Chapter LXXXIII: Part II: I.—mother and Son (1)

To say that Jon Forsyte accompanied his mother to Spain
unwillingly would scarcely have been adequate. He went as a
well-natured dog goes for a walk with its mistress, leaving a
choice mutton-bone on the lawn. He went looking back at it.
Forsytes deprived of their mutton-bones are wont to sulk. But Jon
had little sulkiness in his composition. He adored his mother,
and it was his first travel. Spain had become Italy by his simply
saying: “I'd rather go to Spain, Mum; you've been to Italy so
many times; I'd like it new to both of us.”

The fellow was subtle besides being naive. He never forgot that
he was going to shorten the proposed two months into six weeks,
and must therefore show no sign of wishing to do so. For one with
so enticing a mutton-bone and so fixed an idea, he made a good
enough travelling companion, indifferent to where or when he
arrived, superior to food, and thoroughly appreciative of a
country strange to the most travelled Englishman. Fleur's wisdom
in refusing to write to him was profound, for he reached each new
place entirely without hope or fever, and could concentrate
immediate attention on the donkeys and tumbling bells, the
priests, patios, beggars, children, crowing cocks, sombreros,
cactus-hedges, old high white villages, goats, olive-trees,
greening plains, singing birds in tiny cages, watersellers,
sunsets, melons, mules, great churches, pictures, and swimming
grey-brown mountains of a fascinating land.

It was already hot, and they enjoyed an absence of their
compatriots. Jon, who, so far as he knew, had no blood in him
which was not English, was often innately unhappy in the presence
of his own countrymen. He felt they had no nonsense about them,
and took a more practical view of things than himself. He
confided to his mother that he must be an unsociable beast—it was
jolly to be away from everybody who could talk about the things
people did talk about. To which Irene had replied simply:

“Yes, Jon, I know.”

In this isolation he had unparalleled opportunities of
appreciating what few sons can apprehend, the whole-heartedness
of a mother's love. Knowledge of something kept from her made
him, no doubt, unduly sensitive; and a Southern people stimulated
his admiration for her type of beauty, which he had been
accustomed to hear called Spanish, but which he now perceived to
be no such thing. Her beauty was neither English, French,
Spanish, nor Italian—it was special! He appreciated, too, as
never before, his mother's subtlety of instinct. He could not
tell, for instance, whether she had noticed his absorption in
that Goya picture, “La Vendimia,” or whether she knew that he had
slipped back there after lunch and again next morning, to stand
before it full half an hour, a second and third time. It was not
Fleur, of course, but like enough to give him heartache—so dear
to lovers—remembering her standing at the foot of his bed with
her hand held above her head. To keep a postcard reproduction of
this picture in his pocket and slip it out to look at became for
Jon one of those bad habits which soon or late disclose
themselves to eyes sharpened by love, fear, or jealousy. And his
mother's were sharpened by all three. In Granada he was fairly
caught, sitting on a sun-warmed stone bench in a little
battlemented garden on the Alhambra hill, whence he ought to have
been looking at the view. His mother, he had thought, was
examining the potted stocks between the polled acacias, when her
voice said:

“Is that your favourite Goya, Jon?”

He checked, too late, a movement such as he might have made at
school to conceal some surreptitious document, and answered:
“Yes.”

“It certainly is most charming; but I think I prefer the
'Quitasol' Your father would go crazy about Goya; I don't believe
he saw them when he was in Spain in '92.”

In '92—nine years before he had been born! What had been the
previous existences of his father and his mother? If they had a
right to share in his future, surely he had a right to share in
their pasts. He looked up at her. But something in her face—a
look of life hard-lived, the mysterious impress of emotions,
experience, and suffering-seemed, with its incalculable depth,
its purchased sanctity, to make curiosity impertinent. His mother
must have had a wonderfully interesting life; she was so
beautiful, and so—so—but he could not frame what he felt about
her. He got up, and stood gazing down at the town, at the plain
all green with crops, and the ring of mountains glamorous in
sinking sunlight. Her life was like the past of this old Moorish
city, full, deep, remote—his own life as yet such a baby of a
thing, hopelessly ignorant and innocent! They said that in those
mountains to the West, which rose sheer from the blue-green
plain, as if out of a sea, Phoenicians had dwelt—a dark, strange,
secret race, above the land! His mother's life was as unknown to
him, as secret, as that Phoenician past was to the town down
there, whose cocks crowed and whose children played and clamoured
so gaily, day in, day out. He felt aggrieved that she should know
all about him and he nothing about her except that she loved him
and his father, and was beautiful. His callow ignorance—he had
not even had the advantage of the War, like nearly everybody
else!—made him small in his own eyes.

That night, from the balcony of his bedroom, he gazed down on the
roof of the town—as if inlaid with honeycomb of jet, ivory, and
gold; and, long after, he lay awake, listening to the cry of the
sentry as the hours struck, and forming in his head these lines:
“Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping Spanish city
darkened under her white stars!
“What says the voice-its clear-lingering anguish? Just the
watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety? Just a road-man,
flinging to the moon his song?
“No! Tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping, Just his
cry: 'How long?'”

The word “deprived” seemed to him cold and unsatisfactory, but
“bereaved” was too final, and no other word of two syllables
short-long came to him, which would enable him to keep “whose
lover's heart is weeping.” It was past two by the time he had
finished it, and past three before he went to sleep, having said
it over to himself at least twenty-four times. Next day he wrote
it out and enclosed it in one of those letters to Fleur which he
always finished before he went down, so as to have his mind free
and companionable.

