The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2

by John Galsworthy

  ‘My granddaughter Marjorie would get one up for you. It would do her good.’

  ‘H’m. if she gets it up, it won’t be old-fashioned.’ And Fleur saw her father’s face turning towards her as he spoke. If only he knew how utterly she was beyond all that; how trivial to her seemed that heart-burning of the past.

  ‘Mr Montross, have you a theatre in your pocket?’

  ‘I can get you one, Mr Charwell.’

  ‘First rate! Then, will you and Lord Shropshire and my nephew here take that under your wings. Fleur, tell us how your “Rest House” is doing?’

  ‘Perfectly, Uncle Hilary. It’s quite full. The girls are delightful.’

  ‘Wild lot, I should think – aren’t they?’

  ‘Oh! no, Sir Timothy; they’re quite model.’

  If only the old gentleman could see over his moustache into the model lady who controlled them!

  ‘Well then, that’s that. If there’s nothing more, Mr Chairman, will you excuse me? I’ve got to meet an American about ants. We aren’t properly shaking up these landlords, in my opinion. Good night to you all!’

  Motioning to Michael to stay behind, Fleur rose to see Sir Timothy out.

  ‘Which umbrella is yours, Sir Timothy?’

  ‘I don’t know; that looks the best. If you get up a jumble sale, Mrs Mont, I wish you’d sell the bishop at it. I can’t stand a fellow with a plum in his mouth, especially in the Chair.’

  Fleur smiled, and the ‘old boy’ cocked his hat at her. They all cocked their hats at her, and that was pleasant! But would they if they knew! Dusk among the trees of the Square Garden, the lights just turned up – what luck to have such weather – dry and warm! She stood in the doorway, taking long breaths. By this time tomorrow she meant to be a dishonest wife! Well, not more than she had always been in secret aspiration.

  ‘I’m glad Kit’s down at “The Shelter”,’ she thought. He should never know, no one should! There would be no change – no change in anything except in her and Jon. The Life Force would break bounds in a little secret river, which would flow – ah, where? Who cared?

  ‘My dear Mont, honesty was never the best policy from a material point of view. The sentiment is purely Victorian. The Victorians were wonderful fellows for squaring circles.’

  ‘I agree, Marquess, I agree; they could think what they wanted better than anybody. When times are fat, you can.’

  Those two in the hall behind her – dried up and withered! Fleur turned to them with her smile.

  ‘My dear young lady – the evening air! You won’t take cold?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir; I’m warm all through.’

  ‘How nice that is!’

  ‘May I give you a lift, my lord?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Montross. Wish I could afford a car myself. Are you coming our way, Mont? Do you know that song, Mr Montross: “We’ll all go round to Alice’s house”? It seems to have a fascination for my milk-boy. I often wonder who Alice is? I have a suspicion she may not be altogether proper. Good night to you, Mrs Mont. How charming your house is!’

  ‘Good night, sir!’

  His hand; ‘the walrus’s’; her father-in-law’s.

  ‘Kit all right, Fleur?’

  ‘First rate.’

  ‘Good night, my dear!’

  His dear – the mother of his grandson! ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow!’

  The rug wrapped round the cargo of age, the door shut – what a smooth and silent car! Voices again:

  ‘Will you have a taxi, Uncle Hilary?’

  ‘No, thank you, Michael, the bishop and I will walk.’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you as far as the corner. Coming, Sir Godfrey? Bye-bye, darling. Your Dad’s staying to dinner. I’ll be back from old Blythe’s about ten.’

  The animals went out four by four!

  ‘Don’t stand there; you’ll get cold!’ Her father’s voice! The one person whose eyes she feared. She must keep her mask on now.

  ‘Well, Dad, what have you been doing today? Come into the “parlour” – we’ll have dinner quite soon.’

  ‘How’s your picture? Is this fellow taking care not to exaggerate? I think I’d better have a look at it.’

  ‘Not just yet, dear. He’s a very touchy gentleman.’

  ‘They’re all that. I thought of going down West tomorrow to see where the Forsytes sprang from. I suppose you couldn’t take a rest and come?’

  Fleur heard, without giving a sign of her relief.

  ‘How long will you be away, Dad?’

  ‘Back on the third day. ’Tisn’t two hundred miles.’

