Swan Song amc-5

by Джон Голсуорси

  Pink rushed into June’s cheeks, tears into her eyes; she winked them away, shook herself, and said coldly:

  “I never interfere.”

  “No?”

  She went more pink, and suddenly stroked his sleeve. That touched Jon, and he smiled.

  He “sat” disturbed all that afternoon, while the Rafaelite painted, and June hovered, sometimes with a frown, and sometimes with yearning in her face. He wondered what he should do if Fleur called for him again. But Fleur did not call, and he went home alone. The next day was Sunday, and he did not go up; but on Monday when he came out of “The Poplars,” after “sitting,” he saw Fleur’s car standing by the curb.

  “I do want to show you my house today. I suppose June spoke to you, but I’m a reformed character, Jon. Get in!” And Jon got in.

  The day was dull, neither lighted nor staged for emotion, and the “reformed character” played her part to perfection. Not a word suggested that they were other than best friends. She talked of America, its language and books. Jon maintained that America was violent in its repressions and in its revolt against repressions.

  “In a word,” said Fleur, “young.”

  “Yes; but so far as I can make out, it’s getting younger every year.”

  “I liked America.”

  “Oh! I liked it all right. I made quite a profit, too, on my orchard when I sold.”

  “I wonder you came back, Jon. The fact is—you’re old-fashioned.”

  “How?”

  “Take sex—I couldn’t discuss sex with you.”

  “Can you with other people?”

  “Oh! with nearly anyone. Don’t frown like that! You’d be awfully out of it, my dear, in London, or New York, for that matter.”

  “I hate fluffy talk about sex,” said Jon gruffly. “The French are the only people who understand sex. It isn’t to be talked about as they do here and in America; it’s much too real.”

  Fleur stole another look.

  “Then let us drop that hot potato. I’m not sure whether I could even discuss art with you.”

  “Did you see that St. Gaudens statue at Washington?”

  “Yes; but that’s vieux jeu nowadays.”

  “Is it?” growled Jon. “What do they want, then?”

  “You know as well as I.”

  “You mean it must be unintelligible?”

  “Put it that way if you like. The point is that art now is just a subject for conversation; and anything that anybody can understand at first sight is not worth talking about and therefore not art.”

  “I call that silly,” said Jon.

  “Perhaps. But more amusing.”

  “If you see through it, how can you be amused?”

  “Another hot potato. Let’s try again! I bet you don’t approve of women’s dress, these days?”

  “Why not? It’s jolly sensible.”

  “La, la! Are we coming together on that?”

  “Naturally, you’d all look better without hats. You can wash your heads easily now, you know.”

  “Oh! don’t cut us off hats, Jon. All our stoicism would go. If we hadn’t to find hats that suited us, life would be much too easy.”

  “But they don’t suit you.”

  “I agree, my dear; but I know the feminine character better than you. One must always give babies something to cut their teeth on.”

  “Fleur, you’re too intelligent to live in London.”

  “My dear boy, the modern young woman doesn’t live anywhere. She floats in an ether of her own.”

  “She touches earth sometimes, I suppose.”

  Fleur did not answer for a minute; then, looking at him:

  “Yes; she touches earth sometimes, Jon.” And in that look she seemed to say again: “Oh! what a pity we have to talk like this!”

  She showed him the house in such a way that he might get the impression that she considered to some purpose the comfort of others. Even her momentary encounters with the denizens had that quality. Jon went away with a tingling in his palm, and the thought: ‘She likes to make herself out a butterfly, but at heart—!’ The memory of her clear eyes smiling at him, the half-comic quiver of her lips when she said: “Good-bye, bless you!” blurred his vision of Sussex all the way home. And who shall say that she had not so intended?

  Holly had come to meet him with a hired car.

  “I’m sorry, Jon, Val’s got the car. He won’t be able to drive you up and down tomorrow as he said he would. He’s had to go up today. And if he can get through his business in town, he’ll go on to Newmarket on Wednesday. Something rather beastly’s happened. His name’s been forged on a cheque for a hundred pounds by an old college friend to whom he’d been particularly decent.”