About noon that same day, on the tiled terrace of their hotel, he
felt a sudden dull pain in the back of his head, a queer
sensation in the eyes, and sickness. The sun had touched him too
affectionately. The next three days were passed in semi-darkness,
and a dulled, aching indifference to all except the feel of ice
on his forehead and his mother's smile. She never moved from his
room, never relaxed her noiseless vigilance, which seemed to Jon
angelic. But there were moments when he was extremely sorry for
himself, and wished terribly that Fleur could see him. Several
times he took a poignant imaginary leave of her and of the earth,
tears oozing out of his eyes. He even prepared the message he
would send to her by his mother—who would regret to her dying day
that she had ever sought to separate them—his poor mother! He was
not slow, however, in perceiving that he had now his excuse for
going home.

Toward half-past six each evening came a “gasgacha” of bells—a
cascade of tumbling chimes, mounting from the city below and
falling back chime on chime. After listening to them on the
fourth day he said suddenly:

“I'd like to be back in England, Mum, the sun's too hot.”

“Very well, darling. As soon as you're fit to travel” And at once
he felt better, and—meaner.

They had been out five weeks when they turned toward home. Jon's
head was restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to
a hat lined by his mother with many layers of orange and green
silk and he still walked from choice in the shade. As the long
struggle of discretion between them drew to its close, he
wondered more and more whether she could see his eagerness to get
back to that which she had brought him away from. Condemned by
Spanish Providence to spend a day in Madrid between their trains,
it was but natural to go again to the Prado. Jon was elaborately
casual this time before his Goya girl. Now that he was going back
to her, he could afford a lesser scrutiny. It was his mother who
lingered before the picture, saying:

“The face and the figure of the girl are exquisite.”

Jon heard her uneasily. Did she understand? But he felt once more
that he was no match for her in self-control and subtlety. She
could, in some supersensitive way, of which he had not the
secret, feel the pulse of his thoughts; she knew by instinct what
he hoped and feared and wished. It made him terribly
uncomfortable and guilty, having, beyond most boys, a conscience.
He wished she would be frank with him, he almost hoped for an
open struggle. But none came, and steadily, silently, they
travelled north. Thus did he first learn how much better than men
women play a waiting game. In Paris they had again to pause for a
day. Jon was grieved because it lasted two, owing to certain
matters in connection with a dressmaker; as if his mother, who
looked beautiful in anything, had any need of dresses! The
happiest moment of his travel was that when he stepped on to the
Folkestone boat.

Standing by the bulwark rail, with her arm in his, she said

“I'm afraid you haven't enjoyed it much, Jon. But you've been
very sweet to me.”

Jon squeezed her arm.

“Oh! yes, I've enjoyed it awfully-except for my head lately.”

And now that the end had come, he really had, feeling a sort of
glamour over the past weeks—a kind of painful pleasure, such as
he had tried to screw into those lines about the voice in the
night crying; a feeling such as he had known as a small boy
listening avidly to Chopin, yet wanting to cry. And he wondered
why it was that he couldn't say to her quite simply what she had
said to him:

“You were very sweet to me.” Odd—one never could be nice and
natural like that! He substituted the words: “I expect we shall
be sick.”

They were, and reached London somewhat attenuated, having been
away six weeks and two days, without a single allusion to the
subject which had hardly ever ceased to occupy their minds.

II.—FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

Deprived of his wife and son by the Spanish adventure, Jolyon
found the solitude at Robin Hill intolerable. A philosopher when
he has all that he wants is different from a philosopher when he
has not. Accustomed, however, to the idea, if not to the reality
of resignation, he would perhaps have faced it out but for his
daughter June. He was a “lame duck” now, and on her conscience.
Having achieved—momentarily—the rescue of an etcher in low
circumstances, which she happened to have in hand, she appeared
at Robin Hill a fortnight after Irene and Jon had gone. June was
living now in a tiny house with a big studio at Chiswick. A
Forsyte of the best period, so far as the lack of responsibility
was concerned, she had overcome the difficulty of a reduced
income in a manner satisfactory to herself and her father. The
rent of the Gallery off Cork Street which he had bought for her
and her increased income tax happening to balance, it had been
quite simple—she no longer paid him the rent. The Gallery might
be expected now at any time, after eighteen years of barren
usufruct, to pay its way, so that she was sure her father would
not feel it. Through this device she still had twelve hundred a
year, and by reducing what she ate, and, in place of two Belgians
in a poor way, employing one Austrian in a poorer, practically
the same surplus for the relief of genius. After three days at
Robin Hill she carried her father back with her to Town. In those
three days she had stumbled on the secret he had kept for two
years, and had instantly decided to cure him. She knew, in fact,
the very man. He had done wonders with. Paul Post—that painter a
little in advance of Futurism; and she was impatient with her
father because his eyebrows would go up, and because he had heard
of neither. Of course, if he hadn't “faith” he would never get
well! It was absurd not to have faith in the man who had healed
Paul Post so that he had only just relapsed, from having
overworked, or overlived, himself again. The great thing about
this healer was that he relied on Nature. He had made a special
study of the symptoms of Nature—when his patient failed in any
natural symptom he supplied the poison which caused it—and there
you were! She was extremely hopeful. Her father had clearly not
been living a natural life at Robin Hill, and she intended to
provide the symptoms. He was—she felt—out of touch with the
times, which was not natural; his heart wanted stimulating. In
the little Chiswick house she and the Austrian—a grateful soul,
so devoted to June for rescuing her that she was in danger of
decease from overwork—stimulated Jolyon in all sorts of ways,
preparing him for his cure. But they could not keep his eyebrows
down; as, for example, when the Austrian woke him at eight
o'clock just as he was going to sleep, or June took The Times
away from him, because it was unnatural to read “that stuff” when
he ought to be taking an interest in “life.” He never failed,
indeed, to be astonished at her resource, especially in the
evenings. For his benefit, as she declared, though he suspected
that she also got something out of it, she assembled the Age so
far as it was satellite to genius; and with some solemnity it
would move up and down the studio before him in the Fox-trot, and
that more mental form of dancing—the One-step—which so pulled
against the music, that Jolyon's eyebrows would be almost lost in
his hair from wonder at the strain it must impose on the dancer's
will-power. Aware that, hung on the line in the Water Colour
Society, he was a back number to those with any pretension to be
called artists, he would sit in the darkest corner he could find,
and wonder about rhythm, on which so long ago he had been raised.
And when June brought some girl or young man up to him, he would
rise humbly to their level so far as that was possible, and
think: 'Dear me! This is very dull for them!' Having his father's
perennial sympathy with Youth, he used to get very tired from
entering into their points of view. But it was all stimulating,
and he never failed in admiration of his daughter's indomitable
spirit. Even genius itself attended these gatherings now and
then, with its nose on one side; and June always introduced it to
her father. This, she felt, was exceptionally good for him, for
genius was a natural symptom he had never had—fond as she was of
him.

Certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he often
wondered whence she got herself—her red-gold hair, now greyed
into a special colour; her direct, spirited face, so different
from his own rather folded and subtilised countenance, her little
lithe figure, when he and most of the Forsytes were tall. And he
would dwell on the origin of species, and debate whether she
might be Danish or Celtic. Celtic, he thought, from her
pugnacity, and her taste in fillets and djibbahs. It was not too
much to say that he preferred her to the Age with which she was
surrounded, youthful though, for the greater part, it was. She
took, however, too much interest in his teeth, for he still had
some of those natural symptoms. Her dentist at once found
“Staphylococcus aureus present in pure culture” (which might
cause boils, of course), and wanted to take out all the teeth he
had and supply him with two complete sets of unnatural symptoms.
Jolyon's native tenacity was roused, and in the studio that
evening he developed his objections. He had never had any boils,
and his own teeth would last his time. Of course—June
admitted—they would last his time if he didn't have them out! But
if he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his time
would be longer. His recalcitrance—she said—was a symptom of his
whole attitude; he was taking it lying down. He ought to be
fighting. When was he going to see the man who had cured Paul
Post? Jolyon was very sorry, but the fact was he was not going to
see him. June chafed. Pondridge—she said—the healer, was such a
fine man, and he had such difficulty in making two ends meet, and
getting his theories recognised. It was just such indifference
and prejudice as her father manifested which was keeping him
back. It would be so splendid for both of them!

“I perceive,” said Jolyon, “that you are trying to kill two birds
with one stone.”

“To cure, you mean!” cried June.

“My dear, it's the same thing.”

June protested. It was unfair to say that without a trial.

Jolyon thought he might not have the chance, of saying it after.

“Dad!” cried June, “you're hopeless.”

“That,” said Jolyon, “is a fact, but I wish to remain hopeless as
long as possible. I shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child. They
are quiet at present.”

“That's not giving science a chance,” cried June. “You've no idea
how devoted Pondridge is. He puts his science before everything.”

“Just,” replied Jolyon, puffing the mild cigarette to which he
was reduced, “as Mr. Paul Post puts his art, eh? Art for Art's
sake—Science for the sake of Science. I know those enthusiastic
egomaniac gentry. They vivisect you without blinking. I'm enough
of a Forsyte to give them the go-by, June.”

“Dad,” said June, “if you only knew how old-fashioned that
sounds! Nobody can afford to be half-hearted nowadays.”

“I'm afraid,” murmured Jolyon, with his smile, “that's the only
natural symptom with which Mr. Pondridge need not supply me. We
are born to be extreme or to be moderate, my dear; though, if
you'll forgive my saying so, half the people nowadays who believe
they're extreme are really very moderate. I'm getting on as well
as I can expect, and I must leave it at that.”

June was silent, having experienced in her time the inexorable
character of her father's amiable obstinacy so far as his own
freedom of action was concerned.

How he came to let her know why Irene had taken Jon to Spain
puzzled Jolyon, for he had little confidence in her discretion.
After she had brooded on the news, it brought a rather sharp
discussion, during which he perceived to the full the fundamental
opposition between her active temperament and his wife's
passivity. He even gathered that a little soreness still remained
from that generation-old struggle between them over the body of
Philip Bosinney, in which the passive had so signally triumphed
over the active principle.

According to June, it was foolish and even cowardly to hide the
past from Jon. Sheer opportunism, she called it.

“Which,” Jolyon put in mildly, “is the working principle of real
life, my dear.”

“Oh!” cried June, “you don't really defend her for not telling
Jon, Dad. If it were left to you, you would.”

“I might, but simply because I know he must find out, which will
be worse than if we told him.”

“Then why don't you tell him? It's just sleeping dogs again.”

“My dear,” said Jolyon, “I wouldn't for the world go against
Irene's instinct. He's her boy.”

“Yours too,” cried June.

“What is a man's instinct compared with a mother's?”