  ‘I’m afraid it would put the gentleman out.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think you’d care to. There’s no kudos there. But I’ve meant to for a long time; and the weather’s fine.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be frightfully interesting, dear; you must tell me all about it. But what with the portrait and my “Rest House”, I’m very tied just now.’

  ‘Well, then, I’ll look for you at the week-end. Your mother’s gone to some friends – they do nothing but play bridge; she’ll be away till Monday. I always want you, you know,’ he added simply. And to avoid his eyes she got up.

  ‘I’ll just run up now, Dad, and change. Those Slum Committee meetings always make me feel grubby. I don’t know why.’

  ‘They’re a waste of time,’ said Soames. ‘There’ll always be slums. Still, it’s something for you both to do.’

  ‘Yes, Michael’s quite happy about it.’

  ‘That old fool, Sir Timothy!’ And Soames went up to the Fragonard. ‘I’ve hung that Morland. The Marquess is an amiable old chap. I suppose you know I’m leaving my pictures to the nation? You’ve no use for them. You’ll have to live at that place Lippinghall some day. Pictures’d be no good there. Ancestors and stags’ horns and horses – that sort of thing. M’ff!’

  A secret life and Lippinghall! Long, long might that conjunction be deferred!

  ‘Oh, Bart will live for ever, Dad!’

  ‘M’yes! He’s spry enough. Well, you run up!’

  While she washed off her powder and put it on again Fleur thought: ‘Dear Dad! Thank God! He’ll be far away!’

  Now that her mind was thoroughly made up, it was comparatively easy to bluff, and keep her freshly-powdered face, smiling and serene, above the Chelsea dinner service.

  ‘Where are you going to hang your portrait, when it’s done?’ resumed Soames.

  ‘Why! It’ll be yours, dear.’

  ‘Mine? Well, of course; but you’ll hang it here; Michael’ll want it.’

  Michael – unknowing! That gave her a twinge.

  Well, she would be as good to him after, as ever. No old-fashioned squeamishness!

  ‘Thank you, dear. I expect he’ll like it in the “parlour”. The scheme is silver and gold – my “Folly” dress.’

  ‘I remember it,’ said Soames; ‘a thing with bells.’

  ‘I think all that part of the picture’s very good.’

  ‘What? Hasn’t he got your face?’

  ‘Perhaps – but I don’t know that I approve of it frightfully.’ After this morning’s sitting, indeed, she had wondered. Something avid had come into the face as if the Rafaelite had sensed the hardening of resolve within her.

  ‘If he doesn’t do you justice I shan’t take it,’ said Soames.

  Fleur smiled. The Rafaelite would have something to say to that.

  ‘Oh! I expect it’ll be all right. One never thinks one’s own effigies are marvellous, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Soames, ‘never was painted.’

  ‘You ought to be, dear.’

  ‘Waste of time! Has he sent away the picture of that young woman?’

  Fleur’s eyes did not flinch.

  Jon Forsyte’s wife? Oh! Yes – long ago.’

  She expected him to say: ‘Seen anything of them?’ But it did not come. And that disturbed her more than if it had come.

  ‘I had your cousin
Val to see me today.’

  Fleur’s heart stood still. Had they been talking?

  ‘His name’s been forged.’

  Thank heaven!

  ‘Some people have no moral sense at all,’ continued Soames. Involuntarily her white shoulder rose; but he wasn’t looking. ‘Common honesty, I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘I heard Lord Shropshire say to-night that “Honesty’s the best policy” was a mere Victorianism, Dad.’

  ‘Well, he’s ten years my senior, but I don’t know where he got that from. Everything’s twisted inside out, nowadays.’

  ‘But if it’s the best policy, there never was any particular virtue in it, was there?’

  Soames took a sharp look at her smiling face.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. These are Lippinghall partridges, Dad.’

  Soames sniffed. ‘Not hung quite long enough. You ought to be able to swear by the leg of a partridge.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told cook, but she has her own views.’

  ‘And the bread sauce should have a touch more onion in it. Victorianism, indeed! I suppose he’d call me a Victorian?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you, Dad? You had forty-six years of her.’

  ‘I’ve had twenty-five without her, and hope to have a few more.’

  ‘Many, many,’ said Fleur softly.

