TO LET

by

John Galsworthy

AUTHOR'S NOTE

With this volume, The Forsyte Saga--that series comprising "The Man ofProperty, " "Indian Summer of a Forsyte" (from the volume "Five Tales"), "In Chancery, " and "Awakening"--comes to an end. J. G. 

CONTENTS

PART I

 I. ENCOUNTER II. FINE FLEUR FORSYTE III. AT ROBIN HILL IV. THE MAUSOLEUM V. THE NATIVE HEATH VI. JON VII. FLEUR VIII. IDYLL ON GRASS IX. GOYA X. TRIO XI. DUET XII. CAPRICE

PART II

 I. MOTHER AND SON II. FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS III. MEETINGS IV. IN GREEN STREET V. PURELY FORSYTE AFFAIRS VI. SOAMES' PRIVATE LIFE VII. JUNE TAKES A HAND VIII. THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH IX. FAT IN THE FIRE X. DECISION XI. TIMOTHY PROPHESIES

PART III

 I. OLD JOLYON WALKS II. CONFESSION III. IRENE! IV. SOAMES COGITATES V. THE FIXED IDEA VI. DESPERATE VII. EMBASSY VIII. THE DARK TUNE IX. UNDER THE OAK-TREE X. FLEUR'S WEDDING XI. THE LAST OF THE FORSYTES

PART I

I

ENCOUNTER

Soames Forsyte emerged from the Knightsbridge Hotel, where he wasstaying, in the afternoon of the 12th of May, 1920, with the intentionof visiting a collection of pictures in a Gallery off Cork Street, andlooking into the Future. He walked. Since the War he never took a cabif he could help it. Their drivers were, in his view, an uncivil lot, though, now that the War was over and supply beginning to exceed demandagain, getting more civil in accordance with the custom of humannature. Still, he had not forgiven them, deeply identifying them withgloomy memories and, now dimly, like all members of their class, withrevolution. The considerable anxiety he had passed through during theWar, and the more considerable anxiety he had since undergone in thePeace, had produced psychological consequences in a tenacious nature. He had, mentally, so frequently experienced ruin, that he had ceased tobelieve in its material probability. Paying away four thousand a yearin income and super-tax, one could not very well be worse off! Afortune of a quarter of a million, encumbered only by a wife and onedaughter, and very diversely invested, afforded substantial guaranteeeven against that "wildcat notion"--a levy on capital. And as toconfiscation of war profits, he was entirely in favor of it, for he hadnone, and "serve the beggars right!" The price of pictures, moreover, had, if anything, gone up, and he had done better with his collectionsince the War began than ever before. Air-raids, also, had actedbeneficially on a spirit congenitally cautious, and hardened acharacter already dogged. To be in danger of being entirely dispersedinclined one to be less apprehensive of the more partial dispersionsinvolved in levies and taxation, while the habit of condemning theimpudence of the Germans had led naturally to condemning that of Labor, if not openly at least in the sanctuary of his soul. 

He walked. There was, moreover, time to spare, for Fleur was to meethim at the Gallery at four o'clock, and it was as yet but half pasttwo. It was good for him to walk--his liver was a little constrictedand his nerves rather on edge. His wife was always out when she was inTown, and his daughter WOULD flibberty-gibbet all over the place likemost young women since the War. Still, he must be thankful that she hadbeen too young to do anything in that War itself. Not, of course, thathe had not supported the War from its inception, with all his soul, butbetween that and supporting it with the bodies of his wife anddaughter, there had been a gap fixed by something old-fashioned withinhim which abhorred emotional extravagance. He had, for instance, strongly objected to Annette, so attractive, and in 1914 onlythirty-five, going to her native France, her "chere patrie" as, underthe stimulus of war, she had begun to call it, to nurse her "bravespoilus, " forsooth! Ruining her health and her looks! As if she werereally a nurse! He had put a stopper on it. Let her do needlework forthem at home, or knit! She had not gone, therefore, and had never beenquite the same woman since. A bad tendency of hers to mock at him, notopenly, but in continual little ways, had grown. As for Fleur, the Warhad resolved the vexed problem whether or not she should go to school. She was better away from her mother in her war mood, from the chance ofair-raids, and the impetus to do extravagant things; so he had placedher in a seminary as far West as had seemed to him compatible withexcellence, and had missed her horribly. Fleur! He had never regrettedthe somewhat outlandish name by which at her birth he had decided sosuddenly to call her--marked concession though it had been to theFrench. Fleur! A pretty name--a pretty child! But restless--toorestless; and wilful! Knowing her power too over her father! Soamesoften reflected on the mistake it was to dote on his daughter. To getold and dote! Sixty-five! He was getting on; but he didn't feel it, for, fortunately perhaps, considering Annette's youth and good looks, his second marriage had turned out a cool affair. He had known but onereal passion in his life--for that first wife of his--Irene. Yes, andthat fellow, his Cousin Jolyon, who had gone off with her, was lookingvery shaky, they said. No wonder, at seventy-two, after twenty years ofa third marriage!

Soames paused a moment in his march to lean over the railings of theRow. A suitable spot for reminiscence, half-way between that house inPark Lane which had seen his birth and his parents' deaths, and thelittle house in Montpellier Square where thirty-five years ago he hadenjoyed his first edition of matrimony. Now, after twenty years of hissecond edition, that old tragedy seemed to him like a previousexistence--which had ended when Fleur was born in place of the son hehad hoped for. For many years he had ceased regretting, even vaguely, the son who had not been born; Fleur filled the bill in his heart. After all, she bore his name; and he was not looking forward at all tothe time when she would change it. Indeed, if he ever thought of such acalamity, it was seasoned by the vague feeling that he could make herrich enough to purchase perhaps and extinguish the name of the fellowwho married her--why not, since, as it seemed, women were equal to mennowadays? And Soames, secretly convinced that they were not, passed hiscurved hand over his face vigorously, till it reached the comfort ofhis chin. Thanks to abstemious habits, he had not grown fat and flabby;his nose was pale and thin, his grey moustache close-clipped, hiseyesight unimpaired. A slight stoop closened and corrected theexpansion given to his face by the heightening of his forehead in therecession of his grey hair. Little change had Time wrought in the"warmest" of the young Forsytes, as the last of the oldForsytes--Timothy--now in his hundred and first year, would havephrased it. 

The shade from the plane-trees fell on his neat Homburg hat; he hadgiven up top hats--it was no use attracting attention to wealth in dayslike these. Plane-trees! His thoughts travelled sharply to Madrid--theEaster before the War, when, having to make up his mind about that Goyapicture, he had taken a voyage of discovery to study the painter on hisspot. The fellow had impressed him--great range, real genius! Highly asthe chap ranked, he would rank even higher before they had finishedwith him. The second Goya craze would be greater even than the first;oh, yes! And he had bought. On that visit he had--as neverbefore--commissioned a copy of a fresco painting called "La Vendimia, "wherein was the figure of a girl with an arm akimbo, who had remindedhim of his daughter. He had it now in the Gallery at Mapledurham, andrather poor it was--you couldn't copy Goya. He would still look at it, however, if his daughter were not there, for the sake of somethingirresistibly reminiscent in the light, erect balance of the figure, thewidth between the arching eyebrows, the eager dreaming of the darkeyes. Curious that Fleur should have dark eyes, when his own weregrey--no pure Forsyte had brown eyes--and her mother's blue! But ofcourse her grandmother Lamotte's eyes were dark as treacle!

He began to walk on again towards Hyde Park Corner. No greater changein all England than in the Row! Born almost within hail of it, he couldremember it from 1860 on. Brought there as a child between thecrinolines to stare at tight-trousered dandies in whiskers, riding witha cavalry seat; to watch the doffing of curly-brimmed and white tophats; the leisurely air of it all, and the little bow-legged man in along red waistcoat who used to come among the fashion with dogs onseveral strings, and try to sell one to his mother: King Charlesspaniels, Italian greyhounds, affectionate to her crinoline--you neversaw them now. You saw no quality of any sort, indeed, just workingpeople sitting in dull rows with nothing to stare at but a few youngbouncing females in pot hats, riding astride, or desultory Colonialscharging up and down on dismal-looking hacks; with, here and there, little girls on ponies, or old gentlemen jogging their livers, or anorderly trying a great galumphing cavalry horse; no thoroughbreds, nogrooms, no bowing, no scraping, no gossip--nothing; only the trees thesame--the trees indifferent to the generations and declensions ofmankind. A democratic England--dishevelled, hurried, noisy, andseemingly without an apex. And that something fastidious in the soul ofSoames turned over within him. Gone for ever, the close borough of rankand polish! Wealth there was--oh, yes! wealth--he himself was a richerman than his father had ever been; but manners, flavour, quality, allgone, engulfed in one vast, ugly, shoulder-rubbing, petrol-smellingCheerio. Little half-beaten pockets of gentility and caste lurking hereand there, dispersed and chetif, as Annette would say; but nothing everagain firm and coherent to look up to. And into this new hurly-burly ofbad manners and loose morals his daughter--flower of his life--wasflung! And when those Labour chaps got power--if they ever did--theworst was yet to come!

He passed out under the archway, at last no longer--thankgoodness!--disfigured by the gun-grey of its search-light. 'They'dbetter put a search-light on to where they're all going, ' he thought, 'and light up their precious democracy!' And he directed his stepsalong the Club fronts of Piccadilly. George Forsyte, of course, wouldbe sitting in the bay window of the Iseeum. The chap was so big nowthat he was there nearly all his time, like some immovable, sardonic, humorous eye noting the decline of men and things. And Soames hurried, ever constitutionally uneasy beneath his cousin's glance. George, who, as he had heard, had written a letter signed "Patriot" in the middle ofthe War, complaining of the Government's hysteria in docking the oatsof race-horses. Yes, there he was, tall, ponderous, neat, clean-shaven, with his smooth hair, hardly thinned, smelling, no doubt, of the besthair-wash, and a pink paper in his hand. Well, he didn't change! Andfor perhaps the first time in his life Soames felt a kind of sympathytapping in his waistcoat for that sardonic kinsman. With his weight, his perfectly parted hair, and bull-like gaze, he was a guarantee thatthe old order would take some shifting yet. He saw George move the pinkpaper as if inviting him to ascend--the chap must want to ask somethingabout his property. It was still under Soames's control; for in theadoption of a sleeping partnership at that painful period twenty yearsback when he had divorced Irene, Soames had found himself almostinsensibly retaining control of all purely Forsyte affairs. 

Hesitating for just a moment, he nodded and went in. Since the death ofhis brother-in-law Montague Dartie, in Paris, which no one had quiteknown what to make of, except that it was certainly not suicide--theIseeum Club had seemed more respectable to Soames. George, too, heknew, had sown the last of his wild oats, and was committed definitelyto the joys of the table, eating only of the very best so as to keephis weight down, and owning, as he said, "just one or two old screws togive me an interest in life. " He joined his cousin, therefore, in thebay window without the embarrassing sense of indiscretion he had beenused to feel up there. George put out a well-kept hand. 

"Haven't seen you since the War, " he said. "How's your wife?"

"Thanks, " said Soames coldly, "well enough. "

Some hidden jest curved, for a moment, George's fleshy face, andgloated from his eye. 

"That Belgian chap, Profond, " he said, "is a member here now. He's arum customer. "

"Quite!" muttered Soames. "What did you want to see me about?"

"Old Timothy; he might go off the hooks at any moment. I suppose he'smade his Will. "

"Yes. "

"Well, you or somebody ought to give him a look up--last of the oldlot; he's a hundred, you know. They say he's like a mummy. Where areyou goin' to put him? He ought to have a pyramid by rights. "

Soames shook his head. "Highgate, the family vault. "

"Well, I suppose the old girls would miss him, if he was anywhere else. They say he still takes an interest in food. He might last on, youknow. Don't we GET anything for the old Forsytes? Ten of them--averageage eighty-eight--I worked it out. That ought to be equal to triplets. "

"Is that all?" said Soames. "I must be getting on. "

'You unsociable devil, ' George's eyes seemed to answer. 

"Yes, that's all: Look him up in his mausoleum--the old chap might wantto prophesy. " The grin died on the rich curves of his face, and headded: "Haven't you attorneys invented a way yet of dodging this damnedincome tax? It hits the fixed inherited income like the very deuce. Iused to have two thousand five hundred a year; now I've got a beggarlyfifteen hundred, and the price of living doubled. "

"Ah!" murmured Soames, "the turf's in danger. "

Over George's face moved a gleam of sardonic self-defence. 

"Well, " he said, "they brought me up to do nothing, and here I am inthe sere and yellow, getting poorer every day. These Labour chaps meanto have the lot before they've done. What are you going to do for aliving when it comes? I shall work a six-hour day teaching politicianshow to see a joke. Take my tip, Soames; go into Parliament, make sureof your four hundred--and employ me. "

And, as Soames retired, he resumed his seat in the bay window. 

Soames moved along Piccadilly deep in reflections excited by hiscousin's words. He himself had always been a worker and a saver, Georgealways a drone and a spender; and yet, if confiscation once began, itwas he--the worker and the saver--who would be looted! That was thenegation of all virtue, the overturning of all Forsyte principles. Could civilisation be built on any other? He did not think so. Well, they wouldn't confiscate his pictures, for they wouldn't know theirworth. But what would they be worth, if these maniacs once began tomilk capital? A drug on the market. 'I don't care about myself, ' hethought; 'I could live on five hundred a year, and never know thedifference, at my age. ' But Fleur! This fortune, so wisely invested, these treasures so carefully chosen and amassed, were all for her. Andif it should turn out that he couldn't give or leave them to her--well, life had no meaning, and what was the use of going in to look at thiscrazy, futuristic stuff with the view of seeing whether it had anyfuture?

Arriving at the Gallery off Cork Street, however, he paid his shilling, picked up a catalogue, and entered. Some ten persons were prowlinground. Soames took steps and came on what looked to him like alamp-post bent by collision with a motor omnibus. It was advanced somethree paces from the wall, and was described in his catalogue as"Jupiter. " He examined it with curiosity, having recently turned someof his attention to sculpture. 'If that's Jupiter, ' he thought, 'Iwonder what Juno's like. ' And suddenly he saw her, opposite. Sheappeared to him like nothing so much as a pump with two handles, lightly clad in snow. He was still gazing at her, when two of theprowlers halted on his left. "Epatant!" he heard one say. 

"Jargon!" growled Soames to himself. 

The other's boyish voice replied:

"Missed it, old bean; he's pulling your leg. When Jove and Juno createdhe them, he was saying: 'I'll see how much these fools will swallow. 'And they've lapped up the lot. "

"You young duffer! Vospovitch is an innovator. Don't you see that he'sbrought satire into sculpture? The future of plastic art, of music, painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric. It was bound to. People are tired--the bottom's tumbled out of sentiment. "

"Well, I'm quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty. I wasthrough the War. You've dropped your handkerchief, sir. "

Soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him. He took it withsome natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose. It had the rightscent--of distant Eau de Cologne--and his initials in a corner. Slightly reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man's face. It hadrather fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush growingout of it on each side, and small lively eyes, above a normally dressedappearance. 

"Thank you, " he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, added: "Gladto hear you like beauty; that's rare, nowadays. "

"I dote on it, " said the young man; "but you and I are the last of theold guard, sir. "

Soames smiled. 

"If you really care for pictures, " he said, "here's my card. I can showyou some quite good ones any Sunday, if you're down the river and careto look in. "

"Awfully nice of you, sir. I'll drop in like a bird. My name'sMont-Michael. " And he took off his hat. 

Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly inresponse, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who had apurple tie, dreadful little slug-like whiskers, and a scornful look--asif he were a poet!

It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he wentand sat down in an alcove. What had possessed him to give his card to arackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that? And Fleur, always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filagree figurefrom a clock when the hour strikes. On the screen opposite the alcovewas a large canvas with a great many square tomato-colored blobs on it, and nothing else, so far as Soames could see from where he sat. Helooked at his catalogue: "No. 32--'The Future Town'--Paul Post. " 'Isuppose that's satiric too, ' he thought. 'What a thing!' But his secondimpulse was more cautious. It did not do to condemn hurriedly. Therehad been those stripey, streaky creations of Monet's, which had turnedout such trumps; and then the stippled school; and Gauguin. Why, evensince the Post-Impressionists there had been one or two painters not tobe sneezed at. During the thirty-eight years of his connoisseur's life, indeed, he had marked so many "movements, " seen the tides of taste andtechnique so ebb and flow, that there was really no telling anythingexcept that there was money to be made out of every change of fashion. This too might quite well be a case where one must subdue primordialinstinct, or lose the market. He got up and stood before the picture, trying hard to see it with the eyes of other people. Above the tomatoblobs was what he took to be a sunset, till some one passing said:"He's got the airplanes wonderfully, don't you think!" Below the tomatoblobs was a band of white with vertical black stripes, to which hecould assign no meaning whatever, till some one else came by, murmuring: "What expression he gets with his foreground!" Expression?Of what? Soames went back to his seat. The thing was "rich, " as hisfather would have said, and he wouldn't give a damn for it. Expression!Ah! they were all Expressionists now, he had heard, on the Continent. So it was coming here too, was it? He remembered the first wave ofinfluenza in 1887--or 8--hatched in China, so they said. He wonderedwhere this--this Expressionism--had been hatched. The thing was aregular disease!

He had become conscious of a woman and a youth standing between him andthe "Future Town. " Their backs were turned; but very suddenly Soamesput his catalogue before his face, and drawing his hat forward, gazedthrough the slit between. No mistaking that back, elegant as everthough the hair above had gone grey. Irene! His divorced wife--Irene!And this, no doubt, was her son--by that fellow Jolyon Forsyte--theirboy, six months older than his own girl! And mumbling over in his mindthe bitter days of his divorce, he rose to get out of sight, butquickly sat down again. She had turned her head to speak to her boy;her profile was still so youthful that it made her grey hair seempowdery, as if fancy-dressed; and her lips were smiling as Soames, first possessor of them, had never seen them smile. Grudgingly headmitted her still beautiful, and in figure almost as young as ever. And how that boy smiled back at her! Emotion squeezed Soames' heart. The sight infringed his sense of justice. He grudged her that boy'ssmile--it went beyond what Fleur gave him, and it was undeserved. Theirson might have been his son; Fleur might have been her daughter, if shehad kept straight! He lowered his catalogue. If she saw him, all thebetter! A reminder of her conduct in the presence of her son, whoprobably knew nothing of it, would be a salutary touch from the fingerof that Nemesis which surely must soon or late visit her! Then, half-conscious that such a thought was extravagant for a Forsyte of hisage, Soames took out his watch. Past four! Fleur was late. She had goneto his niece Imogen Cardigan's, and there they would keep her smokingcigarettes and gossiping, and that. He heard the boy laugh, and sayeagerly: "I say, Mum, is this one of Auntie June's lame ducks?"

"Paul Post--I believe it is, darling. "

The word produced a little shock in Soames; he had never heard her useit. And then she saw him. His eyes must have had in them something ofGeorge Forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand crisped the foldsof her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went stony. She moved on. 

"It IS a caution, " said the boy, catching her arm again. 

Soames stared after them. That boy was good-looking, with a Forsytechin, and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something sunny, like aglass of old sherry spilled over him; his smile perhaps, his hair. Better than they deserved--those two! They passed from his view intothe next room, and Soames continued to regard the Future Town, but sawit not. A little smile snarled up his lips. He was despising thevehemence of his own feelings after all these years. Ghosts! And yet asone grew old--was there anything but what was ghost-like left? Yes, there was Fleur! He fixed his eyes on the entrance. She was due; butshe would keep him waiting, of course! And suddenly he became aware ofa sort of human breeze--a short, slight form clad in a sea-greendjibbah with a metal belt and a fillet binding unruly red-gold hair allstreaked with grey. She was talking to the Gallery attendants, andsomething familiar riveted his gaze--in her eyes, her chin, her hair, her spirit--something which suggested a thin Skye terrier just beforeits dinner. Surely June Forsyte! His cousin June--and coming straightto his recess! She sat down beside him, deep in thought, took out atablet, and made a pencil note. Soames sat unmoving. A confounded thingcousinship! "Disgusting!" he heard her murmur; then, as if resentingthe presence of an overhearing stranger, she looked at him. The worsthad happened. 

"Soames!"

Soames turned his head a very little. 

"How are YOU?" he said. "Haven't seen you for twenty years. "

"No. Whatever made YOU come here?"

"My sins, " said Soames. "What stuff!"

"Stuff? Oh, yes--of course; it hasn't ARRIVED yet. "

"It never will, " said Soames; "it must be making a dead loss. "

"Of course it is. "

"How d'you know?"

"It's my Gallery. "

Soames sniffed from sheer surprise. 

"Yours? What on earth makes you run a show like this?"

"_I_ don't treat Art as if it were grocery. "

Soames pointed to the Future Town. "Look at that! Who's going to livein a town like that, or with it on his walls?"

June contemplated the picture for a moment. "It's a vision, " she said. 

"The deuce!"

There was silence, then June rose. 'Crazy-looking creature!' he thought. 

"Well, " he said, "you'll find your young stepbrother here with a womanI used to know. If you take my advice, you'll close this exhibition. "

June looked back at him. "Oh! You Forsyte!" she said, and moved on. About her light, fly-away figure, passing so suddenly away, was a lookof dangerous decisions. Forsyte! Of course, he was a Forsyte! And sowas she! But from the time when, as a mere girl, she brought Bosinneyinto his life to wreck it, he had never hit it off with June--and neverwould! And here she was, unmarried to this day, owning a Gallery!. .. And suddenly it came to Soames how little he knew now of his ownfamily. The old aunts at Timothy's had been dead so many years; therewas no clearing-house for news. What had they all done in the War?Young Roger's boy had been wounded, St. John Hayman's second sonkilled; young Nicholas' eldest had got an O. B. E. , or whatever theygave them. They had all joined up somehow, he believed. That boy ofJolyon's and Irene's, he supposed, had been too young; his owngeneration, of course, too old, though Giles Hayman had driven a carfor the Red Cross--and Jesse Hayman been a special constable--those"Dromios" had always been of a sporting type! As for himself, he hadgiven a motor ambulance, read the papers till he was sick of them, passed through much anxiety, invested in War Bonds, bought no clothes, lost seven pounds in weight; he didn't know what more he could havedone at his age. Indeed, it struck him that he and his family had takenthis war very differently to that affair with the Boers, which had beensupposed to tax all the resources of the Empire. In that old war, ofcourse, his nephew Val Dartie had been wounded, that fellow Jolyon'sfirst son had died of enteric, "the Dromios" had gone out on horses, and June had been a nurse; but all that had seemed in the nature of aportent, while in THIS war everybody had done "their bit, " so far as hecould make out, as a matter of course. It seemed to show the growth ofsomething or other--or perhaps the decline of something else. Had theForsytes become less individual, or more Imperial, or less provincial?Or was it simply that one hated Germans?. .. Why didn't Fleur come, sothat he could get away? He saw those three return together from theother room and pass back along the far side of the screen. The boy wasstanding before the Juno now. And, suddenly, on the other side of her, Soames saw--his daughter with eyebrows raised, as well they might be. He could see her eyes glint sideways at the boy, and the boy look backat her. Then Irene slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him on. Soames saw him glancing round, and Fleur looking after them as thethree went out. 

A voice said cheerfully: "Bit thick, isn't it, sir?"

The young man who had handed him his handkerchief was again passing. Soames nodded. 

"I don't know what we're coming to. "

"Oh! That's all right, sir, " answered the young man cheerfully; "theydon't either. "

Fleur's voice said, precisely as if he had been keeping her waiting:

"Hallo, Father! There you are!"

The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on. 

"Well, " said Soames, looking her up and down, "you're a punctual sortof young woman!"

This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and color, with short, dark-chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes were set inwhites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and yet in reposewere almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed lids, held over themin a sort of suspense. She had a charming profile, and nothing of herfather in her face save a decided chin. Aware that his expression wassoftening as he looked at her, Soames frowned to preserve theunemotionalism proper to a Forsyte. He knew she was only too inclinedto take advantage of his weakness. 

Slipping her hand under his arm, she said:

"Who was that?"

"He picked up my handkerchief. We talked about the pictures. "

"You're not going to buy THAT, Father?"

"No, " said Soames grimly; "nor that Juno you've been looking at. "

Fleur dragged at his arm. "Oh! Let's go! It's a ghastly show. "

In the doorway they passed the young man called Mont and his partner. But Soames had hung out a board marked "Trespassers will beprosecuted, " and he barely acknowledged the young fellow's salute. 

"Well, " he said in the street, "whom did you meet at Imogen's?"

"Aunt Winifred, and that Monsieur Profond. "

"Oh!" muttered Soames; "that chap! What does your aunt see in him?"

"I don't know. He looks pretty deep--mother says she likes him. "

Soames grunted. 

"Cousin Val and his wife were there, too. "

"What!" said Soames. "I thought they were back in South Africa. "

"Oh, no! They've sold their farm. Cousin Val is going to trainrace-horses on the Sussex Downs. They've got a jolly old manor-house;they asked me down there. "

Soames coughed: the news was distasteful to him. "What's his wife likenow?"

"Very quiet, but nice, I think. "

Soames coughed again. "He's a rackety chap, your cousin Val. "

"Oh! no, Father; they're awfully devoted. I promised to go--Saturday toWednesday next. "

"Training race-horses!" said Soames. It was bad enough, but not thereason for his distaste. Why the deuce couldn't his nephew have stayedout in South Africa? His own divorce had been bad enough, without hisnephew's marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; a half-sistertoo of June, and of that boy whom Fleur had just been looking at fromunder the pump-handle. If he didn't look out, Fleur would come to knowall about that old disgrace! Unpleasant things! They were round himthis afternoon like a swarm of bees!

"I don't like it!" he said. 

"I want to see the race-horses, " murmured Fleur; "and they've promisedI shall ride. Cousin Val can't walk much, you know; but he can rideperfectly. He's going to show me their gallops. "

"Racing!" said Soames. "It's a pity the War didn't knock that on thehead. He's taking after his father, I'm afraid. "

"I don't know anything about his father. "

"No, " said Soames grimly. "He took an interest in horses and broke hisneck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for your aunt. " Hefrowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he hadattended in Paris six years ago, because Montague Dartie could notattend it himself--perfectly normal stairs in a house where they playedbaccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them hadgone to his brother-in-law's head. The French procedure had been veryloose; he had had a lot of trouble with it. 

A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. "Look! The people who werein the Gallery with us. "

"What people?" muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well. 

"I think that woman's beautiful. "

"Come into this pastry-cook's, " said Soames abruptly, and tighteninghis grip on her arm, he turned into a confectioner's. It was--forhim--a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: "What willyou have?"

"Oh! I don't want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch. "

"We MUST have something now we're here, " muttered Soames, keeping holdof her arm. 

"Two teas, " he said; "and two of those nougat things. "

But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Thosethree--those three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to herboy, and his answer:

"Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt. " And the three satdown. 

At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts andshadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had everloved--his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor--Soames wasnot so much afraid of THEM as of his cousin June. She might make ascene--she might introduce those two children--she was capable ofanything. He bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate. Working at it with his finger, he glanced at Fleur. She was masticatingdreamily, but her eyes were on the boy. The Forsyte in him said:"Think, feel, and you're done for!" And he wiggled his fingerdesperately. Plate! Did Jolyon wear a plate? Did that woman wear aplate? Time had been when he had seen her wearing nothing! That wassomething, anyway, which had never been stolen from him. And she knewit, though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she hadnever been his wife. An acid humor stirred in his Forsyte blood; asubtle pain divided by hair's-breadth from pleasure. If only June didnot suddenly bring her hornets about his ears! The boy was talking. 

"Of course, Auntie June, "--so he called his half-sister "Auntie, " didhe?--well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!--"it's jolly good ofyou to encourage them. Only--hang it all!" Soames stole a glance. Irene's startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy. She--she hadthese devotions--for Bosinney--for that boy's father--for this boy! Hetouched Fleur's arm, and said:

"Well, have you had enough?"

"One more, Father, please. "

She would be sick! He went to the counter to pay. When he turned roundagain he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a handkerchief whichthe boy had evidently just handed to her. 

"F. F. , " he heard her say. "Fleur Forsyte--it's mine all right. Thankyou ever so. "

Good God! She had caught the trick from what he'd told her in theGallery--monkey!

"Forsyte? Why--that's my name too. Perhaps we're cousins. "

"Really! We must be. There aren't any others. I live at Mapledurham;where do you?"

"Robin Hill. "

Question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he couldlift a finger. He saw Irene's face alive with startled feeling, gavethe slightest shake of his head, and slipped his arm through Fleur's. 

"Come along!" he said. 

She did not move. 

"Didn't you hear, Father? Isn't it queer--our name's the same. Are wecousins?"

"What's that?" he said. "Forsyte? Distant, perhaps. "

"My name's Jolyon, sir. Jon, for short. "

"Oh! Ah!" said Soames. "Yes. Distant. How are you? Very good of you. Good-bye!"

He moved on. 

"Thanks awfully, " Fleur was saying. "Au revoir!"

"Au revoir!" he heard the boy reply. 

II

FINE FLEUR FORSYTE

Emerging from the "pastry-cook's, " Soames' first impulse was to venthis nerves by saying to his daughter: "Dropping your handkerchief!" towhich her reply might well be: "I picked that up from you!" His secondimpulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie. But she would surelyquestion him. He gave her a sidelong look, and found she was giving himthe same. She said softly:

"Why don't you like those cousins, Father?"

Soames lifted the corner of his lip. 

"What made you think that?"

"Cela se voit. "

'That sees itself!' What a way of putting it!

After twenty years of a French wife Soames had still little sympathywith her language; a theatrical affair and connected in his mind withall the refinements of domestic irony. 

"How?" he asked. 

"You MUST know them; and you didn't make a sign. I saw them looking atyou. "

"I've never seen the boy in my life, " replied Soames with perfect truth. 

"No; but you've seen the others, dear. "

Soames gave her another look. What had she picked up? Had her AuntWinifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking? Everybreath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, andWinifred warned many times that he wouldn't have a whisper of it reachher for the world. So far as she ought to know, he had never beenmarried before. But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearnessoften almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence. 

"Well, " he said, "your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel. Thetwo families don't know each other. "

"How romantic!"

'Now, what does she mean by that?' he thought. The word was to himextravagant and dangerous--it was as if she had said: "How jolly!"

"And they'll continue not to know each other, " he added, but instantlyregretted the challenge in those words. Fleur was smiling. In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and payingno attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the verything to excite her wilfulness. Then, recollecting the expression onIrene's face, he breathed again. 

"What sort of a quarrel?" he heard Fleur say. 

"About a house. It's ancient history for you. Your grandfather died theday you were born. He was ninety. "

"Ninety? Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?"

"I don't know, " said Soames. "They're all dispersed now. The old onesare dead, except Timothy. "

Fleur clasped her hands. 

"Timothy? Isn't that delicious?"

"Not at all, " said Soames. It offended him that she should think"Timothy" delicious--a kind of insult to his breed. This new generationmocked at anything solid and tenacious. "You go and see the old boy. Hemight want to prophesy. " Ah! If Timothy could see the disquiet Englandof his greatnephews and greatnieces, he would certainly give tongue. And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes--George was still inthe window, with the same pink paper in his hand. 

"Where is Robin Hill, Father?"

Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! Whatdid she want to know for?

"In Surrey, " he muttered; "not far from Richmond, Why?"

"Is the house there?"

"What house?"

"That they quarrelled about. "

"Yes. But what's all that to do with you? We're going hometo-morrow--you'd better be thinking about your frocks. "

"Bless you! They're all thought about. A family feud? It's like theBible, or Mark Twain--awfully exciting. What did YOU do in the feud, Father?"

"Never you mind. "

"Oh! But if I'm to keep it up?"

"Who said you were to keep it up?"

"You, darling. "

"I? I said it had nothing to do with you. "

"Just what _I_ think, you know; so that's all right. "

She was too sharp for him; FINE, as Annette sometimes called her. Nothing for it but to distract her attention. 

"There's a bit of rosaline point in here, " he said, stopping before ashop, "that I thought you might like. "

When he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, Fleur said:

"Don't you think that boy's mother is the most beautiful woman of herage you've ever seen?"

Soames shivered. Uncanny, the way she stuck to it!

"I don't know that I noticed her. "

"Dear, I saw the corner of your eye. "

"You see everything--and a great deal more, it seems to me!"

"What's her husband like? He must be your first cousin, if your fatherswere brothers. "

"Dead, for all I know, " said Soames, with sudden vehemence. "I haven'tseen him for twenty years. "

"What was he?"

"A painter. "

"That's quite jolly. "

The words: "If you want to please me you'll put those people out ofyour head, " sprang to Soames's lips, but he choked them back--he mustNOT let her see his feelings. 

"He once insulted me, " he said. 

Her quick eyes rested on his face. 

"I see! You didn't avenge it, and it rankles. Poor Father! You let mehave a go!"

It was really like lying in the dark with a mosquito hovering above hisface. Such pertinacity in Fleur was new to him, and, as they reachedthe hotel, he said grimly:

"I did my best. And that's enough about these people. I'm going up tilldinner. "

"I shall sit here. "

With a parting look at her extended in a chair--a look half-resentful, half-adoring--Soames moved into the lift and was transported to theirsuite on the fourth floor. He stood by the window of the sitting-roomwhich gave view over Hyde Park, and drummed a finger on its pane. Hisfeelings were confused, tetchy, troubled. The throb of that old wound, scarred over by Time and new interests, was mingled with displeasureand anxiety, and a slight pain in his chest where that nougat stuff haddisagreed. Had Annette come in? Not that she was any good to him insuch a difficulty. Whenever she had questioned him about his firstmarriage, he had always shut her up; she knew nothing of it, save thatit had been the great passion of his life, and his marriage withherself but domestic makeshift. She had always kept the grudge of thatup her sleeve, as it were, and used it commercially. He listened. Asound--the vague murmur of a woman's movements--was coming through thedoor. She was in. He tapped. 

"Who?"

"I, " said Soames. 

She had been changing her frock, and was still imperfectly clothed; astriking figure before her glass. There was a certain magnificenceabout her arms, shoulders, hair, which had darkened since he first knewher, about the turn of her neck, the silkiness of her garments, herdark-lashed, grey-blue eyes--she was certainly as handsome at forty asshe had ever been. A fine possession, an excellent housekeeper, asensible and affectionate enough mother. If only she weren't always sofrankly cynical about the relations between them! Soames, who had nomore real affection for her than she had for him, suffered from a kindof English grievance, in that she had never dropped even the thinnestveil of sentiment over their partnership. Like most of his countrymenand women, he held the view that marriage should be based on mutuallove, but that when from a marriage love had disappeared, or been foundnever to have really existed--so that it was manifestly not based onlove--you must not admit it. There it was, and the love was not--butthere you were, and must continue to be! Thus you had it both ways, andwere not tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality, like theFrench. Moreover, it was necessary in the interests of propriety. Heknew that she knew that they both knew there was no love between them, but he still expected her not to admit in words or conduct such athing, and he could never understand what she meant when she talked ofthe hypocrisy of the English. He said:

"Whom have you got at 'The Shelter' next week?"

Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve--he alwayswished she wouldn't do that. 

"Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans"--she took up a tiny stickof black--"and Prosper Profond. "

"That Belgian chap? Why him?"

Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said:

"He amuses Winifred. "

"I want some one to amuse Fleur; she's restive. "

"R-restive?" repeated Annette. "Is it the first time you see that, myfriend? She was born r-restive, as you call it. "

Would she never get that affected roll out of her r's?

He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked:

"What have you been doing?"

Annette looked at him, reflected in her glass. Her just-brightened lipssmiled, rather full, rather ironical. 

"Enjoying myself, " she said. 

"Oh!" answered Soames glumly. "Ribbandry, I suppose. "

It was his word for all that incomprehensible running in and out ofshops that women went in for. "Has Fleur got her summer dresses?"

"You don't ask if I have mine. "

"You don't care whether I do or not. "

"Quite right. Well, she has; and I have mine--terribly expensive. "

"H'm!" said Soames. "What does that chap Profond do in England?"

Annette raised the eyebrows she had just finished. 

"He yachts. "

"Ah!" said Soames; "he's a sleepy chap. "

"Sometimes, " answered Annette, and her face had a sort of quietenjoyment. "But sometimes very amusing. "

"He's got a touch of the tar-brush about him. "

Annette stretched herself. 

"Tar-brush?" she said; "what is that? His mother was Armenienne. "

"That's it, then, " muttered Soames. "Does he know anything aboutpictures?"

"He knows about everything--a man of the world. "

"Well, get some one for Fleur. I want to distract her. She's going offon Saturday to Val Dartie and his wife; I don't like it. "

"Why not?"

Since the reason could not be explained without going into familyhistory, Soames merely answered:

"Racketing about. There's too much of it. "

"I like that little Mrs. Val; she is very quiet and clever. "

"I know nothing of her except--This thing's new. " And Soames took up acreation from the bed. 

Annette received it from him. 

"Would you hook me?" she said. 

Soames hooked. Glancing once over her shoulder into the glass, he sawthe expression on her face, faintly amused, faintly contemptuous, asmuch as to say: 'Thanks! You will never learn!' No, thank God, hewasn't a Frenchman! He finished with a jerk, and the words:

"It's too low here. " And he went to the door, with the wish to get awayfrom her and go down to Fleur again. 

Annette stayed a powder-puff, and said with startling suddenness:

"Que tu es grossier!"

He knew the expression--he had reason to. The first time she had usedit he had thought it meant "What a grocer you are!" and had not knownwhether to be relieved or not when better informed. He resented theword--he was NOT coarse! If he was coarse, what was that chap in theroom beyond his, who made those horrible noises in the morning when hecleared his throat, or those people in the Lounge who thought itwell-bred to say nothing but what the whole world could hear at the topof their voices--quacking inanity! Coarse, because he had said herdress was low! Well, so it was! He went out without reply. 

Coming into the Lounge from the far end, he at once saw Fleur where hehad left her. She sat with crossed knees, slowly balancing a foot insilk stocking and grey shoe, sure sign that she was dreaming. Her eyesshowed it too--they went off like that sometimes. And then, in amoment, she would come to life, and be as quick and restless as amonkey. And she knew so much, so self-assured, and not yet nineteen. What was that odious word? Flapper! Dreadful young creatures--squealingand squawking and showing their legs! The worst of them bad dreams, thebest of them powdered angels! Fleur was NOT a flapper, NOT one of thoseslangy, ill-bred young females. And yet she was frighteninglyself-willed, and full of life, and determined to enjoy it. Enjoy! Theword brought no puritan terror to Soames; but it brought the terrorsuited to his temperament. He had always been afraid to enjoy to-dayfor fear he might not enjoy to-morrow so much. And it was terrifying tofeel that his daughter was divested of that safeguard. The very way shesat in that chair showed it--lost in her dream. He had never been lostin a dream himself--there was nothing to be had out of it; and whereshe got it from he did not know! Certainly not from Annette! And yetAnnette, as a young girl, when he was hanging about her, had once had aflowery look. Well, she had lost it now!

Fleur rose from her chair--swiftly, restlessly, and flung herself downat a writing-table. Seizing ink and writing-paper, she began to writeas if she had not time to breathe before she got her letter written. And suddenly she saw him. The air of desperate absorption vanished, shesmiled, waved a kiss, made a pretty face as if she were a littlepuzzled and a little bored. 

Ah! She was "fine"--"fine!"

III

AT ROBIN HILL

Jolyon Forsyte had spent his boy's nineteenth birthday at Robin Hill, quietly going into his affairs. He did everything quietly now, becausehis heart was in a poor way, and, like all his family, he disliked theidea of dying. He had never realised how much till one day, two yearsago, he had gone to his doctor about certain symptoms, and been told:

"At any moment, on any overstrain. "

He had taken it with a smile--the natural Forsyte reaction against anunpleasant truth. But with an increase of symptoms in the train on theway home, he had realised to the full the sentence hanging over him. Toleave Irene, his boy, his home, his work--though he did little enoughwork now! To leave them for unknown darkness, for the unimaginablestate, for such nothingness that he would not even be conscious of windstirring leaves above his grave, nor of the scent of earth and grass. Of such nothingness that, however hard he might try to conceive it, henever could, and must still hover on the hope that he might see againthose he loved! To realise this was to endure very poignant spiritualanguish. Before he reached home that day, he had determined to keep itfrom Irene. He would have to be more careful than man had ever been, for the least thing would give it away and make her as wretched ashimself, almost. His doctor had passed him sound in other respects, andseventy was nothing of an age--he would last a long time yet, IF HECOULD!

Such a conclusion, followed out for nearly two years, develops to thefull the subtler side of character. Naturally not abrupt, except whennervously excited, Jolyon had become control incarnate. The sadpatience of old people who cannot exert themselves was masked by asmile which his lips preserved even in private. He devised continuallyall manner of cover to conceal his enforced lack of exertion. Mockinghimself for so doing, he counterfeited conversion to the Simple Life;gave up wine and cigars, drank a special kind of coffee with no coffeein it. In short, he made himself as safe as a Forsyte in his conditioncould, under the rose of his mild irony. Secure from discovery, sincehis wife and son had gone up to Town, he had spent the fine May dayquietly arranging his papers, that he might die to-morrow withoutinconveniencing any one, giving in fact a final polish to histerrestrial state. Having docketed and enclosed it in his father's oldChinese cabinet, he put the key into an envelope, wrote the wordsoutside: "Key of the Chinese cabinet, wherein will be found the exactstate of me. J. F. , " and put it in his breast-pocket, where it would be, always about him, in case of accident. Then, ringing for tea, he wentout to have it under the old oak-tree. 

All are under sentence of death; Jolyon, whose sentence was but alittle more precise and pressing, had become so used to it, that hethought habitually, like other people, of other things. He thought ofhis son now. 

Jon was nineteen that day, and Jon had come of late to a decision. Educated neither at Eton like his father, nor at Harrow, like his deadhalf-brother, but at one of those establishments which, designed toavoid the evil and contain the good of the Public School system, may ormay not contain the evil and avoid the good, Jon had left in Aprilperfectly ignorant of what he wanted to become. The War, which hadpromised to go on for ever, had ended just as he was about to join thearmy, six months before his time. It had taken him ever since to getused to the idea that he could now choose for himself. He had held withhis father several discussions, from which, under a cheery show ofbeing ready for anything--except, of course, the Church, Army, Law, Stage, Stock Exchange, Medicine, Business, and Engineering--Jolyon hadgathered rather clearly that Jon wanted to go in for nothing. Hehimself had felt exactly like that at the same age. With him thatpleasant vacuity had soon been ended by an early marriage, and itsunhappy consequences. Forced to become an underwriter at Lloyd's he hadregained prosperity before his artistic talent had outcropped. Buthaving--as the simple say--"learned" his boy to draw pigs and otheranimals, he knew that Jon would never be a painter, and inclined to theconclusion that his aversion from everything else meant that he wasgoing to be a writer. Holding, however, the view that experience wasnecessary even for that profession, there seemed to Jolyon nothing inthe meantime, for Jon, but University, travel, and perhaps the eatingof dinners for the Bar. After that one would see, or more probably onewould not. In face of these proffered allurements, however, Jon hadremained undecided. 