“Well, I think it's very weak of you.”

“I dare say,” said Jolyon, “I dare say.”

And that was all she got from him; but the matter rankled in her
brain. She could not bear sleeping dogs. And there stirred in her
a tortuous impulse to push the matter toward decision. Jon ought
to be told, so that either his feeling might be nipped in the
bud, or, flowering in spite of the past, come to fruition. And
she determined to see Fleur, and judge for herself. When June
determined on anything, delicacy became a somewhat minor
consideration. After all, she was Soames' cousin, and they were
both interested in pictures. She would go and tell him that he
ought to buy a Paul Post, or perhaps a piece of sculpture by
Boris Strumolowski, and of course she would say nothing to her
father. She went on the following Sunday, looking so determined
that she had some difficulty in getting a cab at Reading station.
The river country was lovely in those days of her own month, and
June ached at its loveliness. She who had passed through this
life without knowing what union was had a love of natural beauty
which was almost madness. And when she came to that choice spot
where Soames had pitched his tent, she dismissed her cab,
because, business over, she wanted to revel in the bright water
and the woods. She appeared at his front door, therefore, as a
mere pedestrian, and sent in her card. It was in June's character
to know that when her nerves were fluttering she was doing
something worth while. If one's nerves did not flutter, she was
taking the line of least resistance, and knew that nobleness was
not obliging her. She was conducted to a drawing-room, which,
though not in her style, showed every mark of fastidious
elegance. Thinking, 'Too much taste—too many knick-knacks,' she
saw in an old lacquer-framed mirror the figure of a girl coming
in from the verandah. Clothed in white, and holding some white
roses in her hand, she had, reflected in that silvery-grey pool
of glass, a vision-like appearance, as if a pretty ghost had come
out of the green garden.

“How do you do?” said June, turning round. “I'm a cousin of your
father's.”

“Oh, yes; I saw you in that confectioner's.”

“With my young stepbrother. Is your father in?”

“He will be directly. He's only gone for a little walk.”

June slightly narrowed her blue eyes, and lifted her decided
chin.

“Your name's Fleur, isn't it? I've heard of you from Holly. What
do you think of Jon?”

The girl lifted the roses in her hand, looked at them, and
answered calmly:

“He's quite a nice boy.”

“Not a bit like Holly or me, is he?”

“Not a bit.”

'She's cool,' thought June.

And suddenly the girl said: “I wish you'd tell me why our
families don't get on?”

Confronted with the question she had advised her father to
answer, June was silent; whether because this girl was trying to
get something out of her, or simply because what one would do
theoretically is not always what one will do when it comes to the
point.

“You know,” said the girl, “the surest way to make people find
out the worst is to keep them ignorant. My father's told me it
was a quarrel about property. But I don't believe it; we've both
got heaps. They wouldn't have been so bourgeois as all that.”

June flushed. The word applied to her grandfather and father
offended her.

“My grandfather,” she said, “was very generous, and my father is,
too; neither of them was in the least bourgeois.”

“Well, what was it then?” repeated the girl: Conscious that this
young Forsyte meant having what she wanted, June at once
determined to prevent her, and to get something for herself
instead.

“Why do you want to know?”

The girl smelled at her roses. “I only want to know because they
won't tell me.”

“Well, it was about property, but there's more than one kind.”

“That makes it worse. Now I really must know.”

June's small and resolute face quivered. She was wearing a round
cap, and her hair had fluffed out under it. She looked quite
young at that moment, rejuvenated by encounter.

“You know,” she said, “I saw you drop your handkerchief. Is there
anything between you and Jon? Because, if so, you'd better drop
that too.”

The girl grew paler, but she smiled.

“If there were, that isn't the way to make me.”

At the gallantry of that reply, June held out her hand.

“I like you; but I don't like your father; I never have. We may
as well be frank.”

“Did you come down to tell him that?”

June laughed. “No; I came down to see you.”

“How delightful of you.”

This girl could fence.

“I'm two and a half times your age,” said June, “but I quite
sympathize. It's horrid not to have one's own way.”

The girl smiled again. “I really think you might tell me.”

How the child stuck to her point

“It's not my secret. But I'll see what I can do, because I think
both you and Jon ought to be told. And now I'll say good-bye.”

“Won't you wait and see Father?”

June shook her head. “How can I get over to the other side?”

“I'll row you across.”

“Look!” said June impulsively, “next time you're in London, come
and see me. This is where I live. I generally have young people
in the evening. But I shouldn't tell your father that you're
coming.”

The girl nodded.

Watching her scull the skiff across, June thought: 'She's awfully
pretty and well made. I never thought Soames would have a
daughter as pretty as this. She and Jon would make a lovely
couple.

The instinct to couple, starved within herself, was always at
work in June. She stood watching Fleur row back; the girl took
her hand off a scull to wave farewell, and June walked languidly
on between the meadows and the river, with an ache in her heart.
Youth to youth, like the dragon-flies chasing each other, and
love like the sun warming them through and through. Her youth! So
long ago—when Phil and she—And since? Nothing—no one had been
quite what she had wanted. And so she had missed it all. But what
a coil was round those two young things, if they really were in
love, as Holly would have it—as her father, and Irene, and Soames
himself seemed to dread. What a coil, and what a barrier! And the
itch for the future, the contempt, as it were, for what was
overpast, which forms the active principle, moved in the heart of
one who ever believed that what one wanted was more important
than what other people did not want. From the bank, awhile, in
the warm summer stillness, she watched the water-lily plants and
willow leaves, the fishes rising; sniffed the scent of grass and
meadow-sweet, wondering how she could force everybody to be
happy. Jon and Fleur! Two little lame ducks—charming callow
yellow little ducks! A great pity! Surely something could be
done! One must not take such situations lying down. She walked
on, and reached a station, hot and cross.