  ‘Can’t expect that.’

  ‘Oh yes! But I’m glad you don’t consider yourself a Victorian; I don’t like them. They wore too many clothes.’

  ‘Don’t you be too sure of that.’

  ‘Well, to-morrow you’ll be among Georgians, anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Soames. ‘There’s a graveyard there, they say. And that reminds me – I’ve bought that corner bit in the churchyard down at home. It’ll do for me as well as any other. Your mother will want to go to France to be buried, I expect.’

  ‘Give Mr Forsyte some sherry, Coaker.’

  Soames took a long sniff.

  ‘This is some of your grandfather’s. He lived to be ninety.’

  If she and Jon lived to be ninety – would nobody still know?… She left him at ten o’clock, brushing his nose with her lips.

  ‘I’m tired, Dad; and you’ll have a long day tomorrow. Goodnight, dear!’

  Thank God he would be among the Georgians tomorrow!

  Chapter Eight

  FORBIDDEN FRUIT

  HALTING the car suddenly in the by-road between Gage’s farm and the Robin Hill coppice, Fleur said: ‘Jon, dear, I’ve got a whim. Let’s get out and go in there. The potentate’s in Scotland.’ He did not move and she added: ‘I shan’t see you again for a long time, now your picture’s finished.’

  Jon got out, then, and she unlatched the footpath gate. They stood a minute within, listening for sounds of anyone to interrupt their trespass. The fine September afternoon was dying fast. The last ‘sitting’ had been long, and it was late; and in the coppice of larch and birch the dusk was deepening. Fleur slid her hand within his arm.

  ‘Listen! Still, isn’t it? I feel as if we were back seven years, Jon. Do you wish we were? Babes in the wood once more?’

  Gruffly he answered:

  ‘No good looking back – things happen as they must.’

  ‘The birds are going to bed. Used there to be owls?’

  ‘Yes; we shall hear one soon, I expect.’

  ‘How good it smells!’

  ‘Trees and the cow-houses!’

  ‘Vanilla and hay, as the poets have it. Are they close?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t let’s go farther, then.’

  ‘Here’s the old log,’ said Jon. ‘We might sit down, and listen for an owl.’

  On the old log seat they sat down, side by side.

  ‘No dew,’ said Fleur. ‘The weather will break soon, I expect. I love the scent of drought.’

  ‘I love the smell of rain.’

  ‘You and I never love the same thing, Jon. And yet – we’ve loved each other.’ Against her arm it was as if he shivered.

  ‘There goes the old clock! It’s awfully late, Fleur! Listen! The owl!’

  Startlingly close through the thin-branched trees the call came. Fleur rose. ‘Let’s see if we can find him.’

  She moved back from the old log.

  ‘Aren’t you coming? Just a little wander, Jon.’

  Jon got up and went along at her side among the larches.

  ‘Up this way – wasn’t it? How quickly it’s got dark. Look! The birches are still white. I love birch trees.’ She put her hand on a pale stem. ‘The smoothness, Jon. It’s like skin.’ And, leaning forward, she laid her cheek against the trunk. ‘There! feel my cheek, and then the bark. Could you tell the difference, except for warmth?’

  Jon reached his hand up. She turned her lips and touched it.

  ‘Jon – kiss me just once.’

  ‘You know I couldn’t kiss you “just once”, Fleur.’

  ‘Then kiss me for ever, Jon.’

  ‘No, no! No, no!’

  ‘Things happen as they must – you said so.’

  ‘Fleur – don’t! I can’t stand it.’

  She laughed – very low, softly.

  ‘I don’t want you to. I’ve waited seven years for this. No! Don’t cover your face! Look at me! I take it all on myself. The woman tempted you. But, Jon, you were always mine. There! That’s better. I can see your eyes. Poor Jon! Now kiss me!’ In that long kiss her very spirit seemed to leave her; she could not even see whether his eyes were open or, like hers, closed. And again the owl hooted.

  Jon tore his lips away. He stood there in her arms, trembling like a startled horse.

