Chapter LXXXV: Part II: I.—mother and Son (3)

One who was a sculptor, a Slav, a sometime resident in New York,
an egoist, and impecunious, was to be found of an evening in June
Forsyte's studio on the bank of the Thames at Chiswick. On the
evening of July 6, Boris Strumolowski—several of whose works were
on show there because they were as yet too advanced to be on show
anywhere else—had begun well, with that aloof and rather
Christ-like silence which admirably suited his youthful, round,
broad cheek-boned countenance framed in bright hair banged like a
girl's. June had known him three weeks, and he still seemed to
her the principal embodiment of genius, and hope of the future; a
sort of Star of the East which had strayed into an unappreciative
West. Until that evening he had conversationally confined himself
to recording his impressions of the United States, whose dust he
had just shaken from off his feet—a country, in his opinion, so
barbarous in every way that he had sold practically nothing
there, and become an object of suspicion to the police; a
country, as he said, without a race of its own, without liberty,
equality, or fraternity, without principles, traditions, taste,
without—in a word—a soul. He had left it for his own good, and
come to the only other country where he could live well. June had
dwelt unhappily on him in her lonely moments, standing before his
creations—frightening, but powerful and symbolic once they had
been explained! That he, haloed by bright hair like an early
Italian painting, and absorbed in his genius to the exclusion of
all else—the only sign of course by which real genius could be
told—should still be a “lame duck” agitated her warm heart almost
to the exclusion of Paul Post. And she had begun to take steps to
clear her Gallery, in order to fill it with Strumolowski
masterpieces. She had at once encountered trouble. Paul Post had
kicked; Vospovitch had stung. With all the emphasis of a genius
which she did not as yet deny them, they had demanded another six
weeks at least of her Gallery. The American stream, still flowing
in, would soon be flowing out. The American stream was their
right, their only hope, their salvation—since nobody in this
“beastly” country cared for Art. June had yielded to the
demonstration. After all Boris would not mind their having the
full benefit of an American stream, which he himself so violently
despised.

This evening she had put that to Boris with nobody else present,
except Hannah Hobdey, the mediaeval black-and-whitist, and Jimmy
Portugal, editor of the Neo-Artist. She had put it to him with
that sudden confidence which continual contact with the
neo-artistic world had never been able to dry up in her warm and
generous nature. He had not broken his Christ-like silence,
however, for more than two minutes before she began to move her
blue eyes from side to side, as a cat moves its tail. This—he
said—was characteristic of England, the most selfish country in
the world; the country which sucked the blood of other countries;
destroyed the brains and hearts of Irishmen, Hindus, Egyptians,
Boers, and Burmese, all the best races in the world; bullying,
hypocritical England! This was what he had expected, coming to,
such a country, where the climate was all fog, and the people all
tradesmen perfectly blind to Art, and sunk in profiteering and
the grossest materialism. Conscious that Hannah Hobdey was
murmuring, “Hear, hear!” and Jimmy Portugal sniggering, June grew
crimson, and suddenly rapped out:

“Then why did you ever come? We didn't ask you.”

The remark was so singularly at variance with all she had led him
to expect from her, that Strumolowski stretched out his hand and
took a cigarette.

“England never wants an idealist,” he said.

But in June something primitively English was thoroughly upset;
old Jolyon's sense of justice had risen, as it were, from bed.
“You come and sponge on us,” she said, “and then abuse us. If you
think that's playing the game, I don't.”

She now discovered that which others had discovered before
her—the thickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius
is sometimes veiled. Strumolowski's young and ingenuous face
became the incarnation of a sneer.

“Sponge, one does not sponge, one takes what is owing—a tenth
part of what is owing. You will repent to say that, Miss
Forsyte.”

“Oh, no,” said June, “I shan't.”

“Ah! We know very well, we artists—you take us to get what you
can out of us. I want nothing from you”—and he blew out a cloud
of June's smoke.

Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame
within her. “Very well, then, you can take your things away.”

And, almost in the same moment, she thought: 'Poor boy! He's only
got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare. In front of these
people, too; it's positively disgusting!'

Young Strumolowski shook his head violently; his hair, thick,
smooth, close as a golden plate, did not fall off.

“I can live on nothing,” he said shrilly; “I have often had to
for the sake of my Art. It is you bourgeois who force us to spend
money.”

The words hit June like a pebble, in the ribs. After all she had
done for Art, all her identification with its troubles and lame
ducks. She was struggling for adequate words when the door was
opened, and her Austrian murmured:

“A young lady, gnadiges Fraulein.”

“Where?”

“In the little meal-room.”

With a glance at Boris Strumolowski, at Hannah Hobdey, at Jimmy
Portugal, June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity.
Entering the “little meal-room,” she perceived the young lady to
be Fleur—looking very pretty, if pale. At this disenchanted
moment a little lame duck of her own breed was welcome to June,
so homoeopathic by instinct.

The girl must have come, of course, because of Jon; or, if not,
at least to get something out of her. And June felt just then
that to assist somebody was the only bearable thing.

“So you've remembered to come,” she said.

“Yes. What a jolly little duck of a house! But please don't let
me bother you, if you've got people.”

“Not at all,” said June. “I want to let them stew in their own
juice for a bit. Have you come about Jon?”

“You said you thought we ought to be told. Well, I've found out.”

“Oh!” said June blankly. “Not nice, is it?”

They were standing one on each side of the little bare table at
which June took her meals. A vase on it was full of Iceland
poppies; the girl raised her hand and touched them with a gloved
finger. To her new-fangled dress, frilly about the hips and tight
below the knees, June took a sudden liking—a charming colour,
flax-blue.