That evening, faithful to the impulse toward direct action, which
made many people avoid her, she said to her father:

“Dad, I've been down to see young Fleur. I think she's very
attractive. It's no good hiding our heads under our wings, is
it?”

The startled Jolyon set down his barley-water, and began
crumbling his bread.

“It's what you appear to be doing,” he said. “Do you realise
whose daughter she is?”

“Can't the dead past bury its dead?”

Jolyon rose.

“Certain things can never be buried.”

“I disagree,” said June. “It's that which stands in the way of
all happiness and progress. You don't understand the Age, Dad.
It's got no use for outgrown things. Why do you think it matters
so terribly that Jon should know about his mother? Who pays any
attention to that sort of thing now? The marriage laws are just
as they were when Soames and Irene couldn't get a divorce, and
you had to come in. We've moved, and they haven't. So nobody
cares. Marriage without a decent chance of relief is only a sort
of slave-owning; people oughtn't to own each other. Everybody
sees that now. If Irene broke such laws, what does it matter?”

“It's not for me to disagree there,” said Jolyon; “but that's all
quite beside the mark. This is a matter of human feeling.”

“Of course it is,” cried June, “the human feeling of those two
young things.”

“My dear,” said Jolyon with gentle exasperation; “you're talking
nonsense.”

“I'm not. If they prove to be really fond of each other, why
should they be made unhappy because of the past?”

“You haven't lived that past. I have—through the feelings of my
wife; through my own nerves and my imagination, as only one who
is devoted can.”

June, too, rose, and began to wander restlessly.

“If,” she said suddenly, “she were the daughter of Philip
Bosinney, I could understand you better. Irene loved him, she
never loved Soames.”

Jolyon uttered a deep sound-the sort of noise an Italian peasant
woman utters to her mule. His heart had begun beating furiously,
but he paid no attention to it, quite carried away by his
feelings.

“That shows how little you understand. Neither I nor Jon, if I
know him, would mind a love-past. It's the brutality of a union
without love. This girl is the daughter of the man who once owned
Jon's mother as a negro-slave was owned. You can't lay that
ghost; don't try to, June! It's asking us to see Jon joined to
the flesh and blood of the man who possessed Jon's mother against
her will. It's no good mincing words; I want it clear once for
all. And now I mustn't talk any more, or I shall have to sit up
with this all night.” And, putting his hand over his heart,
Jolyon turned his back on his daughter and stood looking at the
river Thames.

June, who by nature never saw a hornet's nest until she had put
her head into it, was seriously alarmed. She came and slipped her
arm through his. Not convinced that he was right, and she herself
wrong, because that was not natural to her, she was yet
profoundly impressed by the obvious fact that the subject was
very bad for him. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and
said nothing.

After taking her elderly cousin across, Fleur did not land at
once, but pulled in among the reeds, into the sunshine. The
peaceful beauty of the afternoon seduced for a little one not
much given to the vague and poetic. In the field beyond the bank
where her skiff lay up, a machine drawn by a grey horse was
turning an early field of hay. She watched the grass cascading
over and behind the light wheels with fascination—it looked so
cool and fresh. The click and swish blended with the rustle of
the willows and the poplars, and the cooing of a wood-pigeon, in
a true river song. Alongside, in the deep green water, weeds,
like yellow snakes, were writhing and nosing with the current;
pied cattle on the farther side stood in the shade lazily
swishing their tails. It was an afternoon to dream. And she took
out Jon's letters—not flowery effusions, but haunted in their
recital of things seen and done by a longing very agreeable to
her, and all ending “Your devoted J.” Fleur was not sentimental,
her desires were ever concrete and concentrated, but what poetry
there was in the daughter of Soames and Annette had certainly in
those weeks of waiting gathered round her memories of Jon. They
all belonged to grass and blossom, flowers and running water. She
enjoyed him in the scents absorbed by her crinkling nose. The
stars could persuade her that she was standing beside him in the
centre of the map of Spain; and of an early morning the dewy
cobwebs, the hazy sparkle and promise of the day down in the
garden, were Jon personified to her.

Two white swans came majestically by, while she was reading his
letters, followed by their brood of six young swans in a line,
with just so much water between each tail and head, a flotilla of
grey destroyers. Fleur thrust her letters back, got out her
sculls, and pulled up to the landing-stage. Crossing the lawn,
she wondered whether she should tell her father of June's visit.
If he learned of it from the butler, he might think it odd if she
did not. It gave her, too, another chance to startle out of him
the reason of the feud. She went, therefore, up the road to meet
him.

Soames had gone to look at a patch of ground on which the Local
Authorities were proposing to erect a Sanatorium for people with
weak lungs. Faithful to his native individualism, he took no part
in local affairs, content to pay the rates which were always
going up. He could not, however, remain indifferent to this new
and dangerous scheme. The site was not half a mile from his own
house. He was quite of opinion that the country should stamp out
tuberculosis; but this was not the place. It should be done
farther away. He took, indeed, an attitude common to all true
Forsytes, that disability of any sort in other people was not his
affair, and the State should do its business without prejudicing
in any way the natural advantages which he had acquired or
inherited. Francie, the most free-spirited Forsyte of his
generation (except perhaps that fellow Jolyon) had once asked him
in her malicious way: “Did you ever see the name Forsyte in a
subscription list, Soames?” That was as it might be, but a
Sanatorium would depreciate the neighbourhood, and he should
certainly sign the petition which was being got up against it.
Returning with this decision fresh within him, he saw Fleur
coming.