Such discussions with his son had confirmed in Jolyon a doubt whetherthe world had really changed. People said that it was a new age. Withthe profundity of one not too long for any age, Jolyon perceived thatunder slightly different surfaces, the era was precisely what it hadbeen. Mankind was still divided into two species: The few who had"speculation" in their souls, and the many who had none, with a belt ofhybrids like himself in the middle. Jon appeared to have speculation;it seemed to his father a bad lookout. 

With something deeper, therefore, than his usual smile, he had heardthe boy say, a fortnight ago: "I should like to try farming, Dad; if itwon't cost you too much. It seems to be about the only sort of lifethat doesn't hurt anybody; except art, and of course that's out of thequestion for me. "

Jolyon subdued his smile, and answered:

"All right; you shall skip back to where we were under the first Jolyonin 1760. It'll prove the cycle theory, and incidentally, no doubt, youmay grow a better turnip than he did. "

A little dashed, Jon had answered:

"But don't you think it's a good scheme, Dad?"

"Twill serve, my dear; and if you should really take to it, you'll domore good than most men, which is little enough. "

To himself, however, he had said: "But he won't take to it. I give himfour years. Still, it's healthy, and harmless. "

After turning the matter over and consulting with Irene, he wrote tohis daughter Mrs. Val Dortie, asking if they knew of a farmer near themon the Downs who would take Jon as an apprentice. Holly's answer hadbeen enthusiastic. There was an excellent man quite close; she and Valwould love Jon to live with them. 

The boy was due to go to-morrow. 

Sipping weak tea with lemon in it, Jolyon gazed through the leaves ofthe old oak-tree at that view which had appeared to him desirable forthirty-two years. The tree beneath which he sat seemed not a day older!So young, the little leaves of brownish gold; so old, thewhitey-grey-green of its thick rough trunk, A tree of memories, whichwould live on hundreds of years yet, unless some barbarian cut itdown--would see old England out at the pace things were going! Heremembered a night three years before, when, looking from his window, with his arm close round Irene, he had watched a German aeroplanehovering, it seemed, right over the old tree. Next day they had found abomb hole in a field on Gage's farm. That was before he knew that hewas under sentence of death. He could almost have wished the bomb hadfinished him. It would have saved a lot of hanging about, many hours ofcold fear in the pit of his stomach. He had counted on living to thenormal Forsyte age of eighty-five or more, when Irene would be seventy. As it was, she would miss him. Still there was Jon, more important inher life than himself; Jon, who adored his mother. 

Under that tree, where old Jolyon--waiting for Irene to come to himacross the lawn--had breathed his last, Jolyon wondered, whimsically, whether, having put everything in such perfect order, he had not betterclose his own eyes and drift away. There was something undignified inparasitically clinging on to the effortless close of a life wherein heregretted two things only--the long division between his father andhimself when he was young, and the lateness of his union with Irene. 

From where he sat he could see a cluster of apple-trees in blossom. Nothing in Nature moved him so much as fruit-trees in blossom; and hisheart ached suddenly because he might never see them flower again. Spring! Decidedly no man ought to have to die while his heart was stillyoung enough to love beauty! Blackbirds sang recklessly in theshrubbery, swallows were flying high, the leaves above him glistened;and over the fields was every imaginable tint of early foliage, burnished by the level sunlight, away to where the distant 'smoke-bush'blue was trailed along the horizon. Irene's flowers in their narrowbeds had startling individuality that evening, little deep assertionsof gay life. Only Chinese and Japanese painters, and perhaps Leonardo, had known how to get that startling little ego into each paintedflower, and bird, and beast--the ego, yet the sense of species, theuniversality of life as well. They were the fellows! 'I've made nothingthat will live!' thought Jolyon; 'I've been an amateur--a mere lover, not a creator. Still, I shall leave Jon behind me when I go. ' What luckthat the boy had not been caught by that ghastly war! He might soeasily have been killed, like poor Jolly twenty years ago out in theTransvaal. Jon would do something some day--if the Age didn't spoilhim--an imaginative chap! His whim to take up farming was but a bit ofsentiment, and about as likely to last. And just then he saw themcoming up the field: Irene and the boy, walking from the station, withtheir arms linked. And, getting up, he strolled down through the newrose garden to meet them. .. . 

Irene came into his room that night and sat down by the window. She satthere without speaking till he said:

"What is it, my love?"

"We had an encounter to-day. "

"With whom?"

"Soames. "

Soames! He had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two years;conscious that it was bad for him. And, now, his heart moved in adisconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his chest. 

Irene went on quietly:

"He and his daughter were in the Gallery, and afterwards at theconfectioner's where we had tea. "

Jolyon went over and put his hand on her shoulder. 

"How did he look?"

"Grey; but otherwise much the same. "

"And the daughter?"

"Pretty. At least, Jon thought so. "

Jolyon's heart side-slipped again. His wife's face had a strained andpuzzled look. 

"You didn't--?" he began. 

"No; but Jon knows their name. The girl dropped her handkerchief and hepicked it up. "

Jolyon sat down on his bed. An evil chance!

"June was with you. Did she put her foot into it?"

"No; but it was all very queer and strained, and Jon could see it was. "

Jolyon drew a long breath, and said:

"I've often wondered whether we've been right to keep it from him. He'll find out some day. "

"The later the better, Jolyon; the young have such cheap, hardjudgment. When you were nineteen what would you have thought of YOURmother if she had done what I have?" Yes! There it was! Jon worshippedhis mother; and knew nothing of the tragedies, the inexorablenecessities of life, nothing of the prisoned grief in an unhappymarriage, nothing of jealousy, or passion--knew nothing at all, as yet!

"What have you told him?" he said at last. 

"That they were relations, but we didn't know them; that you had nevercared much for your family, or they for you. I expect he will be askingYOU. "

Jolyon smiled. "This promises to take the place of air-raids, " he said. "After all, one misses them. "

Irene looked up at him. 

"We've known it would come some day. "

He answered her with sudden energy:

"I could never stand seeing Jon blame you. He shan't do that, even inthought. He has imagination; and he'll understand if it's put to himproperly. I think I had better tell him before he gets to knowotherwise. "

"Not yet, Jolyon. "

That was like her--she had no foresight, and never went to meettrouble. Still--who knew?--she might be right. It was ill going againsta mother's instinct. It might be well to let the boy go on, ifpossible, till experience had given him some touchstone by which hecould judge the values of that old tragedy; till love, jealousy, longing, had deepened his charity. All the same, one must takeprecautions--every precaution possible! And, long after Irene had lefthim, he lay awake turning over those precautions. He must write toHolly, telling her that Jon knew nothing as yet of family history. Holly was discreet, she would make sure of her husband, she would seeto it! Jon could take the letter with him when he went to-morrow. 

And so the day on which he had put the polish on his material estatedied out with the chiming of the stable clock; and another began forJolyon in the shadow of a spiritual disorder which could not be sorounded off and polished. .. . 

But Jon, whose room had once been his day nursery, lay awake too, theprey of a sensation disputed by those who have never known it, "love atfirst sight!" He had felt it beginning in him with the glint of thosedark eyes gazing into his athwart the Juno--a conviction that this washis 'dream'; so that what followed had seemed to him at once naturaland miraculous. Fleur! Her name alone was almost enough for one who wasterribly susceptible to the charm of words. In a homoeopathic age, whenboys and girls were coeducated, and mixed up in early life till sex wasalmost abolished, Jon was singularly old-fashioned. His modern schooltook boys only, and his holidays had been spent at Robin Hill with boyfriends, or his parents alone. He had never, therefore, been inoculatedagainst the germs of love by small doses of the poison. And now in thedark his temperature was mounting fast. He lay awake, featuringFleur--as they called it--recalling her words, especially that "Aurevoir!" so soft and sprightly. 

He was still so wide-awake at dawn that he got up, slipped on tennisshoes, trousers, and a sweater, and in silence crept down-stairs andout through the study window. It was just light; there was a smell ofgrass. 'Fleur!' he thought; 'Fleur!' It was mysteriously whiteout-of-doors, with nothing awake except the birds just beginning tochirp. 'I'll go down into the coppice, ' he thought. He ran down throughthe fields, reached the pond just as the sun rose, and passed into thecoppice. Bluebells carpeted the ground there; among the larch-treesthere was mystery--the air, as it were, composed of that romanticquality. Jon sniffed its freshness, and stared at the bluebells in thesharpening light. Fleur! It rhymed with her! And she lived atMapledurham--a jolly name, too, on the river somewhere. He could findit in the atlas presently. He would write to her. But would she answer?Oh! She must. She had said "Au revoir!" Not good-bye! What luck thatshe had dropped her handkerchief. He would never have known her but forthat. And the more he thought of that handkerchief, the more amazinghis luck seemed. Fleur! It certainly rhymed with her! Rhythm throngedhis head; words jostled to be joined together; he was on the verge of apoem. 

Jon remained in this condition for more than half an hour, thenreturned to the house, and getting a ladder, climbed in at his bedroomwindow out of sheer exhilaration. Then, remembering that the studywindow was open, he went down and shut it, first removing the ladder, so as to obliterate all traces of his feeling. The thing was too deepto be revealed to mortal soul--even to his mother. 

IV

THE MAUSOLEUM

There are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of Time, leaving their bodies in the limbo of London. Such was not quite thecondition of "Timothy's" on the Bayswater Road, for Timothy's soulstill had one foot in Timothy Forsyte's body, and Smither kept theatmosphere unchanging, of camphor and port wine and house whose windowsare only opened to air it twice a day. 

To Forsyte imagination that house was now a sort of Chinese pill-box, aseries of layers in the last of which was Timothy. One did not reachhim, or so it was reported by members of the family who, out ofold-time habit or absent-mindedness, would drive up once in a blue moonand ask after their surviving uncle. Such were Francie, now quiteemancipated from God (she frankly avowed atheism), Euphemia, emancipated from old Nicholas, and Winifred Dartie from her "man of theworld. " But, after all, everybody was emancipated now, or said theywere--perhaps not quite the same thing!

When Soames, therefore, took it on his way to Paddington station on themorning after that encounter, it was hardly with the expectation ofseeing Timothy in the flesh. His heart made a faint demonstrationwithin him while he stood in full south sunlight on the newly whiteneddoorstep of that little house where four Forsytes had once lived, andnow but one dwelt on like a winter fly; the house into which Soames hadcome and out of which he had gone times without number, divested of, orburdened with, fardels of family gossip; the house of the "old people"of another century, another age. 

The sight of Smither--still corseted up to the armpits because the newfashion which came in as they were going out about 1903 had never beenconsidered "nice" by Aunts Juley and Hester--brought a palefriendliness to Soames's lips; Smither, still faithfully arranged toold pattern in every detail, an invaluable servant--none suchleft--smiling back at him, with the words: "Why! it's Mr. Soames, afterall this time! And how are YOU, sir? Mr. Timothy will be so pleased toknow you've been. "

"How is he?"

"Oh! he keeps fairly bobbish for his age, sir; but of course he's awonderful man. As I said to Mrs. Dartie when she was here last: ItWOULD please Miss Forsyte and Mrs. Juley and Miss Hester to see how herelishes a baked apple still. But he's quite deaf. And a mercy, Ialways think. For what we should have done with him in the air-raids, Idon't know. "

"Ah!" said Soames. "What DID you do with him?"

"We just left him in his bed, and had the bell run down into thecellar, so that Cook and I could hear him if he rang. It would neverhave done to let him know there was a war on. As I said to Cook, 'IfMr. Timothy rings, they may do what they like--I'm going up. My dearmistresses would have a fit if they could see him ringing and nobodygoing to him. ' But he slept through them all beautiful. And the one inthe daytime he was having his bath. It WAS a mercy, because he mighthave noticed the people in the street all looking up--he often looksout of the window. "

"Quite!" murmured Soames. Smither was getting garrulous! "I just wantto look round and see if there's anything to be done. "

"Yes, sir. I don't think there's anything except a smell of mice in thedining-room that we don't know how to get rid of. It's funny theyshould be there, and not a crumb, since Mr. Timothy took to not comingdown, just before the war. But they're nasty little things; you neverknow where they'll take you next. "

"Does he leave his bed?"

"Oh! yes, sir; he takes nice exercise between his bed and the window inthe morning, not to risk a change of air. And he's quite comfortable inhimself; has his Will out every day regular. It's a great consolationto him--that. "

"Well, Smither, I want to see him, if I can; in case he has anything tosay to me. "

Smither coloured up above her corsets. 

"It WILL be an occasion!" she said. "Shall I take you round the house, sir, while I send Cook to break it to him?"

"No, you go to him, " said Soames. "I can go round the house by myself. "

One could not confess to sentiment before another, and Soames felt thathe was going to be sentimental nosing round those rooms so saturatedwith the past. When Smither, creaking with excitement, had left him, Soames entered the dining-room and sniffed. In his opinion it wasn'tmice, but incipient wood-rot, and he examined the panelling. Whether itwas worth a coat of paint, at Timothy's age, he was not sure. The roomhad always been the most modern in the house; and only a faint smilecurled Soames's lips and nostrils. Walls of a rich green surmounted theoak dado; a heavy metal chandelier hung by a chain from a ceilingdivided by imitation beams. The pictures had been bought by Timothy, abargain, one day at Jobson's sixty years ago--three Snyder "stilllifes, " two faintly coloured drawings of a boy and a girl, rathercharming, which bore the initials "J. R. "--Timothy had always believedthey might turn out to be Joshua Reynolds, but Soames, who admiredthem, had discovered that they were only John Robinson; and a doubtfulMorland of a white pony being shod. Deep-red plush curtains, tenhigh-backed dark mahogany chairs with deep-red plush seats, a Turkeycarpet, and a mahogany dining-table as large as the room was small, such was an apartment which Soames could remember unchanged in soul orbody since he was four years old. He looked especially at the twodrawings, and thought: 'I shall buy those at the sale. '

From the dining-room he passed into Timothy's study. He did notremember ever having been in that room. It was lined from floor toceiling with volumes, and he looked at them with curiosity. One wallseemed devoted to educational books, which Timothy's firm had publishedtwo generations back--sometimes as many as twenty copies of one book. Soames read their titles and shuddered. The middle wall had preciselythe same books as used to be in the library at his own father's in ParkLane, from which he deduced the fancy that James and his youngestbrother had gone out together one day and bought a brace of smalllibraries. The third wall he approached with more excitement. Here, surely, Timothy's own taste would be found. It was. The books weredummies. The fourth wall was all heavily curtained window. And turnedtowards it was a large chair with a mahogany reading-stand attached, onwhich a yellowish and folded copy of The Times, dated July 6, 1914, theday Timothy first failed to come down, as if in preparation for thewar, seemed waiting for him still. In a corner stood a large globe ofthat world never visited by Timothy, deeply convinced of the unrealityof everything but England, and permanently upset by the sea, on whichhe had been very sick one Sunday afternoon in 1836, out of a pleasureboat off the pier at Brighton, with Juley and Hester, Swithin and HattyChessman; all due to Swithin, who was always taking things into hishead, and who, thank goodness, had been sick too. Soames knew all aboutit, having heard the tale fifty times at least from one or other ofthem. He went up to the globe, and gave it a spin; it emitted a faintcreak and moved about an inch, bringing into his purview adaddy-long-legs which had died on it in latitude 44. 

'Mausoleum!' he thought. 'George was right!' And he went out and up thestairs. On the half landing he stopped before the case of stuffedhumming-birds which had delighted his childhood. They looked not a dayolder, suspended on wires above pampas-grass. If the case were openedthe birds would not begin to hum, but the whole thing would crumble, hesuspected. It wouldn't be worth putting that into the sale! Andsuddenly he was caught by a memory of Aunt Ann--dear old AuntAnn--holding him by the hand in front of that case and saying: "Look, Soamey! Aren't they bright and pretty, dear little humming-birds!"Soames remembered his own answer: "They don't hum, Auntie. " He musthave been six, in a black velveteen suit with a light-blue collar--heremembered that suit well! Aunt Ann with her ringlets, and her spiderykind hands, and her grave old aquiline smile--a fine old lady, AuntAnn! He moved on up to the drawing-room door. There on each side of itwere the groups of miniatures. Those he would certainly buy in! Theminiatures of his four aunts, one of his uncle Swithin adolescent, andone of his uncle Nicholas as a boy. They had all been painted by ayoung lady friend of the family at a time, 1830, about, when miniatureswere considered very genteel, and lasting too, painted as they were onivory. Many a time had he heard the tale of that young lady: "Verytalented, my dear; she had quite a weakness for Swithin, and very soonafter she went into a consumption and died: so like Keats--we oftenspoke of it. "

Well, there they were! Ann, Juley, Hester, Susan--quite a small child;Swithin, with sky-blue eyes, pink cheeks, yellow curls, whitewaistcoat--large as life; and Nicholas, like Cupid with an eye onheaven. Now he came to think of it, Uncle Nick had always been ratherlike that--a wonderful man to the last. Yes, she must have had talent, and miniatures had a certain back-watered cachet of their own, littlesubject to the currents of competition on aesthetic Change. Soamesopened the drawing-room door. The room was dusted, the furnitureuncovered, the curtains drawn back, precisely as if his aunts stilldwelt there patiently waiting. And a thought came to him: When Timothydied--why not? Would it not be almost a duty to preserve thishouse--like Carlyle's--and put up a tablet, and show it? "Specimen ofmid-Victorian abode--entrance, one shilling, with catalogue. " Afterall, it was the completest thing, and perhaps the deadest in the Londonof to-day. Perfect in its special taste and culture, if, that is, hetook down and carried over to his own collection the four Barbizonpictures he had given them. The still sky-blue walls, the greencurtains patterned with red flowers and ferns; the crewel-workedfire-screen before the cast-iron grate; the mahogany cupboard withglass windows, full of little knick-knacks; the beaded footstools;Keats, Shelley, Southey, Cowper, Coleridge, Byron's "Corsair" (butnothing else), and the Victorian poets in a bookshelf row; themarqueterie cabinet lined with dim red plush, full of family relics;Hester's first fan; the buckles of their mother's father's shoes; threebottled scorpions; and one very yellow elephant's tusk, sent home fromIndia by Great-uncle Edgar Forsyte, who had been in jute; a yellow bitof paper propped up, with spidery writing on it, recording God knewwhat! And the pictures crowding on the walls--all water-colours savethose four Barbizons looking like the foreigners they were, anddoubtful customers at that--pictures bright and illustrative, "Tellingthe Bees, " "Hey for the Ferry!" and two in the style of Frith, allthimblerig and crinolines, given them by Swithin. Oh! many, manypictures at which Soames had gazed a thousand times in superciliousfascination; a marvellous collection of bright, smooth gilt frames. 

And the boudoir-grand piano, beautifully dusted, hermetically sealed asever; and Aunt Juley's album of pressed seaweed on it. And thegilt-legged chairs, stronger than they looked. And on one side of thefireplace the sofa of crimson silk, where Aunt Ann, and after her AuntJuley, had been wont to sit, facing the light and bolt upright. And onthe other side of the fire the one really easy chair, back to thelight, for Aunt Hester. Soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to seethem sitting there. Ah! and the atmosphere--even now, of too manystuffs and washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried bee'swings. 'No, ' he thought, 'there's nothing like it left; it ought to bepreserved. ' And, by George, they might laugh at it, but for a standardof gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness of skin and eyeand nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow--to-day with its Tubes andcars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, bare-necked girlsvisible up to the knees and down to the waist if you took the trouble(agreeable to the satyr within each Forsyte but hardly his idea of alady), with their feet, too, screwed round the legs of their chairswhile they ate, and their "So longs, " and their "Old Beans, " and theirlaughter--girls who gave him the shudders whenever he thought of Fleurin contact with them; and the hard-eyed, capable, older women whomanaged life and gave him the shudders too. No! his old aunts, if theynever opened their minds, their eyes, or very much their windows, atleast had manners, and a standard, and reverence for past and future. 

With rather a choky feeling he closed the door and went tiptoeingup-stairs. He looked in at a place on the way: H'm! in perfect order ofthe eighties, with a sort of yellow oilskin paper on the walls. At thetop of the stairs he hesitated between four doors. Which of them wasTimothy's? And he listened. A sound as of a child slowly dragging ahobby-horse about, came to his ears. That must be Timothy! He tapped, and a door was opened by Smither very red in the face. 

Mr. Timothy was taking his walk, and she had not been able to get himto attend. If Mr. Soames would come into the back room, he could seehim through the door. 

Soames went into the back room and stood watching. 

The last of the old Forsytes was on his feet, moving with the mostimpressive slowness, and an air of perfect concentration on his ownaffairs, backward and forward between the foot of his bed and thewindow, a distance of some twelve feet. The lower part of his squareface, no longer clean-shaven, was covered with snowy beard clipped asshort as it could be, and his chin looked as broad as his brow wherethe hair was also quite white, while nose and cheeks and brow were agood yellow. One hand held a stout stick, and the other grasped theskirt of his Jaeger dressing-gown, from under which could be seen hisbed-socked ankles and feet thrust into Jaeger slippers. The expressionon his face was that of a crossed child, intent on something that hehas not got. Each time he turned he stumped the stick, and then draggedit, as if to show that he could do without it. 

"He still looks strong, " said Soames under his breath. 

"Oh! yes, sir. You should see him take his bath--it's wonderful; hedoes enjoy it so. "

Those quite loud words gave Soames an insight. Timothy had resumed hisbabyhood. 

"Does he take any interest in things generally?" he said, also aloud. 

"Oh! yes, sir; his food and his Will. It's quite a sight to see himturn it over and over, not to read it, of course; and every now andthen he asks the price of Consols, and I write it on a slate forhim--very large. Of course, I always write the same, what they werewhen he last took notice, in 1914. We got the doctor to forbid him toread the paper when the war broke out. Oh! he did take on about that atfirst. But he soon came round, because he knew it tired him; and he's awonder to conserve energy as he used to call it when my dear mistresseswere alive, bless their hearts! How he did go on at them about that;they were always so active, if you remember, Mr. Soames. "

"What would happen if I were to go in?" asked Soames. "Would heremember me? I made his Will, you know, after Miss Hester died in 1907. "

"Oh! that, sir, " replied Smither doubtfully, "I couldn't take on me tosay. I think he might; he really is a wonderful man for his age. "

Soames moved into the doorway, and, waiting for Timothy to turn, saidin a loud voice: "Uncle Timothy!"

Timothy trailed back half-way, and halted. 

"Eh?" he said. 

"Soames, " cried Soames at the top of his voice, holding out his hand, "Soames Forsyte!"

"No!" said Timothy, and stumping his stick loudly on the floor, hecontinued his walk. 

"It doesn't seem to work, " said Soames. 

"No, sir, " replied Smither, rather crestfallen; "you see, he hasn'tfinished his walk. It always was one thing at a time with him. I expecthe'll ask me this afternoon if you came about the gas, and a pretty jobI shall have to make him understand. "

"Do you think he ought to have a man about him?"

Smither held up her hands. "A man! Oh! no. Cook and me can manageperfectly. A strange man about would send him crazy in no time. And mymistresses wouldn't like the idea of a man in the house. Besides, we'reso proud of him. "

"I suppose the doctor comes?"

"Every morning. He makes special terms for such a quantity, and Mr. Timothy's so used, he doesn't take a bit of notice, except to put outhis tongue. "

"Well, " said Soames, turning away, "it's rather sad and painful to me. "

"Oh! sir, " returned Smither anxiously, "you mustn't think that. Nowthat he can't worry about things, he quite enjoys his life, really hedoes. As I say to Cook, Mr. Timothy is more of a man than he ever was. You see, when he's not walkin', or takin' his bath, he's eatin', andwhen he's not eatin', he's sleeping and there it is. There isn't anache or a care about him anywhere. "

"Well, " said Soames, "there's something in that. I'll go down. By theway, let me see his Will. "

"I should have to take my time about that, sir; he keeps it under hispillow, and he'd see me, while he's active. "

"I only want to know if it's the one I made, " said Soames; "you take alook at its date some time, and let me know. "

"Yes, sir; but I'm sure it's the same, because me and Cook witnessed, you remember, and there's our names on it still, and we've only done itonce. "

"Quite!" said Soames. He did remember. Smither and Jane had been properwitnesses, having been left nothing in the Will that they might have nointerest in Timothy's death. It had been--he fully admitted--an almostimproper precaution, but Timothy had wished it, and, after all, AuntHester had provided for them amply. 

"Very well, " he said; "good-bye, Smither. Look after him, and if heshould say anything at any time, put it down, and let me know. "

"Oh! yes, Mr. Soames; I'll be sure to do that. It's been such apleasant change to see you. Cook will be quite excited when I tell her. "

Soames shook her hand and went down-stairs. He stood for fully twominutes by the hat-stand whereon he had hung his hat so many times. 'Soit all passes, ' he was thinking; 'passes and begins again. Poor oldchap!' And he listened, if perchance the sound of Timothy trailing hishobby-horse might come down the well of the stairs; or some ghost of anold face show over the banisters, and an old voice say: "Why, it's dearSoames, and we were only saying that we hadn't seen him for a week!"

Nothing--nothing! Just the scent of camphor, and dust-motes in asunbeam through the fanlight over the door. The little old house! Amausoleum! And, turning on his heel, he went out, and caught his train. 

V

THE NATIVE HEATH

 "His foot's upon his native heath, His name's--Val Dartie. "

With some such feeling did Val Dartie, in the fortieth year of his age, set out that same Thursday morning very early from the old manor-househe had taken on the north side of the Sussex Downs. His destination wasNewmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn of 1899, when hestole over from Oxford for the Cambridgeshire. He paused at the door togive his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port into his pocket. 

"Don't overtire your leg, Val, and don't bet too much. "

With the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes lookinginto his, Val felt both leg and pocket safe. He should be moderate;Holly was always right--she had a natural aptitude. It did not seem soremarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to others, that--half Dartie ashe was--he should have been perfectly faithful to his young firstcousin during the twenty years since he married her romantically out inthe Boer War; and faithful without any feeling of sacrifice orboredom--she was so quick, so slyly always a little in front of hismood. Being first cousins they had decided, or rather Holly had, tohave no children; and, though a little sallower, she had kept herlooks, her slimness, and the colour of her dark hair. Val particularlyadmired the life of her own she carried on, besides carrying on his, and riding better every year. She kept up her music, she read an awfullot--novels, poetry, all sorts of stuff. Out on their farm in CapeColony she had looked after all the "nigger" babies and women in amiraculous manner. She was, in fact, --clever; yet made no fuss aboutit, and had no "side. " Though not remarkable for humility, Val had cometo have the feeling that she was his superior, and he did not grudgeit--a great tribute. It might be noted that he never looked at Hollywithout her knowing of it, but that she looked at him sometimesunawares. 

He has kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so on theplatform, though she was going to the station with him, to drive thecar back. Tanned and wrinkled by Colonial weather and the wilesinseparable from horses, and handicapped by the leg which, weakened inthe Boer War, had probably saved his life in the war just past, Val wasstill much as he had been in the days of his courtship; his smile aswide and charming, his eyelashes, if anything, thicker and darker, hiseyes screwed up under them, as bright a grey, his freckles ratherdeeper, his hair a little grizzled at the sides. He gave the impressionof one who has lived actively WITH HORSES in a sunny climate. 

Twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said:

"When is young Jon coming?"

"To-day. "

"Is there anything you want for him? I could bring it down on Saturday. "

"No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur--one forty. "

Val gave the Ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new countryon bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven at everyhole. 

"That's a young woman who knows her way about, " he said. "I say, has itstruck you?"

"Yes, " said Holly. 

"Uncle Soames and your dad--bit awkward, isn't it?"

"She won't know, and he won't know, and nothing must be said, ofcourse. It's only for five days, Val. "

"Stable secret! Righto!" If Holly thought it safe, it was. Glancingslyly round at him, she said: "Did you notice how beautifully she askedherself?"

"No!"

"Well, she did. What do you think of her, Val?"

"Pretty, and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got hermonkey up, I should say. "

"I'm wondering, " Holly murmured, "whether she is the modern youngwoman. One feels at sea coming home into all this. "

"You? You get the hang of things so quick. "

Holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket. 

"You keep one in the know, " said Val, encouraged. "What do you think ofthat Belgian fellow, Profond?"

"I think he's rather 'a good devil. '"

Val grinned. 

"He seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family. In fact, ourfamily is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying aFrenchwoman, and your dad marrying Soames's first. Our grandfatherswould have had fits!"

"So would anybody's, my dear. "

"This car, " said Val suddenly, "wants rousing; she doesn't get her hindlegs under her up-hill. I shall have to give her her head on the slopeif I'm to catch that train. "

There was that about horses which had prevented him from ever reallysympathising with a car, and the running of the Ford under hisguidance, compared with its running under that of Holly, was alwaysnoticeable. He caught the train. 

"Take care going home; she'll throw you down if she can. Good-bye, darling. "

"Good-bye, " called Holly, and kissed her hand. 

In the train, after quarter of an hour's indecision between thoughts ofHolly, his morning paper, the look of the bright day, and his dimmemory of Newmarket, Val plunged into the recesses of a small squarebook, all names, pedigrees, tap-roots, and notes about the make andshape of horses. The Forsyte in him was bent on the acquisition of acertain strain of blood, and he was subduing resolutely as yet theDartie hankering for a flutter. On getting back to England, after theprofitable sale of his South African farm and stud, and observing thatthe sun seldom shone, Val had said to himself: "I've absolutely got tohave an interest in life, or this country will give me the blues. Hunting's not enough, I'll breed and I'll train. " With just that extrapinch of shrewdness and decision imparted by long residence in a newcountry, Val had seen the weak point of modern breeding. They were allhypnotised by fashion and high price. He should buy for looks, and letnames go hang! And, here he was already, hypnotised by the prestige ofa certain strain of blood! Half consciously, he thought: 'There'ssomething in this damned climate which makes one go round in a ring. All the same, I must have a strain of Mayfly blood. '

In this mood he reached the Mecca of his hopes. It was one of thosequiet meetings favorable to such as wish to look into horses, ratherthan into the mouths of bookmakers; and Val clung to the paddock. Histwenty years of Colonial life, divesting him of the dandyism in whichhe had been bred, had left him the essential neatness of the horseman, and given him a queer and rather blighting eye over what he called "thesilly haw-haw" of some Englishmen, the 'flapping cockatoory' of someEnglishwomen--Holly had none of that and Holly was his model. Observant, quick, resourceful, Val went straight to the heart of atransaction, a horse, a drink; and he was on his way to the heart of aMayfly filly, when a slow voice said at his elbow:

"Mr. Val Dartie? How's Mrs. Val Dartie? She's well, I hope. " And he sawbeside him the Belgian he had met at his sister Imogen's. 

"Prosper Profond--I met you at lunch, " added the voice. "How are you?"murmured Val. 

"I'm very well, " replied Monsieur Profond, smiling with a certaininimitable slowness. "A good devil" Holly had called him. Well! Helooked a little like a devil, with his dark, clipped, pointed beard; asleepy one though, and good-humoured, with fine eyes, unexpectedlyintelligent. 

"Here's a gentleman wants to know you--cousin of yours--Mr. GeorgeForsyde. "

Val saw a large form, and a face clean-shaven, bull-like, a littlelowering, with sardonic humour bubbling behind a full grey eye; heremembered it dimly from old days when he used to dine with his fatherat the Iseeum Club. 

"I was a racing pal of your father's, " George was saying. "How's thestud? Like to buy one of my screws?"

Val grinned, to hide the sudden feeling that the bottom had fallen outof breeding. They believed in nothing over here, not even in horses. George Forsyte, Prosper Profond! The devil himself was not moredisillusioned than those two. 

"Didn't know you were a racing man, " he said to Monsieur Profond. 

"I'm not. I don' care for it. I'm a yachtin' man. I don' care foryachtin' either, but I like to see my friends. I've got some lunch, Mr. Val Dartie, just a small lunch, if you'd like to 'ave some; notmuch--just a small one--in my car. "

"Thanks, " said Val; "very good of you. I'll come along in about quarterof an hour. "

"Over there. Mr. Forsyde's comin', " and Monsieur Profond "poinded" witha yellow-gloved finger; "small car, with a small lunch"; he moved on, groomed, sleepy, and remote, George Forsyte following, neat, huge, andwith his jesting air. 

Val remained gazing at the Mayfly filly. George Forsyte, of course, wasan old chap, but this Profond might be about his own age; Val feltextremely young, as if the Mayfly filly were a toy at which those twohad laughed. The animal had lost reality. 

"That 'small' mare"--he seemed to hear the voice of MonsieurProfond--"what do you see in her--we must all die!"

And George Forsyte, crony of his father, racing still! The Mayflystrain--was it any better than any other? He might just as well have aflutter with his money instead. 

"No, by gum!" he muttered suddenly, "if it's no good breeding horses, it's no good doing anything. What did I come for? I'll buy her. "

He stood back and watched the ebb of the paddock visitors towards thestand. Natty old chips, shrewd portly fellows, Jews, trainers lookingas if they had never been guilty of seeing a horse in their lives;tall, flapping, languid women, or brisk, loud-voiced women; young menwith an air as if trying to take it seriously--two or three of themwith only one arm!

'Life over here's a game!' thought Val. 'Muffin bell rings, horses run, money changes hands; ring again, run again, money changes back. '

But, alarmed at his own philosophy, he went to the paddock gate towatch the Mayfly filly canter down. She moved well; and he made his wayover to the "small" car. The "small" lunch was the sort a man dreams ofbut seldom gets; and when it was concluded Monsieur Profond walked backwith him to the paddock. 

"Your wife's a nice woman, " was his surprising remark. 

"Nicest woman I know, " returned Val dryly. 

"Yes, " said Monsieur Profond; "she has a nice face. I admire nicewomen. "

Val looked at him suspiciously, but something kindly and direct in theheavy diabolism of his companion disarmed him for the moment. 

"Any time you like to come on my yacht, I'll give her a small cruise. "

"Thanks, " said Val, in arms again, "she hates the sea. "

"So do I, " said Monsieur Profond. 

"Then why do you yacht?"

The Belgian's eyes smiled. "Oh! I don' know. I've done everything; it'sthe last thing I'm doin'. "

"It must be d--d expensive. I should want more reason than that. "

Monsieur Prosper Profond raised his eyebrows, and puffed out a heavylower lip. 

"I'm an easy-goin' man, " he said. 

"Were you in the war?" asked Val. 

"Ye-es. I've done that too. I was gassed; it was a small bitunpleasant. " He smiled with a deep and sleepy air of prosperity, as ifhe had caught it from his name. Whether his saying "small" when heought to have said "little" was genuine mistake or affectation, Valcould not decide; the fellow was evidently capable of anything. Amongthe ring of buyers round the Mayfly filly who had won her race, Monsieur Profond said: "You goin' to bid?"

Val nodded. With this sleepy Satan at his elbow, he felt in need offaith. Though placed above the ultimate blows of Providence by theforethought of a grandfather who had tied him up a thousand a year towhich was added the thousand a year tied up for Holly by HERgrand-father, Val was not flush of capital that he could touch, havingspent most of what he had realised from his South African farm on hisestablishment in Sussex. And very soon he was thinking: 'Dash it! she'sgoing beyond me!' His limit--six hundred--exceeded, he dropped out ofthe bidding. The Mayfly filly passed under the hammer at seven hundredand fifty guineas. He was turning away vexed when the slow voice ofMonsieur Profond said in his ear:

"Well, I've bought that small filly, but I don't want her; you take herand give her to your wife. "

Val looked at the fellow with renewed suspicion, but the good humour inhis eyes was such that he really could not take offence. 

"I made a small lot of money in the war, " began Monsieur Profond inanswer to that look. "I 'ad armament shares. I like to give it away. I'm always makin' money. I want very small lot myself. I like myfriends to 'ave it. "

"I'll buy her of you at the price you gave, " said Val with suddenresolution. 

"No, " said Monsieur Profond. "You take her. I don' want her. "

"Hang it! One doesn't--"

"Why not?" smiled Monsieur Profond. "I'm a friend of your family. "

"Seven hundred and fifty guineas is not a box of cigars, " said Valimpatiently. 

"All right; you keep her for me till I want her, and do what you likewith her. "

"So long as she's yours, " said Val, "I don't mind that. " "That's allright, " murmured Monsieur Profond, and moved away. 

Val watched; he might be "a good devil, " but then again he might not. He saw him rejoin George Forsyte, and thereafter saw him no more. 

He spent those nights after racing at his mother's house in GreenStreet. 

Winifred Dartie at sixty-two was marvellously preserved, consideringthe three-and-thirty years during which she had put up with MontagueDartie, till almost happily released by a French staircase. It was toher a vehement satisfaction to have her favourite son back from SouthAfrica after all this time, to feel him so little changed, and to havetaken a fancy to his wife. Winifred, who in the late seventies, beforeher marriage, had been in the vanguard of freedom, pleasure, andfashion, confessed her youth outclassed by the donzellas of the day. They seemed, for instance, to regard marriage as an incident, andWinifred sometimes regretted that she had not done the same; a second, third, fourth incident might have secured her a partner of lessdazzling inebriety; though, after all, he had left her Val, Imogen, Maud, Benedict (almost a colonel and unharmed by the war)--none of whomhad been divorced as yet. The steadiness of her children often amazedone who remembered their father; but, as she was fond of believing, they were really all Forsytes, favouring herself, with the exceptionperhaps of Imogen. Her brother's "little girl" Fleur frankly puzzledWinifred. The child was as restless as any of these modern youngwomen--"She's a small flame in a draught, " Prosper Profond had said oneday after dinner--but she did not flop, or talk at the top of hervoice. The steady Forsyteism in Winifred's own character instinctivelyresented the feeling in the air, the modern girl's habits and hermotto: "All's much of a muchness! Spend! To-morrow we shall be poor!"She found it a saving grace in Fleur that having set her heart on athing, she had no change of heart until she got it--though whathappened after, Fleur was, of course, too young to have made evident. The child was a "very pretty little thing, " too, and quite a credit totake about, with her mother's French taste and gift for wearingclothes; everybody turned to look at Fleur--great consideration toWinifred, a lover of the style and distinction which had so cruellydeceived her in the case of Montague Dartie. 

In discussing her with Val, at breakfast on Saturday morning, Winifreddwelt on the family skeleton. 

"That little affair of your father-in-law and your Aunt Irene, Val--it's old as the hills, of course, Fleur need know nothing aboutit--making a fuss. Your Uncle Soames is very particular about that. Soyou'll be careful. "

"Yes! But it's dashed awkward--Holly's young half-brother is coming tolive with us while he learns farming. He's there already. "

"Oh!" said Winifred. "That is a gaff! What is he like?"

"Only saw him once--at Robin Hill, when we were home in 1909; he wasnaked and painted blue and yellow in stripes--a jolly little chap. "

Winifred thought that "rather nice, " and added comfortably: "Well, Holly's sensible; she'll know how to deal with it. I shan't tell youruncle. It'll only bother him. It's a great comfort to have you back, mydear boy, now that I'm getting on. "

"Getting on! Why! you're as young as ever. By the way, that chapProfond, Mother, is he all right?"

"Prosper Profond! Oh! the most amusing man I know. "

Val grunted, and recounted the story of the Mayfly filly. 

"That's SO like him, " murmured Winifred. "He does all sorts of things. "

"Well, " said Val shrewdly, "our family haven't been too lucky with thatkind of cattle; they're too light-hearted for us. "

It was true, and Winifred's blue study lasted a full minute before sheanswered:

"Oh! well! He's a foreigner, Val; one must make allowances. "

"All right, I'll use his filly and make it up to him, somehow. "

And soon after he gave her his blessing, received a kiss, and left herfor his bookmaker's, the Iseeum Club, and Victoria station. 

VI

JON

Mrs. Val Dartie, after twenty years of South Africa, had fallen deeplyin love, fortunately with something of her own, for the object of herpassion was the prospect in front of her windows, the cool clear lighton the green Downs. It was England again, at last! England morebeautiful than she had dreamed. Chance had, in fact, guided the ValDarties to a spot where the South Downs had real charm when the sunshone. Holly had enough of her father's eye to apprehend the rarequality of their outlines and chalky radiance; to go up there by theravine-like lane and wander along towards Chanctonbury or Amberley, wasstill a delight which she hardly attempted to share with Val, whoseadmiration of Nature was confused by a Forsyte's instinct for gettingsomething out of it, such as the condition of the turf for his horses'exercise. 

Driving the Ford home with a certain humouring smoothness, she promisedherself that the first use she would make of Jon would be to take himup there, and show him "the view" under this May-day sky. 

She was looking forward to her young half-brother with a motherlinessnot exhausted by Val. A three-day visit to Robin Hill, soon after theirarrival home, had yielded no sight of him--he was still at school; sothat her recollection, like Val's, was of a little sunny-haired boystriped blue and yellow, down by the pond. 

Those three days at Robin Hill had been exciting, sad, embarrassing. Memories of her dead brother, memories of Val's courtship; the aging ofher father, not seen for twenty years, something funereal in his ironicgentleness which did not escape one who had much subtle instinct; aboveall, the presence of her stepmother, whom she could still vaguelyremember as the "lady in grey" of days when she was little andgrandfather alive and Mademoiselle Beauce so cross because thatintruder gave her music lessons--all these confused and tantalised aspirit which had longed to find Robin Hill untroubled. But Holly wasadept at keeping things to herself, and all had seemed to go quite well. 

Her father had kissed her when she left him, with lips which she wassure had trembled. 

"Well, my dear, " he said, "the war hasn't changed Robin Hill, has it?If only you could have brought Jolly back with you! I say, can youstand this spiritualistic racket? When the oak-tree dies, it dies, I'mafraid. "

From the warmth of her embrace he probably divined that he had let thecat out of his bag, for he rode off at once on irony. 

"Spiritualism--queer word, when the more they manifest the more theyprove that they've got hold of matter. "

"How?" said Holly. 

"Why! Look at their photographs of auric presences. You must havesomething material for light and shade to fall on before you can take aphotograph. No, it'll end in our calling all matter spirit, or allspirit matter--I don't know which. "

"But don't you believe in survival, Dad?"

Jolyon had looked at her, and the sad whimsicality of his faceimpressed her deeply. 

"Well, my dear, I should like to get something out of death. I've beenlooking into it a bit. But for the life of me I can't find anythingthat telepathy, subconsciousness, and emanation from the storehouse ofthis world can't account for just as well. Wish I could! Wishes fatherthoughts but they don't breed evidence. "

Holly had pressed her lips again to his forehead with a feeling that itconfirmed his theory that all matter was becoming spirit--his brow feltsomehow so insubstantial. 