'She makes a picture,' thought June. Her little room, with its
whitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its
black paint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the
sunlight was shining, had never looked so charming, set off by
this young figure, with the creamy, slightly frowning face. She
remembered with sudden vividness how nice she herself had looked
in those old days when her heart was set on Philip Bosinney, that
dead lover, who had broken from her to destroy for ever Irene's
allegiance to this girl's father. Did Fleur know of that, too?

“Well,” she said, “what are you going to do?”

It was some seconds before Fleur answered.

“I don't want Jon to suffer. I must see him once more to put an
end to it.”

“You're going to put an end to it!”

“What else is there to do?”

The girl seemed to June, suddenly, intolerably spiritless.

“I suppose you're right,” she muttered. “I know my father thinks
so; but—I should never have done it myself. I can't take things
lying down.”

How poised and watchful that girl looked; how unemotional her
voice sounded!

“People will assume that I'm in love.”

“Well, aren't you?”

Fleur shrugged her shoulders. 'I might have known it,' thought
June; 'she's Soames' daughter—fish! And yet—he!'

“What do you want me to do then?” she said with a sort of
disgust.

“Could I see Jon here to-morrow on his way down to Holly's? He'd
come if you sent him a line to-night. And perhaps afterward you'd
let them know quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and that
they needn't tell Jon about his mother.”

“All right!” said June abruptly. “I'll write now, and you can
post it. Half-past two tomorrow. I shan't be in, myself.”

She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she
looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the
poppies with her gloved finger.

June licked a stamp. “Well, here it is. If you're not in love, of
course, there's no more to be said. Jon's lucky.”

Fleur took the note. “Thanks awfully!”

'Cold-blooded little baggage!' thought June. Jon, son of her
father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of—Soames!
It was humiliating!

“Is that all?”

Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed toward
the door.

“Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!... Little piece of fashion!” muttered June, closing
the door. “That family!” And she marched back toward her studio.
Boris Strumolowski had regained his Christ-like silence and Jimmy
Portugal was damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf
he ran the Neo-Artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobbley, and
several other “lame-duck” genii who at one time or another had
held first place in the repertoire of June's aid and adoration.
She experienced a sense of futility and disgust, and went to the
window to let the river-wind blow those squeaky words away.

But when at length Jimmy Portugal had finished, and gone with
Hannah Hobdey, she sat down and mothered young Strumolowski for
half an hour, promising him a month, at least, of the American
stream; so that he went away with his halo in perfect order. 'In
spite of all,' June thought, 'Boris is wonderful.'

VIII.—THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH

To know that your hand is against every one's is—for some
natures—to experience a sense of moral release. Fleur felt no
remorse when she left June's house. Reading condemnatory
resentment in her little kinswoman's blue eyes-she was glad that
she had fooled her, despising June because that elderly idealist
had not seen what she was after.

End it, forsooth! She would soon show them all that she was only
just beginning. And she smiled to herself on the top of the bus
which carried her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed
out by spasms of anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to
manage Jon? She had taken the bit between her teeth, but could
she make him take it too? She knew the truth and the real danger
of delay—he knew neither; therein lay all the difference in the
world.

'Suppose I tell him,' she thought; 'wouldn't it really be safer?'
This hideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see
that! They could not let it! People always accepted an
accomplished fact in time! From that piece of philosophy—profound
enough at her age—she passed to another consideration less
philosophic. If she persuaded Jon to a quick and secret marriage,
and he found out afterward that she had known the truth. What
then? Jon hated subterfuge. Again, then, would it not be better
to tell him? But the memory of his mother's face kept intruding
on that impulse. Fleur was afraid. His mother had power over him;
more power perhaps than she herself. Who could tell? It was too
great a risk. Deep-sunk in these instinctive calculations she was
carried on past Green Street as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got
down there, and walked back on the Green Park side. The storm had
washed every tree; they still dripped. Heavy drops fell on to her
frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the
Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a
tall stout man in the bay window. Turning into Green Street she
heard her name called, and saw “that prowler” coming up. He took
off his hat—a glossy “bowler” such as she particularly detested.

“Good evenin'. Miss Forsyde. Isn't there a small thing I can do
for you?”

“Yes, pass by on the other side.”

“I say! Why do you dislike me?”

“Do I?”

“It looks like it.”

“Well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living.”

Monsieur Profond smiled.

“Look here, Miss Forsyde, don't worry. It'll be all right.
Nothing lasts.”

“Things do last,” cried Fleur; “with me anyhow—especially likes
and dislikes.”

“Well, that makes me a bit un'appy.”

“I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or
unhappy.”

“I don't like to annoy other people. I'm goin' on my yacht.”

Fleur looked at him, startled.

“Where?”

“Small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere,” said Monsieur
Profond.

Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. Clearly he meant to
convey that he was breaking with her mother. How dared he have
anything to break, and yet how dared he break it?

“Good-night, Miss Forsyde! Remember me to Mrs. Dartie. I'm not so
bad really. Good-night!” Fleur left him standing there with his
hat raised. Stealing a look round, she saw him stroll—immaculate
and heavy—back toward his Club.

'He can't even love with conviction,' she thought. 'What will
Mother do?'