  “Very adequate reasons,” said Jon. “What’s Val going to do?”

  “He doesn’t know yet; but this is the third time he’s played a dirty trick on Val.”

  “Is it quite certain?”

  “The Bank described him unmistakably. He seems to think Val will stand anything; but it can’t be allowed to go on.”

  “I should say not.”

  “Yes, dear boy; but what would you do? Prosecute an old College friend? Val has a queer feeling that it’s only a sort of accident that he himself has kept straight.”

  Jon stared. WAS it an accident that one kept straight?

  “Was this fellow in the war?” he asked.

  “I doubt it. He seems to be an absolute rotter. I saw his face once—bone slack and bone selfish.”

  “Beastly for Val!” said Jon.

  “He’s going to consult his uncle, Fleur’s father. By the way, have you seen Fleur lately?”

  “Yes. I saw her today. She brought me as far as Dorking, and showed me her house there.”

  The look on Holly’s face, the reflective shadow between her eyes, were not lost on him.

  “Is there any objection to my seeing her?” he said, abruptly.

  “Only you can know that, dear boy.”

  Jon did not answer, but the moment he saw Anne he told her. She showed him nothing by face or voice, just asked how Fleur was and how he liked the house. That night, after she seemed asleep, he lay awake, gnawed by uncertainty. WAS it an accident that one kept straight—was it?

  Chapter VI.

  SOAMES HAS BRAIN WAVES

  The first question Soames put to his nephew in Green Street, was: “How did he get hold of the cheque form? Do you keep your cheque books lying about?”

  “I’m afraid I do, rather, in the country, Uncle Soames.”

  “Um,” said Soames, “then you deserve all you get. What about your signature?”

  “He wrote from Brighton asking if he could see me.”

  “You should have made your wife sign your answer.”

  Val groaned. “I didn’t think he’d run to forgery.”

  “They run to anything when they’re as far gone as that. I suppose when you said ‘No,’ he came over from Brighton all the same?”

  “Yes, he did; but I wasn’t in.”

  “Exactly; and he sneaked a form. Well, if you want to stop him, you’d better prosecute. He’ll get three years.”

  “That’d kill him,” said Val, “to judge by his looks.”

  Soames shook his head. “Improve his health—very likely. Has he ever been in prison?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “H’m!”

  Silence followed this profound remark.

  “I can’t prosecute,” said Val suddenly. “College pal. There, but for the grace of God and all that, don’t you know; one might have gone to the dogs oneself.”

  Soames stared at him.

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose you might. Your father was always in some scrape or other.”

  Val frowned. He had suddenly remembered an evening at the Pandemonium, when, in company with another College friend, he had seen his own father, drunk.

  “But somehow,” he said, “I’ve got to see that he doesn’t do it again. If he did
n’t look such a ‘heart’ subject, one could give him a hiding.”

  Soames shook his head. “Personal violence—besides, he’s probably out of England by now.”

  “No; I called at his club on the way here—he’s in town all right.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “No. I wanted to see you first.”

  Flattered in spite of himself, Soames said sardonically:

  “Perhaps he’s got what they call a better nature?”

  “By Jove, Uncle Soames, I believe that’s a brain wave!”

  Soames shook his head. “Not to judge by his face.”

  “I don’t know,” said Val. “After all, he was born a gentleman.”

  “That means nothing nowadays. And, apropos, before I forget it: Do you remember a young fellow called Butterfield, in the Elderson affair—no, you wouldn’t. Well, I’m going to take him out of his publishing firm, and put him under old Gradman, to learn about your mother’s and the other family Trusts. Old Gradman’s on his last legs, and this young man can step into his shoes—it’s a permanent job, and better pay than he’s getting now. I can rely on him, and that’s something in these days. I thought I’d tell you.”

  “Another brain wave, Uncle Soames. But about your first. Could you see Stainford, and follow that up?”