But the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching, unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from Jon. Itwas--she decided--the prettiest sight she had ever seen. Irene, lost asit were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the lightfell on her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, smiling, her dark eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not hold theletter was pressed against her breast. Holly withdrew as from a visionof perfect love, convinced that Jon must be nice. 

When she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in eitherhand, she was confirmed in her predisposition. He was a little likeJolly, that long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and lessformal, with deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore nohat; altogether a very interesting "little" brother!

His tentative politeness charmed one who was accustomed to assurance inthe youthful manner; he was disturbed because she was to drive himhome, instead of his driving her. Shouldn't he have a shot? They hadn'ta car at Robin Hill since the war, of course, and he had only drivenonce, and landed up a bank, so she oughtn't to mind his trying. Hislaugh, soft and infectious, was very attractive, though that word, shehad heard, was now quite old-fashioned. When they reached the house hepulled out a crumpled letter which she read while he was washing--aquite short letter, which must have cost her father many a pang towrite. 

"MY DEAR, "You and Val will not forget, I trust, that Jon knows nothing of familyhistory. His mother and I think he is too young at present. The boy isvery dear, and the apple of her eye. Verbum sapientibus. 

Your loving father, J. F. "

That was all; but it renewed in Holly an uneasy regret that Fleur wascoming. 

After tea she fulfilled that promise to herself and took Jon up thehill. They had a long talk, sitting above an old chalk-pit grown overwith brambles and goosepenny. Milkwort and liverwort starred the greenslope, the larks sang, and thrushes in the brake, and now and then agull flighting inland would wheel very white against the paling sky, where the vague moon was coming up. Delicious fragrance came to them, as if little invisible creatures were running and treading scent out ofthe blades of grass. 

Jon, who had fallen silent, said rather suddenly: "I say, this iswonderful! There's no fat on it at all. Gull's flight and sheep-bells--"

"Gull's flight and sheep-bells! You're a poet, my dear!"

Jon sighed. 

"Oh, Golly! No go!"

"Try! I used to at your age. "

"Did you? Mother says 'try' too; but I'm so rotten. Have you any ofyours for me to see?"

"My dear, " Holly murmured, "I've been married nineteen years. I onlywrote verses when I wanted to be. "

"Oh!" said Jon, and turned over on to his face: the one cheek she couldsee was a charming colour. Was Jon "touched in the wind, " then, as Valwould have called it? Already? But, if so, all the better, he wouldtake no notice of young Fleur. Besides, on Monday he would begin hisfarming. And she smiled. Was it Burns who followed the plough, or onlyPiers Plowman? Nearly every young man and most young women seemed to bepoets nowadays, from the number of their books she had read out inSouth Africa, importing them from Hatchus and Bumphards; and quitegood--oh! quite; much better than she had been herself! But then poetryhad only really come in since her day--with motor-cars. Another longtalk after dinner over a wood fire in the low hall, and there seemedlittle left to know about Jon except anything of real importance. Hollyparted from him at his bedroom door, having seen twice over that he hadeverything, with the conviction that she would love him, and Val wouldlike him. He was eager, but did not gush; he was a splendid listener, sympathetic, reticent about himself. He evidently loved their father, and adored his mother. He liked riding, rowing, and fencing, betterthan games. He saved moths from candles, and couldn't bear spiders, butput them out of doors in screws of paper sooner than kill them. In aword, he was amiable. She went to sleep, thinking that he would sufferhorribly if anybody hurt him; but who would hurt him?

Jon, on the other hand, sat awake at his window with a bit of paper anda pencil, writing his first "real poem" by the light of a candlebecause there was not enough moon to see by, only enough to make thenight seem fluttery and as if engraved on silver. Just the night forFleur to walk, and turn her eyes, and lead on--over the hills and faraway. And Jon, deeply furrowed in his ingenuous brow, made marks on thepaper and rubbed them out and wrote them in again, and did all that wasnecessary for the completion of a work of art; and he had a feelingsuch as the winds of Spring must have, trying their first songs amongthe coming blossom. Jon was one of those boys (not many) in whom ahome-trained love of beauty had survived school life. He had had tokeep it to himself, of course, so that not even the drawing-master knewof it; but it was there, fastidious and clear within him. And his poemseemed to him as lame and stilted as the night was winged. But he keptit all the same. It was a "beast, " but better than nothing as anexpression of the inexpressible. And he thought with a sort ofdiscomfiture: 'I shan't be able to show it to Mother. ' He sleptterribly well, when he did sleep, overwhelmed by novelty. 

VII

FLEUR

To avoid the awkwardness of questions which could not be answered, allthat had been told Jon was: "There's a girl coming down with Val forthe week-end. "

For the same reason, all that had been told Fleur was: "We've got ayoungster staying with us. "

The two yearlings, as Val called them in his thoughts, met therefore ina manner which for unpreparedness left nothing to be desired. They werethus introduced by Holly:

"This is Jon, my little brother; Fleur's a cousin of ours, Jon. "

Jon, who was coming in through a French window out of strong sunlight, was so confounded by the providential nature of this miracle, that hehad time to hear Fleur say calmly: "Oh, how do you do?" as if he hadnever seen her, and to understand dimly from the quickest imaginablelittle movement of her head that he never HAD seen her. He bowedtherefore over her hand in an intoxicated manner, and became moresilent than the grave. He knew better than to speak. Once in his earlylife, surprised reading by a night-light, he had said fatuously "I wasjust turning over the leaves, Mum, " and his mother had replied: "Jon, never tell stories, because of your face--nobody will ever believethem. "

The saying had permanently undermined the confidence necessary to thesuccess of spoken untruth. He listened therefore to Fleur's swift andrapt allusions to the jolliness of everything, plied her with sconesand jam, and got away as soon as might be. They say that in deliriumtremens you see a fixed object, preferably dark, which suddenly changesshape and position. Jon saw the fixed object; it had dark eyes andpassably dark hair, and changed its position, but never its shape. Theknowledge that between him and that object there was already a secretunderstanding (however impossible to understand) thrilled him so thathe waited feverishly, and began to copy out his poem--which of coursehe would never dare to show her--till the sound of horses' hoofs rousedhim, and, leaning from his window, he saw her riding forth with Val. Itwas clear that she wasted no time; but the sight filled him with grief. He wasted his. If he had not bolted, in his fearful ecstasy, he mighthave been asked to go too. From his window he watched them disappear, appear again in the chine of the road, vanish, and emerge once more fora minute clear on the outline of the Down. 'Silly brute!' he thought;'I always miss my chances. '

Why couldn't he be self-confident and ready? And, leaning his chin onhis hands, he imagined the ride he might have had with her. A week-endwas but a week-end, and he had missed three hours of it. Did he knowany one except himself who would have been such a flat? He did not. 

He dressed for dinner early, and was first down. He would miss no more. But he missed Fleur, who came down last. He sat opposite her at dinner, and it was terrible--impossible to say anything for fear of saying thewrong thing, impossible to keep his eyes fixed on her in the onlynatural way; in sum, impossible to treat normally one with whom infancy he had already been over the hills and far away; conscious, too, all the time, that he must seem to her, to all of them, a dumb gawk. Yes, it was terrible! And she was talking so well--swooping with swiftwing this way and that. Wonderful how she had learned an art which hefound so disgustingly difficult. She must think him hopeless indeed!

His sister's eyes fixed on him with a certain astonishment, obliged himat last to look at Fleur; but instantly her eyes, very wide and eager, seeming to say: "Oh! for goodness' sake!" obliged him to look at Val;where a grin obliged him to look at his cutlet--that, at least, had noeyes, and no grin, and he ate it hastily. 

"Jon is going to be a farmer, " he heard Holly say; "a farmer and apoet. "

He glanced up reproachfully, caught the comic lift of her eyebrow justlike their father's, laughed, and felt better. 

Val recounted the incident of Monsieur Prosper Profond; nothing couldhave been more favourable, for, in relating it, he regarded Holly, whoin turn regarded him, while Fleur seemed to be regarding with a slightfrown some thought of her own, and Jon was really free to look at herat last. She had on a white frock, very simple and well made; her armswere bare, and her hair had a white rose in it. In just that swiftmoment of free vision, after such intense discomfort, Jon saw hersublimated, as one sees in the dark a slender white fruit-tree; caughther like a verse of poetry flashed before the eyes of the mind, or atune which floats out in the distance and dies. 

He wondered giddily how old she was--she seemed so much moreself-possessed and experienced than himself. Why mustn't he say theyhad met? He remembered suddenly his mother's face; puzzled, hurt-looking, when she answered: "Yes, they're relations, but we don'tknow them. " Impossible that his mother, who loved beauty, should notadmire Fleur if she did know her!

Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answeredthe advances of this new-found brother-in-law. As to riding (always thefirst consideration with Val) he could have the young chestnut, saddleand unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought itin. Jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he hadgone up one in his host's estimation. 

"Fleur, " said Val, "can't ride much yet, but she's keen. Of course, herfather doesn't know a horse from a cartwheel. Does your dad ride?"

"He used to; but now he's--you know, he's--" He stopped, so hating theword old. His father was old, and yet not old; no--never!

"Quite!" muttered Val. "I used to know your brother up at Oxford, agesago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in New CollegeGardens. That was a queer business, " he added, musing; "a good dealcame out of it. "

Jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him towards historicalresearch, when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway:

"Come along, you two, " and he rose, his heart pushing him towardssomething far more modern. 

Fleur having declared that it was "simply too wonderful to stayindoors, " they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an oldsun-dial threw a long shadow. Two box hedges at right angles, dark andsquare, barred off the orchard. Fleur turned through that angledopening. 

"Come on!" she called. Jon glanced at the others, and followed. She wasrunning among the trees like a ghost. All was lovely and foamlike aboveher, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles. She vanished. He thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her standing quitestill. 

"Isn't it jolly?" she cried, and Jon answered:

"Rather!"

She reached up, twisted off a blossom, and, twirling it in her fingers, said:

"I suppose I can call you Jon?"

"I should think so just. "

"All right! But you know there's a feud between our families?"

Jon stammered: "Feud? Why?"

"It's ever so romantic and silly? That's why I pretended we hadn't met. Shall we get up early to-morrow morning and go for a walk beforebreakfast and have it out? I hate being slow about things, don't you?"

Jon murmured a rapturous assent. 

"Six o'clock, then. I think your mother's beautiful. "

Jon said fervently: "Yes, she is. "

"I love all kinds of beauty, " went on Fleur, "when it's exciting. Idon't like Greek things a bit. "

"What! Not Euripides?"

"Euripides? Oh! no, I can't bear Greek plays; they're so long. I thinkbeauty's always swift. I like to look at ONE picture, for instance, andthen run off. I can't bear a lot of things together. Look!" She held upher blossom in the moonlight. "That's better than all the orchard, Ithink. "

And, suddenly, with her other hand she caught Jon's. "Of all things inthe world, don't you think caution's the most awful? Smell themoonlight!"

She thrust the blossom against his face; Jon agreed giddily that of allthings in the world caution was the worst, and bending over, kissed thehand which held his. 

"That's nice and old-fashioned, " said Fleur calmly. "You're frightfullysilent, Jon. Still I like silence when it's swift. " She let go hishand. "Did you think I dropped my handkerchief on purpose?"

"No!" cried Jon, intensely shocked. 

"Well, I did, of course. Let's get back, or they'll think we're doingthis on purpose too. " And again she ran like a ghost among the trees. Jon followed, with love in his heart, Spring in his heart, and over allthe moonlit white unearthly blossom. They came out where they had gonein, Fleur walking demurely. 

"It's quite wonderful in there, " she said dreamily to Holly. 

Jon preserved silence, hoping against hope that she might be thinkingit swift. 

She bade him a casual and demure good-night, which made him think hehad been dreaming. .. . 

In her bedroom Fleur had flung off her gown, and, wrapped in ashapeless garment, with the white flower still in her hair, she lookedlike a mousme, sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing by candlelight. 

"DEAREST CHERRY:

"I believe I'm in love. I've got it in the neck, only the feeling isreally lower down. He's a second cousin--such a child, about six monthsolder and ten years younger than I am. Boys always fall in love withtheir seniors, and girls with their juniors or with old men of forty. Don't laugh, but his eyes are the truest things I ever saw; and he'squite divinely silent! We had a most romantic first meeting in Londonunder the Vospovitch 'Juno. ' And now he's sleeping in the next room andthe moonlight's on the blossom; and to-morrow morning, before anybody'sawake, we're going to walk off into Down fairyland. There's a feudbetween our families, which makes it really exciting. Yes! and I mayhave to use subterfuge and come on you for invitations--if so, you'llknow why! My father doesn't want us to know each other, but I can'thelp that. Life's too short. He's got the most beautiful mother, withlovely silvery hair and a young face with dark eyes. I'm staying withhis sister--who married my cousin; it's all mixed up, but I mean topump her to-morrow. We've often talked about love being a spoil-sport;well, that's all tosh, it's the beginning of sport, and the sooner youfeel it, my dear, the better for you. 

"Jon (not simplified spelling, but short for Jolyon, which is a name inmy family, they say) is the sort that lights up and goes out; aboutfive feet ten, still growing, and I believe he's going to be a poet. Ifyou laugh at me I've done with you for ever. I perceive all sorts ofdifficulties, but you know when I really want a thing I get it. One ofthe chief effects of love is that you see the air sort of inhabited, like seeing a face in the moon; and you feel--you feel dancey and softat the same time, with a funny sensation--like a continual first sniffof orange blossom--just above your stays. This is my first, and I feelas if it were going to be my last, which is absurd, of course, by allthe laws of Nature and morality. If you mock me I will smite you, andif you tell anybody I will never forgive you. So much so, that I almostdon't think I'll send this letter. Anyway, I'll sleep over it. Sogood-night, my Cherry--oh!

Your FLEUR. "

VIII

IDYLL ON GRASS

When those two young Forsytes emerged from the chine lane, and settheir faces East towards the sun, there was not a cloud in heaven, andthe Downs were dewy. They had come at a good bat up the slope and werea little out of breath; if they had anything to say they did not sayit, but marched in the early awkwardness of unbreakfasted morning underthe songs of the larks. The stealing out had been fun, but with thefreedom of the tops the sense of conspiracy ceased, and gave place todumbness. 

"We've made one blooming error, " said Fleur, when they had gone half amile. "I'm hungry. "

Jon produced a stick of chocolate. They shared it and their tongueswere loosened. They discussed the nature of their homes and previousexistences, which had a kind of fascinating unreality up on that lonelyheight. There remained but one thing solid in Jon's past--his mother;but one thing solid in Fleur's--her father; and of these figures, asthough seen in the distance with disapproving faces, they spoke little. 

The Down dipped and rose again towards Chanctonbury Ring; a sparkle offar sea came into view, a sparrowhawk hovered in the sun's eye so thatthe blood-nourished brown of his wings gleamed nearly red. Jon had apassion for birds, and an aptitude for sitting very still to watchthem; keen-sighted, and with a memory for what interested him, on birdshe was almost worth listening to. But in Chanctonbury Ring there werenone--its great beech temple was empty of life, and almost chilly atthis early hour; they came out willingly again into the sun on the farside. It was Fleur's turn now. She spoke of dogs, and the way peopletreated them. It was wicked to keep them on chains! She would like toflog people who did that. Jon was astonished to find her sohumanitarian. She knew a dog, it seemed, which some farmer near herhome kept chained up at the end of his chicken run, in all weatherstill it had almost lost its voice from barking!

"And the misery is, " she said vehemently, "that if the poor thingdidn't bark at every one who passes it wouldn't be kept there. I dothink men are cunning brutes. I've let it go twice, on the sly; it'snearly bitten me both times, and then it goes simply mad with joy; butit always runs back home at last, and they chain it up again. If I hadmy way, I'd chain that man up. "

Jon saw her teeth and her eyes gleam. "I'd brand him on his foreheadwith the word 'Brute'; that would teach him!"

Jon agreed that it would be a good remedy. "It's their sense ofproperty, " he said, "which makes people chain things. The lastgeneration thought of nothing but property; and that's why there wasthe war. "

"Oh!" said Fleur, "I never thought of that. Your people and minequarrelled about property. And anyway we've all got it--at least, Isuppose your people have. "

"Oh! yes, luckily; I don't suppose I shall be any good at making money. "

"If you were, I don't believe I should like you. "

Jon slipped his hand tremulously under her arm. 

Fleur looked straight before her, and chanted:

 "Jon, Jon, the farmer's son, Stole a pig, and away he run!"

Jon's arm crept round her waist. 

"This is rather sudden, " said Fleur calmly; "do you often do it?"

Jon dropped his arm. But when she laughed, his arm stole back again;and Fleur began to sing:

 "O who will o'er the downs so free, O who will with me ride? O who will up and follow me--"

"Sing, Jon!"

Jon sang. The larks joined in, sheep-bells, and an early morning churchfar away over in Steyning. They went on from tune to tune, till Fleursaid:

"My God! I am hungry now!"

"Oh! I AM sorry!"

She looked round into his face. 

"Jon, you're rather a darling. "

And she pressed his hand against her waist. Jon almost reeled withhappiness. A yellow-and-white dog coursing a hare startled them apart. They watched the two vanish down the slope, till Fleur said with asigh: "He'll never catch it, thank goodness! What's the time? Mine'sstopped. I never wound it. "

Jon looked at his watch. "By Jove!" he said, "mine's stopped, too. "

They walked on again, but only hand in hand. 

"If the grass is dry, " said Fleur, "let's sit down for half a minute. "

Jon took off his coat, and they shared it. 

"Smell! Actually wild thyme!"

With his arm round her waist again, they sat some minutes in silence. 

"We are goats!" cried Fleur, jumping up; "we shall be most fearfullylate, and look so silly, and put them on their guard. Look here, Jon!We only came out to get an appetite for breakfast, and lost our way. See?"

"Yes, " said Jon. 

"It's serious; there'll be a stopper put on us. Are you a good liar?"

"I believe not very; but I can try. " Fleur frowned. 

"You know, " she said, "I realise that they don't mean us to be friends. "

"Why not?"

"I told you why. "

"But that's silly. "

"Yes; but you don't know my father!"

"I suppose he's fearfully fond of you. "

"You see, I'm an only child. And so are you--of your mother. Isn't it abore? There's so much expected of one. By the time they've doneexpecting, one's as good as dead. "

"Yes, " muttered Jon, "life's beastly short. One wants to live for ever, and know everything. "

"And love everybody?"

"No, " cried Jon; "I only want to love once--you. "

"Indeed! You're coming on! Oh! Look! There's the chalk-pit; we can't bevery far now. Let's run. "

Jon followed, wondering fearfully if he had offended her. 

The chalk-pit was full of sunshine and the murmuration of bees. Fleurflung back her hair. 

"Well, " she said, "in case of accidents, you may give me one kiss, Jon, " and she pushed her cheek forward. With ecstasy he kissed that hotsoft cheek. 

"Now, remember! We lost our way; and leave it to me as much as you can. I'm going to be rather beastly to you; it's safer; try and be beastlyto me!"

Jon shook his head. "That's impossible. "

"Just to please me; till five o'clock, at all events. "

"Anybody will be able to see through it, " said Jon gloomily. 

"Well, do your best. Look! There they are! Wave your hat! Oh! youhaven't got one. Well, I'll cooee! Get a little away from me, and looksulky. "

Five minutes later, entering the house and, doing his utmost to looksulky, Jon heard her clear voice in the dining-room:

"Oh! I'm simply RAVENOUS! He's going to be a farmer--and he loses hisway! The boy's an idiot!"

IX

GOYA

Lunch was over and Soames mounted to the picture-gallery in his housenear Mapledurham. He had what Annette called "a grief. " Fleur was notyet home. She had been expected on Wednesday; had wired that it wouldbe Friday; and again on Friday that it would be Sunday afternoon; andhere were her aunt, and her cousins the Cardigans, and this fellowProfond, and everything flat as a pancake for the want of her. He stoodbefore his Gauguin--sorest point of his collection. He had bought theugly great thing with two early Matisses before the war, because therewas such a fuss about those Post-Impressionist chaps. He was wonderingwhether Profond would take them off his hands--the fellow seemed not toknow what to do with his money--when he heard his sister's voice say:"I think that's a horrid thing, Soames. " and saw that Winifred hadfollowed him up. 

"Oh! you DO?" he said dryly; "I gave five hundred for it. "

"Fancy! Women aren't made like that even if they are black. "

Soames uttered a glum laugh. "You didn't come up to tell me that. "

"No. Do you know that Jolyon's boy is staying with Val and his wife?"

Soames spun round. 

"What?"

"Yes, " drawled Winifred; "he's gone to live with them there while helearns farming. "

Soames had turned away, but her voice pursued him as he walked up anddown. "I warned Val that neither of them was to be spoken to about oldmatters. "

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

Winifred shrugged her substantial shoulders. 

"Fleur does what she likes. You've always spoiled her. Besides, my dearboy, what's the harm?"

"The harm!" muttered Soames. "Why, she--" he checked himself. The Juno, the handkerchief, Fleur's eyes, her questions, and now this delay inher return--the symptoms seemed to him so sinister that, faithful tohis nature, he could not part with them. 

"I think you take too much care, " said Winifred; "if I were you, Ishould tell her of that old matter. It's no good thinking that girls inthese days are as they used to be. Where they pick up their knowledge Ican't tell, but they seem to know everything. "

Over Soames's face, closely composed, passed a sort of spasm, andWinifred added hastily:

"If you don't like to speak of it, I could for you. " Soames shook hishead. Unless there was absolute necessity the thought that his adoreddaughter should learn of that old scandal hurt his pride too much. 

"No, " he said, "not yet. Never if I can help it. "

"Nonsense, my dear. Think what people are!"

"Twenty years is a long time, " muttered Soames, "outside our family, who's likely to remember?"

Winifred was silenced. She inclined more and more to that peace andquietness of which Montague Dartie had deprived her in her youth. And, since pictures always depressed her, she soon went down again. 

Soames passed into the corner where, side by side, hung his real Goya, and the copy of the fresco "La Vendimia. " His acquisition of the realGoya rather beautifully illustrated the cobweb of vested interests andpassions, which mesh the bright-winged fly of human life. The realGoya's noble owner's ancestor had come into possession of it duringsome Spanish war--it was in a word loot. The noble owner had remainedin ignorance of its value until in the nineties an enterprising criticdiscovered that a Spanish painter named Goya was a genius. It was onlya fair Goya, but almost unique in England, and the noble owner became amarked man. Having many possessions and that aristocratic culturewhich, independent of mere sensuous enjoyment, is founded on thesounder principle that one must know everything and be fearfullyinterested in life, he had fully intended to keep an article whichcontributed to his reputation while he was alive, and to leave it tothe nation after he was dead. Fortunately for Soames, the House ofLords was violently attacked in 1909, and the noble owner becamealarmed and angry. "If, " he said to himself, "they think they can haveit both ways they are very much mistaken. So long as they leave me inquiet enjoyment the nation can have some of my pictures at my death. But if the nation is going to bait me, and rob me like this, I'm damnedif I won't sell the--lot. They can't have my private property and mypublic spirit--both. " He brooded in this fashion for several monthstill one morning, after reading the speech of a certain statesman, hetelegraphed to his agent to come down and bring Bodkin. On going overthe collection Bodkin, than whose opinion on market values none wasmore sought, pronounced that with a free hand to sell to America, Germany, and other places where there was an interest in art, a lotmore money could be made than by selling in England. The noble owner'spublic spirit--he said--was well known but the pictures were unique. The noble owner put this opinion in his pipe and smoked it for a year. At the end of that time he read another speech by the same statesman, and telegraphed to his agents: "Give Bodkin a free hand. " It was atthis juncture that Bodkin conceived the idea which salved the Goya andtwo other unique pictures for the native country of the noble owner. With one hand Bodkin proffered the pictures to the foreign market, withthe other he formed a list of private British collectors. Havingobtained what he considered the highest possible bids from across theseas, he submitted pictures and bids to the private British collectors, and invited them, of their public spirit, to outbid. In three instances(including the Goya) out of twenty-one he was successful. And why? Oneof the private collectors made buttons--he had made so many that hedesired that his wife should be called Lady "Buttons. " He thereforebought an unique picture at great cost, and gave it to the nation. Itwas "part, " his friends said, "of his general game. " The second of theprivate collectors was an Americo-phobe, and bought a unique picture to"spite the damned Yanks. " The third of the private collectors wasSoames, who--more sober than either of the others--bought after a visitto Madrid, because he was certain that Goya was still on the up grade. Goya was not booming at the moment, but he would come again; and, looking at that portrait, Hogarthian, Manetesque in its directness, butwith its own queer sharp beauty of paint, he was perfectly satisfiedstill that he had made no error, heavy though the price hadbeen--heaviest he had ever paid. And next to it was hanging the copy of"La Vendimia. " There she was--the little wretch--looking back at him inher dreamy mood, the mood he loved best because he felt so much saferwhen she looked like that. 

He was still gazing when the scent of a cigar impinged on his nostrils, and a voice said: "Well, Mr. Forsyde, what you goin' to do with thissmall lot?"

That Belgian chap, whose mother--as if Flemish blood were notenough--had been Armenian! Subduing a natural irritation, he said: "Areyou a judge of pictures?"

"Well, I've got a few myself. "

"Any Post-Impressionists?"

"Ye-es, I rather like them. "

"What do you think of this?" said Soames, pointing to the Gauguin. 

Monsieur Profond protruded his lower lip and short pointed beard. "Rather fine, I think, " he said; "do you want to sell it?"

Soames checked his instinctive "Not particularly"--he would not chafferwith this alien. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"What do you want for it?"

"What I gave. "

"All right, " said Monsieur Profond. "I'll be glad to take that smallpicture. Post-Impressionists--they're awful dead, but they're amusin'. I don' care for pictures much, but I've got some, just a small lot. "

"What DO you care for?"

Monsieur Profond shrugged his shoulders. "Life's awful like a lot ofmonkeys scramblin' for empty nuts. "

"You're young, " said Soames. If the fellow must make a generalisation, he needn't suggest that the forms of property lacked solidity!

"I don' worry, " replied Monsieur Profond smiling; "we're born, and wedie. Half the world's starvin'. I feed a small lot of babies out in mymother's country; but what's the use? Might as well throw my money inthe river. "

Soames looked at him, and turned back towards his Goya. He didn't knowwhat the fellow wanted. 

"What shall I make my cheque for?" pursued Monsieur Profond. 

"Five hundred, " said Soames shortly; "but I don't want you to take itif you don't care for it more than that. "

"That's all right, " said Monsieur Profond; "I'll be 'appy to 'ave thatpicture. "

He wrote a cheque with a fountain-pen heavily chased with gold. Soameswatched the process uneasily. How on earth had the fellow known that hewanted to sell that picture? Monsieur Profond held out the cheque. 

"The English are awful funny about pictures, " he said. "So are theFrench, so are my people. They're all awful funny. "

"I don't understand you, " said Soames stiffly. 

"It's like hats, " said Monsieur Profond enigmatically, "small or large, turnin' up or down--just the fashion. Awful funny. " And, smiling, hedrifted out of the gallery again, blue and solid like the smoke of hisexcellent cigar. 

Soames had taken the cheque, feeling as if the intrinsic value ofownership had been called in question. 'He's a cosmopolitan, ' hethought, watching Profond emerge from under the verandah with Annette, and saunter down the lawn towards the river. What his wife saw in thefellow he didn't know, unless it was that he could speak her language;and there passed in Soames what Monsieur Profond would have called a"small doubt" whether Annette was not too handsome to be walking withany one so "cosmopolitan. " Even at that distance he could see the bluefumes from Profond's cigar wreathe out in the quiet sunlight; and hisgrey buckskin shoes, and his grey hat--the fellow was a dandy! And hecould see the quick turn of his wife's head, so very straight on herdesirable neck and shoulders. That turn of her neck always seemed tohim a little too showy, and in the "Queen of all I survey" manner--notquite distinguished. He watched them walk along the path at the bottomof the garden. A young man in flannels joined them down there--a Sundaycaller no doubt, from up the river. Soames went back to his Goya. Hewas still staring at that replica of Fleur, and worrying overWinifred's news, when his wife's voice said:

"Mr. Michael Mont, Soames. You invited him to see your pictures. "

There was the cheerful young man of the Gallery off Cork Street!

"Turned up, you see, sir; I live only four miles from Pangbourne. Jollyday, isn't it?"

Confronted with the results of his expansiveness, Soames scrutinisedhis visitor. The young man's mouth was excessively large and curly--heseemed always grinning. Why didn't he grow the rest of those idioticlittle moustaches, which made him look like a music-hall buffoon? Whaton earth were young men about, deliberately lowering their class withthese tooth-brushes, or little slug whiskers? Ugh! Affected youngidiots! In other respects he was presentable, and his flannels veryclean. 

"Happy to see you!" he said. 

The young man, who had been turning his head from side to side, becametransfixed. "I say!" he said, "'some' picture!"

Soames saw, with mixed sensations, that he had addressed the remark tothe Goya copy. 

"Yes, " he said dryly, "that's not a Goya. It's a copy. I had it paintedbecause it reminded me of my daughter. "

"By Jove! I thought I knew the face, sir. Is she here?"

The frankness of his interest almost disarmed Soames. 

"She'll be in after tea, " he said. "Shall we go round the gallery?"

And Soames began that round which never tired him. He had notanticipated much intelligence from one who had mistaken a copy for anoriginal, but as they passed from section to section, period to period, he was startled by the young man's frank and relevant remarks. Nativelyshrewd himself, and even sensuous beneath his mask, Soames had notspent thirty-eight years over his one hobby without knowing somethingmore about pictures than their market values. He was, as it were, themissing link between the artist and the commercial public. Art forart's sake and all that, of course, was cant. But aesthetics and goodtaste were necessary. The appreciation of enough persons of good tastewas what gave a work of art its permanent market value, or in otherwords made it "a work of art. " There was no real cleavage. And he wassufficiently accustomed to sheep-like and unseeing visitors, to beintrigued by one who did not hesitate to say of Mauve: "Good oldhaystacks!" or of James Maris: "Didn't he just paint and paper 'em!Mathew was the real swell, sir; you could dig into his surfaces!" Itwas after the young man had whistled before a Whistler, with the words:"D'you think he ever really saw a naked woman, sir?" that Soamesremarked:

"What ARE you, Mr. Mont, if I may ask?"

"I, sir? I WAS going to be a painter, but the War knocked that. Then inthe trenches, you know, I used to dream of the Stock Exchange, snug andwarm and just noisy enough. But the Peace knocked that; shares seemoff, don't they? I've only been demobbed about a year. What do yourecommend, sir?"

"Have you got money?"

"Well, " answered the young man; "I've got a father, I kept him aliveduring the War, so he's bound to keep me alive now. Though, of course, there's the question whether he ought to be allowed to hang on to hisproperty. What do you think about that, sir?"

Soames, pale and defensive, smiled. 

"The old man has fits when I tell him he may have to work yet. He's gotland, you know; it's a fatal disease. "

"This is my real Goya, " said Soames dryly. 

"By George! He WAS a swell. I saw a Goya in Munich once that bowled memiddle stump. A most evil-looking old woman in the most gorgeous lace. HE made no compromise with the public taste. That old boy was 'some'explosive; he must have smashed up a lot of convention in his day. Couldn't he just paint! He makes Velasquez stiff, don't you think?"

"I have no Velasquez, " said Soames. 

The young man stared. "No, " he said; "only nations or profiteers canafford him, I suppose. I say, why shouldn't all the bankrupt nationssell their Velasquezes and Titians and other swells to the profiteersby force, and then pass a law that any one who holds a picture by anOld Master--see schedule--must hang it in a public gallery? There seemssomething in that. "

"Shall we go down to tea?" said Soames. 

The young man's ears seemed to droop on his skull. 'He's not dense, 'thought Soames, following him off the premises. 

Goya, with his satiric and surpassing precision, his original "line, "and the daring of his light and shade, could have reproduced toadmiration the group assembled round Annette's tea-tray in theingle-nook below. He alone, perhaps, of painters would have donejustice to the sunlight filtering through a screen of creeper, to thelovely pallor of brass, the old cut glasses, the thin slices of lemonin pale amber tea; justice to Annette in her black lacey dress; therewas something of the fair Spaniard in her beauty, though it lacked thespirituality of that rare type; to Winifred's grey-haired, corsetedsolidity; to Soames, of a certain grey and flat-cheeked distinction; tothe vivacious Michael Mont, pointed in ear and eye; to Imogen, dark, luscious of glance, growing a little stout; to Prosper Profond, withhis expression as who should say: "Well, Mr. Goya, what's the use ofpaintin' this small party?" finally, to Jack Cardigan, with his shiningstare and tanned sanguinity betraying the moving principle: "I'mEnglish, and I live to be fit. "

Curious, by the way, that Imogen, who as a girl had declared solemnlyone day at Timothy's that she would never marry a good man--they wereso dull--should have married Jack Cardigan, in whom health had sodestroyed all traces of original sin, that she might have retired torest with ten thousand other Englishmen without knowing the differencefrom the one she had chosen to repose beside. "Oh!" she would say ofhim, in her "amusing" way; "Jack keeps himself so fearfully fit; he'snever had a day's illness in his life. He went right through the warwithout a finger-ache. You really can't imagine how fit he is!" Indeed, he was so "fit" that he couldn't see when she was flirting, which wassuch a comfort in a way. All the same she was quite fond of him, so faras one could be of a sports-machine, and of the two little Cardigansmade after his pattern. Her eyes just then were comparing himmaliciously with Prosper Profond. There was no "small" sport or gamewhich Monsieur Profond had not played at too, it seemed, from skittlesto harpon-fishing, and worn out every one. Imogen would sometimes wishthat they had worn out Jack, who continued to play at them and talk ofthem with the simple zeal of a schoolgirl learning hockey; at the ageof Great-uncle Timothy she well knew that Jack would be playing carpetgolf in her bedroom, and "wiping somebody's eye. "

He was telling them now how he had "pipped the pro--a charmin' fellow, playin' a very good game, " at the last hole this morning; and how hehad pulled down to Caversham since lunch, and trying to incite ProsperProfond to play him a set of tennis after tea--do him good--"keep himfit. "

"But what's the use of keepin' fit?" said Monsieur Profond. 

"Yes, sir, " murmured Michael Mont, "what do you keep fit for?"

"Jack, " cried Imogen, enchanted, "what do you keep fit for?"

Jack Cardigan stared with all his health. The questions were like thebuzz of a mosquito, and he put up his hand to wipe them away. Duringthe War, of course, he had kept fit to kill Germans; now that it wasover he either did not know, or shrank in delicacy from explanation ofhis moving principle. 

"But he's right, " said Monsieur Profond unexpectedly, "there's nothin'left but keepin' fit. "

The saying, too deep for Sunday afternoon, would have passedunanswered, but for the mercurial nature of young Mont. 

"Good!" he cried. "That's the great discovery of the war. We allthought we were progressing--now we know we're only changing. "

"For the worse, " said Monsieur Profond genially. 

"How you are cheerful, Prosper!" murmured Annette. 

"You come and play tennis!" said Jack Cardigan; "you've got the hump. We'll soon take that down. D'you play, Mr. Mont?"

"I hit the ball about, sir. "

At this juncture Soames rose, ruffled in that deep instinct ofpreparation for the future which guided his existence. 

"When Fleur comes--" he heard Jack Cardigan say. 

Ah! and why didn't she come? He passed through drawing-room, hall, andporch out onto the drive, and stood there listening for the car. Allwas still and Sunday-fied; the lilacs in full flower scented the air. There were white clouds, like the feathers of ducks gilded by thesunlight. Memory of the day when Fleur was born, and he had waited insuch agony with her life and her mother's balanced in his hands, cameto him sharply. He had saved her then, to be the flower of his life. And now! Was she going to give him trouble--pain--give him trouble? Hedid not like the look of things! A blackbird broke in on his reveriewith an evening song--a great big fellow up in that acacia-tree. Soameshad taken quite an interest in his birds of late years; he and Fleurwould walk round and watch them; her eyes were sharp as needles, andshe knew every nest. He saw her dog, a retriever, lying on the drive ina patch of sunlight, and called to him, "Hallo, old fellow--waiting forher too!" The dog came slowly with a grudging tail, and Soamesmechanically laid a pat on his head. The dog, the bird, the lilac allwere part of Fleur for him; no more, no less. 'Too fond of her!' hethought, 'too fond!' He was like a man uninsured, with his ships atsea. Uninsured again--as in that other time, so long ago, when he wouldwander dumb and jealous in the wilderness of London, longing for thatwoman--his first wife--he mother of this infernal boy. Ah! There wasthe car at last! It drew up, it had luggage, but no Fleur. 

"Miss Fleur is walking up, sir, by the towing-path"

Walking all those miles? Soames stared. The man's face had thebeginning of a smile on it. What was he grinning at? And very quicklyhe turned, saying: "All right, Sims!" and went into the house. Hemounted to the picture-gallery once more. He had from there a view ofthe river bank, and stood with his eyes fixed on it, oblivious of thefact that it would be an hour at least before her figure showed there. Walking up! And that fellow's grin! The boy--! He turned abruptly fromthe window. He couldn't spy on her. If she wanted to keep things fromhim--she must; he could not spy on her. His heart felt empty; andbitterness mounted from it into his very mouth. The staccato shouts ofJack Cardigan pursuing the ball, the laugh of young Mont rose in thestillness and came in. He hoped they were making that chap Profond run. And the girl in "La Vendimia" stood with her arm akimbo and her dreamyeyes looking past him. 'I've done all I could for you, ' he thought, 'since you were no higher than my knee. You aren't going to--to--hurtme, are you?'

But the Goya copy answered not, brilliant in colour just beginning totone down. 'There's no real life in it, ' thought Soames. 'Why doesn'tshe come?'

X

TRIO

Among those four Forsytes of the third, and, as one might say, fourthgeneration, at Wansdon under the Downs, a week-end prolonged unto theninth day had stretched the crossing threads of tenacity almost tosnapping-point. Never had Fleur been so "FINE, " Holly so watchful, Valso stable-secretive, Jon so silent and disturbed. What he learned offarming in that week might have been balanced on the point of apen-knife and puffed off. He, whose nature was essentially averse tointrigue, and whose adoration of Fleur disposed him to think that anyneed for concealing it was "skittles, " chafed and fretted, yet obeyed, taking what relief he could in the few moments when they were alone. OnThursday, while they were standing in the bay window of thedrawing-room, dressed for dinner, she said to him:

"Jon, I'm going home on Sunday by the 3. 40 from Paddington; if you wereto go home on SATURDAY you could come up on Sunday and take me down, and just get back here by the last train, after. You WERE going homeanyway, weren't you?"

Jon nodded. 

"Anything to be with you, " he said; "only why need I pretend--"

Fleur slipped her little finger into his palm:

"You have no instinct, Jon; you MUST leave things to me. It's seriousabout our people. We've simply got to be secret at present, if we wantto be together. " The door was opened, and she added loudly: "You ARE aduffer, Jon. "

Something turned over within Jon; he could not bear this subterfugeabout a feeling so natural, so overwhelming, and so sweet. 

On Friday night about eleven he had packed his bag, and was leaning outof his window, half miserable and half lost in a dream of Paddingtonstation, when he heard a tiny sound, as of a finger-nail tapping on hisdoor. He rushed to it and listened. Again the sound. It WAS a nail. Heopened. Oh! What a lovely thing came in!

"I wanted to show you my fancy dress, " it said, and struck an attitudeat the foot of his bed. Jon drew a long breath and leaned against thedoor. The apparition wore white muslin on its head, a fichu round itsbare neck over a wine-coloured dress, fulled out below its slenderwaist. It held one arm akimbo, and the other raised right-angledholding a fan which touched its head. 

"This ought to be a basket of grapes, " it whispered, "but I haven't gotit here. It's my Goya dress. And this is the attitude in the picture. Do you like it?"

"It's a dream. "

The apparition pirouetted. "Touch it, and see. "

Jon knelt down and took the skirt reverently. 

"Grape colour, " came the whisper, "all grapes--La Vendimia--thevintage. "

Jon's fingers scarcely touched each side of the waist; he looked up, with adoring eyes. 

"Oh! Jon, " it whispered; bent, kissed his forehead, pirouetted again, and, --gliding out, was gone. 

Jon stayed on his knees, and his head fell forward against the bed. Howlong he stayed like that he did not know. The little noises of thetapping nail, the feet, the skirts rustling--as in a dream--went onabout him; and before his closed eyes the figure stood and smiled andwhispered, a faint perfume of narcissus lingering in the air. And hisforehead where it had been kissed had a little cool place between thebrows, like the imprint of a flower. Love filled his soul, that love ofboy for girl which knows so little, hopes so much, would not brush thedown off for the world, and must become in time a fragrant memory--asearing passion--a humdrum mateship--or, once in many times, vintagefull and sweet with sunset colour on the grapes. 

Enough has been said about Jon Forsyte here and in another place toshow what long marches lay between him and his great-great-grandfather, the first Jolyon, in Dorset down by the sea. Jon was sensitive as agirl, more sensitive than nine out of ten girls of the day; imaginativeas one of his half-sister June's "lame duck" painters; affectionate asa son of his father and his mother naturally would be. And yet, in hisinner tissue, there was something of the old founder of his family, asecret tenacity of soul, a dread of showing his feelings, adetermination not to know when he was beaten. Sensitive, imaginative, affectionate boys get a bad time at school, but Jon had instinctivelykept his nature dark, and been but normally unhappy there. Only withhis mother had he, up till then, been absolutely frank and natural; andwhen he went home to Robin Hill that Saturday his heart was heavybecause Fleur had said that he must not be frank and natural with herfrom whom he had never yet kept anything, must not even tell her thatthey had met again, unless he found that she knew already. Sointolerable did this seem to him that he was very near to telegraphingan excuse and staying up in London. And the first thing his mother saidto him was:

"So you've had our little friend of the confectioner's there, Jon. Whatis she like on second thoughts?"

With relief, and a high colour, Jon answered:

"Oh! awfully jolly, Mum. "

Her arm pressed his. 

Jon had never loved her so much as in that minute which seemed tofalsify Fleur's fears and to release his soul. He turned to look ather, but something in her smiling face--something which only he perhapswould have caught--stopped the words bubbling up in him. Could fear gowith a smile? If so, there was fear in her face. And out of Jon tumbledquite other words, about farming, Holly, and the Downs. Talking fast, he waited for her to come back to Fleur. But she did not. Nor did hisfather mention her, though of course he, too, must know. Whatdeprivation, and killing of reality was in this silence aboutFleur--when he was so full of her, when his mother was so full of Jon, and his father so full of his mother! And so the trio spent the eveningof that Saturday. 