Her dreams that night were endless and uneasy; she rose heavy and
unrested, and went at once to the study of Whitaker's Almanac. A
Forsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of
any situation. She might conquer Jon's prejudice, but without
exact machinery to complete their desperate resolve, nothing
would happen. From the invaluable tome she learned that they must
each be twenty-one; or some one's consent would be necessary,
which of course was unobtainable; then she became lost in
directions concerning licenses, certificates, notices, districts,
coming finally to the word “perjury.” But that was nonsense! Who
would really mind their giving wrong ages in order to be married
for love! She ate hardly any breakfast, and went back to
Whitaker. The more she studied the less sure she became; till,
idly turning the pages, she came to Scotland. People could be
married there without any of this nonsense. She had only to go
and stay there twenty-one days, then Jon could come, and in front
of two people they could declare themselves married. And what was
more—they would be! It was far the best way; and at once she ran
over her schoolfellows. There was Mary Lambe who lived in
Edinburgh and was “quite a sport!”

She had a brother too. She could stay with Mary Lambe, who with
her brother would serve for witnesses. She well knew that some
girls would think all this unnecessary, and that all she and Jon
need do was to go away together for a weekend and then say to
their people: “We are married by Nature, we must now be married
by Law.” But Fleur was Forsyte enough to feel such a proceeding
dubious, and to dread her father's face when he heard of it.
Besides, she did not believe that Jon would do it; he had an
opinion of her such as she could not bear to diminish. No! Mary
Lambe was preferable, and it was just the time of year to go to
Scotland. More at ease now she packed, avoided her aunt, and took
a bus to Chiswick. She was too early, and went on to Kew Gardens.
She found no peace among its flower-beds, labelled trees, and
broad green spaces, and having lunched off anchovy-paste
sandwiches and coffee, returned to Chiswick and rang June's bell.
The Austrian admitted her to the “little meal-room.” Now that she
knew what she and Jon were up against, her longing for him had
increased tenfold, as if he were a toy with sharp edges or
dangerous paint such as they had tried to take from her as a
child. If she could not have her way, and get Jon for good and
all, she felt like dying of privation. By hook or crook she must
and would get him! A round dim mirror of very old glass hung over
the pink brick hearth. She stood looking at herself reflected in
it, pale, and rather dark under the eyes; little shudders kept
passing through her nerves. Then she heard the bell ring, and,
stealing to the window, saw him standing on the doorstep
smoothing his hair and lips, as if he too were trying to subdue
the fluttering of his nerves.

She was sitting on one of the two rush-seated chairs, with her
back to the door, when he came in, and she said at once—

“Sit down, Jon, I want to talk seriously.”

Jon sat on the table by her side, and without looking at him she
went on:

“If you don't want to lose me, we must get married.”

Jon gasped.

“Why? Is there anything new?”

“No, but I felt it at Robin Hill, and among my people.”

“But—” stammered Jon, “at Robin Hill—it was all smooth—and
they've said nothing to me.”

“But they mean to stop us. Your mother's face was enough. And my
father's.”

“Have you seen him since?”

Fleur nodded. What mattered a few supplementary lies?

“But,” said Jon eagerly, “I can't see how they can feel like that
after all these years.”

Fleur looked up at him.

“Perhaps you don't love me enough.” “Not love you enough! Why—!”

“Then make sure of me.”

“Without telling them?”

“Not till after.”

Jon was silent. How much older he looked than on that day, barely
two months ago, when she first saw him—quite two years older!

“It would hurt Mother awfully,” he said.

Fleur drew her hand away.

“You've got to choose.”

Jon slid off the table on to his knees.

“But why not tell them? They can't really stop us, Fleur!”

“They can! I tell you, they can.”

“How?”

“We're utterly dependent—by putting money pressure, and all sorts
of other pressure. I'm not patient, Jon.”

“But it's deceiving them.”

Fleur got up.

“You can't really love me, or you wouldn't hesitate. 'He either
fears his fate too much!'”

Lifting his hands to her waist, Jon forced her to sit down again.
She hurried on:

“I've planned it all out. We've only to go to Scotland. When
we're married they'll soon come round. People always come round
to facts. Don't you see, Jon?”

“But to hurt them so awfully!”

So he would rather hurt her than those people of his! “All right,
then; let me go!”

Jon got up and put his back against the door.

“I expect you're right,” he said slowly; “but I want to think it
over.”

She could see that he was seething with feelings he wanted to
express; but she did not mean to help him. She hated herself at
this moment and almost hated him. Why had she to do all the work
to secure their love? It wasn't fair. And then she saw his eyes,
adoring and distressed.

“Don't look like that! I only don't want to lose you, Jon.”

“You can't lose me so long as you want me.”

“Oh, yes, I can.”

Jon put his hands on her shoulders.

“Fleur, do you know anything you haven't told me?”

It was the point-blank question she had dreaded. She looked
straight at him, and answered: “No.” She had burnt her boats; but
what did it matter, if she got him? He would forgive her. And
throwing her arms round his neck, she kissed him on the lips. She
was winning! She felt it in the beating of his heart against her,
in the closing of his eyes. “I want to make sure! I want to make
sure!” she whispered. “Promise!”

Jon did not answer. His face had the stillness of extreme
trouble. At last he said:

“It's like hitting them. I must think a little, Fleur. I really
must.”

Fleur slipped out of his arms.

“Oh! Very well!” And suddenly she burst into tears of
disappointment, shame, and overstrain. Followed five minutes of
acute misery. Jon's remorse and tenderness knew no bounds; but he
did not promise. Despite her will to cry, “Very well, then, if
you don't love me enough-goodbye!” she dared not. From birth
accustomed to her own way, this check from one so young, so
tender, so devoted, baffled and surprised her. She wanted to push
him away from her, to try what anger and coldness would do, and
again she dared not. The knowledge that she was scheming to rush
him blindfold into the irrevocable weakened everything—weakened
the sincerity of pique, and the sincerity of passion; even her
kisses had not the lure she wished for them. That stormy little
meeting ended inconclusively.