  “Why should I see him?”

  “You carry so much more weight than I do.”

  “H’m! Seems to me I always have to do the unpleasant thing. However, I expect it’s better than your seeing him.”

  Val grinned. “I shall feel much happier if you do it.”

  “I shan’t,” said Soames. “That Bank cashier hasn’t made a mistake, I suppose?”

  “Who could mistake Stainford?”

  “Nobody,” said Soames. “Well, if you won’t prosecute, you’d better leave it to me.”

  When Val was gone he remained in thought. Here he was, still keeping the family affairs straight; he wondered what they would do without him some day. That young Butterfield might be a brain wave, but who could tell—the fellow was attached to him, though, in a curious sort of way, with his eyes of a dog! He should put that in hand at once, before old Gradman dropped off. Must give old Gradman a bit of plate, too, with his name engraved, while he could still appreciate it. Most people only got them when they were dead or dotty. Young Butterfield knew Michael, too, and that would make him interested in Fleur’s affairs. But as to this infernal Stainford? How was he going to set about it? He had better get the fellow here if possible, rather than go to his club. If he’d had the brass to stay in England after committing such a bare-faced forgery, he would have the brass to come here again and see what more he could get. And, smiling sourly, Soames went to the telephone.

  “Mr. Stainford in the club? Ask him if he’d be good enough to step over and see Mr. Forsyte at Green Street.”

  After a look round to see that there were no ornaments within reach, he seated himself in the dining-room and had Smither in.

  “I’m expecting that Mr. Stainford, Smither. If I ring, while he’s here, pop out and get a policeman.”

  At the expression on Smither’s face he added:

  “I don’t anticipate it, but one never knows.”

  “There’s no danger, I hope, Mr. Soames?”

  “Nothing of the sort, Smither; I may want him arrested—that’s all.”

  “Do you expect him to take something again, sir?”

  Soames smiled, and waved his hand at the lack of ornaments. “Very likely he won’t come, but if he does, show him in here.”

  When she had gone, he settled down with the clock—a Dutch piece too heavy to take away; it had been ‘picked up’ by James, chimed every thing, and had a moon and a lot of stars on its face. He did not feel so ‘bobbish’ before this third encounter with that fellow; the chap had scored twice, and so far as he could see, owing to Val’s reluctance to prosecute, was going to score a third time. And yet there was a sort of fascination in dealing with what they called ‘the limit,’ and a certain quality about the fellow which raised him almost to the level of romance. It was as if the idolised maxim of his own youth ‘Show no emotion,’ and all the fashionableness that, under the aegis of his mother Emily, had clung about Park Lane, were revisiting him in the shape of this languid beggar. And probably the chap wouldn’t come!

  “Mr. Stainford, sir.”

  When Smither—very red—had withdrawn, Soames did not know how to begin, the fellow’s face, like old parchment, was as if it had come from some grave or other. At last he said:

  “I wanted to see you about a cheque. My nephew’s name’s been forged.”

  The eyebrows rose, the eyelids drooped still further.

  “Yes. Dartie won’t prosecute.”

  Soames’ gorge rose.

  “You seem very cocksure,” he said; “my nephew has by no means made up his mind.”

  “We were at college together, Mr. Forsyte.”

  “You trade on that, do you? There’s a limit, Mr. Stainford. That was a very clever forgery, for a first.”

  There was just a flicker of the face; and Soames drew the forged cheque from his pocket. Inadequately protected, of course, not even automatically crossed! Val’s cheques would have to have the words “Not negotiable; Credit payee” stamped on them in future. But how could he give this fellow a thorough scare?

  “I have a detective at hand,” he said, “only waiting for me to ring. This sort of thing must stop. As you don’t seem to understand that—” and he took a step towards the bell.

  A faint and bitter smile had come on those pale lips.

  “You’ve never been down and out, I imagine, Mr. Forsyte?”

  “No,” answered Soames, with a certain disgust.

  “I always am. It’s very wearing.”