After dinner his mother played; she seemed to play all the things heliked best, and he sat with one knee clasped, and his hair standing upwhere his fingers had run through it. He gazed at his mother while sheplayed, but he saw Fleur--Fleur in the moonlit orchard, Fleur in thesunlit gravel-pit, Fleur in that fancy dress, swaying, whispering, stooping, kissing his forehead. Once, while he listened, he forgothimself and glanced at his father in that other easy chair. What wasDad looking like that for? The expression on his face was so sad andpuzzling. It filled him with a sort of remorse, so that he got up andwent and sat on the arm of his father's chair. From there he could notsee his face; and again he saw Fleur--in his mother's hands, slim andwhite on the keys, in the profile of her face and her powdery hair; anddown the long room in the open window where the May night walkedoutside. 

When he went up to bed his mother came into his room. She stood at thewindow, and said:

"Those cypresses your grandfather planted down there have donewonderfully. I always think they look beautiful under a dropping moon. I wish you had known your grandfather, Jon. "

"Were you married to Father, when he was alive?" asked Jon suddenly. 

"No, dear; he died in '92--very old--eighty-five, I think. "

"Is Father like him?"

"A little, but more subtle, and not quite so solid. "

"I know, from Grandfather's portrait; who painted that?"

"One of June's 'lame ducks. ' But it's quite good. "

Jon slipped his hand through his Mother's arm. "Tell me about thefamily quarrel, Mum. "

He felt her arm quivering. "No, dear; that's for your father some day, if he thinks fit. "

"Then it WAS serious, " said Jon, with a catch in his breath. 

"Yes. " And there was a silence, during which neither knew whether thearm or the hand within it were quivering most. 

"Some people, " said Irene softly, "think the moon on her back is evil;to me she's always lovely. Look at those cypress shadows! Jon, Fathersays we may go to Italy, you and I, for two months. Would you like?"

Jon took his hand from under her arm; his sensation was so sharp and soconfused. Italy with his Mother! A fortnight ago it would have beenperfection; now it filled him with dismay; he felt that the suddensuggestion had to do with Fleur. He stammered out:

"Oh! yes; only--I don't know. Ought I--now I've just begun? I'd like tothink it over. "

Her voice answered, cool and gentle:

"Yes, dear; think it over. But better now than when you've begunfarming seriously. Italy with you--! It would be nice!"

Jon put his arm round her waist, still slim and firm as a girl's. 

"Do you think you ought to leave Father?" he said feebly, feeling verymean. 

"Father suggested it; he thinks you ought to see Italy at least beforeyou settle down to anything. "

The sense of meanness died in Jon; he knew, yes--he knew--that hisfather and his mother were not speaking frankly, no more than hehimself. They wanted to keep him from Fleur! His heart hardened. And, as if she felt that process going on, his mother said:

"Good-night, darling. Have a good sleep and think it over. But it wouldbe lovely!"

She pressed him to her so quickly that he did not see her face. Jonstood feeling exactly as he used to when he was a naughty little boy;sore because he was not loving, and because he was justified in his owneyes. 

But Irene, after she had stood a moment in her own room, passed throughthe dressing-room between it and her husband's. 

"Well?"

"He will think it over, Jolyon. "

Watching her lips that wore a little drawn smile, Jolyon said quietly:

"You had better let me tell him, and have done with it. After all, Jonhas the instincts of a gentleman. He has only to understand--"

"Only! He can't understand; that's impossible. "

"I believe I could have at his age. "

Irene caught his hand. "You were always more of a realist than Jon; andnever so innocent. "

"That's true, " said Jolyon. "It's queer, isn't it? You and I would tellour stories to the world without a particle of shame; but our own boystumps us. "

"We've never cared whether the world approves or not. "

"Jon would not disapprove of US!"

"Oh! Jolyon, yes. He's in love, I feel he's in love. And he'd say: 'Mymother once married WITHOUT LOVE! How could she have!' It'll seem tohim a crime! And so it was!"

Jolyon took her hand, and said with a wry smile:

"Ah! why on earth are we born young? Now, if only we were born old andgrew younger year by year we should understand how things happen, anddrop all our cursed intolerance. But you know if the boy is really inlove, he won't forget, even if he goes to Italy. We're a tenaciousbreed; and he'll know by instinct why he's being sent. Nothing willreally cure him but the shock of being told. "

"Let me try, anyway. "

Jolyon stood a moment without speaking. Between this devil and thisdeep sea--the pain of a dreaded disclosure and the grief of losing hiswife for two months--he secretly hoped for the devil; yet if she wishedfor the deep sea he must put up with it. After all, it would betraining for that departure from which there would be no return. And, taking her in his arms, he kissed her eyes, and said:

"As you will, my love. "

XI

DUET

That "small" emotion, love, grows amazingly when threatened withextinction. Jon reached Paddington station half an hour before his timeand a full week after, as it seemed to him. He stood at the appointedbook-stall amid a crowd of Sunday travellers, in a Harris tweed suitexhaling, as it were, the emotion of his thumping heart. He read thenames of the novels on the bookstall, and bought one at last, to avoidbeing regarded with suspicion by the book-stall clerk. It was called"The Heart of the Trail" which must mean something, though it did notseem to. He also bought "The Lady's Mirror" and "The Landsman. " Everyminute was an hour long, and full of horrid imaginings. After nineteenhad passed, he saw her with a bag and a porter wheeling her luggage. She came swiftly; she came cool. She greeted him as if he were abrother. 

"First class, " she said to the porter, "corner seats; opposite. "

Jon admired her frightful self-possession. 

"Can't we get a carriage to ourselves?" he whispered. 

"No good; it's a stopping train. After Maidenhead perhaps. Looknatural, Jon. "

Jon screwed his features into a scowl. They got in--with two otherbeasts!--oh! heaven! He tipped the porter unnaturally, in hisconfusion. The brute deserved nothing for putting them in there, andlooking as if he knew all about it into the bargain. 

Fleur hid herself behind "The Lady's Mirror. " Jon imitated her behind"The Landsman. " The train started. Fleur let "The Lady's Mirror" falland leaned forward. "Well?" she said. 

"It's seemed about fifteen days. "

She nodded, and Jon's face lighted up at once. 

"Look natural, " murmured Fleur, and went off into a bubble of laughter. It hurt him. How could he look natural with Italy hanging over him? Hehad meant to break it to her gently, but now he blurted it out. 

"They want me to go to Italy with Mother for two months. "

Fleur drooped her eyelids; turned a little pale, and bit her lips. 

"Oh!" she said. It was all, but it was much. 

That "Oh!" was like the quick drawback of the wrist in fencing readyfor riposte. It came. 

"You must go!"

"Go?" said Jon in a strangled voice. 

"Of course. "

"But--two months--it's ghastly. "

"No, " said Fleur, "six weeks. You'll have forgotten me by then. We'llmeet in the National Gallery the day after you get back. "

Jon laughed. 

"But suppose you've forgotten ME, " he muttered into the noise of thetrain. 

Fleur shook her head. 

"Some other beast--" murmured Jon. 

Her foot touched his. 

"No other beast, " she said, lifting the "Lady's Mirror. "

The train stopped; two passengers got out, and one got in. 

'I shall die, ' thought Jon, 'if we're not alone at all. '

The train went on; and again Fleur leaned forward. 

"I never let go, " she said; "do you?"

Jon shook his head vehemently. 

"Never!" he said. "Will you write to me?"

"No; but YOU can--to my club. "

She had a Club; she was wonderful!

"Did you pump Holly?" he muttered. 

"Yes, but got nothing. I didn't dare pump hard. "

"What can it be?" cried Jon. 

"I shall find out all right. "

A long silence followed till Fleur said: "This is Maidenhead, stand by, Jon!"

The train stopped. The remaining passenger got out. Fleur drew down herblind. 

"Quick!" she cried. "Hang out! Look as much of a beast as you can. "

Jon blew his nose, and scowled; never in all his life had he scowledlike that! An old lady recoiled, a young one tried the handle. Itturned, but the lock would not open. The train moved, the young ladydarted to another carriage. 

"What luck!" cried Jon. "It jammed. "

"Yes, " said Fleur; "I was holding it. "

The train moved out, and Jon fell on his knees. 

"Look out for the corridor, " she whispered; "and--quick!"

Her lips met his. And though their kiss only lasted perhaps ten secondsJon's soul left his body and went so far beyond that, when he was againsitting opposite that demure figure, he was pale as death. He heard hersigh, and the sound seemed to him the most precious he had everheard--an exquisite declaration that he meant something to her. 

"Six weeks isn't really long, " she said; "and you can easily make itsix if you keep your head out there, and never seem to think of me. "

Jon gasped. 

"This is just what's really wanted, Jon, to convince them, don't yousee? If we're just as bad when you come back they'll stop beingridiculous about it. Only, I'm sorry it's not Spain; there's a girl ina Goya picture at Madrid who's like me, Father says. Only sheisn't--we've got a copy of her. "

It was to Jon like a ray of sunshine piercing through a fog. "I'll makeit Spain, " he said, "Mother won't mind; she's never been there. And myfather thinks a lot of Goya. "

"Oh! yes, he's a painter--isn't he?"

"Only water-colour, " said Jon, with honesty. 

"When we come to Reading, Jon, get out first and go down to Cavershamlock and wait for me. I'll send the car home and we'll walk by thetowing-path. "

Jon seized her hand in gratitude, and they sat silent, with the worldwell lost, and one eye on the corridor. But the train seemed to runtwice as fast now, and its sound was almost lost in that of Jon'ssighing. 

"We're getting near, " said Fleur; "the towing-path's awfully exposed. One more! Oh! Jon, don't forget me. "

Jon answered with his kiss. And very soon, a flushed, distracted-looking youth could have been seen--as they say--leapingfrom the train and hurrying along the platform, searching his pocketsfor his ticket. 

When at last she rejoined him on the towing-path a little beyondCaversham lock he had made an effort, and regained some measure ofequanimity. If they had to part, he would not make a scene! A breeze bythe bright river threw the white side of the willow leaves up into thesunlight, and followed those two with its faint rustle. 

"I told our chauffeur that I was train-giddy, " said Fleur. "Did youlook pretty natural as you went out?" "I don't know. What is natural?"

"It's natural to you to look seriously happy. When I first saw you Ithought you weren't a bit like other people. "

"Exactly what I thought when I saw you. I knew at once I should neverlove anybody else. "

Fleur laughed. 

"We're absurdly young. And love's young dream is out of date, Jon. Besides, it's awfully wasteful. Think of all the fun you might have. You haven't begun, even; it's a shame, really. And there's me. Iwonder!"

Confusion came on Jon's spirit. How could she say such things just asthey were going to part?

"If you feel like that, " he said, "I can't go. I shall tell Mother thatI ought to try and work. There's always the condition of the world!"

"The condition of the world!"

Jon thrust his hands deep into his pockets. 

"But there is, " he said; "think of the people starving!"

Fleur shook her head. "No, no, I never, never will make myselfmiserable for nothing. "

"Nothing! But there's an awful state of things, and of course one oughtto help. "

"Oh! yes, I know all that. But you can't help people, Jon; they'rehopeless. When you pull them out of a hole they only get into another. Look at them, still fighting and plotting and struggling, thoughthey're dying in heaps all the time. Idiots!"

"Aren't you sorry for them?"

"Oh! sorry--yes, but I'm not going to make myself unhappy about it;that's no good. "

And they were silent, disturbed by this first glimpse of each other'snatures. 

"I think people are brutes and idiots, " said Fleur stubbornly. 

"I think they're poor wretches, " said Jon. It was as if they hadquarrelled--and at this supreme and awful moment, with parting visibleout there in that last gap of the willows!

"Well, go and help your poor wretches, and don't think of me. "

Jon stood still. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his limbstrembled. Fleur too had stopped, and was frowning at the river. 

"I MUST believe in things, " said Jon with a sort of agony; "we're allmeant to enjoy life. "

Fleur laughed: "Yes; and that's what you won't do, if you don't takecare. But perhaps your idea of enjoyment is to make yourself wretched. There are lots of people like that, of course. "

She was pale, her eyes had darkened, her lips had thinned. Was it Fleurthus staring at the water? Jon had an unreal feeling as if he werepassing through the scene in a book where the lover has to choosebetween love and duty. But just then she looked round at him. Never wasanything so intoxicating as that vivacious look. It acted on himexactly as the tug of a chain acts on a dog--brought him up to her withhis tail wagging and his tongue out. 

"Don't let's be silly, " she said, "time's too short. Look, Jon, you canjust see where I've got to cross the river. There, round the bend, where the woods begin. "

Jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through thetrees--and felt his heart sink. 

"I mustn't dawdle any more. It's no good going beyond the next hedge, it gets all open. Let's get on to it and say good-bye. "

They went side by side, hand in hand, silently towards the hedge, wherethe mayflower, both pink and white, was in full bloom. 

"My Club's the 'Talisman, ' Stratton Street, Piccadilly. Letters therewill be quite safe, and I'm almost always up once a week. "

Jon nodded. His face had become extremely set, his eyes stared straightbefore him. 

"To-day's the twenty-third of May, " said Fleur; "on the ninth of July Ishall be in front of the 'Bacchus and Ariadne' at three o'clock; willyou?"

"I will. "

"If you feel as bad as I it's all right. Let those people pass!"

A man and woman airing their children went by strung out in Sundayfashion. 

The last of them passed the wicket gate. 

"Domesticity!" said Fleur, and blotted herself against the hawthornhedge. The blossom sprayed out above her head, and one pink clusterbrushed her cheek. Jon put up his hand jealously to keep it off. 

"Good-bye, Jon!" For a second they stood with hands hard clasped. Thentheir lips met for the third time, and when they parted Fleur brokeaway and fled through the wicket gate. Jon stood where she had lefthim, with his forehead against that pink cluster. Gone! For aneternity--for seven weeks all but two days! And here he was, wastingthe last sight of her! He rushed to the gate. She was walking swiftlyon the heels of the straggling children. She turned her head, he sawher hand make a little flitting gesture; then she sped on, and thetrailing family blotted her out from his view. 

The words of a comic song--

 "Paddington groan--worst ever known-- He gave a sepulchral Paddington groan--"

came into his head, and he sped incontinently back to Reading station. All the way up to London and down to Wansdon he sat with "The Heart ofthe Trail" open on his knee, knitting in his head a poem so full offeeling that it would not rhyme. 

XII

CAPRICE

Fleur sped on. She had need of rapid motion; she was late, and wantedall her wits about her when she got in. She passed the islands, thestation, and hotel, and was about to take the ferry, when she saw askiff with a young man standing up in it, and holding to the bushes. 

"Miss Forsyte, " he said; "let me put you across. I've come on purpose. "

She looked at him in blank amazement. 

"It's all right, I've been having tea with your people. I thought I'dsave you the last bit. It's on my way, I'm just off back to Pangbourne. My name's Mont. I saw you at the picture-gallery--you remember--whenyour father invited me to see his pictures. "

"Oh!" said Fleur; "yes--the handkerchief. "

To this young man she owed Jon; and, taking his hand, she stepped downinto the skiff. Still emotional, and a little out of breath, she satsilent; not so the young man. She had never heard any one say so muchin so short a time. He told her his age, twenty-four, his weight, tenstone eleven; his place of residence, not far away; described hissensations under fire, and what it felt like to be gassed; criticisedthe Juno, mentioned his own conception of that goddess; commented onthe Goya copy, said Fleur was not too awfully like it; sketched inrapidly the condition of England; spoke of Monsieur Profond--orwhatever his name was--as "an awful sport"; thought her father had someripping pictures and some rather "dug-up"; hoped he might row downagain and take her on the river because he was quite trustworthy;inquired her opinion of Tchekov, gave her his own; wished they could goto the Russian ballet together some time--considered the name FleurForsyte simply topping; cursed his people for giving him the name ofMichael on the top of Mont; outlined his father, and said that if shewanted a good book she should read "Job"; his father was rather likeJob while Job still had land. 

"But Job didn't have land, " Fleur murmured; "he only had flocks andherds and moved on. "

"Ah!" answered Michael Mont, "I wish my gov'nor would move on. Not thatI want his land. Land's an awful bore in these days, don't you think?"

"We never have it in my family, " said Fleur. "We have everything else. I believe one of my great-uncles once had a sentimental farm in Dorset, because we came from there originally, but it cost him more than itmade him happy. "

"Did he sell it?"

"No; he kept it. "

"Why?"

"Because nobody would buy it. "

"Good for the old boy!"

"No, it wasn't good for him. Father says it soured him. His name wasSwithin. "

"What a corking name!"

"Do you know, " said Fleur, "that we're getting farther off, not nearer?This river flows. "

"Splendid!" cried Mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; "it's good to meeta girl who's got wit. "

"But better to meet a young man who's got it in the plural. "

Young Mont raised a hand to tear his hair. 

"Look out!" cried Fleur. "Your scull!"

"All right! It's thick enough to bear a scratch. "

"Do you mind sculling?" said Fleur severely, "I want to get in. "

"Ah! but when you get in, you see, I shan't see you any more to-day. Fini, as the French girl said when she jumped on her bed after sayingher prayers. Don't you bless the day that gave you a French mother, anda name like yours?"

"I like my name, but Father gave it me. Mother wanted me calledMarguerite. "

"Which is absurd. Do you mind calling me M. M. And letting me call youF. F. ? It's in the spirit of the age. "

"I don't mind anything, so long as I get in. " Mont caught a littlecrab, and answered: "That was a nasty one!"

"Please row. "

"I am. " And he did for several strokes, looking at her with ruefuleagerness. "Of course, you know, " he ejaculated, pausing, "that I cameto see you, not your father's pictures. "

Fleur rose. 

"If you don't row, I shall get out and swim. "

"Really and truly? Then I could come in after you. "

"Mr. Mont, I'm late and tired; please put me on shore at once. "

When she stepped out on to the garden landing-stage he rose, andgrasping his hair with both hands, looked at her. 

Fleur smiled. 

"Don't!" cried the irrepressible Mont. "I know you're going to say:'Out, damned hair!'"

Fleur whisked round, threw him a wave of her hand. "Good-bye, Mr. M. M. !" she called, and was gone among the rose-trees. She looked at herwrist-watch and the windows of the house. It struck her as curiouslyuninhabited. Past six! The pigeons were just gathering to roost, andsunlight slanted on the dove-cot, on their snowy feathers, and beyondin a shower on the top boughs of the woods. The click of billiard-ballscame from the ingle-nook--Jack Cardigan, no doubt; a faint rustling, too, from an eucalyptus-tree, startling Southerner in this old Englishgarden. She reached the verandah, and was passing in, but stopped atthe sound of voices from the drawing-room to her left. Mother! Profond!From behind the verandah screen which fenced the ingle-nook she heardthese words!

"I don't, Annette. "

Did Father know that he called her mother "Annette"? Always on the sideof her father--as children are ever on one side or the other in houseswhere relations are a little strained--she stood, uncertain. Her motherwas speaking in her low, pleasing, slightly metallic voice--one wordshe caught: "Demain. " And Profond's answer: "All right. " Fleur frowned. A little sound came out into the stillness. Then Profond's voice: "I'mtakin' a small stroll. "

Fleur darted through the window into the morning room. There hecame--from the drawing-room, crossing the verandah, down the lawn; andthe click of billiard-balls which, in listening for other sounds, shehad ceased to hear, began again. She shook herself, passed into thehall, and opened the drawing-room door. Her mother was sitting on thesofa between the windows, her knees crossed, her head resting on acushion, her lips half parted, her eyes half closed. She lookedextraordinarily handsome. 

"Ah! Here you are, Fleur! Your father is beginning to fuss. "

"Where is he?"

"In the picture-gallery. Go up!"

"What are you going to do to-morrow, Mother?"

"To-morrow? I go up to London with your aunt. Why?"

"I thought you might be. Will you get me a quite plain parasol?"

"What color?"

"Green. They're all going back, I suppose. "

"Yes, all; you will console your father. Kiss me, then. "

Fleur crossed the room, stooped, received a kiss on her forehead, andwent out past the impress of a form on the sofa-cushions in the othercorner. She ran up-stairs. 

Fleur was by no means the old-fashioned daughter who demands theregulation of her parents' lives in accordance with the standardimposed on herself. She claimed to regulate her own life, not those ofothers; besides, an unerring instinct for what was likely to advantageher own case was already at work. In a disturbed domestic atmospherethe heart she had set on Jon would have a better chance. None the lesswas she offended, as a flower by a crisping wind. If that man hadreally been kissing her mother it was--serious, and her father ought toknow. 

"Demain!" "All right!" And her mother going up to Town! She turned into her bedroom and hung out of the window to cool her face, which hadsuddenly grown very hot. Jon must be at the station by now! What didher father know about Jon! Probably everything--pretty nearly!

She changed her dress, so as to look as if she had been in some time, and ran up to the gallery. 

Soames was standing stubbornly still before his Alfred Stevens--thepicture he loved best. He did not turn at the sound of the door, butshe knew he had heard, and she knew he was hurt. She came up softlybehind him, put her arms round his neck, and poked her face over hisshoulder, till her cheek lay against his. It was an advance which hadnever yet failed, but it failed her now, and she augured the worst. 

"Well, " he said stonily, "so you've come!"

"Is that all, " murmured Fleur, "from a bad parent?" and rubbed hercheek against his. 

Soames shook his head so far as that was possible. 

"Why do you keep me on tenterhooks like this, putting me off and off?"

"Darling, it was very harmless. "

"Harmless! Much you know what's harmless and what isn't. "

Fleur dropped her arms. 

"Well, then, dear, suppose you tell me; and be quite frank about it. "

And she went over to the window-seat. 

Her father had turned from his picture, and was staring at his feet. Helooked very grey. 'He has nice small feet, ' she thought, catching hiseye, at once averted from her. 

"You're my only comfort, " said Soames suddenly, "and you go on likethis. "

Fleur's heart began to beat. 

"Like what, dear?"

Again Soames gave her a look which, but for the affection in it, mighthave been called furtive. 

"You know what I told you, " he said. "I don't choose to have anythingto do with that branch of our family. "

"Yes, ducky, but I don't know why _I_ shouldn't. "

Soames turned on his heel. 

"I'm not going into the reasons, " he said; "you ought to trust me, Fleur!"

The way he spoke those words affected Fleur, but she thought of Jon, and was silent, tapping her foot against the wainscot. Unconsciouslyshe had assumed a modern attitude, with one leg twisted in and out ofthe other, with her chin on one bent wrist, her other arm across herchest, and its hand hugging her elbow; there was not a line of her thatwas not involuted, and yet--in spite of all--she retained a certaingrace. 

"You knew my wishes, " Soames went on, "and yet you stayed on there fourdays. And I suppose that boy came with you to-day. "

Fleur kept her eyes on him. 

"I don't ask you anything, " said Soames; "I make no inquisition whereyou're concerned. "

Fleur suddenly stood up, leaning out at the window with her chin on herhands. The sun had sunk behind trees, the pigeons were perched, quitestill, on the edge of the dove-cot; the click of the billiard-ballsmounted, and a faint radiance shone out below where Jack Cardigan hadturned the light up. 

"Will it make you any happier, " she said suddenly, "if I promise younot to see him for say--the next six weeks?" She was not prepared for asort of tremble in the blankness of his voice. 

"Six weeks? Six years--sixty years more like. Don't delude yourself, Fleur; don't delude yourself!"

Fleur turned in alarm. 

"Father, what is it?"

Soames came close enough to see her face. 

"Don't tell me, " he said, "that you're foolish enough to have anyfeeling beyond caprice. That would be too much!" And he laughed. 

Fleur, who had never heard him laugh like that, thought: 'Then it ISdeep! Oh! what is it?' And putting her hand through his arm she saidlightly:

"No, of course; caprice. Only, I like my caprices and I don't likeyours, dear. "

"Mine!" said Soames bitterly, and turned away. 

The light outside had chilled, and threw a chalky whiteness on theriver. The trees had lost all gaiety of colour. She felt a suddenhunger for Jon's face, for his hands, and the feel of his lips again onhers. And pressing her arms tight across her breast she forced out alittle light laugh. 

"O la! la! What a small fuss! as Profond would say. Father, I don'tlike that man. "

She saw him stop, and take something out of his breast pocket. 

"You don't?" he said. "Why?"

"Nothing, " murmured Fleur; "just caprice!"

"No, " said Soames; "not caprice!" And he tore what was in his handsacross. "You're right. _I_ don't like him either!"

"Look!" said Fleur softly. "There he goes! I hate his shoes; they don'tmake any noise. "

Down in the failing light Prosper Profond moved, his hands in his sidepockets, whistling softly in his beard; he stopped, and glanced up atthe sky, as if saying: "I don't think much of that small moon. "

Fleur drew back. "Isn't he a great cat?" she whispered; and the sharpclick of the billiard-balls rose, as if Jack Cardigan had capped thecat, the moon, caprice, and tragedy with: "In off the red!"

Monsieur Profond had resumed his strolling, to a teasing little tune inhis beard. What was it? Oh! yes, from "Rigoletto": "Donna e mobile. "Just what he would think! She squeezed her father's arm. 

"Prowling!" she muttered, as he turned the corner of the house. It waspast that disillusioned moment which divides the day and night--stilland lingering and warm, with hawthorn scent and lilac scent clinging onthe riverside air. A blackbird suddenly burst out. Jon would be inLondon by now; in the Park perhaps, crossing the Serpentine, thinkingof her! A little sound beside her made her turn her eyes; her fatherwas again tearing the paper in his hands. Fleur saw it was a cheque. 

"I shan't sell him my Gauguin, " he said. "I don't know what your auntand Imogen see in him. "

"Or Mother. "

"Your mother!" said Soames. 

'Poor Father!' she thought. 'He never looks happy--not really happy. Idon't want to make him worse, but of course I shall have to, when Joncomes back. Oh! well, sufficient unto the night!'

"I'm going to dress, " she said. 

In her room she had a fancy to put on her "freak" dress. It was of goldtissue with little trousers of the same, tightly drawn in at theankles, a page's cape slung from the shoulders, little gold shoes, anda gold-winged Mercury helmet; and all over her were tiny gold bells, especially on the helmet; so that if she shook her head she pealed. When she was dressed she felt quite sick because Jon could not see her;it even seemed a pity that the sprightly young man Michael Mont wouldnot have a view. But the gong had sounded, and she went down. 

She made a sensation in the drawing-room. Winifred thought it "Mostamusing. " Imogen was enraptured. Jack Cardigan called it "stunning, ""ripping, " "topping, " and "corking. " Monsieur Profond, smiling with hiseyes, said: "That's a nice small dress!" Her mother, very handsome inblack, sat looking at her, and said nothing. It remained for her fatherto apply the test of common sense. "What did you put on that thing for?You're not going to dance. "

Fleur spun round, and the bells pealed. 

"Caprice!"

Soames stared at her, and, turning away, gave his arm to Winifred. JackCardigan took her mother. Prosper Profond took Imogen. Fleur went in byherself, with her bells jingling. .. . 

The "small" moon had soon dropped down, and May night had fallen softand warm, enwrapping with its grape-bloom colour and its scents thebillion caprices, intrigues, passions, longings, and regrets of men andwomen. Happy was Jack Cardigan who snored into Imogen's white shoulder, fit as a flea; or Timothy in his "mausoleum, " too old for anything butbaby's slumber. For so many lay awake, or dreamed, teased by thecrisscross of the world. 

The dew fell and the flowers closed; cattle grazed on in the rivermeadows, feeling with their tongues for the grass they could not see;and the sheep on the Downs lay quiet as stones. Pheasants in the talltrees of the Pangbourne woods, larks on their grassy nests above thegravel-pit at Wansdon, swallows in the eaves at Robin Hill, and thesparrows of Mayfair, all made a dreamless night of it, soothed by thelack of wind. The Mayfly filly, hardly accustomed to her new quarters, scraped at her straw a little; and the few night-flitting things--bats, moths, owls--were vigorous in the warm darkness; but the peace of nightlay in the brain of all day-time Nature, colourless and still. Men andwomen, alone, riding the hobbyhorses of anxiety or love, burned theirwavering tapers of dream and thought into the lonely hours. 

Fleur, leaning out of her window, heard the hall clock's muffled chimeof twelve, the tiny splash of a fish, the sudden shaking of an aspen'sleaves in the puffs of breeze that rose along the river, the distantrumble of a night train, and time and again the sounds which none canput a name to in the darkness, soft obscure expressions of uncataloguedemotions from man and beast, bird and machine, or, maybe, from departedForsytes, Darties, Cardigans, taking night strolls back into a worldwhich had once suited their embodied spirits. But Fleur heeded notthese sounds, her spirit, far from disembodied, fled with swift wingfrom railway-carriage to flowery hedge, straining after Jon, tenaciousof his forbidden image, and the sound of his voice which was taboo. Andshe crinkled her nose, retrieving from the perfume of the riversidenight that moment when his hand slipped between the mayflowers and hercheek. Long she leaned out in her freak dress, keen to burn her wingsat life's candle; while the moths brushed her cheeks on theirpilgrimage to the lamp on her dressing-table, ignorant that in aForsyte's house there is no open flame. But at last even she feltsleepy, and, forgetting her bells, drew quickly in. 

Through the open window of his room, alongside Annette's, Soames, wakeful too, heard their thin faint tinkle, as it might be shaken fromstars, or the dewdrops falling from a flower, if one could hear suchsounds. 

'Caprice!' he thought. 'I can't tell. She's wilful. What shall I do?Fleur!'

And long into the "small" night he brooded. 

PART II

I

MOTHER AND SON

To say that Jon Forsyte accompanied his mother to Spain unwillinglywould scarcely have been adequate. He went as a well-natured dog goesfor 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 arewont to sulk. But Jon had little sulkiness in his composition. Headored his mother, and it was his first travel. Spain had become Italyby his simply saying: "I'd rather go to Spain, Mum; you've been toItaly so many times; I'd like it new to both of us. "

The fellow was subtle besides being naif. He never forgot that he wasgoing to shorten the proposed two months into six weeks, and musttherefore show no sign of wishing to do so. For one with so enticing amutton-bone and so fixed an idea, he made a good enough travellingcompanion, indifferent to where or when he arrived, superior to food, and thoroughly appreciative of a country strange to the most travelledEnglishman. Fleur's wisdom in refusing to write to him was profound, for he reached each new place entirely without hope or fever, and couldconcentrate immediate attention on the donkeys and tumbling bells, thepriests, patios, beggars, children, crowing cocks, sombreros, cactushedges, old high white villages, goats, olive-trees, greening plains, singing birds in tiny cages, water-sellers, sunsets, melons, mules, great churches, pictures, and swimming grey-brown mountains of afascinating land. 

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

In this isolation he had unparalleled opportunities of appreciatingwhat few sons can apprehend, the whole-heartedness of a mother's love. Knowledge of something kept from her made him, no doubt, undulysensitive; and a Southern people stimulated his admiration for her typeof beauty, which he had been accustomed to hear called Spanish, butwhich he now perceived to be no such thing. Her beauty was neitherEnglish, French, Spanish, nor Italian--it was special! He appreciated, too, as never before, his mother's subtlety of instinct. He could nottell, for instance, whether she had noticed his absorption in that Goyapicture, "La Vendimia, " or whether she knew that he had slipped backthere after lunch and again next morning, to stand before it full halfan hour, a second and third time. It was not Fleur, of course, but likeenough to give him heartache--so dear to lovers--remembering herstanding at the foot of his bed with her hand held above her head. Tokeep a postcard reproduction of this picture in his pocket and slip itout to look at became for Jon one of those bad habits which soon orlate disclose themselves to eyes sharpened by love, fear, or jealousy. And his mother's were sharpened by all three. In Granada he was fairlycaught, sitting on a sun-warmed stone bench in a little battlementedgarden on the Alhambra hill, whence he ought to have been looking atthe view. His mother, he had thought, was examining the potted stocksbetween 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 schoolto 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 whenhe was in Spain in '92. "

In '92--nine years before he had been born! What had been the previousexistences of his father and his mother? If they had a right to sharein his future, surely he had a right to share in their pasts. He lookedup at her. But something in her face--a look of life hard-lived, themysterious impress of emotions, experience, and suffering--seemed withits incalculable depth, its purchased sanctity, to make curiosityimpertinent. His mother must have had a wonderfully interesting life;she was so beautiful, and so--so--but he could not frame what he feltabout her. He got up, and stood gazing down at the town, at the plainall green with crops, and the ring of mountains glamorous in sinkingsunlight. 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, hopelesslyignorant 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 Phoenicianpast was to the town down there, whose cocks crowed and whose childrenplayed and clamoured so gaily, day in, day out. He felt aggrieved thatshe should know all about him and he nothing about her except that sheloved him and his father, and was beautiful. His callow ignorance--hehad not even had the advantage of the war, like nearly everybodyelse!--made him small in his own eyes. 

That night, from the balcony of his bedroom, he gazed down on the roofof the town--as if inlaid with honey-comb of jet, ivory, and gold; and, long after, he lay awake, listening to the cry of the sentry as thehours 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 roadman, 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 bereavedwas too final, and no other word of two syllables short-long came tohim, 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 beforehe went to sleep, having said it over to himself at least twenty-fourtimes. Next day he wrote it out and enclosed it in one of those lettersto Fleur, which he always finished before he went down, so as to havehis mind free and companionable. 

About noon that same day, on the tiled terrace of their hotel, he felta sudden dull pain in the back of his head, a queer sensation in theeyes, and sickness. The sun had touched him too affectionately. Thenext three days were passed in semi-darkness, and a dulled, achingindifference to all except the feel of ice on his forehead and hismother's smile. She never moved from his room, never relaxed hernoiseless vigilance, which seemed to Jon angelic. But there weremoments when he was extremely sorry for himself, and wished terriblythat Fleur could see him. Several times he took a poignant imaginaryleave of her and of the earth, tears oozing out of his eyes. He evenprepared the message he would send to her by his mother--who wouldregret to her dying day that she had ever sought to separate them--hispoor mother! He was not slow, however, in perceiving that he had nowhis excuse for going home. 

Towards half past six each evening came a "gasgacha" of bells--acascade of tumbling chimes, mounting from the city below and fallingback chime on chime. After listening to them on the fourth day he saidsuddenly:

"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 hefelt better, and--meaner. 

They had been out five weeks when they turned towards home. Jon's headwas restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to a hatlined by his mother with many layers of orange and green silk, and hestill walked from choice in the shade. As the long struggle ofdiscretion between them drew to its close, he wondered more and morewhether she could see his eagerness to get back to that which she hadbrought him away from. Condemned by Spanish Providence to spend a dayin Madrid between their trains, it was but natural to go again to thePrado. Jon was elaborately casual this time before his Goya girl. Nowthat he was going back to her, he could afford a lesser scrutiny. Itwas his mother who lingered before the picture, saying:

"The face and figure of the girl are exquisite. "

Jon heard her uneasily. Did she understand? But he felt once more thathe was no match for her in self-control and subtlety. She could, insome supersensitive way, of which he had not the secret, feel the pulseof his thoughts; she knew by instinct what he hoped and feared andwished. It made him terribly uncomfortable and guilty, having, beyondmost boys, a conscience. He wished she would be frank with him; healmost hoped for an open struggle. But none came, and steadily, silently, they travelled north. Thus did he first learn how much betterthan men women play a waiting game. In Paris they had again to pausefor a day. Jon was grieved because it lasted two, owing to certainmatters in connection with a dressmaker; as if his mother, who lookedbeautiful in anything, had any need of dresses! The happiest moment ofhis 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 verysweet 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 glamourover the past weeks--a kind of painful pleasure, such as he had triedto screw into those lines about the voice in the night crying; afeeling 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 toher quite simply what she had said to him:

"You were very sweet to me. " Odd--one never could be nice and naturallike that! He substituted the words: "I expect we shall be sick. "

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

II

FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

Deprived of his wife and son by the Spanish adventure, Jolyon found thesolitude at Robin Hill intolerable. A philosopher when he has all thathe wants is different from a philosopher when he has not. Accustomed, however, to the idea, if not to the reality of resignation, he wouldperhaps have faced it out but for his daughter June. He was a "lameduck" now, and on her conscience. Having achieved--momentarily--therescue of an etcher in low circumstances, which she happened to have inhand, she appeared at Robin Hill a fortnight after Irene and Jon hadgone. The little lady was living now in a tiny house with a big studioat Chiswick. A Forsyte of the best period, so far as the lack ofresponsibility was concerned, she had overcome the difficulty of areduced income in a manner satisfactory to herself and her father. Therent of the Gallery off Cork Street which he had bought for her, andher increased income tax happening to balance, it had been quitesimple--she no longer paid him the rent. The Gallery might be expectednow at any time, after eighteen years of barren usufruct, to pay itsway, so that she was sure her father would not feel it. Through thisdevice she still had twelve hundred a year, and by reducing what sheate, and, in place of two Belgians in a poor way, employing oneAustrian in a poorer, practically the same surplus for the relief ofgenius. After three days at Robin Hill she carried her father back withher to Town. In those three days she had stumbled on the secret he hadkept for two years, and had instantly decided to cure him. She knew, infact, the very man. He had done wonders with Paul Post--that painter alittle in advance of Futurism; and she was impatient with her fatherbecause 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 absurdnot to have faith in the man who had healed Paul Post so that he hadonly just relapsed, from having overworked, or overlived, himselfagain. 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 patientfailed in any natural symptom he supplied the poison which causedit--and there you were! She was extremely hopeful. Her father hadclearly not been living a natural life at Robin Hill, and she intendedto provide the symptoms. He was--she felt--out of touch with the times, which was not natural; his heart wanted stimulating. In the littleChiswick house she and the Austrian--a grateful soul, so devoted toJune for rescuing her that she was in danger of decease fromoverwork--stimulated Jolyon in all sorts of ways, preparing him for hiscure. But they could not keep his eyebrows down; as--for example--whenthe Austrian woke him at eight o'clock just as he was going to sleep orJune 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 neverfailed, indeed, to be astonished at her resource, especially in theevenings. For his benefit, as she declared, though he suspected thatshe also got something out of it, she assembled the Age so far as itwas satellite to genius; and with some solemnity it would move up anddown the studio before him in the Fox-trot, and that more mental formof dancing--the One-step--which so pulled against the music, thatJolyon's eyebrows would be almost lost in his hair from wonder at thestrain it must impose on the dancers' will-power. Aware that, hung onthe line in the Water Colour Society, he was a back number to thosewith any pretension to be called artists, he would sit in the darkestcorner he could find, and wonder about rhythm, on which so long ago hehad been raised. And when June brought some girl or young man up tohim, 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'sperennial sympathy with Youth, he used to get very tired from enteringinto their points of view. But it was all stimulating, and he neverfailed in admiration of his daughter's indomitable spirit. Even geniusitself attended these gatherings now and then, with its nose on oneside; and June always introduced it to her father. This, she felt, wasexceptionally good for him, for genius was a natural symptom he hadnever had--fond as she was of him. 

Certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he oftenwondered whence she got herself--her red-gold hair, now greyed into aspecial colour; her direct, spirited face, so different from his ownrather folded and subtilised countenance, her little light figure, whenhe and most of the Forsytes were tall. And he would dwell on the originof 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 whichshe was surrounded, youthful though, for the greater part, it was. Shetook, however, too much interest in his teeth, for he still had some ofthose natural symptoms. Her dentist at once found "staphylococcusaureus present in pure culture" (which might cause boils, of course)and wanted to take out all the teeth he had and supply him with twocomplete sets of unnatural symptoms. Jolyon's native tenacity wasroused, and in the studio that evening he developed his objections. Hehad never had any boils, and his own teeth would last his time. Ofcourse--June admitted--they would last his time if he didn't have themout! But if he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his timewould be longer. His recalcitrance--she said--was a symptom of hiswhole 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 wasvery 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 suchdifficulty in making two ends meet and getting his theories recognised. It was just such indifference and prejudice as her father manifestedwhich 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 withone 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 longas possible. I shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child. They are quiet atpresent. "

"That's not giving science a chance, " cried June. "You've no idea howdevoted Pondridge is. He puts his science before everything. "

"Just, " replied Jolyon, puffing the mild cigarette to which he wasreduced, "as Mr. Paul Post puts his art, eh? Art for Art'ssake--Science for the sake of Science. I know those enthusiasticegomaniac gentry. They vivisect you without blinking. I'm enough of aForsyte 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 naturalsymptom with which Mr. Pondridge need not supply me. We are born to beextreme or to be moderate, my dear; though if you'll forgive my sayingso, half the people nowadays who believe they're extreme are reallyvery moderate. I'm getting on as well as I can expect, and I must leaveit at that. "

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

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

According to June, it was foolish and even cowardly to hide the pastfrom 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 beworse 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'sinstinct. 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 tortuousimpulse to push the matter towards decision. Jon ought to be told, sothat either his feeling might be nipped in the bud, or, flowering inspite of the past, come to fruition. And she determined to see Fleur, and judge for herself. When June determined on anything, delicacybecame a somewhat minor consideration. After all, she was Soames'cousin, and they were both interested in pictures. She would go andtell him that he ought to buy a Paul Post, or perhaps a piece ofsculpture by Boris Strumolowski, and of course she would say nothing toher father. She went on the following Sunday, looking so determinedthat she had some difficulty in getting a cab at Reading station. Theriver country was lovely in those days of her own month, and June achedat its loveliness. She who had passed through this life without knowingwhat union was had a love of natural beauty which was almost madness. And when she came to that choice spot where Soames had pitched histent, she dismissed her cab, because, business over, she wanted torevel in the bright water and the woods. She appeared at his frontdoor, therefore, as a mere pedestrian, and sent in her card. It was inJune's character to know that when her nerves were fluttering she wasdoing something worth while. If one's nerves did not flutter, she wastaking the line of least resistance, and knew that nobleness was notobliging her. She was conducted to a drawing-room, which, though not inher style, showed every mark of fastidious elegance. Thinking: 'Toomuch taste--too many knick-knacks, ' she saw in an old lacquer-framedmirror the figure of a girl coming in from the verandah. Clothed inwhite, and holding some white roses in her hand, she had, reflected inthat silvery-grey pool of glass, a vision-like appearance, as if apretty ghost had come out of the green garden. 

"How do you do?" said June, turning round. "I'm a cousin of yourfather'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 youthink of Jon?"

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

"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 familiesdon't get on?"

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

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

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

"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 youngForsyte meant having what she wanted, June at once determined toprevent 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'ttell 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 thatmoment, rejuvenated by encounter. 

"You know, " she said, "I saw you drop your handkerchief. Is thereanything between you and Jon? Because, if so, you'd better drop thattoo. "

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 wellbe 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 quitesympathise. 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 bothyou 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 andsee me. This is where I live. I generally have young people in theevening. But I shouldn't tell your father that you're coming. "

The girl nodded. 