“Will you some tea, gnadiges Fraulein?”

Pushing Jon from her, she cried out:

“No-no, thank you! I'm just going.”

And before he could prevent her she was gone.

She went stealthily, mopping her gushed, stained cheeks,
frightened, angry, very miserable. She had stirred Jon up so
fearfully, yet nothing definite was promised or arranged! But the
more uncertain and hazardous the future, the more “the will to
have” worked its tentacles into the flesh of her heart—like some
burrowing tick!

No one was at Green Street. Winifred had gone with Imogen to see
a play which some said was allegorical, and others “very
exciting, don't you know.” It was because of what others said
that Winifred and Imogen had gone. Fleur went on to Paddington.
Through the carriage the air from the brick-kilns of West Drayton
and the late hayfields fanned her still gushed cheeks. Flowers
had seemed to be had for the picking; now they were all thorned
and prickled. But the golden flower within the crown of spikes
seemed to her tenacious spirit all the fairer and more desirable.

IX.—THE FAT IN THE FIRE

On reaching home Fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that it
penetrated even the perplexed aura of her own private life. Her
mother was inaccessibly entrenched in a brown study; her father
contemplating fate in the vinery. Neither of them had a word to
throw to a dog. 'Is it because of me?' thought Fleur. 'Or because
of Profond?' To her mother she said:

“What's the matter with Father?”

Her mother answered with a shrug of her shoulders.

To her father:

“What's the matter with Mother?”

Her father answered:

“Matter? What should be the matter?” and gave her a sharp look.

“By the way,” murmured Fleur, “Monsieur Profond is going a
'small' voyage on his yacht, to the South Seas.”

Soames examined a branch on which no grapes were growing.

“This vine's a failure,” he said. “I've had young Mont here. He
asked me something about you.”

“Oh! How do you like him, Father?”

“He—he's a product—like all these young people.”

“What were you at his age, dear?”

Soames smiled grimly.

“We went to work, and didn't play about—flying and motoring, and
making love.”

“Didn't you ever make love?”

She avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him
well enough. His pale face had reddened, his eyebrows, where
darkness was still mingled with the grey, had come close
together.

“I had no time or inclination to philander.”

“Perhaps you had a grand passion.”

Soames looked at her intently.

“Yes—if you want to know—and much good it did me.” He moved away,
along by the hot-water pipes. Fleur tiptoed silently after him.

“Tell me about it, Father!”

Soames became very still.

“What should you want to know about such things, at your age?”

“Is she alive?”

He nodded.

“And married?”

“Yes.”

“It's Jon Forsyte's mother, isn't it? And she was your wife
first.”

It was said in a flash of intuition. Surely his opposition came
from his anxiety that she should not know of that old wound to
his pride. But she was startled. To see some one so old and calm
wince as if struck, to hear so sharp a note of pain in his voice!

“Who told you that? If your aunt! I can't bear the affair talked
of.”

“But, darling,” said Fleur, softly, “it's so long ago.”

“Long ago or not, I....”

Fleur stood stroking his arm.

“I've tried to forget,” he said suddenly; “I don't wish to be
reminded.” And then, as if venting some long and secret
irritation, he added: “In these days people don't understand.
Grand passion, indeed! No one knows what it is.”

“I do,” said Fleur, almost in a whisper.

Soames, who had turned his back on her, spun round.

“What are you talking of—a child like you!”

“Perhaps I've inherited it, Father.”

“What?”

“For her son, you see.”

He was pale as a sheet, and she knew that she was as bad. They
stood staring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the
mushy scent of earth, of potted geranium, and of vines coming
along fast.

“This is crazy,” said Soames at last, between dry lips.

Scarcely moving her own, she murmured:

“Don't be angry, Father. I can't help it.”

But she could see he wasn't angry; only scared, deeply scared.

“I thought that foolishness,” he stammered, “was all forgotten.”

“Oh, no! It's ten times what it was.”

Soames kicked at the hot-water pipe. The hapless movement touched
her, who had no fear of her father—none.

“Dearest!” she said. “What must be, must, you know.”

“Must!” repeated Soames. “You don't know what you're talking of.
Has that boy been told?”

The blood rushed into her cheeks.

“Not yet.”

He had turned from her again, and, with one shoulder a little
raised, stood staring fixedly at a joint in the pipes.

“It's most distasteful to me,” he said suddenly; “nothing could
be more so. Son of that fellow! It's—it's—perverse!”

She had noted, almost unconsciously, that he did not say “son of
that woman,” and again her intuition began working.

Did the ghost of that grand passion linger in some corner of his
heart?

She slipped her hand under his arm.

“Jon's father is quite ill and old; I saw him.”

“You—?”

“Yes, I went there with Jon; I saw them both.”

“Well, and what did they say to you?”

“Nothing. They were very polite.”

“They would be.” He resumed his contemplation of the pipe-joint,
and then said suddenly:

“I must think this over—I'll speak to you again to-night.”

She knew this was final for the moment, and stole away, leaving
him still looking at the pipe-joint. She wandered into the
fruit-garden, among the raspberry and currant bushes, without
impetus to pick and eat. Two months ago—she was light-hearted!
Even two days ago—light-hearted, before Prosper Profond told her.
Now she felt tangled in a web-of passions, vested rights,
oppressions and revolts, the ties of love and hate. At this dark
moment of discouragement there seemed, even to her hold-fast
nature, no way out. How deal with it—how sway and bend things to
her will, and get her heart's desire? And, suddenly, round the
corner of the high box hedge, she came plump on her mother,
walking swiftly, with an open letter in her hand. Her bosom was
heaving, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed. Instantly Fleur
thought: 'The yacht! Poor Mother!'