  “In that case,” said Soames, “you’ll find prison a rest.” But even as he spoke them, the words seemed futile and a little brutal. The fellow wasn’t a man at all—he was a shade, a languid bitter shade. It was as if one were bullying a ghost.

  “Look here!” he said. “As a gentleman by birth, give me your word not to try it on again with my nephew, or any of my family, and I won’t ring.”

  “Very well, you have my word—such as it is!”

  “We’ll leave it at that, then,” said Soames. “But this is the last time. I shall keep the evidence of this.”

  “One must live, Mr. Forsyte.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Soames.

  The “Shade” uttered a peculiar sound—presumably a laugh, and Soames was alone again. He went hastily to the door, and watched the fellow into the street. Live? Must one? Wouldn’t a fellow like that be better dead? Wouldn’t most people be better dead? And, astonished at so extravagant a thought, he went up to the drawing room. Forty-five years since he had laid its foundations, and there it was, as full of marqueterie as ever. On the mantlepiece was a little old daguerreotype, slightly pinked in the cheeks, of his grandfather—‘Superior Dosset’ set in a deep, enamelled frame. Soames contemplated it. The chin of the founder of the Forsyte clan was settled comfortably between the widely separated points of an old-fashioned collar. The eyes—with thick under-lids, were light and shrewd and rather japing; the side-whiskers grey; the mouth looked as if it could swallow a lot; the old-time tail-coat was of broadcloth; the hands those of a man of affairs. A stocky old boy, with a certain force, and a deal of character! Well-nigh a hundred years since that was taken of him. Refreshing to look at character, after that languid seedy specimen! He would like to see where that old chap had been born and bred before he emerged at the end of the eighteenth century and built the house of Forsyte. He would take Riggs, and go down, and if Fleur wouldn’t come—perhaps all the better! Be dull for her! Roots were nothing to young people. Yes, he would go and look at his roots while the weather was still fine. But first to put old Gradman in order. It would do him good to see the old fellow after this experience—he never left the office till half-past five. And, repla
cing the daguerreotype, Soames took a taxi to the Poultry, reflecting as he went. How difficult it was to keep things secure, with chaps like Elderson and this fellow Stainford always on the look-out. There was the country too, – no sooner was it out of one than it was into another mess; the coal strike would end when people began to feel the winter pinch, but something else would crop up, some war or disturbance or other. And then there was Fleur—she had fifty thousand of her own. Had he been wrong to make her so independent? And yet—the idea of controlling her through money had always been repulsive to him. Whatever she did—she was his only child, one might say his only love. If she couldn’t keep straight for love of her infant and himself, to say nothing of her husband—he couldn’t do it for her by threat of cutting her off or anything like that! Anyway, things were looking better with her, and perhaps he had been wrong.

  The City had just begun to disgorge its daily life. Its denizens were scurrying out like rabbits; they didn’t scurry in like that, he would bet—work-shy, nowadays! Ten where it used to be nine; five where it used to be six. Still, with the telephone and one thing and another, they got through as much perhaps; and didn’t drink all the beer and sherry and eat all the chops they used to—a skimpier breed altogether, compared with that old boy whose effigy he had just been gazing at, a shadowy, narrow-headed lot, with a nervy, anxious look, as if they’d invested in life and found it a dropping stock. And not a tailcoat or a silk hat to be seen. Settling his own more firmly on his head, he got out at the familiar backwater off the Poultry, and entered the offices of Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte.

  Old Gradman was still there, his broad, bent back just divested of its workaday coat.

  “Ah! Mr. Soames, I was just going. Excuse me while I put on my coat.”

  A frock-coat made in the year one, to judge by the cut of it!

  “I go at half-past five now. There isn’t much to do as a rule. I like to get a nap before supper. It’s a pleasure to see you; you’re quite a stranger.”

  “Yes,” said Soames. “I don’t come in much, but I’ve been thinking. If anything should happen to either or both of us, things would soon be in Queer Street, Gradman.”

  “Aow! We won’t think about tha-at!”