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

The instinct to couple, starved within herself, was always at work inJune. She stood watching Fleur row back; the girl took her hand off ascull to wave farewell; and June walked languidly on between themeadows and the river, with an ache in her heart. Youth to youth, likethe dragon-flies chasing each other, and love like the sun warming themthrough and through. Her youth! So long ago--when Phil and she--! Andsince? Nothing--no one had been quite what she had wanted. And so shehad missed it all. But what a coil was round those two young things, ifthey really were in love, as Holly would have it--as her father, andIrene, and Soames himself seemed to dread. What a coil, and what abarrier! And the itch for the future, the contempt, as it were, forwhat was overpast, which forms the active principle, moved in the heartof one who ever believed that what one wanted was more important thanwhat other people did not want. From the bank, awhile, in the warmsummer 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! Twolittle lame ducks--charming callow yellow little ducks! A great pity!Surely something could be done! One must not take such situations lyingdown. She walked on, and reached a station, hot and cross. 

That evening, faithful to the impulse towards direct action, which mademany 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 hisbread. 

"It's what you appear to be doing, " he said: "Do you realise whosedaughter 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 allhappiness and progress. You don't understand the Age, Dad. It's got nouse for outgrown things. Why do you think it matters so terribly thatJon should know about his mother? Who pays any attention to that sortof thing now? The marriage laws are just as they were when Soames andIrene couldn't get a divorce, and you had to come in. We've moved, andthey haven't. So nobody cares. Marriage without a decent chance ofrelief is only a sort of slave-owning; people oughtn't to own eachother. Everybody sees that now. If Irene broke such laws, what does itmatter?"

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

"Of course, it is, " cried June, "the human feeling of those two youngthings. "

"My dear, " said Jolyon with gentle exasperation, "you're talkingnonsense. "

"I'm not. If they prove to be really fond of each other, why shouldthey 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 devotedcan. "

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

"If, " she said suddenly, "she were the daughter of Phil Bosinney, Icould understand you better. Irene loved him, she never loved Soames. "

Jolyon uttered a deep sound--the sort of noise an Italian peasant womanutters to her mule. His heart had begun beating furiously, but he paidno attention to it, quite carried away by his feelings. 

"That shows how little you understand. Neither I nor Jon, if I knowhim, would mind a love-past. It's the brutality of a union withoutlove. This girl is the daughter of the man who once owned Jon's motheras 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 theman who possessed Jon's mother against her will. It's no good mincingwords; 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 handover his heart, Jolyon turned his back on his daughter and stoodlooking at the river Thames. 

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

After taking her elderly cousin across, Fleur did not land at once, butpulled in among the reeds, into the sunshine. The peaceful beauty ofthe afternoon seduced for a little one not much given to the vague andpoetic. In the field beyond the bank where her skiff lay up, a machinedrawn by a grey horse was turning an early field of hay. She watchedthe grass cascading over and behind the light wheels withfascination--it looked so green and fresh. The click and swish blendedwith the rustle of the willows and the poplars, and the cooing of awood-pigeon, in a true river song. Alongside, in the grey-green water, weeds like yellow snakes were writhing and nosing with the current;pied cattle on the farther side stood in the shade lazily swishingtheir tails. It was an afternoon to dream. And she took out Jon'sletters--not flowery effusions, but haunted in their recital of thingsseen and done by a longing very agreeable to her, and all ending "Yourdevoted J. " Fleur was not sentimental, her desires were ever concreteand concentrated, but what poetry there was in the daughter of Soamesand Annette had certainly in those weeks of waiting gathered round hermemories of Jon. They all belonged to grass and blossom, flowers andrunning water. She enjoyed him in the scents absorbed by her crinklingnose. The stars could persuade her that she was standing beside him inthe centre of the map of Spain; and of an early morning the dewycobwebs, 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 hisletters, followed by their brood of six young swans in a line, withjust so much space between each tail and head, a flotilla of greydestroyers. Fleur thrust her letters back, got out her sculls, andpulled up to the landing-stage. Crossing the lawn, she wondered whethershe should tell her father of June's visit. If he learned of it fromthe 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 LocalAuthorities were proposing to erect a Sanatorium for people with weaklungs. Faithful to his native individualism, he took no part in localaffairs, content to pay the rates which were always going up. He couldnot, however, remain indifferent to this new and dangerous scheme. Thesite was not half a mile from his own house. He was quite of opinionthat the country should stamp out tuberculosis; but this was not theplace. It should be done farther away. He took, indeed, an attitudecommon to all true Forsytes, that disability of any sort in otherpeople was not his affair, and the State should do its business withoutprejudicing in any way the natural advantages which he had acquired orinherited. Francie, the most free-spirited Forsyte of his generation(except perhaps that fellow Jolyon) had once asked him in her maliciousway: "Did you ever see the name Forsyte in a subscription list, Soames?" That was as it might be, but a Sanatorium would depreciate theneighbourhood, and he should certainly sign the petition which wasbeing 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 downhere with her in this summer weather had been making him feel quiteyoung; 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 besure, young Mont had formed a habit of appearing on his motor-cyclealmost every other day. Thank goodness, the young fellow had shaved offhis half-toothbrushes, and no longer looked like a mountebank! With agirl friend of Fleur's who was staying in the house, and a neighbouringyouth or so, they made two couples after dinner, in the hall, to themusic of the electric pianola which performed Fox-trots unassisted, with a surprised shine on its expressive surface. Annette, even, nowand then passed gracefully up and down in the arms of one or other ofthe young men. And Soames, coming to the drawing-room door, would lifthis nose a little sideways, and watch them, waiting to catch a smilefrom Fleur; then move back to his chair by the drawing-room hearth, toperuse The Times or some other collector's price-list. To hisever-anxious eyes Fleur showed no sign of remembering that caprice ofhers. 

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

"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 youget your notions. "

"From June Forsyte. "

It had come to her as an inspiration that if he thought she knew, orwere 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 knowmore? 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 thissummer--for he had not turned up again. Ever since the Sunday whenFleur had drawn attention to him prowling on the lawn, Soames hadthought of him a good deal, and always in connection with Annette, forno reason, except that she was looking handsomer than for some timepast. His possessive instinct, subtler, less formal, more elastic sincethe war, kept all misgiving underground. As one looks on some Americanriver, quiet and pleasant, knowing that an alligator perhaps is lyingin the mud with his snout just raised and indistinguishable from a snagof wood--so Soames looked on the river of his own existence, subconscious of Monsieur Profond, refusing to see more than thesuspicion of his snout. He had at this epoch in his life practicallyall he wanted, and was as nearly happy as his nature would permit. Hissenses were at rest; his affections found all the vent they needed inhis daughter; his collection was well known, his money well invested;his health excellent, save for a touch of liver now and again; he hadnot yet begun to worry seriously about what would happen after death, inclining to think that nothing would happen. He resembled one of hisown gilt-edged securities, and to knock the gilt off by seeing anythinghe could avoid seeing, would be, he felt instinctively, perverse andretrogressive. Those two crumpled rose-leaves, Fleur's caprice andMonsieur Profond's snout, would level away if he lay on themindustriously. 

That evening Chance, which visits the lives of even the best-investedForsytes, put a clue into Fleur's hands. Her father came down to dinnerwithout a handkerchief, and had occasion to blow his nose. 

"I'll get you one, dear, " she had said, and run upstairs. In the sachetwhere she sought for it--an old sachet of very faded silk--there weretwo compartments: one held handkerchiefs; the other was buttoned, andcontained something flat and hard. By some childish impulse Fleurunbuttoned it. There was a frame and in it a photograph of herself as alittle girl. She gazed at it, fascinated, as one is by one's ownpresentment. It slipped under her fidgeting thumb, and she saw thatanother photograph was behind. She pressed her own down further, andperceived a face, which she seemed to know, of a young woman, verygood-looking, in a very old style of evening dress. Slipping her ownphotograph up over it again, she took out a handkerchief and went down. Only on the stairs did she identify that face. Surely--surely Jon'smother! The conviction came as a shock. And she stood still in a flurryof thought. Why, of course! Jon's father had married the woman herfather 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, sherefused 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--alook strange, and coldly intimate, a queer look. He must have lovedthat woman very much to have kept her photograph all this time, inspite of having lost her. Unsparing and matter-of-fact, her mind dartedto his relations with her own mother. Had he ever really loved HER? Shethought 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 wantedgetting used to. And a sigh of sheer relief was caught in the folds ofher nightgown slipping over her head. 

III

MEETINGS

Youth only recognises Age by fits and starts. Jon, for one, had neverreally seen his father's age till he came back from Spain. The face ofthe fourth Jolyon, worn by waiting, gave him quite a shock--it lookedso wan and old. His father's mask had been forced awry by the emotionof the meeting, so that the boy suddenly realised how much he must havefelt their absence. He summoned to his aid the thought: 'Well, I didn'twant to go!' It was out of date for Youth to defer to Age. But Jon wasby no means typically modern. His father had always been "so jolly" tohim, and to feel that one meant to begin again at once the conductwhich his father had suffered six weeks' loneliness to cure, was notagreeable. 

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

On the night of their return he went to bed full of compunction; butawoke full of anticipation. It was only the fifth of July, and nomeeting was fixed with Fleur until the ninth. He was to have three daysat 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 fortrousers, not even the fondest parents can deny. On the second day, therefore, Jon went to Town, and having satisfied his conscience byordering what was indispensable in Conduit Street, turned his facetowards Piccadilly. Stratton Street, where her Club was, adjoinedDevonshire House. It would be the merest chance that she should be ather Club. But he dawdled down Bond Street with a beating heart, noticing the superiority of all other young men to himself. They woretheir clothes with such an air; they had assurance; they were OLD. Hewas suddenly overwhelmed by the conviction that Fleur must haveforgotten him. Absorbed in his own feeling for her all these weeks, hehad mislaid that possibility. The corners of his mouth drooped, hishands felt clammy. Fleur with the pick of youth at the beck of hersmile--Fleur incomparable! It was an evil moment. Jon, however, had agreat idea that one must be able to face anything. And he bracedhimself with that dour reflection in front of a bric-a-brac shop. Atthis high-water mark of what was once the London season, there wasnothing to mark it out from any other except a grey top hat or two, andthe sun. Jon moved on, and turning the corner into Piccadilly, ran intoVal Dartie moving towards the Iseeum Club, to which he had just beenelected. 

"Hallo! young man! Where are you off to?"

Jon flushed. "I've just been to my tailor's. "

Val looked him up and down. "That's good! I'm going in here to ordersome cigarettes, then come and have some lunch. "

Jon thanked him. He might get news of HER from Val. The condition ofEngland, that nightmare of its Press and Public men, was seen indifferent 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--theyear Melton won the Derby. One of my very best customers he was. " And afaint smile illumined the tobacconist's face. "Many's the tip he'sgiven me, to be sure! I suppose he took a couple of hundred of theseevery week, year in, year out, and never changed his cigarette. Veryaffable gentleman, brought me a lot of custom. I was sorry he met withthat accident. One misses an old customer like him. "

Val smiled. His father's decease had closed an account which had beenrunning longer, probably, than any other; and in a ring of smoke puffedout from that time-honoured cigarette he seemed to see again hisfather's face, dark, good-looking, moustachioed, a little puffy, in theonly halo it had earned. His father had his fame here, anyway--a manwho smoked two hundred cigarettes a week, who could give tips, and runaccounts for ever! To his tobacconist a hero! Even that was somedistinction 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. Wedon't get many like him now, with everybody in such a hurry. The warwas bad for manners, sir--it was bad for manners. You were in it, Isee. "

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

Rather ashamed, Jon murmured: "I don't smoke, you know, " and saw thetobacconist'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 itwhen you take a knock. This is really the same tobacco, then?"

"Identical, sir; a little dearer, that's all. Wonderful stayingpower--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 atthe Hotch-potch with his father, he had never been in a London Club. The Iseeum, comfortable and unpretentious, did not move, could not, solong as George Forsyte sat on its Committee, where his culinary acumenwas almost the controlling force. The Club had made a stand against thenewly rich, and it had taken all George Forsyte's prestige, and praiseof him as a "good sportsman, " to bring in Prosper Profond. 

The two were lunching together when the half-brothers-in-law enteredthe dining-room, and attracted by George's forefinger, sat down attheir table, Val with his shrewd eyes and charming smile, Jon withsolemn lips and an attractive shyness in his glance. There was an airof privilege around that corner table, as though past masters wereeating there. Jon was fascinated by the hypnotic atmosphere. Thewaiter, lean in the chaps, pervaded with such freemasonical deference. He seemed to hang on George Forsyte's lips, to watch the gloat in hiseye with a kind of sympathy, to follow the movements of the heavyclub-marked silver fondly. His liveried arm and confidential voicealarmed Jon, they came so secretly over one's shoulder. 

Except for George's: "Your grandfather tipped me once; he was a deucedgood judge of a cigar!" neither he nor the other past master took anynotice of him, and he was grateful for this. The talk was all about thebreeding, points, and prices of horses, and he listened to it vaguelyat first, wondering how it was possible to retain so much knowledge ina head. He could not take his eyes off the dark past master--what hesaid was so deliberate and discouraging--such heavy, queer, smiled-outwords. 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 pastmaster went on. 

"His daughter's an attractive small girl. Mr. Soames Forsyde is a bitold-fashioned. I want to see him have a pleasure some day. "

George Forsyte grinned. "Don't you worry; he's not so miserable as helooks. He'll never show he's enjoying anything--they might try and takeit from him. Old Soames! Once bit, twice shy!"

"Well, Jon, " said Val hastily, "if you've finished, we'll go and havecoffee. "

"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 uncleSoames. He's always been here. The other chap, Profond, is a queerfish. 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--forFleur. "

"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 werewhen I was your age. There's a 'Tomorrow we die' feeling. That's whatold George meant about my uncle Soames. HE doesn't mean to dietomorrow. "

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 goodby knowing. Have a liqueur?"

Jon shook his head. 

"I hate the way people keep things from one, " he muttered, "and thensneer at one for being green. "

"Well, you can ask Holly. If SHE won't tell you, you'll believe it'sfor 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 soupset. 

"All right! See you on Friday. "

"I don't know, " murmured Jon. 

And he did not. This conspiracy of silence made him desperate. It washumiliating to be treated like a child. He retraced his moody steps toStratton Street. But he would go to her Club now, and find out theworst. To his inquiry the reply was that Miss Forsyte was not in theClub. She might be in perhaps later. She was often in on Monday--theycould not say. Jon said he would call again, and, crossing into theGreen Park, flung himself down under a tree. The sun was bright, and abreeze fluttered the leaves of the young lime-tree beneath which helay; but his heart ached. Such darkness seemed gathered round hishappiness. He heard Big Ben chime "Three" above the traffic. The soundmoved something in him, and taking out a piece of paper, he began toscribble on it with a pencil. He had jotted a stanza, and was searchingthe grass for another verse, when something hard touched hisshoulder--a green parasol. There above him stood Fleur!

"They told me you'd been, and were coming back. So I thought you mightbe 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, insuspense 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 ourfamilies, Jon. "

His heart began beating very fast. 

"I believe my father wanted to marry your mother, and your father gother instead. "

"Oh!"

"I came on a photo of her; it was in a frame behind a photo of me. Ofcourse, if he was very fond of her, that would have made him prettymad, 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 mightgo 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 greatshock. 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 ourfathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way theytreat US; but they've treated other people, you know, before we wereborn--plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at your father, with three separate families!"

"Isn't there any place, " cried Jon, "in all this beastly London wherewe can be alone?"

"Only a taxi. "

"Let's get one, then. "

When they were installed, Fleur asked suddenly: "Are you going back toRobin Hill? I should like to see where you live, Jon. I'm staying withmy aunt for the night, but I could get back in time for dinner. Iwouldn't come to the house, of course. "

Jon gazed at her enraptured. 

"Splendid! I can show it you from the copse, we shan't meet anybody. There's a train at four. "

The god of property and his Forsytes great and small, leisured, official, commercial, or professional, unlike the working classes, still worked their seven hours a day, so that those two of the fourthgeneration travelled down to Robin Hill in an empty first-classcarriage, dusty and sun-warmed, of that too early train. They travelledin blissful silence, holding each other's hands. 

At the station they saw no one except porters, and a villager or twounknown to Jon, and walked out up the lane, which smelled of dust andhoneysuckle. 

For Jon--sure of her now, and without separation before him--it was amiraculous dawdle, more wonderful than those on the Downs, or along theriver Thames. It was love-in-a-mist--one of those illumined pages ofLife, where every word and smile, and every light touch they gave eachother were as little gold and red and blue butterflies and flowers andbirds scrolled in among the text--a happy communing, withoutafterthought, which lasted twenty-seven minutes. They reached thecoppice at the milking-hour. Jon would not take her as far as thefarmyard; only to where she could see the field leading up to thegardens, and the house beyond. They turned in among the larches, andsuddenly, at the winding of the path, came on Irene, sitting on an oldlog seat. 

There are various kinds of shocks: to the vertebrae; to the nerves; tomoral sensibility; and, more potent and permanent, to personal dignity. This last was the shock Jon received, coming thus on his mother. Hebecame suddenly conscious that he was doing an indelicate thing. Tohave brought Fleur down openly--yes! But to sneak her in like this!Consumed with shame, he put on a front as brazen as his nature wouldpermit. 

Fleur was smiling a little defiantly; his mother's startled face waschanging quickly to the impersonal and gracious. It was she who utteredthe first words:

"I'm very glad to see you. It was nice of Jon to think of bringing youdown to us. "

"We weren't coming to the house, " Jon blurted out. "I just wanted Fleurto see where I lived. "

His mother said quietly: "Won't you come up and have tea?"

Feeling that he had but aggravated his breach of breeding, he heardFleur answer: "Thanks very much; I have to get back to dinner. I metJon by accident, and we thought it would be rather jolly just to seehis home. "

How self-possessed she was!

"Of course; but you MUST have tea. We'll send you down to the station. My husband will enjoy seeing you. "

The expression of his mother's eyes, resting on him for a moment, castJon down level with the ground--a true worm. Then she led on, and Fleurfollowed her. He felt like a child, trailing after those two, who weretalking so easily about Spain and Wansdon, and the house up therebeyond the trees and the grassy slope. He watched the fencing of theireyes, taking each other in--the two beings he loved most in the world. 

He could see his father sitting under the oak-tree; and suffered inadvance all the loss of caste he must go through in the eyes of thattranquil figure, with his knees crossed, thin, old, and elegant;already he could feel the faint irony which would come into his voiceand smile. 

"This is Fleur Forsyte, Jolyon; Jon brought her down to see the house. Let's have tea at once--she has to catch a train. Jon, tell them, dear, and telephone to the Dragon for a car. "

To leave her alone with them was strange, and yet, as no doubt hismother had foreseen, the least of evils at the moment; so he ran upinto the house. Now he would not see Fleur alone again--not for aminute, and they had arranged no further meeting! When he returnedunder cover of the maids and teapots, there was not a trace ofawkwardness beneath the tree; it was all within himself, but not theless for that. They were talking of the Gallery off Cork Street. 

"We back-numbers, " his father was saying, "are awfully anxious to findout why we can't appreciate the new stuff; you and Jon must tell us. "

"It's supposed to be satiric, isn't it?" said Fleur. 

He saw his father's smile. 

"Satiric? Oh! I think it's more than that. What do you say, Jon?"

"I don't know at all, " stammered Jon. His father's face had a suddengrimness. 

"The young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. Off with theirheads, they say--smash their idols! And let's get back to--nothing!And, by Jove, they've done it! Jon's a poet. He'll be going in, too, and stamping on what's left of us. Property, beauty, sentiment--allsmoke. We mustn't own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. Theystand in the way of--Nothing. "

Jon listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father's words, behindwhich he felt a meaning that he could not reach. He didn't want tostamp on anything!

"Nothing's the god of to-day, " continued Jolyon; "we're back where theRussians were sixty years ago, when they started Nihilism. "

"No, Dad, " cried Jon suddenly; "we only want to LIVE, and we don't knowhow, because of the Past--that's all!"

"By George!" said Jolyon, "that's profound, Jon. Is it your own? ThePast! Old ownerships, old passions, and their aftermath. Let's havecigarettes. "

Conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips, quickly, asif to hush something, Jon handed the cigarettes. He lighted hisfather's and Fleur's, then one for himself. Had he taken the knock thatVal had spoken of? The smoke was blue when he had not puffed, grey whenhe had; he liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense of equalityit gave him. He was glad no one said: "So you've begun!" He felt lessyoung. 

Fleur looked at her watch, and rose. His mother went with her into thehouse. Jon stayed with his father, puffing at the cigarette. 

"See her into the car, old man, " said Jolyon; "and when she's gone, askyour mother to come back to me. "

Jon went. He waited in the hall. He saw her into the car. There was nochance for any word; hardly for a pressure of the hand. He waited allthat evening for something to be said to him. Nothing was said. Nothingmight have happened. He went up to bed; and in the mirror on hisdressing-table met himself. He did not speak, nor did the image; butboth looked as if they thought the more. 

IV

IN GREEN STREET

Uncertain, whether the impression that Prosper Profond was dangerousshould be traced to his attempt to give Val the Mayfly filly; to theremark of Fleur's: "Isn't he a great cat? Prowling!" to hispreposterous inquiry of Jack Cardigan: "What's the use of keepin' fit?"or, more simply, to the fact that he was a foreigner, or alien as itwas now called. Certain that Annette was looking particularly handsome, and that Soames had sold him a Gauguin and then torn up the cheque, sothat Monsieur Profond himself had said: "I didn't get that smallpicture I bought from Mr. Forsyde. "

However suspiciously regarded, he still frequented Winifred's evergreenlittle house in Green Street, with a good-natured obtuseness which noone mistook for naivete; a word hardly applicable to Monsieur ProsperProfond. Winifred still found him "amusing, " and would write him littlenotes saying: "Come and have a 'jolly' with us"--it was breath of lifeto her to keep up with the phrases of the day. 

The mystery, with which all felt him to be surrounded, was due to hishaving done, seen, heard, and known everything, and found nothing init--which was unnatural. The English type of disillusionment wasfamiliar enough to Winifred, who had always moved in fashionablecircles. It gave a certain cachet or distinction, so that one gotsomething out of it. But to see nothing in anything, not as a pose, butbecause there WAS nothing in anything, was not English; and that whichwas not English one could not help secretly feeling dangerous, if notprecisely bad form. It was like having the mood which the war had left, seated--dark, heavy, smiling, indifferent--in your Empire chair; it waslike listening to that mood talking through thick pink lips above alittle diabolic beard. It was, as Jack Cardigan expressed it--for theEnglish character at large--"a bit too thick"--for if nothing wasreally worth getting excited about, there were always games, and onecould make it so! Even Winifred, ever a Forsyte at heart, felt thatthere was nothing to be had out of a mood of disillusionment; it reallyought not to be there. Monsieur Profond, in fact, made the mood tooplain, in a country which decently veiled such realities. 

When Fleur, after her hurried return from Robin Hill, came down todinner that evening, the mood was standing at the window of Winifred'slittle drawing-room, looking out into Green Street, with an air ofseeing nothing in it. And Fleur gazed promptly into the fireplace withan air of seeing a fire which was not there. 

Monsieur Profond came from the window. He was in full fig, with a whitewaistcoat and a white flower in his buttonhole. 

"Well, Miss Forsyde, " he said, "I'm awful pleased to see you. Mr. Forsyde well? I was sayin' to-day I want to see him have some pleasure. He worries. "

"You think so?" said Fleur shortly. 

"Worries, " repeated Monsieur Profond, burring the r's. 

Fleur spun round. "Shall I tell you, " she said, "what would give himpleasure?" But the words: "To hear that you had cleared out" died atthe expression on his face. All his fine white teeth were showing. 

"I was hearin' at the Club to-day, about his old trouble. "

"What do you mean?"

Monsieur Profond moved his sleek head as if to minimise his statement. 

"Before you were born, " he said; "that small business. "

Though conscious that he had cleverly diverted her from his own sharein her father's worry, Fleur could not withstand a rush of nervouscuriosity. "What did you hear?"

"Why!" murmured Monsieur Profond, "you know all that. "

"I expect I do. But I should like to know that you haven't heard it allwrong. "

"His first wife, " murmured Monsieur Profond. 

Choking back the words: "He was never married before"; she said: "Well, what about her?"

"Mr. George Forsyde was tellin' me about your father's first wifemarryin' his cousin Jolyon afterwards. It was a small bit unpleasant, Ishould think. I saw their boy--nice boy!"

Fleur looked up. Monsieur Profond was swimming, heavily diabolical, before her. That--the reason! With the most heroic effort of her lifeso far, she managed to arrest that swimming figure. She could not tellwhether he had noticed. And just then Winifred came in. 

"Oh! here you both are already! Imogen and I have had the most amusingafternoon at the Babies' bazaar. "

"What babies?" said Fleur mechanically. 

"The 'Save the Babies. ' I got such a bargain, my dear. A piece of oldArmenian work--from before the flood. I want your opinion on it, Prosper. "

"Auntie, " whispered Fleur suddenly. 

At the tone in the girl's voice Winifred closed in on her. 

"What's the matter? Aren't you well?"

Monsieur Profond had withdrawn into the window, where he waspractically out of hearing. 

"Auntie, he told me that father has been married before. Is it truethat he divorced her, and she married Jon Forsyte's father?"

Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had Winifredfelt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece's face was so pale, her eyesso dark, her voice so whispery and strained. 

"Your Father didn't wish you to hear, " she said, with all the aplombshe could muster. "These things will happen. I've often told him heought to let you know. "

"Oh!" said Fleur, and that was all, but it made Winifred pat hershoulder--a firm little shoulder, nice and white! She never could helpan appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who would haveto be married, of course--though not to that boy Jon. 

"We've forgotten all about it years and years ago, " she saidcomfortably. "Come and have dinner!"

"No, Auntie. I don't feel very well. May I go upstairs?"

"My dear!" murmured Winifred, concerned; "you're not taking this toheart? Why, you haven't properly come out yet! That boy's a child!"

"What boy? I've only got a headache. But I can't stand that manto-night. "

"Well, well, " said Winifred; "go and lie down. I'll send you somebromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Profond. What business had he togossip? Though I must say I think it's much better you should know. "

Fleur smiled. "Yes, " she said, and slipped from the room. 

She went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, afluttered, frightened feeling in her breast. Never in her life as yethad she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get whatshe had set her heart on. The sensations of the afternoon had beenfull, and poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top ofthem had really made her head ache. No wonder her father had hiddenthat photograph so secretly behind her own--ashamed of having kept it!But could he hate Jon's mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressedher hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had theytold Jon--had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him?Everything now turned on that! She knew, they all knew, except--perhaps--Jon!

She walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard. Jon loved his mother. If they had told him, what would he do? She couldnot tell. But if they had not told him, should she not--could she notget him for herself--get married to him, before he knew? She searchedher memories of Robin Hill. His mother's face so passive--with its darkeyes and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile--baffled her; andhis father's--kindly, sunken, ironic. Instinctively she felt they wouldshrink from telling Jon, even now, shrink from hurting him--for ofcourse it would hurt him awfully to know!

Her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. So long asneither she herself nor Jon were supposed to know, there was still achance--freedom to cover one's tracks, and get what her heart was seton. But she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. Every one's handwas against her--every one's! It was as Jon had said--he and she justwanted to live and the past was in their way, a past they hadn't sharedin, and didn't understand! Oh! What a shame! And suddenly she thoughtof June. Would she help them? For somehow June had left on her theimpression that she would be sympathetic with their love, impatient ofobstacle. Then, instinctively, she thought: 'I won't give anythingaway, though, even to her. I daren't! I mean to have Jon; in spite ofthem all. '

Soup was brought up to her, and one of Winifred's pet headache cachets. She swallowed both. Then Winifred herself appeared. Fleur opened hercampaign with the words:

"You know, Auntie, I do wish people wouldn't think I'm in love withthat boy. Why, I've hardly seen him!"

Winifred, though experienced, was not 'fine'. She accepted the remarkwith considerable relief. Of course, it was not pleasant for the girlto hear of the family scandal, and she set herself to minimise thematter, a task for which she was eminently qualified, raisedfashionably under a comfortable mother and a father whose nerves mightnot be shaken, and for many years the wife of Montague Dartie. Herdescription was a masterpiece of understatement. Fleur's father's firstwife had been very foolish. There had been a young man who had got runover, and she had left Fleur's father. Then, years after, when it mightall have come right again, she had taken up with their cousin Jolyon;and, of course, her father had been obliged to have a divorce. Nobodyremembered anything of it now, except just the family. And, perhaps, ithad all turned out for the best; her father had Fleur; and Jolyon andIrene had been quite happy, they said, and their boy was a nice boy. "Val having Holly, too, is a sort of plaster, don't you know?" Withthese soothing words, Winifred patted her niece's shoulder, thought:"She's a nice, plump little thing!" and went back to Prosper Profond, who, in spite of his indiscretion, was very "amusing" this evening. 

For some minutes after her aunt had gone Fleur remained under influenceof bromide material and spiritual. But then reality came back. Her aunthad left out all that mattered--all the feeling, the hate, the love, the unforgivingness of passionate hearts. She, who knew so little oflife, and had touched only the fringe of love, was yet aware byinstinct that words have as little relation to fact and feeling as cointo the bread it buys. 'Poor Father!' she thought. 'Poor me! Poor Jon!But I don't care, I mean to have him!' From the window of her darkenedroom she saw "that man" issue from the door below and "prowl" away. Ifhe and her mother--how would that affect her chance? Surely it mustmake her father cling to her more closely, so that he would consent inthe end to anything she wanted, or become reconciled the sooner to whatshe did without his knowledge. 

She took some earth from the flower-box in the window, and with all hermight flung it after that disappearing figure. It fell short, but theaction did her good. 

And a little puff of air came up from Green Street, smelling of petrol, not sweet. 

V

PURELY FORSYTE AFFAIRS

Soames, coming up to the City, with the intention of calling in atGreen Street at the end of his day and taking Fleur back home with him, suffered from rumination. Sleeping partner that he was, he seldomvisited the City now, but he still had a room of his own at CuthcottKingson & Forsyte's, and one special clerk and a half assigned to themanagement of purely Forsyte affairs. They were somewhat in flux justnow--an auspicious moment for the disposal of house property. AndSoames was unloading the estates of his father and uncle Roger, and tosome extent of his uncle Nicholas. His shrewd and matter-of-courseprobity in all money concerns had made him something of an autocrat inconnection with these trusts. If Soames thought this or thought that, one had better save oneself the bother of thinking too. He guaranteed, as it were, irresponsibility to numerous Forsytes of the third andfourth generations. His fellow trustees, such as his cousins Roger orNicholas, his cousins-in-law Tweetyman and Spender, or his sisterCicely's husband all trusted him; he signed first, and where he signedfirst they signed after, and nobody was a penny the worse. Just nowthey were all a good many pennies the better, and Soames was beginningto see the close of certain trusts, except for distribution of theincome from securities as gilt-edged as was compatible with the period. 

Passing the more feverish parts of the City towards the most perfectbackwater in London, he ruminated. Money was extraordinarily tight; andmorality extraordinarily loose! The War had done it. Banks were notlending; people breaking contracts all over the place. There was afeeling in the air and a look on faces that he did not like. Thecountry seemed in for a spell of gambling and bankruptcies. There wassatisfaction in the thought that neither he nor his trusts had aninvestment which could be affected by anything less maniacal thannational repudiation or a levy on capital. If Soames had faith, it wasin what he called "English common sense"--or the power to have things, if not one way then another. He might--like his father James beforehim--say he didn't know what things were coming to, but he never in hisheart believed they were. If it rested with him, they wouldn't--and, after all, he was only an Englishman like any other, so quietlytenacious of what he had that he knew he would never really part withit without something more or less equivalent in exchange. Take his owncase, for example! He was well off. Did that do anybody harm? He didnot eat ten meals a day; he ate no more than, perhaps not so much as, apoor man. He spent no money on vice; breathed no more air, used no morewater to speak of than the mechanic or the porter. He certainly hadpretty things about him, but they had given employment in the making, and somebody must use them. He bought pictures, but Art must beencouraged. He was, in fact, an accidental channel through which moneyflowed, employing labour. What was there objectionable in that? In hischarge money was in quicker and more useful flux than it would be incharge of the State and a lot of slow-fly money-sucking officials. Andas to what he saved each year--it was just as much in flux as what hedidn't save, going into Water Board or Council Stocks, or somethingsound and useful. The State paid him no salary for being trustee of hisown or other people's money--HE DID ALL THAT FOR NOTHING. Therein laythe whole case against nationalisation--owners of private property wereunpaid, and yet had every incentive to quicken up the flux. Undernationalisation--just the opposite! In a country smarting fromofficialism he felt that he had a strong case. 

It particularly annoyed him, entering that backwater of perfect peace, to think that a lot of unscrupulous Trusts and Combinations had beencornering the market in goods of all kinds, and keeping prices at anartificial height. Such abusers of the individualistic system were theruffians who caused all the trouble, and it was some satisfaction tosee them getting into a stew at last lest the whole thing might comedown with a run-and land in the soup. 

The offices of Cuthcott Kingson & Forsyte occupied the ground and firstfloors of a house on the right-hand side; and, ascending to his room, Soames thought: 'Time we had a coat of paint. '

His old clerk Gradman was seated, where he always was, at a huge bureauwith countless pigeonholes. Half-the-clerk stood beside him, with abroker's note recording investment of the proceeds from sale of theBryanston Square house, in Roger Forsyte's estate. Soames took it, andsaid:

"Vancouver City Stock. H'm! It's down to-day!"

With a sort of grating ingratiation old Gradman answered him:

"Ye-es; but everything's down, Mr. Soames. " And half-the-clerk withdrew. 

Soames skewered the document onto a number of other papers and hung uphis hat. 

"I want to look at my Will and Marriage Settlement, Gradman. "

Old Gradman, moving to the limit of his swivel chair, drew out twodrafts from the bottom left-hand drawer. Recovering his body, he raisedhis grizzle-haired face, very red from stooping. 

"Copies, sir. "

Soames took them. It struck him suddenly how like Gradman was to thestout brindled yard dog they had been wont to keep on his chain at 'TheShelter, ' till one day Fleur had come and insisted it should be letloose, so that it had at once bitten the cook and been destroyed. Ifyou let Gradman off his chair, would he bite the cook?

Checking this frivolous fancy, Soames unfolded his Marriage Settlement. He had not looked at it for over eighteen years, not since he remadehis Will when his father died and Fleur was born. He wanted to seewhether the words "during coverture" were in. Yes, they were--oddexpression, when you thought of it, and derived perhaps fromhorse-breeding! Interest on fifteen thousand pounds (which he paid herwithout deducting income tax) so long as she remained his wife, andafterwards during widowhood "dum casta"--old-fashioned and ratherpointed words, put in to insure the conduct of Fleur's mother. His Willmade it up to an annuity of a thousand under the same conditions. Allright! He returned the copies to Gradman, who took them without lookingup, swung the chair, restored the papers to their drawer, and went oncasting up. 

"Gradman! I don't like the condition of the country; there are a lot ofpeople about without any common sense. I want to find a way by which Ican safeguard Miss Fleur against anything which might arise. "

Gradman wrote the figure "2" on his blotting-paper. 

"Ye-es, " he said; "there's a nahsty spirit. "

"The ordinary restraint against anticipation doesn't meet the case. "

"Nao, " said Gradman. 

"Suppose those Labour fellows come in, or worse! It's these people withfixed ideas who are the danger. Look at Ireland!"

"Ah!" said Gradman. 

"Suppose I were to make a settlement on her at once with myself asbeneficiary for life, they couldn't take anything but the interest fromme, unless of course they alter the law. "

Gradman moved his head and smiled. 

"Aoh!" he said, "they wouldn't do tha-at!"

"I don't know, " muttered Soames; "I don't trust them. "

"It'll take two years, sir, to be valid against death duties. "

Soames sniffed. Two years! He was only sixty-five!

"That's not the point. Draw a form of settlement that passes all myproperty to Miss Fleur's children in equal shares, with antecedentlife-interests first to myself and then to her without power ofanticipation, and add a clause that in the event of anything happeningto divert her life-interest, that interest passes to the trustees, toapply for her benefit, in their absolute discretion. "

Gradman grated: "Rather extreme at your age, sir; you lose control. "

"That's my business, " said Soames sharply. 

Gradman wrote on a piece of paper. "Life-interest--anticipation--divertinterest--absolute discretion. .. " and said:

"What trustees? There's young Mr. Kingson, he's a nice steady youngfellow. "

"Yes, he might do for one. I must have three. There isn't a Forsyte nowwho appeals to me. "

"Not young Mr. Nicholas? He's at the Bar. We've given 'im briefs. "

"He'll never set the Thames on fire, " said Soames. 

A smile oozed out on Gradman's face, greasy with countlessmutton-chops, the smile of a man who sits all day. 

"You can't expect it, at his age, Mr. Soames. "

"Why? What is he? Forty?"

"Ye-es, quite a young fellow. "

"Well, put him in; but I want somebody who'll take a personal interest. There's no one that I can see. "

"What about Mr. Valerius, now he's come home?"

"Val Dartie? With that father?"

"We-ell, " murmured Gradman, "he's been dead seven years--the Statuteruns against him. "

"No, " said Soames. "I don't like the connection. "

He rose. Gradman said suddenly:

"If they were makin' a levy on capital, they could come on thetrustees, sir. So there you'd be just the same. I'd think it over, if Iwere you. "

"That's true, " said Soames, "I will. What have you done about thatdilapidation notice in Vere Street?"

"I 'aven't served it yet. The party's very old. She won't want to goout at her age. "

"I don't know. This spirit of unrest touches every one. "

"Still, I'm lookin' at things broadly, sir. She's eighty-one. "

"Better serve it, " said Soames, "and see what she says. Oh! and Mr. Timothy? Is everything in order in case of accidents. "

"I've got the inventory of his estate all ready; had the furniture andpictures valued so that we know what reserves to put on. I shall besorry when he goes, though. Dear me! It is a time since I first saw Mr. Timothy!"

"We can't live for ever, " said Soames, taking down his hat. 

"Nao, " said Gradman; "but it'll be a pity--the last of the old family!Shall I take up the matter of that nuisance in Old Compton Street?Those organs--they're nahsty things. "

"Do. I must call for Miss Fleur and catch the four o'clock. Good-day, Gradman. "

"Good-day, Mr. Soames. I hope Miss Fleur--"

"Well enough, but gads about too much. "

"Ye-es, " grated Gradman; "she's young. "

Soames went out, musing: "Old Gradman! If he were younger I'd put himin the trust. There's nobody I can depend on to take a real interest. "

Leaving the bilious and mathematical exactitude, the preposterous peaceof that backwater, he thought suddenly: 'During coverture! Why can'tthey exclude fellows like Profond, instead of a lot of hard-workingGermans?' and was surprised at the depth of uneasiness which couldprovoke so unpatriotic a thought. But there it was! One never got amoment of real peace. Always something at the back of everything! Andhe made his way towards Green Street. 

Two hours later by his watch, Thomas Gradman, stirring in his swivelchair, closed the last drawer of his bureau, and putting into hiswaistcoat pocket a bunch of keys so fat that they gave him aprotuberance on the liver side, brushed his old top hat round with hissleeve, took his umbrella, and descended. Thick, short, and buttonedclosely into his old frock coat, he walked towards Covent Gardenmarket. He never missed that daily promenade to the Tube for Highgate, and seldom some critical transaction on the way in connection withvegetables and fruit. Generations might be born, and hats might change, wars be fought, and Forsytes fade away, but Thomas Gradman, faithfuland grey, would take his daily walk and buy his daily vegetable. Timeswere not what they were, and his son had lost a leg, and they nevergave him those nice little plaited baskets to carry the stuff in now, and these Tubes were convenient things--still he mustn't complain; hishealth was good considering his time of life, and after fifty-fouryears in the Law he was getting a round eight hundred a year and alittle worried of late, because it was mostly collector's commission onthe rents, and with all this conversion of Forsyte property going on, it looked like drying up, and the price of living still so high; but itwas no good worrying--"The good God made us all"--as he was in thehabit of saying; still, house property in London--he didn't know whatMr. Roger or Mr. James would say if they could see it being sold likethis--seemed to show a lack of faith; but Mr. Soames--he worried. Lifeand lives in being and twenty-one years after--beyond that you couldn'tgo; still, he kept his health wonderfully--and Miss Fleur was a prettylittle thing--she was; she'd marry; but lots of people had no childrennowadays--he had had his first child at twenty-two; and Mr. Jolyon, married while he was at Cambridge, had his child the sameyear--gracious Peter! That was back in '70, a long time before old Mr. Jolyon--fine judge of property--had taken his Will away from Mr. James--dear, yes! Those were the days when they were buyin' propertyright and left, and none of this khaki and fallin' over one another toget out of things; and cucumbers at twopence; and a melon--the oldmelons, that made your mouth water! Fifty years since he went into Mr. James' office, and Mr. James had said to him: "Now, Gradman, you'reonly a shaver--you pay attention, and you'll make your five hundred ayear before you've done. " And he had, and feared God, and served theForsytes, and kept a vegetable diet at night. And, buying a copy ofJohn Bull--not that he approved of it, an extravagant affair--heentered the Tube elevator with his mere brown-paper parcel, and wasborne down into the bowels of the earth. 

VI

SOAMES' PRIVATE LIFE

On his way to Green Street it occurred to Soames that he ought to gointo Dumetrius' in Suffolk Street about the possibility of the BolderbyOld Crome. Almost worth while to have fought the War to have theBolderby Old Crome, as it were, in flux! Old Bolderby had died, his sonand grandson had been killed--a cousin was coming into the estate, whomeant to sell it, some said because of the condition of England, otherssaid because he had asthma. 

If Dumetrius once got hold of it the price would become prohibitive; itwas necessary for Soames to find out whether Dumetrius had got it, before he tried to get it himself. He therefore confined himself todiscussing with Dumetrius whether Monticellis would come again now thatit was the fashion for a picture to be anything except a picture; andthe future of Johns, with a side-slip into Buxton Knights. It was onlywhen leaving that he added: "So they're not selling the Bolderby OldCrome, after all?" In sheer pride of racial superiority, as he hadcalculated would be the case, Dumetrius replied:

"Oh! I shall get it, Mr. Forsyte, sir. "

The flutter of his eyelid fortified Soames in a resolution to writedirect to the new Bolderby, suggesting that the only dignified way ofdealing with an Old Crome was to avoid dealers. He therefore said:"Well, good-day!" and went, leaving Dumetrius the wiser. 

At Green Street he found that Fleur was out and would be all theevening; she was staying one more night in London. He cabbed ondejectedly, and caught his train. 

He reached his house about six o'clock. The air was heavy, midgesbiting, thunder about. Taking his letters he went up to hisdressing-room to cleanse himself of London. 

An uninteresting post. A receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf ofFleur. A circular about an exhibition of etchings. A letter beginning:

"SIR, "I feel it my duty--"

That would be an appeal or something unpleasant. He looked at once forthe signature. There was none! Incredulously he turned the page overand examined each corner. Not being a public man, Soames had never yethad an anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear it up, as adangerous thing; his second to read it, as a thing still more dangerous. 