Annette gave her a wide startled look, and said:

“J'ai la migraine.”

“I'm awfully sorry, Mother.”

“Oh, yes! you and your father—sorry!”

“But, Mother—I am. I know what it feels like.”

Annette's startled eyes grew wide, till the whites showed above
them.

“Poor innocent!” she said.

Her mother—so self-possessed, and commonsensical—to look and
speak like this! It was all frightening! Her father, her mother,
herself! And only two months back they had seemed to have
everything they wanted in this world.

Annette crumpled the letter in her hand. Fleur knew that she must
ignore the sight.

“Can't I do anything for your head, Mother?”

Annette shook that head and walked on, swaying her hips.

'It's cruel,' thought Fleur, 'and I was glad! That man! What do
men come prowling for, disturbing everything! I suppose he's
tired of her. What business has he to be tired of my mother? What
business!' And at that thought, so natural and so peculiar, she
uttered a little choked laugh.

She ought, of course, to be delighted, but what was there to be
delighted at? Her father didn't really care! Her mother did,
perhaps? She entered the orchard, and sat down under a
cherry-tree. A breeze sighed in the higher boughs; the sky seen
through their green was very blue and very white in cloud—those
heavy white clouds almost always present in river landscape.
Bees, sheltering out of the wind, hummed softly, and over the
lush grass fell the thick shade from those fruit-trees planted by
her father five-and-twenty, years ago. Birds were almost silent,
the cuckoos had ceased to sing, but wood-pigeons were cooing. The
breath and drone and cooing of high summer were not for long a
sedative to her excited nerves. Crouched over her knees she began
to scheme. Her father must be made to back her up. Why should he
mind so long as she was happy? She had not lived for nearly
nineteen years without knowing that her future was all he really
cared about. She had, then, only to convince him that her future
could not be happy without Jon. He thought it a mad fancy. How
foolish the old were, thinking they could tell what the young
felt! Had not he confessed that he—when young—had loved with a
grand passion? He ought to understand! 'He piles up his money for
me,' she thought; 'but what's the use, if I'm not going to be
happy?' Money, and all it bought, did not bring happiness. Love
only brought that. The ox-eyed daisies in this orchard, which
gave it such a moony look sometimes, grew wild and happy, and had
their hour. 'They oughtn't to have called me Fleur,' she mused,
'if they didn't mean me to have my hour, and be happy while it
lasts.' Nothing real stood in the way, like poverty, or
disease—sentiment only, a ghost from the unhappy past! Jon was
right. They wouldn't let you live, these old people! They made
mistakes, committed crimes, and wanted their children to go on
paying! The breeze died away; midges began to bite. She got up,
plucked a piece of honeysuckle, and went in.

It was hot that night. Both she and her mother had put on thin,
pale low frocks. The dinner flowers were pale. Fleur was struck
with the pale look of everything; her father's face, her mother's
shoulders; the pale panelled walls, the pale grey velvety carpet,
the lamp-shade, even the soup was pale. There was not one spot of
colour in the room, not even wine in the pale glasses, for no one
drank it. What was not pale was black—her father's clothes, the
butler's clothes, her retriever stretched out exhausted in the
window, the curtains black with a cream pattern. A moth came in,
and that was pale. And silent was that half-mourning dinner in
the heat.

Her father called her back as she was following her mother out.

She sat down beside him at the table, and, unpinning the pale
honeysuckle, put it to her nose.

“I've been thinking,” he said.

“Yes, dear?”

“It's extremely painful for me to talk, but there's no help for
it. I don't know if you understand how much you are to me I've
never spoken of it, I didn't think it necessary; but—but you're
everything. Your mother—” he paused, staring at his finger-bowl
of Venetian glass.

“Yes?”'

“I've only you to look to. I've never had—never wanted anything
else, since you were born.”

“I know,” Fleur murmured.

Soames moistened his lips.

“You may think this a matter I can smooth over and arrange for
you. You're mistaken. I'm helpless.”

Fleur did not speak.

“Quite apart from my own feelings,” went on Soames with more
resolution, “those two are not amenable to anything I can say.
They—they hate me, as people always hate those whom they have
injured.” “But he—Jon—”

“He's their flesh and blood, her only child. Probably he means to
her what you mean to me. It's a deadlock.”

“No,” cried Fleur, “no, Father!”

Soames leaned back, the image of pale patience, as if resolved on
the betrayal of no emotion.

“Listen!” he said. “You're putting the feelings of two months—two
months—against the feelings of thirty-five years! What chance do
you think you have? Two months—your very first love affair, a
matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a few
kisses—against, against what you can't imagine, what no one could
who hasn't been through it. Come, be reasonable, Fleur! It's
midsummer madness!”

Fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits.

“The madness is in letting the past spoil it all.

“What do we care about the past? It's our lives, not yours.”

Soames raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw
moisture shining.

“Whose child are you?” he said. “Whose child is he? The present
is linked with the past, the future with both. There's no getting
away from that.”

She had never heard philosophy pass those lips before. Impressed
even in her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her
chin on her hands.

“But, Father, consider it practically. We want each other.
There's ever so much money, and nothing whatever in the way but
sentiment. Let's bury the past, Father.”

His answer was a sigh.

“Besides,” said Fleur gently, “you can't prevent us.”

“I don't suppose,” said Soames, “that if left to myself I should
try to prevent you; I must put up with things, I know, to keep
your affection. But it's not I who control this matter. That's
what I want you to realise before it's too late. If you go on
thinking you can get your way and encourage this feeling, the
blow will be much heavier when you find you can't.”

