; the high and shining fender-guard that even Magicoal might not be taken too seriously; the light coming in between bright chintz. A charming room! The nurse, in blue, was standing with her back to the door, and did not see him. And, in his little high chair, the eleventh baronet was at table; on his face, beneath its dark chestnut curls, was a slight frown; and in his tiny hand he held a silver spoon, with which over the bowl before him he was making spasmodic passes.
Michael heard the nurse saying:
“Now that mother’s gone, you must be a little man, Kit, and learn to use your spoon.”
Michael saw his offspring dip at the bowl and throw some of its contents into the air.
“That’s not the way at all.”
The eleventh baronet repeated the performance, and looked for applause, with a determined smile.
“Naughty!”
“A–a!” said the eleventh baronet, plopping the spoon. The contents spurted wastefully.
“Oh! you spoiled boy!”
“‘England, my England!’” thought Michael, “as the poet said.”
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