"SIR, "I feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the matteryour lady is carrying on with a foreigner--"

Reaching that word Soames stopped mechanically and examined thepost-mark. So far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in whichthe Post Office had wrapped it, there was something with a "sea" at theend and a "t" in it. Chelsea? No! Battersea? Perhaps! He read on. 

"These foreigners are all the same. Sack the lot! This one meets yourlady twice a week. I know it of my own knowledge--and to see anEnglishman put on goes against the grain. You watch it and see if whatI say isn't true. I shouldn't meddle if it wasn't a dirty foreignerthat's in it. Yours obedient. "

The sensation with which Soames dropped the letter was similar to thathe would have had entering his bedroom and finding it full ofblack-beetles. The meanness of anonymity gave a shuddering obscenity tothe moment. And the worst of it was that this shadow had been at theback of his mind ever since the Sunday evening when Fleur had pointeddown at Prosper Profond strolling on the lawn, and said: "Prowlingcat!" Had he not in connection therewith, this very day, perused hisWill and Marriage Settlement? And now this anonymous ruffian, withnothing to gain, apparently, save the venting of his spite againstforeigners, had wrenched it out of the obscurity in which he had hopedand wished it would remain. To have such knowledge forced on him, athis time of life, about Fleur's mother! He picked the letter up fromthe carpet, tore it across, and then, when it hung together by just thefold at the back, stopped tearing, and re-read it. He was taking atthat moment one of the decisive resolutions of his life. He would NOTbe forced into another scandal. No! However he decided to deal withthis matter--and it required the most far-sighted and carefulconsideration--he would do nothing that might injure Fleur. Thatresolution taken, his mind answered the helm again, and he made hisablutions. His hands trembled as he dried them. Scandal he would nothave, but something must be done to stop this sort of thing! He wentinto his wife's room and stood looking round him. The idea of searchingfor anything which would incriminate, and entitle him to hold a menaceover her, did not even come to him. There would be nothing--she wasmuch too practical. The idea of having her watched had been dismissedbefore it came--too well he remembered his previous experience of that. No! He had nothing but this torn-up letter from some anonymous ruffian, whose impudent intrusion into his private life he so violentlyresented. It was repugnant to him to make use of it, but he might haveto. What a mercy Fleur was not at home to-night! A tap on the doorbroke up his painful cogitations. 

"Mr. Michael Mont, sir, is in the drawing-room. Will you see him?"

"No, " said Soames; "yes. I'll come down. "

Anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes!

Michael Mont in flannels stood on the verandah, smoking a cigarette. Hethrew it away as Soames came up, and ran his hand through his hair. 

Soames' feeling towards this young man was singular. He was no doubt arackety, irresponsible young fellow according to old standards, yetsomehow likeable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting outhis opinions. 

"Come in, " he said; "have you had tea?"

Mont came in. 

"I thought Fleur would have been back, sir; but I'm glad she isn't. Thefact is, I--I'm fearfully gone on her; so fearfully gone that I thoughtyou'd better know. It's old-fashioned, of course, coming to fathersfirst, but I thought you'd forgive that. I went to my own dad, and hesays if I settle down he'll see me through. He rather cottons to theidea, in fact. I told him about your Goya. "

"Oh!" said Soames, inexpressibly dry. "He rather cottons?"

"Yes, sir; do you?"

Soames smiled faintly. "You see, " resumed Mont, twiddling his strawhat, while his hair, ears, eyebrows, all seemed to stand up fromexcitement, "when you've been through the War you can't help being in ahurry. "

"To get married; and unmarried afterwards, " said Soames slowly. 

"Not from Fleur, sir. Imagine, if you were me!"

Soames cleared his throat. That way of putting it was forcible enough. 

"Fleur's too young, " he said. 

"Oh! no, sir. We're awfully old nowadays. My dad seems to me a perfectbabe; his thinking apparatus hasn't turned a hair. But he's aBaronight, of course; that keeps him back. "

"Baronight, " repeated Soames; "what may that be?"

"Bart, sir. I shall be a Bart some day. But I shall live it down, youknow. "

"Go away and live this down, " said Soames. 

Young Mont said imploringly: "Oh! no, sir. I simply must hang round, orI shouldn't have a dog's chance. You'll let Fleur do what she likes, Isuppose, anyway. Madame passes me. "

"Indeed!" said Soames frigidly. 

"You don't really bar me, do you?" and the young man looked so dolefulthat Soames smiled. 

"You may think you're very old, " he said; "but you strike me asextremely young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof ofmaturity. "

"All right, sir; I give you our age. But to show you I meanbusiness--I've got a job. "

"Glad to hear it. "

"Joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes. "

Soames put his hand over his mouth--he had so very nearly said: "Godhelp the publisher. " His grey eyes scrutinised the agitated young man. 

"I don't dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me. Everything--do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, I know; but so she is to me. "

"That's as may be. I'm glad you've told me, however. And now I thinkthere's nothing more to be said. "

"I know it rests with her, sir. "

"It will rest with her a long time, I hope. "

"You aren't cheering, " said Mont suddenly. 

"No, " said Soames; "my experience of life has not made me anxious tocouple people in a hurry. Good-night, Mr. Mont. I shan't tell Fleurwhat you've said. "

"Oh!" murmured Mont blankly; "I really could knock my brains out forwant of her. She knows that perfectly well. "

"I dare say, " and Soames held out his hand. A distracted squeeze, aheavy sigh, and, soon after, sounds from the young man's motor-cyclecalled up visions of flying dust and broken bones. 

'The younger generation!' he thought heavily, and went out on to thelawn. The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell offresh-cut grass--the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. Thesky was of a purplish hue--the poplars black. Two or three boats passedon the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm. 'Three days fine weather, ' thought Soames, 'and then a storm!' Wherewas Annette? With that chap, for all he knew--she was a young woman!Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he entered thesummer-house and sat down. The fact was--and he admitted it--Fleur wasso much to him that his wife was very little--very little; French--hadhardly been more than a mistress, and he was getting indifferent tothat side of things! It was odd how, with all his ingrained care formoderation and secure investment, Soames ever put his emotional eggsinto one basket. First Irene--now Fleur. He was just conscious of it, sitting there, conscious of its odd dangerousness. It had brought himto wreck and scandal once, but now--now it should save him! He cared somuch for Fleur that he would have no further scandal. If only he couldget at that anonymous letter writer, he would teach the fellow not tomeddle and stir up mud at the bottom of water which he wished shouldremain stagnant!. .. A distant flash, a low rumble, and large drops ofrain spattered on the thatch above him. He remained indifferent, tracing a pattern with his finger on the dusty surface of a littlerustic table. Fleur's future! 'I want fair sailing for her, ' hethought. 'Nothing else matters at my time of life. ' A lonelybusiness--life! What you had you never could keep to yourself! As youwarned one off, you let another in. One could make sure of nothing! Hereached up and pulled a red rambler rose from a cluster which blockedthe window. Flowers grew and dropped--you couldn't keep them! Thethunder rumbled and crashed, travelling east along the river, thepaling flashes flicked his eyes; the poplar tops showed sharp and denseagainst the sky, a heavy shower rustled and rattled and veiled in thelittle house wherein he sat, indifferent, thinking. 

When the storm was over, he left his retreat and went down the wet pathto the river bank. 

Two swans had come, sheltering in among the reeds. He knew the birdswell, and stood watching the dignity in the curve of those white necksand formidable snake-like heads. 'Not dignified--what I have to do!' hethought. And yet it must be tackled, lest worse befell. Annette must beback by now from wherever she had gone, for it was nearly dinner-time, and as the moment for seeing her approached, the difficulty of knowingwhat to say and how to say it had increased. A new and scaring thoughtoccurred to him. Suppose she wanted her liberty to marry this fellow!Well, if she did, she couldn't have it. He had not married her forthat. The image of Prosper Profond dawdled before him reassuringly. Nota marrying man! No, no! Anger replaced that momentary scare. 'He hadbetter not come my way, ' he thought. The mongrel represented--! Ah!what did Prosper Profond represent? Nothing that mattered surely. Andyet something real enough in the world--unmorality let off its chain, disillusionment on the prowl! That expression Annette had caught fromhim: "Je m'en fiche!" A fatalistic chap! A Continental--acosmopolitan--a product of the age! If there were condemnation morecomplete, Soames felt that he did not know it. 

The swans had turned their heads, and were looking past him into somedistance of their own. One of them uttered a little hiss, wagged itstail, turned as if answering to a rudder, and swam away. The otherfollowed. Their white bodies, their stately necks, passed out of hissight, and he went towards the house. 

Annette was in the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, and he thought ashe went up-stairs: 'Handsome is as handsome does. ' Handsome! Except forremarks about the curtains in the drawing-room, and the storm, therewas practically no conversation during a meal distinguished byexactitude of quantity and perfection of quality. Soames drank nothing. He followed her into the drawing-room afterwards, and found her smokinga cigarette on the sofa between the two French windows. She was leaningback, almost upright, in a low black frock, with her knees crossed andher blue eyes half closed; grey-blue smoke issued from her red, ratherfull lips, a fillet bound her chestnut hair, she wore the thinnest silkstockings, and shoes with very high heels showing off her instep. Afine piece in any room! Soames, who held that torn letter in a handthrust deep into the side-pocket of his dinner-jacket, said:

"I'm going to shut the window; the damp's lifting in. "

He did so, and stood looking at a David Cox adorning the cream-panelledwall close by. 

What was she thinking of? He had never understood a woman in hislife--except Fleur--and Fleur not always! His heart beat fast. But ifhe meant to do it, now was the moment. Turning from the David Cox, hetook out the torn letter. 

"I've had this. "

Her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened. 

Soames handed her the letter. 

"It's torn, but you can read it. " And he turned back to the DavidCox--a seapiece, of good tone but without movement enough. 'I wonderwhat that chap's doing at this moment?' he thought. 'I'll astonish himyet. ' Out of the corner of his eye he saw Annette holding the letterrigidly; her eyes moved from side to side under her darkened lashes andfrowning darkened eyebrows. She dropped the letter, gave a littleshiver, smiled, and said:

"Dirrty!"

"I quite agree, " said Soames; "degrading. Is it true?"

A tooth fastened on her red lower lip. "And what if it were?"

She was brazen!

"Is that all you have to say?"

"No. "

"Well, speak out!"

"What is the good of talking?"

Soames said icily: "So you admit it?"

"I admit nothing. You are a fool to ask. A man like you should not ask. It is dangerous. "

Soames made a tour of the room, to subdue his rising anger. 

"Do you remember, " he said, halting in front of her, "what you werewhen I married you? Working at accounts in a restaurant. "

"Do you remember that I was not half your age?"

Soames broke off the hard encounter of their eyes, and went back to theDavid Cox. 

"I am not going to bandy words. I require you to give upthis--friendship. I think of the matter entirely as it affects Fleur. "

"Ah!--Fleur!"

"Yes, " said Soames stubbornly; "Fleur. She is your child as well asmine. "

"It is kind to admit that!"

"Are you going to do what I say?"

"I refuse to tell you. "

"Then I must make you. "

Annette smiled. 

"No, Soames, " she said. "You are helpless. Do not say things that youwill regret. "

Anger swelled the veins on his forehead. He opened his mouth to ventthat emotion, and--could not. Annette went on:

"There shall be no more such letters, I promise you. That is enough. "

Soames writhed. He had a sense of being treated like a child by thiswoman who had deserved he did not know what. 

"When two people have married, and lived like us, Soames, they hadbetter be quiet about each other. There are things one does not drag upinto the light for people to laugh at. You will be quiet, then; not formy sake--for your own. You are getting old; I am not, yet. You havemade me ver-ry practical. " Soames, who had passed through all thesensations of being choked, repeated dully:

"I require you to give up this friendship. "

"And if I do not?"

"Then--then I will cut you out of my Will. "

Somehow it did not seem to meet the case. Annette laughed. 

"You will live a long time, Soames. "

"You--you are a bad woman, " said Soames suddenly. 

Annette shrugged her shoulders. 

"I do not think so. Living with you has killed things in me, it istrue; but I am not a bad woman. I am sensible--that is all. And so willyou be when you have thought it over. "

"I shall see this man, " said Soames sullenly, "and warn him off. "

"Mon cher, you are funny. You do not want me, you have as much of me asyou want; and you wish the rest of me to be dead. I admit nothing, butI am not going to be dead, Soames, at my age; so you had better bequiet, I tell you. I myself will make no scandal; none. Now, I am notsaying any more, whatever you do. "

She reached out, took a French novel off a little table, and opened it. Soames watched her, silenced by the tumult of his feelings. The thoughtof that man was almost making him want her, and this was a revelationof their relationship, startling to one little given to introspectivephilosophy. Without saying another word he went out and up to thepicture-gallery. This came of marrying a Frenchwoman! And yet, withouther there would have been no Fleur! She had served her purpose. 

'She's right, ' he thought; 'I can do nothing. I don't even KNOW thatthere's anything in it. ' The instinct of self-preservation warned himto batten down his hatches, to smother the fire with want of air. Unless one believed there was something in a thing, there wasn't. 

That night he went into her room. She received him in the mostmatter-of-fact way, as if there had been no scene between them. And hereturned to his own room with a curious sense of peace. If one didn'tchoose to see, one needn't. And he did not choose--in future he did notchoose. There was nothing to be gained by it--nothing! Opening thedrawer he took from the sachet a handkerchief, and the framedphotograph of Fleur. When he had looked at it a little he slipped itdown, and there was that other one--that old one of Irene. An owlhooted while he stood in his window gazing at it. The owl hooted, thered climbing roses seemed to deepen in colour, there came a scent oflime-blossom. God! That had been a different thing! Passion--Memory!Dust!

VII

JUNE TAKES A HAND

One who was a sculptor, a Slav, a sometime resident in New York, anegoist, and impecunious, was to be found of an evening in JuneForsyte's studio on the bank of the Thames at Chiswick. On the eveningof July 6, Boris Strumolowski--several of whose works were on showthere because they were as yet too advanced to be on show anywhereelse--had begun well, with that aloof and rather Christlike silencewhich admirably suited his youthful, round, broad-cheekbonedcountenance framed in bright hair banged like a girl's. June had knownhim three weeks, and he still seemed to her the principal embodiment ofgenius, and hope of the future; a sort of Star of the East which hadstrayed into an unappreciative West. Until that evening he hadconversationally confined himself to recording his impressions of theUnited States, whose dust he had just shaken from off his feet--acountry, in his opinion, so barbarous in every way that he had soldpractically nothing there, and become an object of suspicion to thepolice; a country, as he said, without a race of its own, withoutliberty, equality, or fraternity, without principles, traditions, taste, without--in a word--a soul. He had left it for his own good, andcome to the only other country where he could live well. June had dweltunhappily on him in her lonely moments, standing before hiscreations--frightening, but powerful and symbolic once they had beenexplained! That he, haloed by bright hair like an early Italianpainting, and absorbed in his genius to the exclusion of all else--theonly sign of course by which real genius could be told--should still bea "lame duck" agitated her warm heart almost to the exclusion of PaulPost. And she had begun to take steps to clear her Gallery, in order tofill it with Strumolowski masterpieces. She had at once encounteredtrouble. Paul Post had kicked; Vospovitch had stung. With all theemphasis of a genius which she did not as yet deny them, they haddemanded another six weeks at least of her Gallery. The Americanstream, still flowing in, would soon be flowing out. The Americanstream was their right, their only hope, their salvation--since nobodyin this "beastly" country cared for Art. June had yielded to thedemonstration. After all Boris would not mind their having the fullbenefit of an American stream, which he himself so violently despised. 

This evening she had put that to Boris with nobody else present, exceptHannah Hobdey, the mediaeval black-and-whitist, and Jimmy Portugal, editor of the Neo-Artist. She had put it to him with that suddenconfidence which continual contact with the neo-artistic world hadnever been able to dry up in her warm and generous nature. He had notbroken his Christlike silence, however, for more than two minutesbefore she began to move her blue eyes from side to side, as a catmoves its tail. This--he said--was characteristic of England, the mostselfish country in the world; the country which sucked the blood ofother countries; destroyed the brains and hearts of Irishmen, Hindus, Egyptians, Boers, and Burmese, all the finest races in the world;bullying, hypocritical England! This was what he had expected, comingto such a country, where the climate was all fog, and the people alltradesmen perfectly blind to Art, and sunk in profiteering and thegrossest materialism. Conscious that Hannah Hobdey was murmuring:"Hear, hear!" and Jimmy Portugal sniggering, June grew crimson, andsuddenly rapped out:

"Then why did you ever come? We didn't ask you. " The remark was sosingularly at variance with all that she had led him to expect fromher, 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; oldJolyon's sense of justice had risen, as it were, from bed. "You comeand sponge on us, " she said, "and then abuse us. If you think that'splaying the game, I don't. "

She now discovered that which others had discovered before her--thethickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius is sometimesveiled. Strumolowski's young and ingenuous face became the incarnationof a sneer. 

"Sponge, one does not sponge, one takes what is owing--a tenth part ofwhat 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 outof us. I want nothing from you"--and he blew out a cloud of June'ssmoke. 

Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame withinher. "Very well, then, you can take your things away. "

And, almost in the same moment, she thought: 'Poor boy! He's only got agarret, 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 thesake 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 donefor Art, all her identification with its troubles and lame ducks. Shewas struggling for adequate words when the door was opened, and herAustrian murmured:

"A young lady, gnadiges fraulein. "

"Where?"

"In the little meal-room. "

With a glance at Boris Strumolowski, at Hannah Hobdey, at JimmyPortugal, June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity. Entering the "little meal-room, " she perceived the young lady to beFleur--looking very pretty, if pale. At this disenchanted moment a lameduck 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, atleast to get something out of her. And June felt just then that toassist 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 mebother you, if you've got people. "

"Not at all, " said June. "I want to let them stew in their own juicefor 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 whichJune took her meals. A vase on it was full of Iceland poppies; the girlraised her hand and touched them with a gloved finger. To hernew-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 itswhitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its blackpaint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the sunlight wasshining, had never looked so charming, set off by this young figure, with the creamy, slightly frowning face. She remembered with suddenvividness how nice she herself had looked in those old days when HERheart was set on Philip Bosinney, that dead lover, who had broken fromher to destroy for ever Irene's allegiance to this girl's father. DidFleur 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 toit. "

"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 lyingdown. "

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

"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!'

"Well, what do you want ME to do?" she said with a sort of disgust. 

"Could I see Jon here to-morrow on his way down to Holly's? He'd comeif you sent him a line to-night, and perhaps afterwards you'd let themknow quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and that they needn'ttell Jon about his mother. "

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

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

June licked a stamp. "Well, here it is. If you're not in love, ofcourse, 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, tolove, and not to be loved by the daughter of--Soames! It washumiliating!

"Is that all?"

Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed towards thedoor. 

"Good-bye!"

"Good-bye! . .. Little piece of fashion!" muttered June, closing thedoor. "That family!" And she marched back towards her studio. BorisStrumolowski had regained his Christlike silence, and Jimmy Portugalwas damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf he ran theNeo-Artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobbley, and several other"lame-duck" genii who at one time or another had held first place inthe repertoire of June's aid and adoration. She experienced a sense offutility and disgust, and went to the window to let the river-wind blowthose squeaky words away. 

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

VIII

THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH

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

End it, forsooth! She would soon show them all that she was only justbeginning. And she smiled to herself on the top of the 'bus whichcarried her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed out by spasmsof anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to manage Jon? She hadtaken 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?' Thishideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see that! Theycould not let it! People always accepted an accomplished fact, in time!From that piece of philosophy--profound enough at her age--she passedto another consideration less philosophic. If she persuaded Jon to aquick and secret marriage, and he found out afterwards that she hadknown the truth! What then? Jon hated subterfuge. Again, then, would itnot be better to tell him? But the memory of his mother's face keptintruding on that impulse. Fleur was afraid. His mother had power overhim; more power perhaps than she herself. Who could tell? It was toogreat a risk. Deep-sunk in these instinctive calculations she wascarried on past Green Street as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got downthere, and walked back on the Green Park side. The storm had washedevery tree; they still dripped. Heavy drops fell on to her frills, andto 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 inthe 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 foryou?"

"Yes, pass by on the other side. "

"I say! Why do you dislike me?"

"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. Nothinglasts. "

"Things do last, " cried Fleur; "with me anyhow--especially likes anddislikes. "

"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 conveythat he was breaking with her mother. How dared he have anything tobreak, 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--backtowards his Club. 

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

Her dreams that night were endless and uneasy; she rose heavy andunrested, and went at once to the study of Whitaker's Almanac. AForsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of anysituation. She might conquer Jon's prejudice, but without exactmachinery 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 wasunobtainable; 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 inorder to be married for love! She ate hardly any breakfast, and wentback to Whitaker. The more she studied the less sure she became; till, idly turning the pages, she came to Scotland. People could be marriedthere without any of this nonsense. She had only to go and stay theretwenty-one days, then Jon could come, and in front of two people theycould declare themselves married. And what was more--they would be! Itwas far the best way; and at once she ran over her school-fellows. 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 herbrother would serve for witnesses. She well knew that some girls wouldthink all this unnecessary, and that all she and Jon need do was to goaway together for a week-end and then say to their people: "We aremarried by Nature, we must now be married by Law. " But Fleur wasForsyte enough to feel such a proceeding dubious, and to dread herfather's face when he heard of it. Besides, she did not believe thatJon would do it; he had an opinion of her such as she could not bear todiminish. No! Mary Lambe was preferable, and it was just the time ofyear 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 KewGardens. She found no peace among its flower-beds, labelled trees, andbroad green spaces, and having lunched off anchovy-paste sandwiches andcoffee, returned to Chiswick and rang June's bell. The Austrianadmitted her to the "little meal-room. " Now that she knew what she andJon were up against, her longing for him had increased tenfold, as ifhe were a toy with sharp edges or dangerous paint such as they hadtried to take from her as a child. If she could not have her way, andget Jon for good and all, she felt like dying of privation. By hook orcrook she must and would get him! A round dim mirror of very old glasshung over the pink brick hearth. She stood looking at herself reflectedin it, pale, and rather dark under the eyes; little shudders keptpassing through her nerves. Then she heard the bell ring, and, stealingto the window, saw him standing on, the doorstep smoothing his hair andlips, 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 tothe 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 wenton:

"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'vesaid nothing to me. "

"But they mean to stop us. Your mother's face was enough. And myfather'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 afterall these years. "

Fleur looked up at him. 

"Perhaps you don't love me enough. "

"Not love you enough! Why-I--"

"Then make sure of me"

"Without telling them?"

"Not till after. "

Jon was silent. How much older he looked than on that day, barely twomonths 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 onto 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 ofother 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 fearshis fate too much--!'"

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

"I've planned it all out. We've only to go to Scotland. When we'remarried 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, andalmost 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 athim, and answered: "No. " She had burnt her boats; but what did itmatter, if she got him? He would forgive her. And throwing her armsround his neck, she kissed him on the lips. She was winning! She feltit 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. Atlast 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'sremorse and tenderness knew no bounds; but he did not promise. Despiteher will to cry: "Very well, then, if you don't love meenough--good-bye!" she dared not. From birth accustomed to her own way, this check from one so young, so tender, so devoted, baffled andsurprised her. She wanted to push him away from her, to try what angerand coldness would do, and again she dared not. The knowledge that shewas scheming to rush him blindfold into the irrevocable weakenedeverything--weakened the sincerity of pique, and the sincerity ofpassion; even her kisses had not the lure she wished for them. Thatstormy 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 flushed, stained cheeks, frightened, angry, very miserable. She had stirred Jon up so fearfully, yet nothingdefinite was promised or arranged! But the more uncertain and hazardousthe future, the more "the will to have" worked its tentacles into theflesh of her heart--like some burrowing tick!

No one was at Green Street. Winifred had gone with Imogen to see a playwhich some said was allegorical, and others "very exciting, don't youknow?" It was because of what others said that Winifred and Imogen hadgone. Fleur went on to Paddington. Through the carriage the air fromthe brick-kilns of West Drayton and the late hay-fields fanned herstill-flushed cheeks. Flowers had seemed to be had for the picking; nowthey were all thorned and prickled. But the golden flower within thecrown of spikes seemed to her tenacious spirit all the fairer and moredesirable. 

IX

FAT IN THE FIRE

On reaching home Fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that itpenetrated even the perplexed aura of her own private life. Her motherwas in blue stockingette and a brown study; her father in a white felthat and the vinery. Neither of them had a word to throw to a dog. 'Isit because of me?' thought Fleur. 'Or because of Profond?' To hermother 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 askedme 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, andmaking love. "

"Didn't you ever make love?"

She avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him wellenough. His pale face had reddened, his eyebrows, where darkness wasstill 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 fromhis 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 ifstruck, 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 bereminded. " And then, as if venting some long and secret irritation, headded: "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 stoodstaring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the mushy scentof 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. Hasthat 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 moreso. Son of that fellow--It's--it's--perverse!"

She had noted, almost unconsciously, that he did not say "son of thatwoman, " 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, andthen said suddenly: "I must think this over--I'll speak to you againto-night. "

She knew this was final for the moment, and stole away, leaving himstill looking at the pipe-joint. She wandered into the fruit-garden, among the raspberry and currant bushes, without impetus to pick andeat. Two months ago--she was light-hearted! Even two daysago--light-hearted, before Prosper Profond told her. Now she felttangled in a web--of passions, vested rights, oppressions and revolts, the ties of love and hate. At this dark moment of discouragement thereseemed, even to her hold-fast nature, no way out. How deal with it--howsway 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 hermother, walking swiftly, with an open letter in her hand. Her bosom washeaving, 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. "You innocent!" she said. 

Her mother--so self-possessed, and commonsensical--to look and speaklike this! It was all frightening! Her father, her mother, herself! Andonly two months back they had seemed to have everything they wanted inthis world. 

Annette crumpled the letter in her hand. Fleur knew that she mustignore 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 mencome prowling for, disturbing everything! I suppose he's tired of her. What business has he to be tired of my mother? What business!' And atthat thought, so natural and so peculiar, she uttered a little chokedlaugh. 

She ought, of course, to be delighted, but what was there to bedelighted at? Her father didn't really care! Her mother did, perhaps?She entered the orchard, and sat down under a cherry-tree. A breezesighed in the higher boughs; the sky seen through their green was veryblue and very white in cloud--those heavy white clouds almost alwayspresent in river landscape. Bees, sheltering out of the wind, hummedsoftly, and over the lush grass fell the thick shade from thosefruit-trees planted by her father five-and-twenty years ago. Birds werealmost silent, the cuckoos had ceased to sing, but wood-pigeons werecooing. The breath and drone and cooing of high summer were not forlong a sedative to her excited nerves. Crouched over her knees shebegan to scheme. Her father must be made to back her up. Why should hemind so long as she was happy? She had not lived for nearly nineteenyears without knowing that her future was all he really cared about. She had, then, only to convince him that her future could not be happywithout Jon. He thought it a mad fancy. How foolish the old were, thinking they could tell what the young felt! Had not he confessed thathe--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, ifI'm not going to be happy?' Money, and all it bought, did not bringhappiness. Love only brought that. The ox-eyed daisies in this orchard, which gave it such a moony look sometimes, grew wild and happy, and hadtheir hour. 'They oughtn't to have called me Fleur, ' she mused, 'ifthey didn't mean me to have my hour, and be happy while it lasts. 'Nothing real stood in the way, like poverty, or disease--sentimentonly, a ghost from the unhappy past! Jon was right. They wouldn't letyou live, these old people! They made mistakes, committed crimes, andwanted their children to go on paying! The breeze died away; midgesbegan 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, palelow frocks. The dinner flowers were pale. Fleur was struck with thepale look of everything: her father's face, her mother's shoulders; thepale panelled walls, the pale-grey velvety carpet, the lamp-shade, eventhe soup was pale. There was not one spot of colour in the room, noteven wine in the pale glasses, for no one drank it. What was not palewas black--her father's clothes, the butler's clothes, her retrieverstretched out exhausted in the window, the curtains black with a creampattern. A moth came in, and that was pale. And silent was thathalf-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 palehoneysuckle, 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. Idon't know if you understand how much you are to me--I've never spokenof it, I didn't think it necessary; but--but you're everything. Yourmother--" 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--I'm helpless. "

Fleur did not speak. 

"Quite apart from my own feelings, " went on Soames with moreresolution, "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 herwhat 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 thebetrayal of no emotion. 

"Listen!" he said. "You're putting the feelings of two months--twomonths--against the feelings of thirty-five years! What chance do youthink you have? Two months--your very first love-affair, a matter ofhalf 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 beenthrough it. Come, be reasonable, Fleur! It's midsummer madness!"

Fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits. "The madness is inletting the past spoil it all. What do we care about the past? It's ourlives, not yours. "

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

"Whose child are you?" he said. "Whose child is he? The present islinked with the past, the future with both. There's no getting awayfrom that. "

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

"But, Father, consider it practically. We want each other. There's everso much money, and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment. Let'sbury the past, Father. "

Soames shook his head. "Impossible!"

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

"I don't suppose, " said Soames, "that if left to myself I should try toprevent 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 torealise before it's too late. If you go on thinking you can get yourway, and encourage this feeling, the blow will be much heavier when youfind 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 andimpediment--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'llhave yourself to blame. Come! Don't be foolish, my child--my onlychild!"

Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder. 

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

"Fleur, " came his voice, "don't be hard on a poor devil! I've beenwaiting 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! Evenvivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they're cut up forgood. "

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 rotthat all the lovers that ever were have talked, and all my special rotthrown in. "

"Thank you, I have imagined it. Good-night!"

They stood for a moment facing each other in the shadow of anacacia-tree with very moonlit blossoms, and the smoke from theircigarettes mingled in the air between them. 

"Also ran: 'Michael Mont'?" he said. Fleur turned abruptly towards thehouse. On the lawn she stopped to look back. Michael Mont was whirlinghis arms above him; she could see them dashing at his head, then wavingat the moonlit blossoms of the acacia. His voice just reached her. "Jolly--jolly!" Fleur shook herself. She couldn't help him, she had toomuch trouble of her own! On the verandah she stopped very suddenlyagain. Her mother was sitting in the drawing-room at her writingbureau, quite alone. There was nothing remarkable in the expression ofher face except its utter immobility. But she looked desolate! Fleurwent up-stairs. At the door of her room she paused. She could hear herfather 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 womanwith a dark face and the concerned expression of one who has watchedevery 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! Andwith a heavy sense of disproportion he smiled, and said:

"Well--thank you!"

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

"Sugar? Miss Forsyte has much sugar--she buy my sugar, my friend'ssugar 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?"

The Austrian shook her head. 

"Your father a very nice man--the most nice old man I ever see. MissForsyte tell me all about him. Is he better?"

Her words fell on Jon like a reproach. "Oh! I think he's all right. "

"I like to see him again, " said the Austrian, putting a hand on herheart; "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?"

"Very. "

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

Jon gulped down his tea. This woman, with her concerned face and herreminding 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 gainedthe door. He heard the Austrian gasp, and hurried out. He had just timeto catch his train, and all the way to Victoria looked at every facethat passed, as lovers will, hoping against hope. On reaching Worthinghe put his luggage into the local train, and set out across the Downsfor Wansdon, trying to walk off his aching irresolution. So long as hewent full bat, he could enjoy the beauty of those green slopes, stopping now and again to sprawl on the grass, admire the perfection ofa wild rose, or listen to a lark's song. But the war of motives withinhim was but postponed--the longing for Fleur, and the hatred ofdeception. He came to the old chalk-pit above Wansdon with his mind nomore made up than when he started. To see both sides of a questionvigorously was at once Jon's strength and weakness. He tramped in, justas 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 goneto Town and would not be back till the last train. 

Since Val's advice to him to ask his sister what was the matter betweenthe two families, so much had happened--Fleur's disclosure in the GreenPark, her visit to Robin Hill, to-day's meeting--that there seemednothing to ask. He talked of Spain, his sunstroke, Val's horses, theirfather's health. Holly startled him by saying that she thought theirfather not at all well. She had been twice to Robin Hill for theweek-end. He had seemed fearfully languid, sometimes even in pain, buthad 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've notforgotten how he let me go out to South Africa in the Boer War when Iwas 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 starewas circumspect. What did the boy know? Enough to make it better totell 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 gotno news of anything. " She could not take the risk. It was not hersecret. Besides, she was in the dark about his feelings now. BeforeSpain she had made sure he was in love; but boys were boys; that wasseven 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 more than the most elaborate explanations. He had notforgotten!

She said very quietly: "Fleur is awfully attractive, Jon, but youknow--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 hisdessert 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? I believe each of us only has about one or two people who cansee the best that's in us, and bring it out. For you I think it's yourmother. I once saw her looking at a letter of yours; it was wonderfulto see her face. I think she's the most beautiful woman I ever saw--Agedoesn't seem to touch her. "

Jon's face softened, then again became tense. He recognised theintention of those words. Everybody was against him and Fleur! It allstrengthened her appeal:

"Make sure of me--marry me, Jon!"

Here, where he had passed that wonderful week with her--the tug of herenchantment, the ache in his heart increased with every minute that shewas not there to make the room, the garden, the very air magical. Wouldhe ever be able to live down here, not seeing her? And he closed uputterly, 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 stillnessof the summer night stole back--with only the bleating of very distantsheep, and a night-jar's harsh purring. He leaned far out. Coldmoon--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 itwas written: Thou shalt leave father and mother and cleave to--Fleur!

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

The night-jar ceased, the sheep were silent; the only sound in thedarkness 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 thesecond anniversary of the resurrection of England's pride andglory--or, more shortly, the top hat. "Lord's"--that festival which thewar had driven from the field--raised its light and dark blue flags forthe second time, displaying almost every feature of a glorious past. Here, in the luncheon interval, were all species of female and onespecies of male hat, protecting the multiple types of face associatedwith "the classes" The observing Forsyte might discern in the free orunconsidered seats a certain number of the squash-hatted, but theyhardly ventured on the grass; the old school--or schools--could stillrejoice that the proletariat was not yet paying the necessaryhalf-crown. Here was still a close borough, the only one left on alarge scale--for the papers were about to estimate the attendance atten thousand. And the ten thousand, all animated by one hope, wereasking each other one question: "Where are you lunching?" Somethingwonderfully uplifting and reassuring in that query and the sight of somany people like themselves voicing it! What reserve power in theBritish realm--enough pigeons, lobsters, lamb, salmon mayonnaise, strawberries, and bottles of champagne, to feed the lot! No miracle inprospect--no case of seven loaves and a few fishes--faith rested onsurer foundations. Six thousand top hats, four thousand parasols wouldbe doffed and furled, ten thousand mouths all speaking the same Englishwould be filled. There was life in the old dog yet! Tradition! Andagain Tradition! How strong and how elastic! Wars might rage, taxationprey, Trades Unions take toll, and Europe perish of starvation; but theten thousand would be fed; and, within their ring fence, stroll upongreen turf, wear their top hats, and meet--themselves. The heart wassound, the pulse still regular. E-ton! E-ton! Har-r-o-o-o-w!

Among the many Forsytes present, on a hunting-ground theirs, bypersonal prescriptive right, or proxy, was Soames, with his wife anddaughter. He had not been at either school, he took no interest incricket, but he wanted Fleur to show her frock, and he wanted to wearhis top hat--parade it again in peace and plenty among his peers. Hewalked sedately with Fleur between him and Annette. No women equalledthem, 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 ofpride he had walked round with Irene in the first years of his firstmarriage. And how they used to lunch on the drag which his mother WOULDmake his father have, because it was so "chic"--all drags and carriagesin those days, not these lumbering great Stands! And how consistentlyMontague Dartie had drunk too much. He supposed that people drank toomuch still, but there was not the scope for it there used to be. Heremembered George Forsyte--whose brothers Roger and Eustace had been atHarrow and Eton--towering up on the top of the drag waving a light-blueflag with one hand and a dark-blue flag with the other, and shouting:"Etroow--Harrton!" just when everybody was silent, like the buffoon hehad always been; and Eustace got up to the nines below, too dandifiedto wear any colour or take any notice. H'm! Old days, and Irene in greysilk shot with palest green. He looked, sideways, at Fleur's face. Rather colourless--no light, no eagerness! That love affair was preyingon her--a bad business! He looked beyond, at his wife's face, rathermore touched up than usual, a little disdainful--not that she had anybusiness to disdain, so far as he could see. She was taking Profond'sdefection with curious quietude; or was his "small" voyage just ablind? If so, he should refuse to see it! After promenading round thepitch and in front of the pavilion, they sought Winifred's table in theBedouin Club tent. This Club--a new "cock and hen"--had been founded inthe interests of travel, and of a gentleman with an old Scottish name, whose father had somewhat strangely been called Levi. Winifred hadjoined, not because she had travelled, but because instinct told herthat a Club with such a name and such a founder was bound to go far; ifone didn't join at once one might never have the chance. Its tent, witha text from the Koran on an orange ground, and a small green camelembroidered over the entrance, was the most striking on the ground. Outside it they found Jack Cardigan in a dark-blue tie (he had onceplayed for Harrow), batting with a Malacca cane to show how that fellowought to have hit that ball. He piloted them in. Assembled inWinifred's corner were Imogen, Benedict with his young wife, Val Dartiewithout Holly, Maud and her husband, and, after Soames and his two wereseated, one empty place. 

"I'm expecting Prosper, " said Winifred, "but he's so busy with hisyacht. "

Soames stole a glance. No movement in his wife's face! Whether thatfellow were coming or not, she evidently knew all about it. It did notescape him that Fleur, too, looked at her mother. If Annette didn'trespect his feelings, she might think of Fleur! The conversation, verydesultory, was syncopated by Jack Cardigan talking about "mid-off. " Hecited all the "great mid-offs" from the beginning of time, as if theyhad been a definite racial entity in the composition of the Britishpeople. Soames had finished his lobster, and was beginning onpigeon-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 FELLOWwas sitting between Annette and Imogen. Soames ate steadily on, with anoccasional 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 Forsydeagrees with me. "

"In what?" came Fleur's clear tones across the table. 

"I was sayin', young gurls are much the same as they alwayswere--there's very small difference. "

"Do you know so much about them?"

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

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

"Indeed!"

"Oh, but--Prosper, " Winifred interjected comfortably, "the girls in thestreets--the girls who've been in munitions, the little flappers in theshops; their manners now really quite hit you in the eye. "

At the word "hit" Jack Cardigan stopped his disquisition; and in thesilence 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 moreopportunity. "

The saying, so cryptically cynical, received a little laugh fromImogen, a slight opening of Jack Cardigan's mouth, and another creakfrom Soames' chair. 

Winifred said: "That's too bad, Prosper. "

"What do you say, Mrs. Forsyde; don't you think human nature's alwaysthe same?"

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

"Human nature is not the same in England as anywhere else. " That washer 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 lideverywhere. We all want pleasure, and we always did. "

Damn the fellow! His cynicism was outrageous!

When lunch was over they broke up into couples for the digestivepromenade. Too proud to notice, Soames knew perfectly that Annette andthat fellow had gone prowling round together. Fleur was with Val; shehad chosen him, no doubt, because he knew that boy. He himself hadWinifred for partner. They walked in the bright, circling stream, alittle flushed and sated, 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, tosave a recurrent crisis. "It's been very amusing, after all. SometimesI even wish Monty was back. What do you think of people nowadays, Soames?"

"Precious little style. The thing began to go to pieces with bicyclesand motor-cars; the war has finished it. "

"I wonder what's coming?" said Winifred in a voice dreamy frompigeon-pie. "I'm not at all sure we shan't go back to crinolines andpegtops. 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. "

"There's a hat!" said Winifred. "I don't know--when you come to thinkof the people killed and all that in the war, it's rather wonderful, Ithink. There's no other country--Prosper says the rest are allbankrupt, except America; and of course her men always took their stylein dress from us. "

"Is that chap, " said Soames, "really going to the South Seas?"

"Oh, one never knows where Prosper's going!"

"HE'S a sign of the times, " muttered Soames, "if you like. "

Winifred's hand gripped his arm. 

"Don't turn your head, " she said in a low voice, "but look to yourright in the front row of the Stand. "

Soames looked as best he could under that limitation. A man in a greytop hat, grey-bearded, with thin brown, folded cheeks, and a certainelegance of posture, sat there with a woman in a lawn-coloured frock, whose dark eyes were fixed on himself. Soames looked quickly at hisfeet. How funnily feet moved, one after the other like that! Winifred'svoice said in his ear:

"Jolyon looks very ill, but he always had style. SHE doesn'tchange--except her hair. "

"Why did you tell Fleur about that business?"

"I didn't; she picked it up. I always knew she would. "

"Well, it's a mess. She's set her heart upon their boy. "

"The little wretch, " murmured Winifred. "She tried to take me in aboutthat. What shall you do, Soames?"

"Be guided by events. "

They moved on, silent, in the almost solid crowd. 

"Really, " said Winifred suddenly; "it almost seems like Fate. Onlythat's so old-fashioned. Look! There are George and Eustace!"

George Forsyte's lofty bulk had halted before them. 

"Hallo, Soames!" he said. "Just met Profond and your wife. You'll catch'em if you put on steam. Did you ever go to see old Timothy?"

Soames nodded, and the streams forced them apart. 

"I always liked old George, " said Winifred. "He's so droll. "

"I never did, " said Soames. "Where's your seat? I shall go to mine. Fleur may be back there. "

Having seen Winifred to her seat, he regained his own, conscious ofsmall, white, distant figures running, the click of the bat, the cheersand counter-cheers. No Fleur, and no Annette! You could expect nothingof women nowadays! They had the vote. They were "emancipated, " and muchgood it was doing them. So Winifred would go back, would she, and putup with Dartie all over again? To have the past once more--to besitting here as he had sat in '83 and '84, before he was certain thathis marriage with Irene had gone all wrong, before her antagonism hadbecome so glaring that with the best will in the world he could notoverlook it. The sight of her with that fellow had brought all memoryback. Even now he could not understand why she had been soimpracticable. She could love other men; she had it in her! To himself, the one person she ought to have loved, she had chosen to refuse herheart. It seemed to him, fantastically, as he looked back, that allthis modern relaxation of marriage--though its forms and laws were thesame as when he married her--that all this modern looseness had comeout of her revolt; it seemed to him, fantastically, that she hadstarted it, till all decent ownership of anything had gone, or was onthe point of going. All came from her! And now--a pretty state ofthings! Homes! How could you have them without mutual ownership? Notthat he had ever had a real home! But had that been his fault? He haddone his best. And his reward--those two sitting in that Stand! Andthis affair of Fleur's!