“Oh!” cried Fleur, “help me, Father; you can help me, you know.”

Soames made a startled movement of negation. “I?” he said
bitterly. “Help? I am the impediment—the just cause and
impediment—isn't that the jargon? You have my blood in your
veins.”

He rose.

“Well, the fat's in the fire. If you persist in your wilfulness
you'll have yourself to blame. Come! Don't be foolish, my
child—my only child!”

Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder.

All was in such turmoil within her. But no good to show it! No
good at all! She broke away from him, and went out into the
twilight, distraught, but unconvinced. All was indeterminate and
vague within her, like the shapes and shadows in the garden,
except—her will to have. A poplar pierced up into the dark-blue
sky and touched a white star there. The dew wetted her shoes, and
chilled her bare shoulders. She went down to the river bank, and
stood gazing at a moonstreak on the darkening water. Suddenly she
smelled tobacco smoke, and a white figure emerged as if created
by the moon. It was young Mont in flannels, standing in his boat.
She heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the
water.

“Fleur,” came his voice, “don't be hard on a poor devil! I've
been waiting hours.”

“For what?”

“Come in my boat!”

“Not I.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not a water-nymph.”

“Haven't you any romance in you? Don't be modern, Fleur!”

He appeared on the path within a yard of her.

“Go away!”

“Fleur, I love you. Fleur!”

Fleur uttered a short laugh.

“Come again,” she said, “when I haven't got my wish.”

“What is your wish?”

“Ask another.”

“Fleur,” said Mont, and his voice sounded strange, “don't mock
me! Even vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before
they're cut up for good.”

Fleur shook her head; but her lips were trembling.

“Well, you shouldn't make me jump. Give me a cigarette.”

Mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself.

“I don't want to talk rot,” he said, “but please imagine all the
rot that all the lovers that ever were have talked, and all my
special rot thrown in.”

“Thank you, I have imagined it. Good-night!” They stood for a
moment facing each other in the shadow of an acacia-tree with
very moonlit blossoms, and the smoke from their cigarettes
mingled in the air between them.

“Also ran: 'Michael Mont'.” he said. Fleur turned abruptly toward
the house. On the lawn she stopped to look back. Michael Mont was
whirling his arms above him; she could see them dashing at his
head; then waving at the moonlit blossoms of the acacia. His
voice just reached her. “Jolly-jolly!” Fleur shook herself. She
couldn't help him, she had too much trouble of her own! On the
verandah she stopped very suddenly again. Her mother was sitting
in the drawing-room at her writing bureau, quite alone. There was
nothing remarkable in the expression of her face except its utter
immobility. But she looked desolate! Fleur went upstairs. At the
door of her room she paused. She could hear her father walking up
and down, up and down the picture-gallery.

'Yes,' she thought, jolly! Oh, Jon!'

X.—DECISION

When Fleur left him Jon stared at the Austrian. She was a thin
woman with a dark face and the concerned expression of one who
has watched every little good that life once had slip from her,
one by one. “No tea?” she said.

Susceptible to the disappointment in her voice, Jon murmured:

“No, really; thanks.”

“A lil cup—it ready. A lil cup and cigarette.”

Fleur was gone! Hours of remorse and indecision lay before him!
And with a heavy sense of disproportion he smiled, and said:

“Well—thank you!”

She brought in a little pot of tea with two little cups, and a
silver box of cigarettes on a little tray.

“Sugar? Miss Forsyte has much sugar—she buy my sugar, my friend's
sugar also. Miss Forsyte is a veree kind lady. I am happy to
serve her. You her brother?”

“Yes,” said Jon, beginning to puff the second cigarette of his
life.

“Very young brother,” said the Austrian, with a little anxious
smile, which reminded him of the wag of a dog's tail.

“May I give you some?” he said. “And won't you sit down, please?”

The Austrian shook her head.

“Your father a very nice old man—the most nice old man I ever
see. Miss Forsyte tell me all about him. Is he better?”

Her words fell on Jon like a reproach. “Oh Yes, I think he's all
right.”

“I like to see him again,” said the Austrian, putting a hand on
her heart; “he have veree kind heart.”

“Yes,” said Jon. And again her words seemed to him a reproach.

“He never give no trouble to no one, and smile so gentle.”

“Yes, doesn't he?”

“He look at Miss Forsyte so funny sometimes. I tell him all my
story; he so sympatisch. Your mother—she nice and well?”

“Yes, very.”

“He have her photograph on his dressing-table. Veree beautiful”

Jon gulped down his tea. This woman, with her concerned face and
her reminding words, was like the first and second murderers.

“Thank you,” he said; “I must go now. May—may I leave this with
you?”

He put a ten-shilling note on the tray with a doubting hand and
gained the door. He heard the Austrian gasp, and hurried out. He
had just time to catch his train, and all the way to Victoria
looked at every face that passed, as lovers will, hoping against
hope. On reaching Worthing he put his luggage into the local
train, and set out across the Downs for Wansdon, trying to walk
off his aching irresolution. So long as he went full bat, he
could enjoy the beauty of those green slopes, stopping now and
again to sprawl on the grass, admire the perfection of a wild
rose or listen to a lark's song. But the war of motives within
him was but postponed—the longing for Fleur, and the hatred of
deception. He came to the old chalk-pit above Wansdon with his
mind no more made up than when he started. To see both sides of a
question vigorously was at once Jon's strength and weakness. He
tramped in, just as the first dinner-bell rang. His things had
already been brought up. He had a hurried bath and came down to
find Holly alone—Val had gone to Town and would not be back till
the last train.