She was showing him more affection of late, and the quiet time
down here with her in this summer weather had been making him
feel quite young; Annette was always running up to Town for one
thing or another, so that he had Fleur to himself almost as much
as he could wish. To be sure, young Mont had formed a habit of
appearing on his motor-cycle almost every other day. Thank
goodness, the young fellow had shaved off his half-toothbrushes,
and no longer looked like a mountebank! With a girl friend of
Fleur's who was staying in the house, and a neighbouring youth or
so, they made two couples after dinner, in the hall, to the music
of the electric pianola, which performed Fox-trots unassisted,
with a surprised shine on its expressive surface. Annette, even,
now and then passed gracefully up and down in the arms of one or
other of the young men. And Soames, coming to the drawing-room
door, would lift his nose a little sideways, and watch them,
waiting to catch a smile from Fleur; then move back to his chair
by the drawing-room hearth, to peruse The Times or some other
collector's price list. To his ever-anxious eyes Fleur showed no
signs of remembering that caprice of hers.

When she reached him on the dusty road, he slipped his hand
within her arm.

“Who, do you think, has been to see you, Dad? She couldn't wait!
Guess!”

“I never guess,” said Soames uneasily. “Who?”

“Your cousin, June Forsyte.”

Quite unconsciously Soames gripped her arm. “What did she want?”

“I don't know. But it was rather breaking through the feud,
wasn't it?”

“Feud? What feud?”

“The one that exists in your imagination, dear.”

Soames dropped her arm. Was she mocking, or trying to draw him
on?

“I suppose she wanted me to buy a picture,” he said at last.

“I don't think so. Perhaps it was just family affection.”

“She's only a first cousin once removed,” muttered Soames.

“And the daughter of your enemy.”

“What d'you mean by that?”

“I beg your pardon, dear; I thought he was.”

“Enemy!” repeated Soames. “It's ancient history. I don't know
where you get your notions.”

“From June Forsyte.”

It had come to her as an inspiration that if he thought she knew,
or were on the edge of knowledge, he would tell her.

Soames was startled, but she had underrated his caution and
tenacity.

“If you know,” he said coldly, “why do you plague me?”

Fleur saw that she had overreached herself.

“I don't want to plague you, darling. As you say, why want to
know more? Why want to know anything of that 'small' mystery—Je
m'en fiche, as Profond says?”

“That chap!” said Soames profoundly.

That chap, indeed, played a considerable, if invisible, part this
summer—for he had not turned up again. Ever since the Sunday when
Fleur had drawn attention to him prowling on the lawn, Soames had
thought of him a good deal, and always in connection with
Annette, for no reason, except that she was looking handsomer
than for some time past. His possessive instinct, subtle, less
formal, more elastic since the War, kept all misgiving
underground. As one looks on some American river, quiet and
pleasant, knowing that an alligator perhaps is lying in the mud
with his snout just raised and indistinguishable from a snag of
wood—so Soames looked on the river of his own existence,
subconscious of Monsieur Profond, refusing to see more than the
suspicion of his snout. He had at this epoch in his life
practically all he wanted, and was as nearly happy as his nature
would permit. His senses were at rest; his affections found all
the vent they needed in his daughter; his collection was well
known, his money well invested; his health excellent, save for a
touch of liver now and again; he had not yet begun to worry
seriously about what would happen after death, inclining to think
that nothing would happen. He resembled one of his own gilt-edged
securities, and to knock the gilt off by seeing anything he could
avoid seeing would be, he felt instinctively, perverse and
retrogressive. Those two crumpled rose-leaves, Fleur's caprice
and Monsieur Profond's snout, would level away if he lay on them
industriously.

That evening Chance, which visits the lives of even the
best-invested Forsytes, put a clue into Fleur's hands. Her father
came down to dinner without a handkerchief, and had occasion to
blow his nose.

“I'll get you one, dear,” she had said, and ran upstairs. In the
sachet where she sought for it—an old sachet of very faded
silk—there were two compartments: one held handkerchiefs; the
other was buttoned, and contained something flat and hard. By
some childish impulse Fleur unbuttoned it. There was a frame and
in it a photograph of herself as a little girl. She gazed at it,
fascinated, as one is by one's own presentment. It slipped under
her fidgeting thumb, and she saw that another photograph was
behind. She pressed her own down further, and perceived a face,
which she seemed to know, of a young woman, very good-looking, in
a very old style of evening dress. Slipping her own photograph up
over it again, she took out a handkerchief and went down. Only on
the stairs did she identify that face. Surely—surely Jon's
mother! The conviction came as a shock. And she stood still in a
flurry of thought. Why, of course! Jon's father had married the
woman her father had wanted to marry, had cheated him out of her,
perhaps. Then, afraid of showing by her manner that she had
lighted on his secret, she refused to think further, and, shaking
out the silk handkerchief, entered the dining-room.

“I chose the softest, Father.”

“H'm!” said Soames; “I only use those after a cold. Never mind!”