And overcome by loneliness he thought: 'Shan't wait any longer! Theymust find their own way back to the hotel--if they mean to come!'Hailing a cab outside the ground, he said:

"Drive me to the Bayswater Road. " His old aunts had never failed him. To them he had meant an everwelcome visitor. Though they were gone, there, still, was Timothy!

Smither was standing in the open doorway. 

"Mr. Soames! I was just taking the air. Cook will be so pleased. "

"How is Mr. Timothy?"

"Not himself at all these last few days, sir; he's been talking a greatdeal. Only this morning he was saying: 'My brother James, he's gettingold. ' His mind wanders, Mr. Soames, and then he will talk of them. Hetroubles about their investments. The other day he said: 'There's mybrother Jolyon won't look at Consols'--he seemed quite down about it. Come in, Mr. Soames, come in! It's such a pleasant change!"

"Well, " said Soames, "just for a few minutes. "

"No, " murmured Smither in the hall, where the air had the singularfreshness of the outside day, "we haven't been very satisfied with him, not all this week. He's always been one to leave a titbit to the end;but ever since Monday he's been eating it first. If you notice a dog, Mr. Soames, at its dinner, it eats the meat first. We've always thoughtit such a good sign of Mr. Timothy at his age to leave it to the last, but now he seems to have lost all his self-control; and, of course, itmakes him leave the rest. The doctor doesn't make anything of it, but"--Smither shook her head--"he seems to think he's got to eat itfirst, in case he shouldn't get to it. That and his talking makes usanxious. "

"Has he said anything important?"

"I shouldn't like to say that, Mr. Soames; but he's turned against hisWill. He gets quite pettish--and after having had it out every morningfor years, it does seem funny. He said the other day: 'They want mymoney. ' It gave me such a turn, because, as I said to him, nobody wantshis money, I'm sure. And it does seem a pity he should be thinkingabout money at his time of life. I took my courage in my 'ands. 'Youknow, Mr. Timothy, ' I said, 'my dear mistress'--that's Miss Forsyte, Mr. Soames, Miss Ann that trained me--'SHE never thought about money, 'I said, 'it was all CHARACTER with her. ' He looked at me, I can't tellyou how funny, and he said quite dry: 'Nobody wants my character. 'Think of his saying a thing like that! But sometimes he'll saysomething as sharp and sensible as anything. "

Soames, who had been staring at an old print by the hat-rack, thinking, 'That's got value!' murmured: "I'll go up and see him, Smither. "

"Cook's with him, " answered Smither above her corsets; "she will bepleased to see you. "

He mounted slowly, with the thought: 'Shan't care to live to be thatage. '

On the second floor, he paused, and tapped. The door was opened, and hesaw the round homely face of a woman about sixty. 

"Mr. Soames!" she said: "Why! Mr. Soames!"

Soames nodded. "All right, Cook!" and entered. 

Timothy was propped up in bed, with his hands joined before his chest, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, where a fly was standing upsidedown. Soames stood at the foot of the bed, facing him. 

"Uncle Timothy, " he said, raising his voice; "Uncle Timothy!"

Timothy's eyes left the fly, and levelled themselves on his visitor. Soames could see his pale tongue passing over his darkish lips. 

"Uncle Timothy, " he said again, "is there anything I can do for you? Isthere anything you'd like to say?"

"Ha!" said Timothy. 

"I've come to look you up and see that everything's all right. "

Timothy nodded. He seemed trying to get used to the apparition beforehim. 

"Have you got everything you want?"

"No, " said Timothy. 

"Can I get you anything?"

"No, " said Timothy. 

"I'm Soames, you know; your nephew, Soames Forsyte. Your brother James'son. "

Timothy nodded. 

"I shall be delighted to do anything I can for you. "

Timothy beckoned. Soames went close to him. 

"You--" said Timothy in a voice which seemed to have outlived tone, "you tell them all from me--you tell them all--" and his finger tappedon Soames' arm, "to hold on--hold on--Consols are goin' up, " and henodded thrice. 

"All right!" said Soames; "I will. "

"Yes, " said Timothy, and, fixing his eyes again on the ceiling, headded: "That fly!"

Strangely moved, Soames looked at the Cook's pleasant fattish face, alllittle puckers from staring at fires. 

"That'll do him a world of good, sir, " she said. 

A mutter came from Timothy, but he was clearly speaking to himself, andSoames went out with the cook. 

"I wish I could make you a pink cream, Mr. Soames, like in old days;you did so relish them. Good-bye, sir; it HAS been a pleasure. "

"Take care of him, Cook, he is old. "

And, shaking her crumpled hand, he went down-stairs. Smither was stilltaking the air in the doorway. 

"What do you think of him, Mr. Soames?"

"H'm!" Soames murmured: "He's lost touch. "

"Yes, " said Smither, "I was afraid you'd think that, coming fresh outof the world to see him like. "

"Smither, " said Soames, "we're all indebted to you. "

"Oh, no, Mr. Soames, don't say that! It's a pleasure--he's such awonderful man. "

"Well, good-bye!" said Soames, and got into his taxi. 

'Going up!' he thought; 'going up!'

Reaching the hotel at Knightsbridge he went to their sitting-room, andrang for tea. Neither of them were in. And again that sense ofloneliness came over him. These hotels! What monstrous great placesthey were now! He could remember when there was nothing bigger thanLong's or Brown's, Morley's or the Tavistock, and the heads that wereshaken over the Langham and the Grand. Hotels and Clubs--Clubs andHotels; no end to them now! And Soames, who had just been watching atLord's a miracle of tradition and continuity, fell into reverie overthe changes in that London where he had been born five-and-sixty yearsbefore. Whether Consols were going up or not, London had become aterrific property. No such property in the world, unless it were NewYork! There was a lot of hysteria in the papers nowadays; but any onewho, like himself, could remember London sixty years ago, and see itnow, realised the fecundity and elasticity of wealth. They had only tokeep their heads, and go at it steadily. Why! he rememberedcobble-stones, and stinking straw on the floor of your cab. And oldTimothy--what could HE not tell them, if he had kept his memory! Thingswere unsettled, people in a funk or in a hurry, but here were Londonand the Thames, and out there the British Empire, and the ends of theearth. "Consols are goin' up!" He shouldn't be a bit surprised. It wasthe breed that counted. And all that was bull-dogged in Soames staredfor a moment out of his grey eyes, till diverted by the print of aVictorian picture on the walls. The hotel had bought three dozen ofthat little lot! The old hunting or "Rake's Progress" prints in the oldinns were worth looking at--but this sentimental stuff--well, Victorianism had gone! "Tell them to hold on!" old Timothy had said. But to what were they to hold on in this modern welter of the"democratic principle"? Why, even privacy was threatened! And at thethought that privacy might perish, Soames pushed back his teacup andwent to the window. Fancy owning no more of Nature than the crowd outthere owned of the flowers and trees and waters of Hyde Park! No, no!Private possession underlay everything worth having. The world hadslipped its sanity a bit, as dogs now and again at full moon slippedtheirs and went off for a night's rabbiting; but the world, like thedog, knew where its bread was buttered and its bed warm, and would comeback sure enough to the only home worth having--to private ownership. The world was in its second childhood for the moment, like oldTimothy--eating its titbit first!

He heard a sound behind him, and saw that his wife and daughter hadcome in. 

"So you're back!" he said. 

Fleur did not answer; she stood for a moment looking at him and hermother, then passed into her bedroom. Annette poured herself out a cupof tea. 

"I am going to Paris, to my mother, Soames. "

"Oh! To your mother?"

"Yes. "

"For how long?"

"I do not know. "

"And when are you going?"

"On Monday. "

Was she really going to her mother? Odd, how indifferent he felt! Odd, how clearly she had perceived the indifference he would feel so long asthere was no scandal. And suddenly between her and himself he sawdistinctly the face he had seen that afternoon--Irene's. 

"Will you want money?"

"Thank you; I have enough. "

"Very well. Let us know when you are coming back. "

Annette put down the cake she was fingering, and, looking up throughdarkened lashes, said:

"Shall I give Maman any message?"

"My regards. "

Annette stretched herself, her hands on her waist, and said in French:

"What luck that you have never loved me, Soames!" Then rising, she tooleft the room. Soames was glad she had spoken it in French--it seemedto require no dealing with. Again that other face--pale, dark-eyed, beautiful still! And there stirred far down within him the ghost ofwarmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of flaky ash. AndFleur infatuated with her boy! Queer chance! Yet, was there such athing as chance? A man went down a street, a brick fell on his head. Ah! that was chance, no doubt. But this! "Inherited, " his girl hadsaid. She--she was "holding on!"

PART III

I

OLD JOLYON WALKS

Twofold impulse had made Jolyon say to his wife at breakfast: "Let's goup to Lord's!"

"Wanted"--something to abate the anxiety in which those two had livedduring the sixty hours since Jon had brought Fleur down. "Wanted"--too, that which might assuage the pangs of memory in one who knew he mightlose them any day!

Fifty-eight years ago Jolyon had become an Eton boy, for old Jolyon'swhim had been that he should be canonised at the greatest possibleexpense. Year after year he had gone to Lord's from Stanhope Gate witha father whose youth in the eighteen-twenties had been passed withoutpolish in the game of cricket. Old Jolyon would speak quite openly ofswipes, full tosses, half and three-quarter balls; and young Jolyonwith the guileless snobbery of youth had trembled lest his sire shouldbe overheard. Only in this supreme matter of cricket he had beennervous, for his father--in Crimean whiskers then--had ever impressedhim as the beau ideal. Though never canonised himself, old Jolyon'snatural fastidiousness and balance had saved him from the errors of thevulgar. How delicious, after howling in a top hat and a swelteringheat, to go home with his father in a hansom cab, bathe, dress, andforth to the "Disunion" Club, to dine off whitebait, cutlets, and atart, and go--two "swells, " old and young, in lavender kid gloves--tothe opera or play. And on Sunday, when the match was over, and his tophat duly broken, down with his father in a special hansom to the "Crownand Sceptre, " and the terrace above the river--the golden sixties whenthe world was simple, dandies glamorous, Democracy not born, and thebooks of Whyte Melville coming thick and fast. 

A generation later, with his own boy, Jolly, Harrow--buttonholed withcornflowers--by old Jolyon's whim his grandson had been canonised at atrifle less expense--again Jolyon had experienced the heat andcounter-passions of the day, and come back to the cool and thestrawberry beds of Robin Hill, and billiards after dinner, his boymaking the most heart-breaking flukes and trying to seem languid andgrown-up. Those two days each year he and his son had been alonetogether in the world, one on each side--and Democracy just born!

And so, he had unearthed a grey top hat, borrowed a tiny bit oflight-blue ribbon from Irene, and gingerly, keeping cool, by car andtrain and taxi, had reached Lord's Ground. There, beside her in alawn-coloured frock with narrow black edges, he had watched the game, and felt the old thrill stir within him. 

When Soames passed, the day was spoiled, and Irene's face distorted bycompression of the lips. No good to go on sitting here with Soames orperhaps his daughter recurring in front of them, like decimals. And hesaid:

"Well, dear, if you've had enough--let's go!"

That evening Jolyon felt exhausted. Not wanting her to see him thus, hewaited till she had begun to play, and stole off to the little study. He opened the long window for air, and the door, that he might stillhear her music drifting in; and, settled in his father's old armchair, closed his eyes, with his head against the worn brown leather. Likethat passage of the Cesar Franck Sonata--so had been his life with her, a divine third movement. And now this business of Jon's--this badbusiness! Drifted to the edge of consciousness, he hardly knew if itwere in sleep that he smelled the scent of a cigar, and seemed to see ashape in the blackness before his closed eyes. That shape formed, went, and formed again; as if in the very chair where he himself was sitting, he saw his father, black-coated, with knees crossed, glasses balancedbetween thumb and finger; saw the big white moustaches, and the deepeyes looking up below a dome of forehead, seeming to search his own;seeming to speak. "Are you facing it, Jo? It's for you to decide. She'sonly a woman!" How well he knew his father in that phrase; how all theVictorian Age came up with it!--And his answer "No, I've funkedit--funked hurting her and Jon and myself. I've got a heart; I'vefunked it. " But the old eyes, so much older, so much younger than hisown, kept at it: "It's your wife, your son, your past. Tackle it, myboy!" Was it a message from walking spirit; or but the instinct of hissire living on within him? And again came that scent of cigarsmoke--from the old saturated leather. Well! he would tackle it, writeto Jon, and put the whole thing down in black and white! And suddenlyhe breathed with difficulty, with a sense of suffocation, as if hisheart were swollen. He got up and went out into the air. Orion's Beltwas very bright. He passed along the terrace round the corner of thehouse, till, through the window of the music-room, he could see Ireneat the piano, with lamplight falling on her powdery hair; withdrawninto herself she seemed, her dark eyes staring straight before her, herhands idle. Jolyon saw her raise those hands and clasp them over herbreast. 'It's Jon, with her, ' he thought; 'all Jon! I'm dying out ofher--it's natural!'

And, careful not to be seen, he stole back. 

Next day, after a bad night, he sat down to his task. He wrote withdifficulty and many erasures. 

"MY DEAREST BOY, "You are old enough to understand how very difficult it is for eldersto give themselves away to their young. Especially when--like yourmother and myself, though I shall never think of her as anything butyoung--their hearts are altogether set on him to whom they mustconfess. I cannot say we are conscious of having sinned exactly--peoplein real life very seldom are, I believe, but most persons would say wehad, and at all events our conduct, righteous or not, has found us out. The truth is, my dear, we both have pasts, which it is now my task tomake known to you, because they so grievously and deeply affect yourfuture. Many, very many years ago, as far back indeed as 1883, when shewas only twenty, your mother had the great and lasting misfortune tomake an unhappy marriage--no, not with me, Jon. Without money of herown, and with only a stepmother--closely related to Jezebel--she wasvery unhappy in her home life. IT WAS FLEUR'S FATHER THAT SHE MARRIED, my cousin Soames Forsyte. He had pursued her very tenaciously and to dohim justice was deeply in love with her. Within a week she knew thefearful mistake she had made. It was not his fault; it was her error ofjudgment--her misfortune. "

So far Jolyon had kept some semblance of irony, but now his subjectcarried him away. 

"Jon, I want to explain to you if I can--and it's very hard--how it isthat an unhappy marriage such as this can so easily come about. Youwill of course say: 'If she didn't really love him how could she everhave married him?' You would be quite right if it were not for one ortwo rather terrible considerations. From this initial mistake of hersall the subsequent trouble, sorrow, and tragedy have come, and so Imust make it clear to you if I can. You see, Jon, in those days andeven to this day--indeed, I don't see, for all the talk ofenlightenment, how it can well be otherwise--most girls are marriedignorant of the sexual side of life. Even if they know what it meansthey have not EXPERIENCED it. That's the crux. It is this actual lackof experience, whatever verbal knowledge they have, which makes all thedifference and all the trouble. In a vast number of marriages--and yourmother's was one--girls are not and CANNOT be certain whether they lovethe man they marry or not; they do not know until after that act ofunion which makes the reality of marriage. Now, in many, perhaps inmost doubtful cases, this act cements and strengthens the attachment, but in other cases, and your mother's was one, it is a revelation ofmistake, a destruction of such attraction as there was. There isnothing more tragic in a woman's life than such a revelation, growingdaily, nightly clearer. Coarse-grained and unthinking people are apt tolaugh at such a mistake, and say 'what a fuss about nothing!' Narrowand self-righteous people, only capable of judging the lives of othersby their own, are apt to condemn those who make this tragic error, tocondemn them for life to the dungeons they have made for themselves. You know the expression: 'She has made her bed, she must lie on it!' Itis a hard-mouthed saying, quite unworthy of a gentleman or lady in thebest sense of those words; and I can use no stronger condemnation. Ihave not been what is called a moral man, but I wish to use no words toyou, my dear, which will make you think lightly of ties or contractsinto which you enter. Heaven forbid! But with the experience of a lifebehind me I do say that those who condemn the victims of these tragicmistakes, condemn them and hold out no hands to help them, are inhumanor rather they would be if they had the understanding to know what theyare doing. But they haven't! Let them go! They are as much anathema tome as I, no doubt, am to them. I have had to say all this, because I amgoing to put you into a position to judge your mother, and you are veryyoung, without experience of what life is. To go on with the story. After three years of effort to subdue her shrinking--I was going to sayher loathing and it's not too strong a word, for shrinking soon becomesloathing under such circumstances--three years of what to a sensitive, beauty-loving nature like your mother's, Jon, was torment, she met ayoung man who fell in love with her. He was the architect of this veryhouse that we live in now, he was building it for her and Fleur'sfather to live in, a new prison to hold her, in place of the one sheinhabited with him in London. Perhaps that fact played some part inwhat came of it. But in any case she, too, fell in love with him. Iknow it's not necessary to explain to you that one does not preciselychoose with whom one will fall in love. It comes. Very well! It came. Ican imagine--though she never said much to me about it--the strugglethat then took place in her, because, Jon, she was brought up strictlyand was not light in her ideas--not at all. However, this was anoverwhelming feeling, and it came to pass that they loved in deed aswell as in thought. Then came a fearful tragedy. I must tell you of itbecause if I don't you will never understand the real situation thatyou have now to face. The man whom she had married--Soames Forsyte, thefather of Fleur--one night, at the height of her passion for this youngman, forcibly reasserted his rights over her. The next day she met herlover and told him of it. Whether he committed suicide or whether hewas accidentally run over in his distraction, we never knew; but so itwas. Think of your mother as she was that evening when she heard of hisdeath. I happened to see her. Your grand-father sent me to help her ifI could. I only just saw her, before the door was shut against me byher husband. But I have never forgotten her face, I can see it now. Iwas not in love with her then, nor for twelve years after, but I havenever forgotten. My dear boy--it is not easy to write like this. Butyou see, I must. Your mother is wrapped up in you, utterly, devotedly. I don't wish to write harshly of Soames Forsyte. I don't think harshlyof him. I have long been sorry for him; perhaps I was sorry even then. As the world judges she was in error, he was within his rights. Heloved her--in his way. SHE WAS HIS PROPERTY. That is the view he holdsof life--of human feelings and hearts--property. It's not his fault--sowas he born! To me it is a view that has always been abhorrent--so wasI born! Knowing you as I do, I feel it cannot be otherwise thanabhorrent to you. Let me go on with the story. Your mother fled fromhis house that night; for twelve years she lived quietly alone withoutcompanionship of any sort, until, in 1899 her husband--you see, he wasstill her husband, for he did not attempt to divorce her, and she ofcourse had no right to divorce him, became conscious, it seems, of thewant of children, and commenced a long attempt to induce her to go backto him and give him a child. I was her trustee then, under yourgrandfather's Will, and I watched this going on. While watching, Ibecame devotedly attached to her. His pressure increased, till one dayshe came to me here and practically put herself under my protection. Her husband, who was kept informed of all her movements, attempted toforce us apart by bringing a divorce suit, or at all events bythreatening one; anyway our names were publicly joined. That decidedus, and we became united in fact. She was divorced, married me, and youwere born. We have lived in perfect happiness, at least I have, and Ibelieve your mother also. Soames, soon after the divorce, marriedFleur's mother, and she was born. That is the story, Jon. I have toldit you, because by the affection which we see you have formed for thisman's daughter you are blindly moving towards what must utterly destroyyour mother's happiness, if not your own. I don't wish to speak ofmyself, because at my age there's no use supposing I shall cumber theground much longer, besides, what I should suffer would be mainly onher account, and on yours. But what I want you to realise is thatfeelings of horror and aversion such as those can never be buried orforgotten. They are alive in her to-day. Only yesterday at Lord's wehappened to see Soames Forsyte. Her face, if you had seen it, wouldhave convinced you. The idea that you should marry his daughter is anightmare to her, Jon. I have nothing to say against Fleur save thatshe IS his daughter. But your children, if you married her, would bethe grandchildren of Soames, as much as of your mother, of a man whoonce owned your mother as a man might own a slave. Think what thatwould mean. By such a marriage you enter the camp which held yourmother prisoner and wherein she ate her heart out. You are just on thethreshold of life, you have only known this girl two months, andhowever deeply you think you love her, I appeal to you to break it offat once. Don't give your mother this rankling pain and humiliationduring the rest of her life. Young though she will always seem to me, she is fifty-seven. Except for us two she has no one in the world. Shewill soon have only you. Pluck up your spirit, Jon, and break away. Don't put this cloud and barrier between you. Don't break her heart!Bless you, my dear boy, and again forgive me for all the pain thisletter must bring you--we tried to spare it you, but Spain--itseems--was no good. 

Ever your devoted father

JOLYON FORSYTE. "

Having finished his confession, Jolyon sat with a thin cheek on hishand, re-reading. There were things in it which hurt him so much, whenhe thought of Jon reading them--that he nearly tore the letter up. Tospeak of such things at all to a boy--his own boy--to speak of them inrelation to his own wife and the boy's own mother, seemed dreadful tothe reticence of his Forsyte soul. And yet without speaking of them howmake Jon understand the reality, the deep cleavage, the ineffaceablescar? Without them, how justify this stifling of the boy's love? Hemight just as well not write at all!

He folded the confession, and put it in his pocket. It was--thankheaven!--Saturday; he had till Sunday evening to think it over; foreven if posted now it could not reach Jon till Monday. He felt acurious relief at this delay, and at the fact that, whether sent ornot, it was written. 

In the rose garden, which had taken the place of the old fernery, hecould see Irene snipping and pruning, with a little basket on her arm. She was never idle, it seemed to him, and he envied her now that hehimself was idle nearly all his time. He went down to her. She held upa stained glove and smiled. A piece of lace tied under her chinconcealed her hair, and her oval face with its still dark brows lookedvery young. 

"The green fly are awful this year, and yet it's cold. You look tired, Jolyon. "

Jolyon took the confession from his pocket. "I've been writing this. Ithink you ought to see it. "

"To Jon?" Her whole face had changed, in that instant, becoming almosthaggard. 

"Yes; the murder's out. "

He gave it her, and walked away among the roses. Presently, seeing thatshe had finished reading and was standing quite still with the sheetsof the letter against her skirt, he came back to her. 

"Well?"

"It's wonderfully put. I don't see how it could be put better. Thankyou, dear. "

"Is there anything you would like left out?"

She shook her head. 

"No; he must know all, if he's to understand. "

"That's what I thought, but I hate it like the devil!"

He had the feeling that he hated it more than she--to him sex was somuch easier to mention between man and woman than between man and man;and she had always been more natural and frank, not deeply secretivelike his Forsyte self. 

"I wonder if he will understand, even now, Jolyon? He's so young; andhe shrinks from the physical. "

"He gets that shrinking from my father, he was as fastidious as a girlin all such matters. Would it be better to rewrite the whole thing, andjust say you hated Soames?"

Irene shook her head. 

"Hate's only a word. It conveys nothing. No, better as it is. "

"Very well. It shall go to-morrow. "

II

CONFESSION

Late that same afternoon, Jolyon had a nap in the old armchair. Facedown on his knee was La Rotisserie de la Reine Pedaugue, and justbefore he fell asleep he had been thinking: 'As a people shall we everreally like the French? Will they ever really like us?' He himself hadalways liked the French, feeling at home with their wit, their taste, their cooking. Irene and he had paid many visits to France before thewar, when Jon had been at his private school. His romance with her hadbegun in Paris--his last and most enduring romance. But the French--noEnglishman could like them who could not see them in some sort with thedetached aesthetic eye! And with that melancholy conclusion he hadnodded off. 

When he woke he saw Jon standing between him and the window. The boyhad evidently come in from the garden and was waiting for him to wake. Jolyon smiled, still half asleep. How nice the chap looked-sensitive, affectionate, straight! Then his heart gave a nasty jump; and a quakingsensation overcame him. That confession! He controlled himself with aneffort. "Why, Jon, where did you spring from?"

Jon bent over and kissed his forehead. 

Only then he noticed the look on the boy's face. 

"I came home to tell you something, Dad. "

With all his might Jolyon tried to get the better of the jumping, gurgling sensations within his chest. 

"Well, sit down, old man. Have you seen your mother?"

"No. " The boy's flushed look gave place to pallor; he sat down on thearm of the old chair, as, in old days, Jolyon himself used to sitbeside his own father, installed in its recesses. Right up to the timeof the rupture in their relations he had been wont to perch there--hadhe now reached such a moment with his own son? All his life he hadhated scenes like poison, avoided rows, gone on his own way quietly andlet others go on theirs. But now--it seemed--at the very end of things, he had a scene before him more painful than any he had avoided. He drewa visor down over his emotion, and waited for his son to speak. 

"Father, " said Jon slowly, "Fleur and I are engaged. "

'Exactly!' thought Jolyon, breathing with difficulty. 

"I know that you and Mother don't like the idea. Fleur says that Motherwas engaged to her father before you married her. Of course I don'tknow what happened, but it must be ages ago. I'm devoted to her, Dad, and she says she is to me. "

Jolyon uttered a queer sound, half laugh, half groan. 

"You are nineteen, Jon, and I am seventy-two. How are we to understandeach other in a matter like this, eh?"

"You love Mother, Dad; you must know what we feel. It isn't fair to usto let old things spoil our happiness, is it?"

Brought face to face with his confession, Jolyon resolved to do withoutit if by any means he could. He laid his hand on the boy's arm. 

"Look, Jon! I might put you off with talk about your both being tooyoung and not knowing your own minds, and all that, but you wouldn'tlisten; besides, it doesn't meet the case--Youth, unfortunately, curesitself. You talk lightly about 'old things like that, ' knowingnothing--as you say truly--of what happened. Now, have I ever given youreason to doubt my love for you, or my word?"

At a less anxious moment he might have been amused by the conflict hiswords aroused--the boy's eager clasp, to reassure him on these points, the dread on his face of what that reassurance would bring forth; buthe could only feel grateful for the squeeze. 

"Very well, you can believe what I tell you. If you don't give up thislove affair, you will make Mother wretched to the end of her days. Believe me, my dear, the past, whatever it was, can't be buried--itcan't indeed. "

Jon got off the arm of the chair. 

'The girl--' thought Jolyon--'there she goes--starting up beforehim--life itself--eager, pretty, loving!'

"I can't, Father; how can I--just because you say that? Of course Ican't!"

"Jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without hesitation;you would have to! Can't you believe me?"

"How can you tell what I should think? Why, I love her better thananything in the world. "

Jolyon's face twitched, and he said with painful slowness:

"Better than your mother, Jon?"

From the boy's face, and his clenched fists Jolyon realised the stressand struggle he was going through. 

"I don't know, " he burst out, "I don't know! But to give Fleur up fornothing--for something I don't understand, for something that I don'tbelieve can really matter half so much, will make me--make me--"

"Make you feel us unjust, put a barrier--yes. But that's better thangoing on with this. "

"I can't. Fleur loves me, and I love her. You want me to trust you; whydon't you trust me, Father? We wouldn't want to know anything--wewouldn't let it make any difference. It'll only make us both love youand Mother all the more. "

Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out againempty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth. 

"Think what your mother's been to you, Jon! She has nothing but you; Ishan't last much longer. "

"Why not? It isn't fair to--Why not?"

"Well, " said Jolyon, rather coldly, "because the doctors tell me Ishan't; that's all. "

"Oh! Dad!" cried Jon, and burst into tears. 

This downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, moved Jolyon terribly. He recognised to the full how fearfully soft theboy's heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and in lifegenerally. And he reached out his hand helplessly--not wishing, indeednot daring to get up. 

"Dear man, " he said, "don't--or you'll make me!"

Jon smothered down his paroxysm, and stood with face averted, verystill. 

'What now?' thought Jolyon; 'what can I say to move him?'

"By the way, don't speak of that to Mother, " he said; "she has enoughto scare her with this affair of yours. I know how you feel. But, Jon, you know her and me well enough to be sure we wouldn't wish to spoilyour happiness lightly. Why, my dear boy, we don't care for anythingbut your happiness--at least, with me it's just yours and Mother's andwith her just yours. It's all the future for you both that's at stake. "

Jon turned. His face was deadly pale; his eyes, deep in his head, seemed to burn. 

"What is it? What is it? Don't keep me like this!"

Jolyon, who knew that he was beaten, thrust his hand again into hisbreast pocket, and sat for a full minute, breathing with difficulty, his eyes closed. The thought passed through his mind: 'I've had a goodlong innings--some pretty bitter moments--this is the worst!' Then hebrought his hand out with the letter, and said with a sort of fatigue:"Well, Jon, if you hadn't come to-day, I was going to send you this. Iwanted to spare you--I wanted to spare your mother and myself, but Isee it's no good. Read it, and I think I'll go into the garden. " Hereached forward to get up. 

Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly: "No, I'll go"; and wasgone. 

Jolyon sank back in his chair. A blue-bottle chose that moment to comebuzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, betterthan nothing. .. . Where had the boy gone to read his letter? Thewretched letter--the wretched story! A cruel business--cruel to her--toSoames--to those two children--to himself!. .. His heart thumped andpained him. Life--its loves--its work--its beauty--its aching, and--itsend! A good time; a fine time in spite of all; until--you regrettedthat you had ever been born. Life--it wore you down, yet did not makeyou want to die--that was the cunning evil! Mistake to have a heart!Again the blue-bottle came buzzing--bringing in all the heat and humand scent of summer--yes, even the scent--as of ripe fruits, driedgrasses, sappy shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows. And out theresomewhere in the fragrance Jon would be reading that letter, turningand twisting its pages in his trouble, his bewilderment andtrouble-breaking his heart about it! The thought made Jolyon acutelymiserable. Jon was such a tender-hearted chap, affectionate to hisbones, and conscientious, too--it was so damned unfair! He rememberedIrene saying to him once: "Never was any one born more loving andlovable than Jon. " Poor little Jon! His world gone up the spout, all ofa summer afternoon! Youth took things so hard! And stirred, tormentedby that vision of Youth taking things hard, Jolyon got out of hischair, and went to the window. The boy was nowhere visible. And hepassed out. If one could take any help to him now--one must!

He traversed the shrubbery, glanced into the walled garden--no Jon! Norwhere the peaches and the apricots were beginning to swell and colour. He passed the Cupressus-trees, dark and spiral, into the meadow. Wherehad the boy got to? Had he rushed down to the coppice--his oldhunting-ground? Jolyon crossed the rows of hay. They would cock it onMonday and be carrying the day after, if rain held off. Often they hadcrossed this field together--hand in hand, when Jon was a little chap. Dash it! The golden age was over by the time one was ten! He came tothe pond, where flies and gnats were dancing over a bright reedysurface; and on into the coppice. It was cool there, fragrant oflarches. Still no Jon! He called. No answer! On the log seat he satdown, nervous, anxious, forgetting his own physical sensations. He hadbeen wrong to let the boy get away with that letter; he ought to havekept him under his eye from the start! Greatly troubled, he got up toretrace his steps. At the farm-buildings he called again, and lookedinto the dark cow-house. There in the cool, and the scent of vanillaand ammonia, away from flies, the three Alderneys were chewing thequiet cud; just milked, waiting for evening, to be turned out againinto the lower field. One turned a lazy head, a lustrous eye; Jolyoncould see the slobber on its grey lower lip. He saw everything withpassionate clearness, in the agitation of his nerves--all that in histime he had adored and tried to paint--wonder of light and shade andcolour. No wonder the legend put Christ into a manger--what moredevotional than the eyes and moon-white horns of a chewing cow in thewarm dusk! He called again. No answer! And he hurried away out of thecoppice, past the pond, up the hill. Oddly ironical--now he came tothink of it--if Jon had taken the gruel of his discovery down in thecoppice where his mother and Bosinney in those old days had made theplunge of acknowledging their love. Where he himself, on the log seatthe Sunday morning he came back from Paris, had realised to the fullthat Irene had become the world to him. That would have been the placefor Irony to tear the veil from before the eyes of Irene's boy! But hewas not here! Where had he got to? One must find the poor chap!

A gleam of sun had come, sharpening to his hurrying senses all thebeauty of the afternoon, of the tall trees and lengthening shadows, ofthe blue, and the white clouds, the scent of the hay, and the cooing ofthe pigeons; and the flower shapes standing tall. He came to therosary, and the beauty of the roses in that sudden sunlight seemed tohim unearthly. "Rose, you Spaniard!" Wonderful three words! There shehad stood by that bush of dark red roses; had stood to read and decidethat Jon must know it all! He knew all now! Had she chosen wrong? Hebent and sniffed a rose, its petals brushed his nose and tremblinglips; nothing so soft as a rose-leaf's velvet, except her neck--Irene!On across the lawn he went, up the slope, to the oak-tree. Its topalone was glistening, for the sudden sun was away over the house; thelower shade was thick, blessedly cool--he was greatly overheated. Hepaused a minute with his hand on the rope of the swing--Jolly, Holly--Jon! The old swing! And, suddenly, he felt horribly--deadly ill. 'I've overdone it!' he thought: 'by Jove. I've overdone it--after all!'He staggered up towards the terrace, dragged himself up the steps, andfell against the wall of the house. He leaned there gasping, his faceburied in the honeysuckle that he and she had taken such trouble withthat it might sweeten the air which drifted in. Its fragrance mingledwith awful pain. 'My Love!' he thought; 'the boy!' And with a greateffort he tottered in through the long window, and sank into oldJolyon's chair. The book was there, a pencil in it; he caught it up, scribbled a word on the open page. .. . His hand dropped. .. . So it waslike this--was it?. .. 

There was a great wrench; and darkness. .. . 

III

IRENE!

When Jon rushed away with the letter in his hand, he ran along theterrace and round the corner of the house, in fear and confusion. Leaning against the creepered wall he tore open the letter. It waslong--very long! This added to his fear, and he began reading. When hecame to the underlined words: "It was Fleur's father that she married, "everything swam before him. He was close to a window, and entering byit, he passed, through music-room and hall, up to his bedroom. Dippinghis face in cold water, he sat on his bed, and went on reading, dropping each finished page on the bed beside him. His father's writingwas easy to read--he knew it so well, though he had never had a letterfrom him one quarter so long. He read with a dull feeling--imaginationonly half at work. He best grasped, on that first reading, the pain hisfather must have had in writing such a letter. He let the last sheetfall, and in a sort of mental, moral helplessness he began to read thefirst again. It all seemed to him disgusting--dead and disgusting. Then, suddenly, a hot wave of horrified emotion tingled through him. Heburied his face in his hands. His mother! Fleur's father! He took upthe letter again, and read on mechanically. And again came the feelingthat it was all dead and disgusting; his own love so different! Thisletter said his mother--and her father! An awful letter!

Property! Could there be men who looked on women as their property?Faces seen in street and countryside came thronging up before him--red, stock-fish faces; hard, dull faces; prim, dry faces; violent faces;hundreds, thousands of them! How could he know what men who had suchfaces thought and did? He held his head in his hands and groaned. Hismother! He caught up the letter and read on again: "horror andaversion--alive in her to-day . .. Your children . .. Grandchildren . .. Of a man who once owned your mother as a man might own a slave. .. . " Hegot up from his bed. This cruel shadowy past, lurking there to murderhis love and Fleur's, was true, or his father could never have writtenit. 'Why didn't they tell me the first thing, ' he thought, 'the day Ifirst saw Fleur? They knew I'd seen her. They were afraid, and--now--I've--got it!' Overcome by misery too acute for thought orreason, he crept into a dusky corner of the room and sat down on thefloor. He sat there, like some unhappy little animal. There was comfortin dusk, and in the floor--as if he were back in those days when heplayed his battles sprawling all over it. He sat there huddled, hishair ruffled, his hands clasped round his knees, for how long he didnot know. He was wrenched from his blank wretchedness by the sound ofthe door opening from his mother's room. The blinds were down over thewindows of his room, shut up in his absence, and from where he sat hecould only hear a rustle, her footsteps crossing, till beyond the bedhe saw her standing before his dressing-table. She had something in herhand. He hardly breathed, hoping she would not see him, and go away. Hesaw her touch things on the table as if they had some virtue in them, then face the window--grey from head to foot like a ghost. The leastturn of her head, and she must see him! Her lips moved: "Oh! Jon!" Shewas speaking to herself; the tone of her voice troubled Jon's heart. Hesaw in her hand a little photograph. She held it towards the light, looking at it--very small. He knew it--one of himself as a tiny boy, which she always kept in her bag. His heart beat fast. And, suddenly, as if she had heard it, she turned her eyes and saw him. At the gaspshe gave, and the movement of her hands pressing the photograph againsther breast, he said:

"Yes, it's me. "

She moved over to the bed, and sat down on it, quite close to him, herhands still clasping her breast, her feet among the sheets of theletter which had slipped to the floor. She saw them, and her handsgrasped the edge of the bed. She sat very upright, her dark eyes fixedon him. At last she spoke. 

"Well, Jon, you know, I see. "

"Yes. "

"You've seen Father?"

"Yes. "

There was a long silence, till she said:

"Oh! my darling!"

"It's all right. " The emotions in him were so violent and so mixed thathe dared not move--resentment, despair, and yet a strange yearning forthe comfort of her hand on his forehead. 

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. "

There was another long silence, then she got up. She stood a moment, very still, made a little movement with her hand, and said: "My darlingboy, my most darling boy, don't think of me--think of yourself. " And, passing round the foot of the bed, went back into her room. 

Jon turned--curled into a sort of ball, as might a hedgehog--into thecorner made by the two walls. 

He must have been twenty minutes there before a cry roused him. It camefrom the terrace below. He got up, scared. Again came the cry: "Jon!"His mother was calling! He ran out and down the stairs, through theempty dining-room into the study. She was kneeling before the oldarmchair, and his father was lying back quite white, his head on hisbreast, one of his hands resting on an open book, with a pencilclutched in it--more strangely still than anything he had ever seen. She looked round wildly, and said:

"Oh! Jon--he's dead--he's dead!"

Jon flung himself down, and reaching over the arm of the chair, wherehe had lately been sitting, put his lips to the forehead. Icy cold! Howcould--how could Dad be dead, when only an hour ago--His mother's armswere round the knees; pressing her breast against them. "Why--whywasn't I with him?" he heard her whisper. Then he saw the totteringword "Irene" pencilled on the open page, and broke down himself. It washis first sight of human death, and its unutterable stillness blottedfrom him all other emotion; all else, then, was but preliminary tothis! All love and life, and joy, anxiety, and sorrow, all movement, light and beauty, but a beginning to this terrible white stillness. Itmade a dreadful mark on him; all seemed suddenly little, futile, short. He mastered himself at last, got up, and raised her. 

"Mother! don't cry--Mother!"

Some hours later, when all was done that had to be, and his mother waslying down, he saw his father alone, on the bed, covered with a whitesheet. He stood for a long time gazing at that face which had neverlooked angry--always whimsical, and kind. "To be kind and keep your endup--there's nothing else in it, " he had once heard his father say. Howwonderfully Dad had acted up to that philosophy! He understood now thathis father had known for a long time past that this would comesuddenly--known, and not said a word. He gazed with an awed andpassionate reverence. The loneliness of it--just to spare his motherand himself! His own trouble seemed small while he was looking at thatface. The word scribbled on the page! The farewell word! Now his motherhad no one but himself! He went up close to the dead face--not changedat all, and yet completely changed. He had heard his father say oncethat he did not believe in consciousness surviving death, or that if itdid it might be just survival till the natural age-limit of the bodyhad been reached--the natural term of its inherent vitality; so that ifthe body were broken by accident, excess, violent disease, consciousness might still persist till, in the course of Natureuninterfered with, it would naturally have faded out. The whimsicalconceit had struck him. When the heart failed like this--surely it wasnot quite natural! Perhaps his father's consciousness was in the roomwith him. Above the bed hung a picture of his father's father. PerhapsHIS consciousness, too, was still alive; and his brother's--hishalf-brother, who had died in the Transvaal. Were they all gatheredround this bed? Jon kissed the forehead, and stole back to his ownroom. The door between it and his mother's was ajar; she had evidentlybeen in--everything was ready for him, even some biscuits and hot milk, and the letter no longer on the floor. He ate and drank, watching thelast light fade. He did not try to see into the future--just stared atthe dark branches of the oak-tree, level with his window, and felt asif life had stopped. Once in the night, turning in his heavy sleep, hewas conscious of something white and still, beside his bed, and startedup. His mother's voice said:

"It's only I, Jon dear!" Her hand pressed his forehead gently back; herwhite figure disappeared. 

Alone! He fell heavily asleep again, and dreamed he saw his mother'sname crawling on his bed. 

IV

SOAMES COGITATES

The announcement in THE TIMES of his cousin Jolyon's death affectedSoames quite simply. So that chap was gone! There had never been a timein their two lives when love had not been lost between them. Thatquick-blooded sentiment hatred had run its course long since in Soames'heart, and he had refused to allow any recrudescence, but he consideredthis early decease a piece of poetic justice. For twenty years thefellow had enjoyed the reversion of his wife and house, and--he wasdead! The obituary notice, which appeared a little later, paidJolyon--he thought--too much attention. It spoke of that "diligent andagreeable painter whose work we have come to look on as typical of thebest late-Victorian water-colour art. " Soames, who had almostmechanically preferred Mole, Morpin, and Caswell Baye, and had alwayssniffed quite audibly when he came to one of his cousin's on the line, turned THE TIMES with a crackle. 

He had to go up to Town that morning on Forsyte affairs, and was fullyconscious of Gradman's glance sidelong over his spectacles. The oldclerk had about him an aura of regretful congratulation. He smelled, asit were, of old days. One could almost hear him thinking: "Mr. Jolyon, ye-es--just my age, and gone--dear, dear! I dare say she feels it. Shewas a naice-lookin' woman. Flesh is flesh! They've given 'im a noticein the papers. Fancy!" His atmosphere in fact caused Soames to handlecertain leases and conversions with exceptional swiftness. 

"About that settlement on Miss Fleur, Mr. Soames?"

"I've thought better of that, " answered Soames shortly. 

"Aoh! I'm glad of that. I thought you were a little hasty. The times dochange. "

How this death would affect Fleur had begun to trouble Soames. He wasnot certain that she knew of it--she seldom looked at the paper, neverat the births, marriages, and deaths. 

He pressed matters on, and made his way to Green Street for lunch. Winifred was almost doleful. Jack Cardigan had broken a splashboard, sofar as one could make out, and would not be "fit" for some time. Shecould not get used to the idea. 

"Did Profond ever get off?" he said suddenly. 

"He got off, " replied Winifred, "but where--I don't know. "

Yes, there it was--impossible to tell anything! Not that he wanted toknow. Letters from Annette were coming from Dieppe, where she and hermother were staying. 

"You saw that fellow's death, I suppose?"

"Yes, " said Winifred. "I'm sorry for his children. He was very amiable. "

Soames uttered a rather queer sound. A suspicion of the old deeptruth--that men were judged in this world rather by what they were thanby what they did--crept and knocked resentfully at the back door of hismind. 

"I know there was a superstition to that effect, " he muttered. 

"One must do him justice now he's dead. "

"I should like to have done him justice before, " said Soames; "but Inever had the chance. Have you got a 'Baronetage' here?"