Since Val's advice to him to ask his sister what was the matter
between the two families, so much had happened—Fleur's disclosure
in the Green Park, her visit to Robin Hill, to-day's meeting—that
there seemed nothing to ask. He talked of Spain, his sunstroke,
Val's horses, their father's health. Holly startled him by saying
that she thought their father not at all well. She had been twice
to Robin Hill for the week-end. He had seemed fearfully languid,
sometimes even in pain, but had always refused to talk about
himself.

“He's awfully dear and unselfish—don't you think, Jon?”

Feeling far from dear and unselfish himself, Jon answered:
“Rather!”

“I think, he's been a simply perfect father, so long as I can
remember.”

“Yes,” answered Jon, very subdued.

“He's never interfered, and he's always seemed to understand. I
shall never forget his letting me go to South Africa in the Boer
War when I was in love with Val.”

“That was before he married Mother, wasn't it?” said Jon
suddenly.

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh! nothing. Only, wasn't she engaged to Fleur's father first?”

Holly put down the spoon she was using, and raised her eyes. Her
stare was circumspect. What did the boy know? Enough to make it
better to tell him? She could not decide. He looked strained and
worried, altogether older, but that might be the sunstroke.

“There was something,” she said. “Of course we were out there,
and got no news of anything.” She could not take the risk.

It was not her secret. Besides, she was in the dark about his
feelings now. Before Spain she had made sure he was in love; but
boys were boys; that was seven weeks ago, and all Spain between.

She saw that he knew she was putting him off, and added:

“Have you heard anything of Fleur?”

“Yes.”

His face told her, then, more than the most elaborate
explanations. So he had not forgotten!

She said very quietly: “Fleur is awfully attractive, Jon, but you
know—Val and I don't really like her very much.”

“Why?”

“We think she's got rather a 'having' nature.”

“'Having'. I don't know what you mean. She—she—” he pushed his
dessert plate away, got up, and went to the window.

Holly, too, got up, and put her arm round his waist.

“Don't be angry, Jon dear. We can't all see people in the same
light, can we? You know, I believe each of us only has about one
or two people who can see the best that's in us, and bring it
out. For you I think it's your mother. I once saw her looking at
a letter of yours; it was wonderful to see her face. I think
she's the most beautiful woman I ever saw—Age doesn't seem to
touch her.”

Jon's face softened; then again became tense. Everybody—everybody
was against him and Fleur! It all strengthened the appeal of her
words: “Make sure of me—marry me, Jon!”

Here, where he had passed that wonderful week with her—the tug of
her enchantment, the ache in his heart increased with every
minute that she was not there to make the room, the garden, the
very air magical. Would he ever be able to live down here, not
seeing her? And he closed up utterly, going early to bed. It
would not make him healthy, wealthy, and wise, but it closeted
him with memory of Fleur in her fancy frock. He heard Val's
arrival—the Ford discharging cargo, then the stillness of the
summer night stole back—with only the bleating of very distant
sheep, and a night-Jar's harsh purring. He leaned far out. Cold
moon—warm air—the Downs like silver! Small wings, a stream
bubbling, the rambler roses! God—how empty all of it without her!
In the Bible it was written: Thou shalt leave father and mother
and cleave to—Fleur!

Let him have pluck, and go and tell them! They couldn't stop him
marrying her—they wouldn't want to stop him when they knew how he
felt. Yes! He would go! Bold and open—Fleur was wrong!

The night-jar ceased, the sheep were silent; the only sound in
the darkness was the bubbling of the stream. And Jon in his bed
slept, freed from the worst of life's evils—indecision.

XI.—TIMOTHY PROPHESIES

On the day of the cancelled meeting at the National Gallery began
the second anniversary of the resurrection of England's pride and
glory—or, more shortly, the top hat. “Lord's”—that festival which
the War had driven from the field—raised its light and dark blue
flags for the second time, displaying almost every feature of a
glorious past. Here, in the luncheon interval, were all species
of female and one species of male hat, protecting the multiple
types of face associated with “the classes.” The observing
Forsyte might discern in the free or unconsidered seats a certain
number of the squash-hatted, but they hardly ventured on the
grass; the old school—or schools—could still rejoice that the
proletariat was not yet paying the necessary half-crown. Here was
still a close borough, the only one left on a large scale—for the
papers were about to estimate the attendance at ten thousand. And
the ten thousand, all animated by one hope, were asking each
other one question: “Where are you lunching?” Something
wonderfully uplifting and reassuring in that query and the sight
of so many people like themselves voicing it! What reserve power
in the British realm—enough pigeons, lobsters, lamb, salmon
mayonnaise, strawberries, and bottles of champagne to feed the
lot! No miracle in prospect—no case of seven loaves and a few
fishes—faith rested on surer foundations. Six thousand top hats,
four thousand parasols would be doffed and furled, ten thousand
mouths all speaking the same English would be filled. There was
life in the old dog yet! Tradition! And again Tradition! How
strong and how elastic! Wars might rage, taxation prey, Trades
Unions take toll, and Europe perish of starvation; but the ten
thousand would be fed; and, within their ring fence, stroll upon
green turf, wear their top hats, and meet—themselves. The heart
was sound, the pulse still regular. E-ton! E-ton! Har-r-o-o-o-w!