That evening passed for Fleur in putting two and two together;
recalling the look on her father's face in the confectioner's
shop—a look strange and coldly intimate, a queer look. He must
have loved that woman very much to have kept her photograph all
this time, in spite of having lost her. Unsparing and
matter-of-fact, her mind darted to his relations with her own
mother. Had he ever really loved her? She thought not. Jon was
the son of the woman he had really loved. Surely, then, he ought
not to mind his daughter loving him; it only wanted getting used
to. And a sigh of sheer relief was caught in the folds of her
nightgown slipping over her head.

III.—MEETINGS

Youth only recognises Age by fits and starts. Jon, for one, had
never really seen his father's age till he came back from Spain.
The face of the fourth Jolyon, worn by waiting, gave him quite a
shock—it looked so wan and old. His father's mask had been forced
awry by the emotion of the meeting, so that the boy suddenly
realised how much he must have felt their absence. He summoned to
his aid the thought: 'Well, I didn't want to go!' It was out of
date for Youth to defer to Age. But Jon was by no means typically
modern. His father had always been “so jolly” to him, and to feel
that one meant to begin again at once the conduct which his
father had suffered six weeks' loneliness to cure was not
agreeable.

At the question, “Well, old man, how did the great Goya strike
you?” his conscience pricked him badly. The great Goya only
existed because he had created a face which resembled Fleur's.

On the night of their return, he went to bed full of compunction;
but awoke full of anticipation. It was only the fifth of July,
and no meeting was fixed with Fleur until the ninth. He was to
have three days at home before going back to farm. Somehow he
must contrive to see her!

In the lives of men an inexorable rhythm, caused by the need for
trousers, not even the fondest parents can deny. On the second
day, therefore, Jon went to Town, and having satisfied his
conscience by ordering what was indispensable in Conduit Street,
turned his face toward Piccadilly. Stratton Street, where her
Club was, adjoined Devonshire House. It would be the merest
chance that she should be at her Club. But he dawdled down Bond
Street with a beating heart, noticing the superiority of all
other young men to himself. They wore their clothes with such an
air; they had assurance; they were old. He was suddenly
overwhelmed by the conviction that Fleur must have forgotten him.
Absorbed in his own feeling for her all these weeks, he had
mislaid that possibility. The corners of his mouth drooped, his
hands felt clammy. Fleur with the pick of youth at the beck of
her smile-Fleur incomparable! It was an evil moment. Jon,
however, had a great idea that one must be able to face anything.
And he braced himself with that dour reflection in front of a
bric-a-brac shop. At this high-water mark of what was once the
London season, there was nothing to mark it out from any other
except a grey top hat or two, and the sun. Jon moved on, and
turning the corner into Piccadilly, ran into Val Dartie moving
toward the Iseeum Club, to which he had just been elected.

“Hallo! young man! Where are you off to?”

Jon gushed. “I've just been to my tailor's.”

Val looked him up and down. “That's good! I'm going in here to
order some cigarettes; then come and have some lunch.”

Jon thanked him. He might get news of her from Val!

The condition of England, that nightmare of its Press and Public
men, was seen in different perspective within the tobacconist's
which they now entered.

“Yes, sir; precisely the cigarette I used to supply your father
with. Bless me! Mr. Montague Dartie was a customer here from—let
me see—the year Melton won the Derby. One of my very best
customers he was.” A faint smile illumined the tobacconist's
face. “Many's the tip he's given me, to be sure! I suppose he
took a couple of hundred of these every week, year in, year out,
and never changed his cigarette. Very affable gentleman, brought
me a lot of custom. I was sorry he met with that accident. One
misses an old customer like him.”

Val smiled. His father's decease had closed an account which had
been running longer, probably, than any other; and in a ring of
smoke puffed out from that time-honoured cigarette he seemed to
see again his father's face, dark, good-looking, moustachioed, a
little puffy, in the only halo it had earned. His father had his
fame here, anyway—a man who smoked two hundred cigarettes a week,
who could give tips, and run accounts for ever! To his
tobacconist a hero! Even that was some distinction to inherit!

“I pay cash,” he said; “how much?”

“To his son, sir, and cash—ten and six. I shall never forget Mr.
Montague Dartie. I've known him stand talkin' to me half an hour.
We don't get many like him now, with everybody in such a hurry.
The War was bad for manners, sir—it was bad for manners. You were
in it, I see.”

“No,” said Val, tapping his knee, “I got this in the war before.
Saved my life, I expect. Do you want any cigarettes, Jon?”

Rather ashamed, Jon murmured, “I don't smoke, you know,” and saw
the tobacconist's lips twisted, as if uncertain whether to say
“Good God!” or “Now's your chance, sir!”

“That's right,” said Val; “keep off it while you can. You'll want
it when you take a knock. This is really the same tobacco, then?”

“Identical, sir; a little dearer, that's all. Wonderful staying
power—the British Empire, I always say.”

“Send me down a hundred a week to this address, and invoice it
monthly. Come on, Jon.”

Jon entered the Iseeum with curiosity. Except to lunch now and
then at the Hotch-Potch with his father, he had never been in a
London Club. The Iseeum, comfortable and unpretentious, did not
move, could not, so long as George Forsyte sat on its Committee,
where his culinary acumen was almost the controlling force. The
Club had made a stand against the newly rich, and it had taken
all George Forsyte's prestige, and praise of him as a “good
sportsman,” to bring in Prosper Profond.