  With her lips against his ear, she whispered:

  ‘There’s nothing, Jon; there’s nothing.’ She could hear him holding-in his breath, and her warm lips whispered on: ‘Take me in your arms, Jon; take me!’ The light had failed completely now; stars were out between the dark feathering of the trees, and low down, from where the coppice sloped up towards the east, a creeping brightness seemed trembling towards them through the wood from the moon rising. A faint rustle broke the silence, ceased, broke it again. Closer, closer – Fleur pressed against him.

  ‘Not here, Fleur; not here. I can’t – I won’t –’

  ‘Yes, Jon; here – now! I claim you.’

  *

  The moon was shining through the tree stems when they sat again side by side on the log seat.

  Jon’s hands were pressed to his forehead, and she could not see his eyes.

  ‘No one shall ever know, Jon.’

  He dropped his hands and faced her.

  ‘I must tell her.’

  ‘Jon!’

  ‘I must!’

  ‘You can’t unless I let you, and I don’t let you.’

  ‘What have we done? Oh, Fleur, what have we done?’

  ‘It was written. When shall I see you again, Jon?’

  He started up.

  ‘Never, unless she knows. Never, Fleur, – never! I can’t go on in secret!’

  As quickly, too, Fleur was on her feet. They stood with their hands on each other’s arms, in a sort of struggle. Then Jon wrenched himself free, and, like one demented, rushed back into the coppice.

  She stood trembling, not daring to call. Bewildered, she stood, waiting for him to come back to her, and he did not come.

  Suddenly she moaned, and sank on her knees; and again she moaned. He must hear, and come back! He could not have left her at such a moment – he could not!

  ‘Jon!’ No sound. She rose from her knees and stood peering into the brightened dusk. The owl hooted; and, startled, she saw the moon caught among the tree-tops, like a presence watching her. A shivering sob choked in her throat, became a whimper, like a hurt child’s. She stood, listening fearfully. No rustling; no footsteps; no hoot of owl – no sound save the distant whir of traffic on the London road! Had he gone to the car, or was he hiding from her in that coppice, all creepy now with shadows?
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br />   ‘Jon! Jon!’ No answer! She ran towards the gate. There was the car – empty! She got into it and sat leaning forward over the driving-wheel with a numb feeling in her limbs. What did it mean? Was she beaten in the very hour of victory? He could not – no, he could not mean to leave her thus? Mechanically she turned on the car’s lights. A couple on foot, a man on a bicycle, passed. And still Fleur sat there, numbed. This – fulfilment! The fulfilment she had dreamed of? A few moments of hasty and delirious passion – and this! And, to her chagrin, her consternation, were added humiliation that, after such a moment, he could thus have fled from her; and the fear that in winning him she had lost him!

  At last she started the engine, and drove miserably on, watching the road, hoping against hope to come on him. Very slowly she drove, and only when she reached the Dorking road did she quite abandon hope. How she guided the car for the rest of the drive, she hardly knew. Life seemed suddenly to have gone out.

  Chapter Nine

  AFTERMATH

  JON, when he rushed back into the coppice, turned to the left, and, emerging past the pond, ran up through the field, towards the house, as if it were still his own. It stood above its terrace and lawns unlighted, ghostly in the spreading moonlight. Behind a clump of rhododendrons, where as a little boy he had played hide-and-seek, or pursued the staghorn beetle with his bow and arrow, he sank down as if his legs had turned to water, pressing his fists against his cheeks, both burning hot. He had known and he had not known, had dreamed and never dreamed of this! Overwhelming, sudden, relentless! ‘it was written!’ she had said. For her, every excuse, perhaps; but what excuse for him? Among those moonlit rhododendrons he could not find it. Yet the deed was done! Whose was he now? He stood up and looked at the house where he had been born, grown up, and played, as if asking for an answer. Whitened and lightless, it looked the ghost of a house, keeping secrets. ‘And I don’t let you tell!… when shall I see you again?’ That meant she claimed a secret lover. impossible! The one thing utterly impossible. He would belong to one or to the other – not to both. Torn in every fibre of his being, he clung to the fixity of that. Behind the rhododendrons stretching along the far end of the lawn he walked, crouching, till he came to the wall of the grounds, the wall he had often scrambled over as a boy; and, pulling himself up, dropped into the top roadway. No one saw him, and he hurried on. He had a dumb and muddled craving to get back to Wansdon, though what he would do when he got there he could not tell. He turned towards Kingston.