Among the many Forsytes, present on a hunting-ground theirs, by
personal prescriptive right, or proxy, was Soames with his wife
and daughter. He had not been at either school, he took no
interest in cricket, but he wanted Fleur to show her frock, and
he wanted to wear his top hat parade it again in peace and plenty
among his peers. He walked sedately with Fleur between him and
Annette. No women equalled them, so far as he could see. They
could walk, and hold themselves up; there was substance in their
good looks; the modern woman had no build, no chest, no anything!
He remembered suddenly with what intoxication of pride he had
walked round with Irene in the first years of his first marriage.
And how they used to lunch on the drag which his mother would
make his father have, because it was so “chic”—all drags and
carriages in those days, not these lumbering great Stands! And
how consistently Montague Dartie had drunk too much. He supposed
that people drank too much still, but there was not the scope for
it there used to be. He remembered George Forsyte—whose brothers
Roger and Eustace had been at Harrow and Eton—towering up on the
top of the drag waving a light-blue flag with one hand and a
dark-blue flag with the other, and shouting “Etroow-Harrton!”
Just when everybody was silent, like the buffoon he had always
been; and Eustace got up to the nines below, too dandified to
wear any colour or take any notice. H'm! Old days, and Irene in
grey silk shot with palest green. He looked, sideways, at Fleur's
face. Rather colourless-no light, no eagerness! That love affair
was preying on her—a bad business! He looked beyond, at his
wife's face, rather more touched up than usual, a little
disdainful—not that she had any business to disdain, so far as he
could see. She was taking Profond's defection with curious
quietude; or was his “small” voyage just a blind? If so, he
should refuse to see it! Having promenaded round the pitch and in
front of the pavilion, they sought Winifred's table in the
Bedouin Club tent. This Club—a new “cock and hen”—had been
founded in the interests of travel, and of a gentleman with an
old Scottish name, whose father had somewhat strangely been
called Levi. Winifred had joined, not because she had travelled,
but because instinct told her that a Club with such a name and
such a founder was bound to go far; if one didn't join at once
one might never have the chance. Its tent, with a text from the
Koran on an orange ground, and a small green camel embroidered
over the entrance, was the most striking on the ground. Outside
it they found Jack Cardigan in a dark blue tie (he had once
played for Harrow), batting with a Malacca cane to show how that
fellow ought to have hit that ball. He piloted them in. Assembled
in Winifred's corner were Imogen, Benedict with his young wife,
Val Dartie without Holly, Maud and her husband, and, after Soames
and his two were seated, one empty place.

“I'm expecting Prosper,” said Winifred, “but he's so busy with
his yacht.”

Soames stole a glance. No movement in his wife's face! Whether
that fellow were coming or not, she evidently knew all about it.
It did not escape him that Fleur, too, looked at her mother. If
Annette didn't respect his feelings, she might think of Fleur's!
The conversation, very desultory, was syncopated by Jack Cardigan
talking about “mid-off.” He cited all the “great mid-offs” from
the beginning of time, as if they had been a definite racial
entity in the composition of the British people. Soames had
finished his lobster, and was beginning on pigeon-pie, when he
heard the words, “I'm a small bit late, Mrs. Dartie,” and saw
that there was no longer any empty place. That fellow was sitting
between Annette and Imogen. Soames ate steadily on, with an
occasional word to Maud and Winifred. Conversation buzzed around
him. He heard the voice of Profond say:

“I think you're mistaken, Mrs. Forsyde; I'll—I'll bet Miss
Forsyde agrees with me.”

“In what?” came Fleur's clear voice across the table.

“I was sayin', young gurls are much the same as they always
were—there's very small difference.”

“Do you know so much about them?”

That sharp reply caught the ears of all, and Soames moved
uneasily on his thin green chair.

“Well, I don't know, I think they want their own small way, and I
think they always did.”

“Indeed!”

“Oh, but—Prosper,” Winifred interjected comfortably, “the girls
in the streets—the girls who've been in munitions, the little
flappers in the shops; their manners now really quite hit you in
the eye.”

At the word “hit” Jack Cardigan stopped his disquisition; and in
the silence Monsieur Profond said:

“It was inside before, now it's outside; that's all.”

“But their morals!” cried Imogen.

“Just as moral as they ever were, Mrs. Cardigan, but they've got
more opportunity.”

The saying, so cryptically cynical, received a little laugh from
Imogen, a slight opening of Jack Cardigan's mouth, and a creak
from Soames' chair.

Winifred said: “That's too bad, Prosper.”

“What do you say, Mrs. Forsyde; don't you think human nature's
always the same?”

Soames subdued a sudden longing to get up and kick the fellow. He
heard his wife reply:

“Human nature is not the same in England as anywhere else.” That
was her confounded mockery!

“Well, I don't know much about this small country”—'No, thank
God!' thought Soames—“but I should say the pot was boilin' under
the lid everywhere. We all want pleasure, and we always did.”

Damn the fellow! His cynicism was—was outrageous!

When lunch was over they broke up into couples for the digestive
promenade. Too proud to notice, Soames knew perfectly that
Annette and that fellow had gone prowling round together. Fleur
was with Val; she had chosen him, no doubt, because he knew that
boy. He himself had Winifred for partner. They walked in the
bright, circling stream, a little flushed and sated, for some
minutes, till Winifred sighed:

“I wish we were back forty years, old boy!”

Before the eyes of her spirit an interminable procession of her
own “Lord's” frocks was passing, paid for with the money of her
father, to save a recurrent crisis. “It's been very amusing,
after all. Sometimes I even wish Monty was back. What do you
think of people nowadays, Soames?”

“Precious little style. The thing began to go to pieces with
bicycles and motor-cars; the War has finished it.”

“I wonder what's coming?” said Winifred in a voice dreamy from
pigeon-pie. “I'm not at all sure we shan't go back to crinolines
and pegtops. Look at that dress!”

Soames shook his head.

“There's money, but no faith in things. We don't lay by for the
future. These youngsters—it's all a short life and a merry one
with them.”