The two were lunching together when the half-brothers-in-law
entered the dining-room, and attracted by George's forefinger,
sat down at their table, Val with his shrewd eyes and charming
smile, Jon with solemn lips and an attractive shyness in his
glance. There was an air of privilege around that corner table,
as though past masters were eating there. Jon was fascinated by
the hypnotic atmosphere. The waiter, lean in the chaps, pervaded
with such free-masonical deference. He seemed to hang on George
Forsyte's lips, to watch the gloat in his eye with a kind of
sympathy, to follow the movements of the heavy club-marked silver
fondly. His liveried arm and confidential voice alarmed Jon, they
came so secretly over his shoulder.

Except for George's “Your grandfather tipped me once; he was a
deuced good judge of a cigar!” neither he nor the other past
master took any notice of him, and he was grateful for this. The
talk was all about the breeding, points, and prices of horses,
and he listened to it vaguely at first, wondering how it was
possible to retain so much knowledge in a head. He could not take
his eyes off the dark past master—what he said was so deliberate
and discouraging—such heavy, queer, smiled-out words. Jon was
thinking of butterflies, when he heard him say:

“I want to see Mr. Soames Forsyde take an interest in 'orses.”

“Old Soames! He's too dry a file!”

With all his might Jon tried not to grow red, while the dark past
master went on.

“His daughter's an attractive small girl. Mr. Soames Forsyde is a
bit old-fashioned. I want to see him have a pleasure some day.”
George Forsyte grinned.

“Don't you worry; he's not so miserable as he looks. He'll never
show he's enjoying anything—they might try and take it from him.
Old Soames! Once bit, twice shy!”

“Well, Jon,” said Val, hastily, “if you've finished, we'll go and
have coffee.”

“Who were those?” Jon asked, on the stairs. “I didn't quite—-”

“Old George Forsyte is a first cousin of your father's and of my
Uncle Soames. He's always been here. The other chap, Profond, is
a queer fish. I think he's hanging round Soames' wife, if you ask
me!”

Jon looked at him, startled. “But that's awful,” he said: “I
mean—for Fleur.”

“Don't suppose Fleur cares very much; she's very up-to-date.”

“Her mother!”

“You're very green, Jon.”

Jon grew red. “Mothers,” he stammered angrily, “are different.”

“You're right,” said Val suddenly; “but things aren't what they
were when I was your age. There's a 'To-morrow we die' feeling.
That's what old George meant about my Uncle Soames. He doesn't
mean to die to-morrow.”

Jon said, quickly: “What's the matter between him and my father?”

“Stable secret, Jon. Take my advice, and bottle up. You'll do no
good by knowing. Have a liqueur?”

Jon shook his head.

“I hate the way people keep things from one,” he muttered, “and
then sneer at one for being green.”

“Well, you can ask Holly. If she won't tell you, you'll believe
it's for your own good, I suppose.”

Jon got up. “I must go now; thanks awfully for the lunch.”

Val smiled up at him half-sorry, and yet amused. The boy looked
so upset.

“All right! See you on Friday.”

“I don't know,” murmured Jon.

And he did not. This conspiracy of silence made him desperate. It
was humiliating to be treated like a child! He retraced his moody
steps to Stratton Street. But he would go to her Club now, and
find out the worst! To his enquiry the reply was that Miss
Forsyte was not in the Club. She might be in perhaps later. She
was often in on Monday—they could not say. Jon said he would call
again, and, crossing into the Green Park, flung himself down
under a tree. The sun was bright, and a breeze fluttered the
leaves of the young lime-tree beneath which he lay; but his heart
ached. Such darkness seemed gathered round his happiness. He
heard Big Ben chime “Three” above the traffic. The sound moved
something in him, and, taking out a piece of paper, he began to
scribble on it with a pencil. He had jotted a stanza, and was
searching the grass for another verse, when something hard
touched his shoulder-a green parasol. There above him stood
Fleur!

“They told me you'd been, and were coming back. So I thought you
might be out here; and you are—it's rather wonderful!”

“Oh, Fleur! I thought you'd have forgotten me.”

“When I told you that I shouldn't!”

Jon seized her arm.

“It's too much luck! Let's get away from this side.” He almost
dragged her on through that too thoughtfully regulated Park, to
find some cover where they could sit and hold each other's hands.

“Hasn't anybody cut in?” he said, gazing round at her lashes, in
suspense above her cheeks.

“There is a young idiot, but he doesn't count.”

Jon felt a twitch of compassion for the-young idiot.

“You know I've had sunstroke; I didn't tell you.”

“Really! Was it interesting?”

“No. Mother was an angel. Has anything happened to you?”

“Nothing. Except that I think I've found out what's wrong between
our families, Jon.”

His heart began beating very fast.

“I believe my father wanted to marry your mother, and your father
got her instead.”

“Oh!”

“I came on a photo of her; it was in a frame behind a photo of
me. Of course, if he was very fond of her, that would have made
him pretty mad, wouldn't it?”

Jon thought for a minute. “Not if she loved my father best.”

“But suppose they were engaged?”

“If we were engaged, and you found you loved somebody better, I
might go cracked, but I shouldn't grudge it you.”

“I should. You mustn't ever do that with me, Jon.

“My God! Not much!”

“I don't believe that he's ever really cared for my mother.”

Jon was silent. Val's words—the two past masters in the Club!

“You see, we don't know,” went on Fleur; “it may have been a
great shock. She may have behaved badly to him. People do.”

“My mother wouldn't.”

Fleur shrugged her shoulders. “I don't think we know much about
our fathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way
they treat us; but they've treated other people, you know, before
we were born-plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at
your father, with three separate families!”