"Yes; in that bottom row. "

Soames took out a fat red book, and ran over the leaves. 

"Mont--Sir Lawrence, 9th Bt. Cr. 1620. E. S. Of Geoffrey 8th Bt. AndLavinia daur. Of Sir Charles Muskham Bt. Of Muskham Hall, Shrops: marr. 1890 Emily, daur. Of Conway Charwell Esq. Of Condaford Grange, co. Oxon; 1 son, heir Michael Conway, b. 1895, 2 daurs. Residence:Lippinghall Manor, Folwell, Bucks: Clubs: Snooks: Coffee House:Aeroplane. See Bidlicott. "

"H'm!" he said: "Did you ever know a publisher?"

"Uncle Timothy. "

"Alive, I mean. "

"Monty knew one at his Club. He brought him here to dinner once. Montywas always thinking of writing a book, you know, about how to makemoney on the turf. He tried to interest that man. "

"Well?"

"He put him on to a horse--for the Two Thousand. We didn't see himagain. He was rather smart, if I remember. "

"Did it win?"

"No; it ran last, I think. You know Monty really was quite clever inhis way. ". 

"Was he?" said Soames. "Can you see any connection between a suckingbaronet and publishing?"

"People do all sorts of things nowadays, " replied Winifred. "The greatstunt seems not to be idle--so different from our time. To do nothingwas the thing then. But I suppose it'll come again. "

"This young Mont that I'm speaking of is very sweet on Fleur. If itwould put an end to that other affair I might encourage it. "

"Has he got style?" asked Winifred. 

"He's no beauty; pleasant enough, with some scattered brains. There's agood deal of land, I believe. He seems genuinely attached. But I don'tknow. "

"No, " murmured Winifred; "it's very difficult. I always found it bestto do nothing. It IS such a bore about Jack; now we shan't get awaytill after Bank holiday. Well, the people are always amusing, I shallgo into the Park and watch them. "

"If I were you, " said Soames, "I should have a country cottage, and beout of the way of holidays and strikes when you want. "

"The country bores me, " answered Winifred, "and I found the railwaystrike quite exciting. "

Winifred had always been noted for sang-froid. 

Soames took his leave. All the way down to Reading he debated whetherhe should tell Fleur of that boy's father's death. It did not alter thesituation except that he would be independent now, and only have hismother's opposition to encounter. He would come into a lot of money, nodoubt, and perhaps the house--the house built for Irene andhimself--the house whose architect had wrought his domestic ruin. Hisdaughter--mistress of that house! That would be poetic justice! Soamesuttered a little mirthless laugh. He had designed that house tore-establish his failing union, meant it for the seat of hisdescendants, if he could have induced Irene to give him one! Her sonand Fleur! Their children would be, in some sort, offspring of theunion between himself and her!

The theatricality in that thought was repulsive to his sober sense. Andyet--it would be the easiest and wealthiest way out of the impasse, nowthat Jolyon was gone. The juncture of two Forsyte fortunes had a kindof conservative charm. And she--Irene--would be linked to him oncemore. Nonsense! Absurd! He put the notion from his head. 

On reaching home he heard the click of billiard-balls; and through thewindow saw young Mont sprawling over the table. Fleur, with her cueakimbo, was watching with a smile. How pretty she looked! No wonderthat young fellow was out of his mind about her. A title--land! Therewas little enough in land, these days; perhaps less in a title. The oldForsytes had always had a kind of contempt for titles, rather remoteand artificial things--not worth the money they cost, and having to dowith the Court. They had all had that feeling in differingmeasure--Soames remembered. Swithin, indeed, in his most expansive dayshad once attended a Levee. He had come away saying he shouldn't goagain--"All that small fry!" It was suspected that he had looked toobig in knee-breeches. Soames remembered how his own mother had wishedto be presented because of the fashionable nature of the performance, and how his father had put his foot down with unwonted decision. Whatdid she want with such peacocking--wasting time and money; there wasnothing in it!

The instinct which had made and kept the British Commons the chiefpower in the State, a feeling that their own world was good enough anda little better than any other because it was THEIR world, had kept theold Forsytes singularly free of "flummery, " as Nicholas had been wontto call it when he had the gout. Soames' generation, moreself-conscious and ironical, had been saved by a sense of Swithin inknee-breeches. While the third and the fourth generation, as it seemedto him, laughed at everything. 

However, there was no harm in the young fellow's being heir to a titleand estate--a thing one couldn't help. He entered quietly, as Montmissed his shot. He noted the young man's eyes, fixed on Fleur bendingover in her turn; and the adoration in them almost touched him. 

She paused with the cue poised on the bridge of her slim hand, andshook her crop of short dark chestnut hair. 

"I shall never do it. "

"'Nothing venture!'"

"All right!" The cue struck, the ball rolled. "There!"

"Bad luck! Never mind!"

Then they saw him, and Soames said: "I'll mark for you. "

He sat down on the raised seat beneath the marker, trim and tired, furtively studying those two young faces. When the game was over Montcame up to him. "I've started in, sir. Rum game, business, isn't it? Isuppose you saw a lot of human nature as a solicitor. "

"I did. "

"Shall I tell you what I've noticed: People are quite on the wrongtrack in offering less than they can afford to give; they ought tooffer more, and work backward. "

Soames raised his eyebrows. "Suppose the more is accepted?"

"That doesn't matter a little bit, " said Mont; "it's much more payingto abate a price than to increase it. For instance, say we offer anauthor good terms--he naturally takes them. Then we go into it, find wecan't publish at a decent profit and tell him so. He's got confidencein us because we've been generous to him, and he comes down like alamb, and bears us no malice. But if we offer him poor terms at thestart, he doesn't take them, so we have to advance them to get him, andhe thinks us damned screws into the bargain. "

"Try buying pictures on that system"; said Soames, "an offer acceptedis a contract--haven't you learned that?"

Young Mont turned his head to where Fleur was standing in the window. 

"No, " he said, "I wish I had. Then there's another thing. Always let aman off a bargain if he wants to be let off. "

"As advertisement?" said Soames dryly. 

"Of course it IS; but I meant on principle. "

"Does your firm work on those lines?"

"Not yet, " said Mont, "but it'll come. "

"And they will go. "

"No, really, sir. I'm making any number of observations, and they allconfirm my theory. Human nature is consistently underrated in business, people do themselves out of an awful lot of pleasure and profit bythat. Of course, you must be perfectly genuine and open, but that'seasy if you feel it. The more human and generous you are the betterchance you've got in business. "

Soames rose. 

"Are you a partner?"

"Not for six months, yet. "

"The rest of the firm had better make haste and retire. "

Mont laughed. 

"You'll see, " he said. "There's going to be a big change. Thepossessive principle has got its shutters up. "

"What?" said Soames. 

"The house is to let! Good-bye, sir; I'm off now. "

Soames watched his daughter give her hand, saw her wince at the squeezeit received, and distinctly heard the young man's sigh as he passedout. Then she came from the window, trailing her finger along themahogany edge of the billiard-table. Watching her, Soames knew that shewas going to ask him something. Her finger felt round the last pocket, and she looked up. 

"Have you done anything to stop Jon writing to me, Father?"

Soames shook his head. 

"You haven't seen, then?" he said. "His father died just a week agoto-day. "

"Oh!"

In her startled, frowning face, he saw the instant struggle toapprehend what this would mean. 

"Poor Jon! Why didn't you tell me, Father?"

"I never know!" said Soames slowly; "you don't confide in me. "

"I would, if you'd help me, dear. "

"Perhaps I shall. "

Fleur clasped her hands. "Oh! darling--when one wants a thingfearfully, one doesn't think of other people. Don't be angry with me. "

Soames put out his hand, as if pushing away an aspersion. 

"I'm cogitating, " he said. What on earth had made him use a word likethat! "Has young Mont been bothering you again?"

Fleur smiled. "Oh! Michael! He's always bothering; but he's such a goodsort--I don't mind him. "

"Well, " said Soames, "I'm tired; I shall go and have a nap beforedinner. "

He went up to his picture-gallery, lay down on the couch there, andclosed his eyes. A terrible responsibility this girl of his--whosemother was--ah! what was she? A terrible responsibility! Help her--howcould he help her? He could not alter the fact that he was her father. Or that Irene--! What was it young Mont had said--some nonsense aboutthe possessive instinct--shutters up--To let? Silly!

The sultry air, charged with a scent of meadow-sweet, of river androses, closed on his senses, drowsing them. 

V

THE FIXED IDEA

"The fixed idea, " which has outrun more constables than any other formof human disorder, has never more speed and stamina than when it takesthe avid guise of love. To hedges and ditches, and doors, to humanswithout ideas fixed or otherwise, to perambulators and the contentssucking their fixed ideas, even to the other sufferers from this fastmalady--the fixed idea of love pays no attention. It runs with eyesturned inward to its own light, oblivious of all other stars. Thosewith the fixed ideas that human happiness depends on their art, onvivisecting dogs, on hating foreigners, on paying supertax, onremaining Ministers, on making wheels go round, on preventing theirneighbours from being divorced, on conscientious objection, Greekroots, Church dogma, paradox and superiority to everybody else, withother forms of ego-mania--all are unstable compared with him or herwhose fixed idea is the possession of some her or him. And thoughFleur, those chilly summer days, pursued the scattered life of a littleForsyte whose frocks are paid for, and whose business is pleasure, shewas--as Winifred would have said in the latest fashion ofspeech--'honest-to-God' indifferent to it all. She wished and wishedfor the moon, which sailed in cold skies above the river or the GreenPark when she went to Town. She even kept Jon's letters covered withpink silk, on her heart, than which in days when corsets were so low, sentiment so despised, and chests so out of fashion, there could, perhaps, have been no greater proof of the fixity of her idea. 

After hearing of his father's death, she had written to Jon, andreceived his answer three days later on her return from a river picnic. It was his first letter since their meeting at June's. She opened itwith misgiving, and read it with dismay. 

"Since I saw you I've heard everything about the past. I won't tell ityou--I think you knew when we met at June's. She says you did. If youdid, Fleur, you ought to have told me. I expect you only heard yourfather's side of it. I have heard my mother's. It's dreadful. Now thatshe's so sad I can't do anything to hurt her more. Of course, I longfor you all day, but I don't believe now that we shall ever cometogether--there's something too strong pulling us apart. "

Her deception had found her out. But Jon--she felt--had forgiven that. It was what he said of his mother which caused the fluttering in herheart and the weak sensation in her legs. 

Her first impulse was to reply--her second, not to reply. Theseimpulses were constantly renewed in the days which followed, whiledesperation grew within her. She was not her father's child fornothing. The tenacity, which had at once made and undone Soames, washer backbone, too, frilled and embroidered by French grace andquickness. Instinctively she conjugated the verb "to have" always withthe pronoun "I. " She concealed, however, all signs of her growingdesperation, and pursued such river pleasures as the winds and rain ofa disagreeable July permitted, as if she had no care in the world; nordid any "sucking baronet" ever neglect the business of a publisher moreconsistently than her attendant spirit, Michael Mont. 

To Soames she was a puzzle. He was almost deceived by this carelessgaiety. Almost--because he did not fail to mark her eyes often fixed onnothing, and the film of light shining from her bedroom window late atnight. What was she thinking and brooding over into small hours whenshe ought to have been asleep? But he dared not ask what was in hermind; and, since that one little talk in the billiard-room, she saidnothing to him. 

In this taciturn condition of affairs it chanced that Winifred invitedthem to lunch and to go afterwards to "a most amusing little play, 'TheBeggar's Opera, '" and would they bring a man to make four? Soames, whose attitude towards theatres was to go to nothing, accepted, becauseFleur's attitude was to go to everything. They motored up, takingMichael Mont, who, being in his seventh heaven, was found by Winifred"very amusing. " "The Beggar's Opera" puzzled Soames. The people wereunpleasant, the whole thing cynical. Winifred was "intrigued"--by thedresses. The music too did not displease her. At the Opera, the nightbefore, she had arrived too early for the Russian Ballet, and found thestage occupied by singers, for a whole hour pale or apoplectic fromterror lest by some dreadful inadvertence they might drop into a tune. Michael Mont was enraptured with the whole thing. And all threewondered what Fleur was thinking of it. But Fleur was not thinking ofit. Her fixed idea stood on the stage and sang with Polly Peachum, mimed with Filch, danced with Jenny Diver, postured with Lucy Lockit, kissed, trolled, and cuddled with Macheath. Her lips might smile, herhands applaud, but the comic old masterpiece made no more impression onher than if it had been pathetic, like a modern "Revue. " When theyembarked in the car to return, she ached because Jon was not sittingnext her instead of Michael Mont. When, at some jolt, the young man'sarm touched hers as if by accident, she only thought: 'If that wereJon's arm!' When his cheerful voice, tempered by her proximity, murmured above the sound of the car's progress, she smiled andanswered, thinking: 'If that were Jon's voice!' and when once he said:"Fleur, you look a perfect angel in that dress!" she answered: "Oh, doyou like it?" thinking: 'If only Jon could see it!'

During this drive she took a resolution. She would go to Robin Hill andsee him--alone; she would take the car, without word beforehand to himor to her father. It was nine days since his letter, and she could waitno longer. On Monday she would go! The decision made her well disposedtowards young Mont. With something to look forward to she could affordto tolerate and respond. He might stay to dinner; propose to her asusual; dance with her, press her hand, sigh--do what he liked. He wasonly a nuisance when he interfered with her fixed idea. She was evensorry for him so far as it was possible to be sorry for anybody butherself just now. At dinner he seemed to talk more wildly than usualabout what he called 'the death of the close borough'--she paid littleattention, but her father seemed paying a good deal, with a smile onhis face which meant opposition, if not anger. 

"The younger generation doesn't think as you do, sir; does it, Fleur?"

Fleur shrugged her shoulders--the younger generation was just Jon, andshe did not know what he was thinking. 

"Young people will think as I do when they're my age, Mr. Mont. Humannature doesn't change. "

"I admit that, sir; but the forms of thought change with the times. Thepursuit of self-interest is a form of thought that's going out. "

"Indeed! To mind one's own business is not a form of thought, Mr. Mont, it's an instinct. "

Yes, when Jon was the business!

"But what is one's business, sir? That's the point, EVERYBODY'Sbusiness is going to be one's business. Isn't it, Fleur?"

Fleur only smiled. 

"If not, " added young Mont, "there'll be blood. "

"People have talked like that from time immemorial. "

"But you'll admit, sir, that the sense of property is dying out?"

"I should say increasing among those who have none. "

"Well, look at me! I'm heir to an entailed estate. I don't want thething; I'd cut the entail to-morrow. "

"You're not married, and you don't know what you're talking about. "

Fleur saw the young man's eyes turn rather piteously upon her. 

"Do you really mean that marriage--?" he began. 

"Society is built on marriage, " came from between her father's closelips; "marriage and its consequences. Do you want to do away with it?"

Young Mont made a distracted gesture. Silence brooded over thedinner-table, covered with spoons bearing the Forsyte crest--a pheasantproper--under the electric light in an alabaster globe. And outside, the river evening darkened, charged with heavy moisture and sweetscents. 

'Monday, ' thought Fleur; 'Monday!'

VI

DESPERATE

The weeks which followed the death of his father were sad and empty tothe only Jolyon Forsyte left. The necessary forms and ceremonies--thereading of the Will, valuation of the estate, distribution of thelegacies--were enacted over the head, as it were, of one not yet ofage. Jolyon was cremated. By his special wish no one attended thatceremony, or wore black for him. The succession of his property, controlled to some extent by old Jolyon's Will, left his widow inpossession of Robin Hill, with two thousand five hundred pounds a yearfor life. Apart from this the two Wills worked together in somecomplicated way to insure that each of Jolyon's three children shouldhave an equal share in their grandfather's and father's property in thefuture as in the present, save only that Jon, by virtue of his sex, would have control of his capital when he was twenty-one, while Juneand Holly would only have the spirit of theirs, in order that theirchildren might have the body after them. If they had no children, itwould all come to Jon if he outlived them; and since June was fifty, and Holly nearly forty, it was considered in Lincoln's Inn Fields thatbut for the cruelty of income tax, young Jon would be as warm a man ashis grandfather when he died. All this was nothing to Jon, and littleenough to his mother. It was June who did everything needful for onewho had left his affairs in perfect order. When she had gone, and thosetwo were alone again in the great house, alone with death drawing themtogether, and love driving them apart, Jon passed very painful dayssecretly disgusted and disappointed with himself. His mother would lookat him with a patient sadness which yet had in it an instinctive pride, as if she were reserving her defence. If she smiled he was angry thathis answering smile should be so grudging and unnatural. He did notjudge or condemn her; that was all too remote--indeed, the idea ofdoing so had never come to him. No! he was grudging and unnaturalbecause he couldn't have what he wanted because of her. There was onealleviation--much to do in connection with his father's career, whichcould not be safely intrusted to June, though she had offered toundertake it. Both Jon and his mother had felt that if she took hisportfolios, unexhibited drawings and unfinished matter, away with her, the work would encounter such icy blasts from Paul Post and otherfrequenters of her studio, that it would soon be frozen out even of herwarm heart. On its old-fashioned plane and of its kind the work wasgood, and they could not bear the thought of its subjection toridicule. A one-man exhibition of his work was the least testimony theycould pay to one they had loved; and on preparation for this they spentmany hours together. Jon came to have a curiously increased respect forhis father. The quiet tenacity with which he had converted a mediocretalent into something really individual was disclosed by theseresearches. There was a great mass of work with a rare continuity ofgrowth in depth and reach of vision. Nothing certainly went very deep, or reached very high--but such as the work was, it was thorough, conscientious, and complete. And, remembering his father's utterabsence of "side" or self-assertion, the chaffing humility with whichhe had always spoken of his own efforts, ever calling himself "anamateur, " Jon could not help feeling that he had never really known hisfather. To take himself seriously, yet never bore others by lettingthem know that he did so, seemed to have been his ruling principle. There was something in this which appealed to the boy, and made himheartily indorse his mother's comment: "He had true refinement; hecouldn't help thinking of others, whatever he did. And when he took aresolution which went counter, he did it with the minimum ofdefiance--not like the Age, is it? Twice in his life he had to goagainst everything; and yet it never made him bitter. " Jon saw tearsrunning down her face, which she at once turned away from him. She wasso quiet about her loss that sometimes he had thought she didn't feelit much. Now, as he looked at her, he felt how far he fell short of thereserve power and dignity in both his father and his mother. And, stealing up to her, he put his arm round her waist. She kissed himswiftly, but with a sort of passion, and went out of the room. 

The studio, where they had been sorting and labelling, had once beenHolly's schoolroom, devoted to her silk-worms, dried lavender, music, and other forms of instruction. Now, at the end of July, despite itsnorthern and eastern aspects, a warm and slumberous air came in betweenthe long-faded lilac linen curtains. To redeem a little the departedglory, as of a field that is golden and gone, clinging to a room whichits master has left, Irene had placed on the paint-stained table a bowlof red roses. This, and Jolyon's favourite cat, who still clung to thedeserted habitat, were the pleasant spots in that dishevelled, sadworkroom. Jon, at the north window, sniffing air mysteriously scentedwith warm strawberries, heard a car drive up. The lawyers again aboutsome nonsense! Why did that scent so make one ache? And where did itcome from--there were no strawberry beds on this side of the house. Instinctively he took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, andwrote down some broken words. A warmth began spreading in his chest; herubbed the palms of his hands together. Presently he had jotted this:

 "If I could make a little song-- A little song to soothe my heart! I'd make it all of little things-- The plash of water, rub of wings, The puffing-off of dandie's crown, The hiss of raindrop spilling down, The purr of cat, the trill of bird, And ev'ry whispering I've heard From willy wind in leaves and grass, And all the distant drones that pass. A song, as tender and as light As flower, or butterfly in flight; And when I saw it opening I'd let it fly, and sing!"

He was still muttering it over to himself at the window, when he heardhis name called, and, turning round, saw Fleur. At that amazingapparition, he made at first no movement and no sound, while her clearvivid glance ravished his heart. Then he went forward to the table, saying: "How nice of you to come!" and saw her flinch as if he hadthrown something at her. 

"I asked for you, " she said, "and they showed me up here. But I can goaway again. "

Jon clutched the paint-stained table. Her face and figure in its frillyfrock, photographed itself with such startling vividness upon his eyes, that if she had sunk through the floor he must still have seen her. 

"I know I told you a lie, Jon. But I told it out of love. "

"Oh! yes! That's nothing!"

"I didn't answer your letter. What was the use--there wasn't anythingto answer. I wanted to see you instead. " She held out both her hands, and Jon grasped them across the table. He tried to say something, butall his attention was given to trying not to hurt her hands. His ownfelt so hard and hers so soft. She said almost defiantly:

"That old story--was it so very dreadful?"

"Yes. " In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance. 

She dragged her hands away. "I didn't think in these days boys weretied to their mothers' apron-strings. "

Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck. 

"Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!" Swiftly shecame close to him. "Jon, dear; I didn't mean it. "

"All right. "

She had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down onthem; the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering. But, in a sort of paralysis, he made no response. She let go of hisshoulder and drew away. 

"Well, I'll go, if you don't want me. But I never thought you'd havegiven me up. "

"I HAVEN'T, " cried Jon, coming suddenly to life. "I can't. I'll tryagain. "

She swayed towards him. "Jon--I love you! Don't give me up! If you do, I don't know what I shall do--I feel so desperate. What does itmatter--all that past--compared with THIS?"

She clung to him. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. But whilehe kissed her he saw the sheets of that letter fallen down on the floorof his bedroom--his father's white dead face--his mother kneelingbefore it. Fleur's whisper: "Make her! Promise! Oh! Jon, try!" seemedchildish in his ear. He felt curiously old. 

"I promise!" he muttered. "Only, you don't understand. "

"She wants to spoil our lives, just because--"

"Yes, of what?"

Again that challenge in his voice, and she did not answer. Her armstightened round him, and he returned her kisses; but even while heyielded, the poison worked in him, the poison of the letter. Fleur didnot know, she did not understand--she misjudged his mother; she camefrom the enemy's camp! So lovely, and he loved her so--yet, even in herembrace, he could not help the memory of Holly's words: "I think shehas a 'having' nature, " and his mother's: "My darling boy; don't thinkof me--think of yourself. "

When she was gone like a passionate dream, leaving her image on hiseyes, her kisses on his lips, such an ache in his heart, Jon leaned inthe window, listening to the car bearing her away. Still the scent asof warm strawberries, still the little summer sounds that should makehis song; still all the promise of youth and happiness in sighing, floating, fluttering July--and his heart torn; yearning strong in him;hope high in him, yet with its eyes cast down, as if ashamed. Themiserable task before him! If Fleur was desperate, so was he--watchingthe poplars swaying, the white clouds passing, the sunlight on thegrass. 

He waited till evening, till after their almost silent dinner, till hismother had played to him--and still he waited, feeling that she knewwhat he was waiting to say. She kissed him and went up-stairs, andstill he lingered, watching the moonlight and the moths, and thatunreality of colouring which steals along and stains a summer night. And he would have given anything to be back in the past--barely threemonths back; or away forward, years, in the future. The present withthis stark cruelty of a decision, one way or the other, seemedimpossible. He realised now so much more keenly what his mother feltthan he had at first; as if the story in that letter had been apoisonous germ producing a kind of fever of partisanship, so that hereally felt there were two camps, his mother's and his--Fleur's and herfather's. It might be a dead thing, that old tragic ownership andenmity, but dead things were poisonous till Time had cleaned them away. Even his love felt tainted, less illusioned, more of the earth, andwith a treacherous lurking doubt lest Fleur, like her father, mightwant to OWN; not articulate, just a stealing haunt, horribly unworthy, which crept in and about the ardour of his memories, touched with itstarnishing breath the vividness and grace of that charmed face andfigure--a doubt, not real enough to convince him of its presence, justreal enough to deflower a perfect faith. And perfect faith, to Jon, notyet twenty, was essential. He still had Youth's eagerness to give withboth hands, to take with neither--to give lovingly to one who had hisown impulsive generosity. Surely she had! He got up from thewindow-seat and roamed in the big grey ghostly room, whose walls werehung with silvered canvas. This house--his father said in thatdeath-bed letter--had been built for his mother to live in--withFleur's father! He put out his hand in the half-dark, as if to graspthe shadowy hand of the dead. He clenched, trying to feel the thinvanished fingers of his father; to squeeze them, and reassure him thathe--he was on his father's side. Tears, prisoned within him, made hiseyes feel dry and hot. He went back to the window. It was warmer, notso eerie, more comforting outside, where the moon hung golden, threedays off full; the freedom of the night was comforting. If only Fleurand he had met on some desert island without a past--and Nature fortheir house! Jon had still his high regard for desert islands, wherebreadfruit grew, and the water was blue above the coral. The night wasdeep, was free--there was enticement in it; a lure, a promise, a refugefrom entanglement, and love! Milksop tied to his mother's--! His cheeksburned. He shut the window, drew curtains over it, switched off thelighted sconce, and went up-stairs. 

The door of his room was open, the light turned up; his mother, stillin her evening gown, was standing at the window. She turned, and said:

"Sit down, Jon; let's talk. " She sat down on the window-seat, Jon onhis bed. She had her profile turned to him, and the beauty and grace ofher figure, the delicate line of the brow, the nose, the neck, thestrange and as it were remote refinement of her, moved him. His mothernever belonged to her surroundings. She came into them fromsomewhere--as it were! What was she going to say to him, who had in hisheart such things to say to her?

"I know Fleur came to-day. I'm not surprised. " It was as though she hadadded: "She is her father's daughter!" And Jon's heart hardened. Irenewent on quietly:

"I have Father's letter. I picked it up that night and kept it. Wouldyou like it back, dear?"

Jon shook his head. 

"I had read it, of course, before he gave it to you. It didn't quite dojustice to my criminality. "

"Mother!" burst from Jon's lips. 

"He put it very sweetly, but I know that in marrying Fleur's fatherwithout love I did a dreadful thing. An unhappy marriage, Jon, can playsuch havoc with other lives besides one's own. You are fearfully young, my darling, and fearfully loving. Do you think you can possibly behappy with this girl?"

Staring at her dark eyes, darker now from pain, Jon answered:

"Yes; oh! yes--if YOU could be. "

Irene smiled. 

"Admiration of beauty, and longing for possession are not love. Ifyours were another case like mine, Jon--where the deepest things arestifled; the flesh joined, and the spirit at war!"

"Why should it, Mother? You think she must be like her father, butshe's not. I've seen him. "

Again the smile came on Irene's lips, and in Jon something wavered;there was such irony and experience in that smile. 

"You are a giver, Jon; she is a taker. "

That unworthy doubt, that haunting uncertainty again! He said withvehemence:

"She isn't--she isn't. It's only because I can't bear to make youunhappy, Mother, now that Father--" He thrust his fists against hisforehead. 

Irene got up. 

"I told you that night, dear, not to mind me. I meant it. Think ofyourself and your own happiness! I can stand what's left--I've broughtit on myself. "

Again the word: "Mother!" burst from Jon's lips. 

She came over to him and put her hands over his. 

"Do you feel your head, darling?"

Jon shook it. What he felt was in his chest--a sort of tearing asunderof the tissue there, by the two loves. 

"I shall always love you the same, Jon, whatever you do. You won't loseanything. " She smoothed his hair gently, and walked away. 

He heard the door shut; and, rolling over on the bed, lay, stifling hisbreath, with an awful held-up feeling within him. 

VII

EMBASSY

Enquiring for her at tea time Soames learned that Fleur had been out inthe car since two. Three hours! Where had she gone? Up to Londonwithout a word to him? He had never become quite reconciled with cars. He had embraced them in principle--like the born empiricist, orForsyte, that he was--adopting each symptom of progress as it camealong with: "Well, we couldn't do without them now. " But in fact hefound them tearing, great, smelly things. Obliged by Annette to haveone--a Rollhard with pearl-grey cushions, electric light, littlemirrors, trays for the ashes of cigarettes, flower vases--all smellingof petrol and stephanotis--he regarded it much as he used to regard hisbrother-in-law, Montague Dartie. The thing typified all that was fast, insecure, and subcutaneously oily in modern life. As modern life becamefaster, looser, younger, Soames was becoming older, slower, tighter, more and more in thought and language like his father James before him. He was almost aware of it himself. Pace and progress pleased him lessand less; there was an ostentation, too, about a car which heconsidered provocative in the prevailing mood of Labour. On oneoccasion that fellow Sims had driven over the only vested interest of aworking man. Soames had not forgotten the behaviour of its master, whennot many people would have stopped to put up with it. He had been sorryfor the dog, and quite prepared to take its part against the car, ifthat ruffian hadn't been so outrageous. With four hours fast becomingfive, and still no Fleur, all the old car-wise feelings he hadexperienced in person and by proxy balled within him, and sinkingsensations troubled the pit of his stomach. At seven he telephoned toWinifred by trunk call. No! Fleur had not been to Green Street. Thenwhere was she? Visions of his beloved daughter rolled up in her prettyfrills, all blood-and-dust-stained, in some hideous catastrophe, beganto haunt him. He went to her room and spied among her things. She hadtaken nothing--no dressing-case, no jewellery. And this, a relief inone sense, increased his fears of an accident. Terrible to be helplesswhen his loved one was missing, especially when he couldn't bear fussor publicity of any kind! What should he do, if she were not back bynightfall?

At a quarter to eight he heard the car. A great weight lifted from offhis heart; he hurried down. She was getting out--pale andtired-looking, but nothing wrong. He met her in the hall. 

"You've frightened me. Where have you been?"

"To Robin Hill. I'm sorry, dear. I had to go; I'll tell youafterwards. " And, with a flying kiss, she ran up-stairs. 

Soames waited in the drawing-room. To Robin Hill! What did that portend?

It was not a subject they could discuss at dinner--consecrated to thesusceptibilities of the butler. The agony of nerves Soames had beenthrough, the relief he felt at her safety, softened his power tocondemn what she had done, or resist what she was going to do; hewaited in a relaxed stupor for her revelation. Life was a queerbusiness. There he was at sixty-five and no more in command of thingsthan if he had not spent forty years in building up security--alwayssomething one couldn't get on terms with! In the pocket of hisdinner-jacket was a letter from Annette. She was coming back in afortnight. He knew nothing of what she had been doing out there. And hewas glad that he did not. Her absence had been a relief. Out of sightwas out of mind! And now she was coming back. Another worry! And theBolderby Old Crome was gone--Dumetrius had got it--all because thatanonymous letter had put it out of his thoughts. He furtively remarkedthe strained look on his daughter's face, as if she too were gazing ata picture that she couldn't buy. He almost wished the war back. Worriesdidn't seem, then, quite so worrying. From the caress in her voice, thelook on her face, he became certain that she wanted something from him, uncertain whether it would be wise of him to give it her. He pushed hissavoury away uneaten, and even joined her in a cigarette. 

After dinner she set the electric piano-player going. And he auguredthe worst when she sat down on a cushion footstool at his knee, and puther hand on his. 

"Darling, be nice to me. I had to see Jon--he wrote to me. He's goingto try what he can do with his mother. But I've been thinking. But it'sreally in YOUR hands, Father. If you'd persuade her that it doesn'tmean renewing the past in any way! That I shall stay yours, and Jonwill stay hers; that you need never see him or her, and she need neversee you or me! Only you could persuade her, dear, because only youcould promise. One can't promise for other people. Surely it wouldn'tbe too awkward for you to see her just this once--now that Jon's fatheris dead?"

"Too awkward?" Soames repeated. "The whole thing's preposterous. "

"You know, " said Fleur, without looking up, "you wouldn't mind seeingher, really. "

Soames was silent. Her words had expressed a truth too deep for him toadmit. She slipped her fingers between his own--hot, slim, eager, theyclung there. This child of his would corkscrew her way into a brickwall!

"What am I to do, if you won't, Father?" she said very softly. 

"I'll do anything for your happiness, " said Soames; "but this isn't foryour happiness. "

"Oh! it is; it is!"

"It'll only stir things up, " he said grimly. 

"But they are stirred up. The thing is to quiet them. To make her feelthat this is just OUR lives, and has nothing to do with yours or hers. You can do it, Father, I know you can. "

"You know a great deal, then, " was Soames' glum answer. 

"If you will, Jon and I will wait a year--two years if you like. "

"It seems to me, " murmured Soames, "that you care nothing about what Ifeel. "

Fleur pressed his hand against her cheek. 

"I do, darling. But you wouldn't like me to be awfully miserable. " Howshe wheedled to get her ends! And trying with all his might to thinkshe really cared for him--he was not sure--not sure. All she cared forwas this boy! Why should he help her to get this boy, who was killingher affection for himself? Why should he? By the laws of the Forsytesit was foolish! There was nothing to be had out of it--nothing! To giveher to that boy! To pass her into the enemy's camp, under the influenceof the woman who had injured him so deeply! Slowly--inevitably--hewould lose this flower of his life! And suddenly he was conscious thathis hand was wet. His heart gave a little painful jump. He couldn'tbear her to cry. He put his other hand quickly over hers, and a teardropped on that, too. He couldn't go on like this! "Well, well, " hesaid, "I'll think it over, and do what I can. Come, come!" If she musthave it for her happiness--she must; he couldn't refuse to help her. And lest she should begin to thank him he got out of his chair and wentup to the piano-player--making that noise! It ran down, as he reachedit, with a faint buzz. That musical box of his nursery days: "TheHarmonious Blacksmith, " "Glorious Port"--the thing had always made himmiserable when his mother set it going on Sunday afternoons. Here itwas again--the same thing, only larger, more expensive, and now itplayed: "The Wild Wild Women" and "The Policeman's Holiday, " and he wasno longer in black velvet with a sky-blue collar. 'Profond's right, ' hethought, 'there's nothing in it! We're all progressing to the grave!'And with that surprising mental comment he walked out. 

He did not see Fleur again that night. But, at breakfast, her eyesfollowed him about with an appeal he could not escape--not that heintended to try. No! He had made up his mind to the nerve-rackingbusiness. He would go to Robin Hill--to that house of memories. Apleasant memory--the last! Of going down to keep that boy's father andIrene apart by threatening divorce. He had often thought, since, thatit had clenched their union. And, now, he was going to clench the unionof that boy with his girl. 'I don't know what I've done, ' he thought, 'to have such things thrust on me!' He went up by train and down bytrain, and from the station walked by the long rising lane, still verymuch as he remembered it over thirty years ago. Funny--so near London!Some one evidently was holding on to the land there. This speculationsoothed him, moving between the high hedges slowly, so as not to getoverheated, though the day was chill enough. After all was said anddone there was something real about land, it didn't shift. Land, andgood pictures! The values might fluctuate a bit, but on the whole theywere always going up--worth holding on to, in a world where there wassuch a lot of unreality, cheap building, changing fashions, such a"Here to-day and gone to-morrow" spirit. The French were right, perhaps, with their peasant proprietorship, though he had no opinion ofthe French. One's bit of land! Something solid in it! He had heardpeasant-proprietors described as a pig-headed lot; had heard young Montcall his father a pig-headed Morning Poster--disrespectful young devil. Well, there were worse things than being pig-headed or reading TheMorning Post. There was Profond and his tribe, and all these Labourchaps, and loud-mouthed politicians, and "wild, wild women"! A lot ofworse things! And, suddenly, Soames became conscious of feeling weak, and hot, and shaky. Sheer nerves at the meeting before him! As AuntJuley might have said--quoting "Superior Dosset"--his nerves were "in aproper fantigue. " He could see the house now among its trees, the househe had watched being built, intending it for himself and this woman, who, by such strange fate, had lived in it with another after all! Hebegan to think of Dumetrius, Local Loans, and other forms ofinvestment. He could not afford to meet her with his nerves allshaking; he who represented the Day of Judgment for her on earth as itwas in heaven; he, legal ownership, personified, meeting lawlessbeauty, incarnate. His dignity demanded impassivity during this embassydesigned to link their offspring, who, if she had behaved herself, would have been brother and sister. That wretched tune: "The Wild WildWomen" kept running in his head, perversely, for tunes did not runthere as a rule. Passing the poplars in front of the house, he thought:'How they've grown; I had them planted!'

A maid answered his ring. 

"Will you say--Mr. Forsyte, on a very special matter. "

If she realised who he was, quite probably she would not see him. 'ByGeorge!' he thought, hardening as the tug came: 'It's a topsyturvyaffair!'

The maid came back. Would the gentleman state his business, please?

"Say it concerns Mr. Jon, " said Soames. 

And once more he was alone in that hall with the pool of grey-whitemarble designed by her first lover. Ah! she had been a bad lot--hadloved two men, and not himself! He must remember that when he came faceto face with her once more. And suddenly he saw her in the openingchink between the long heavy purple curtains, swaying, as if inhesitation; the old perfect poise and line, the old startled dark-eyedgravity; the old calm defensive voice: "Will you come in, please?"

He passed through that opening. As in the picture-gallery and theconfectioner's shop, she seemed to him still beautiful. And this wasthe first time--the very first--since he married her five and thirtyyears ago, that he was speaking to her without the legal right to callher his. She was not wearing black--one of that fellow's radicalnotions, he supposed. 

"I apologise for coming, " he said glumly; "but this business must besettled one way or the other. "

"Won't you sit down?"

"No, thank you. "

Anger at his false position, impatience of ceremony between them, mastered him, and words came tumbling out:

"It's an infernal mischance; I've done my best to discourage it. Iconsider my daughter crazy, but I've got into the habit of indulgingher; that's why I'm here. I suppose you're fond of your son. "

"Devotedly. "

"Well?"

"It rests with him. "

He had a sense of being met and baffled. Always--always she had baffledhim, even in those old first married days. 

"It's a mad notion, " he said. 

"It is. "

"If you had only--! Well--they might have been--" he did not finishthat sentence "brother and sister and all this saved, " but he saw hershudder as if he had, and stung by the sight, he crossed over to thewindow. Out THERE the trees had not grown--they couldn't, they were old!

"So far as I'm concerned, " he said, "you may make your mind easy. Idesire to see neither you nor your son if this marriage comes about. Young people in these days are--are unaccountable. But I can't bear tosee my daughter unhappy. What am I to say to her when I go back?"

"Please say to her, as I said to you, that it rests with Jon. "

"You don't oppose it?"

"With all my heart; not with my lips. "

Soames stood, biting his finger. 

"I remember an evening--" he said suddenly; and was silent. What wasthere--what was there in this woman that would not fit into the fourcomers of his hate or condemnation? "Where is he--your son?"

"Up in his father's studio, I think. "

"Perhaps you'd have him down. "

He watched her ring the bell, he watched the maid come in. 

"Please tell Mr. Jon that I want him. "

"If it rests with him, " said Soames hurriedly, when the maid was gone, "I suppose I may take it for granted that this unnatural marriage willtake place: in that case there'll be formalities. Whom do I dealwith--Herring's?" Irene nodded. 

"You don't propose to live with them?"

Irene shook her head. 

"What happens to this house?"

"It will be as Jon wishes. "

"This house, " said Soames suddenly: "I had hopes when I began it. IfTHEY live in it--their children! They say there's such a thing asNemesis. Do you believe in it?"

"Yes. "

"Oh! You do!" He had come back from the window, and was standing closeto her, who, in the curve of her grand piano, was, as it were, embayed. 

"I'm not likely to see you again, " he said slowly: "Will you shakehands, " his lip quivered, the words came out jerkily, "and let the pastdie?" He held out his hand. Her pale face grew paler, her eyes so dark, rested immovably on his, but her hands remained clasped in front ofher. He heard a sound and turned. That boy was standing in the openingof the curtains. Very queer he looked, hardly recognisable as the youngfellow he had seen in the Gallery off Cork Street--very queer; mucholder, no youth in the face at all--haggard, rigid, his hair ruffled, his eyes deep in his head. Soames made an effort, and said with a liftof his lip, not quite a smile nor quite a sneer:

"Well, young man! I'm here for my daughter; it rests with you, itseems--this matter. Your mother leaves it in your hands. "

The boy continued staring at his mother's face, and made no answer. 

"For my daughter's sake I've brought myself to come, " said Soames. "What am I to say to her when I go back?"

Still looking at his mother, the boy said, quietly:

"Tell Fleur that it's no good, please; I must do as my father wishedbefore he died. "

"Jon!"

"It's all right, Mother. "

In a kind of stupefaction Soames looked from one to the other; then, taking up hat and umbrella, which he had put down on a chair, he walkedtowards the curtains. The boy stood aside for him to go by. He passedthrough and heard the grate of the rings as the curtains were drawnbehind him. The sound liberated something in his chest. 

'So that's that!' he thought, and passed out of the front door. 

VIII

THE DARK TUNE

As Soames walked away from the house at Robin Hill the sun brokethrough the grey of that chill afternoon, in smoky radiance. Soabsorbed in landscape-painting that he seldom looked seriously foreffects of Nature out-of-doors, he was struck by that moodyeffulgence--it mourned with a triumph suited to his own feeling. Victory in defeat! His embassy had come to naught. But he was rid ofthose people, had regained his daughter at the expense of--herhappiness. What would Fleur say to him? Would she believe he had donehis best? And under that sunlight flaring on the elms, hazels, holliesof the lane and those unexploited fields, Soames felt dread. She wouldbe terribly upset! He must appeal to her pride. That boy had given herup, declared part and lot with the woman who so long ago had given herfather up! Soames clenched his hands. Given him up, and why? What hadbeen wrong with him? And once more he felt the malaise of one whocontemplates himself as seen by another--like a dog who chances on hisreflection in a mirror, and is intrigued and anxious at the unseizablething. 

Not in a hurry to get home, he dined in town at the Connoisseurs. Whileeating a pear it suddenly occurred to him that, if he had not gone downto Robin Hill, the boy might not have so decided. He remembered theexpression on his face while his mother was refusing the hand he hadheld out. A strange, an awkward thought! Had Fleur cooked her own gooseby trying to make too sure?

He reached home at half-past nine. While the car was passing in at onedrive gate he heard the grinding sputter of a motor-cycle passing outby the other. Young Mont, no doubt, so Fleur had not been lonely. Buthe went in with a sinking heart. In the cream-panelled drawing-room shewas sitting with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her claspedhands, in front of a white camellia plant which filled the fireplace. That glance at her before she saw him renewed his dread. What was sheseeing among those white camellias?

"Well, Father!"

Soames shook his head. His tongue failed him. This was murderous work!He saw her eyes dilate, her lips quivering. 

"What? What? Quick, Father!"

"My dear, " said Soames, "I--I did my best, but--" And again he shookhis head. 

Fleur ran to him and put a hand on each of his shoulders. 

"She?"

"No, " muttered Soames; "he. I was to tell you that it was no use; hemust do what his father wished before he died. " He caught her by thewaist. "Come, child, don't let them hurt you. They're not worth yourlittle finger. "

Fleur tore herself from his grasp. 

"You didn't--you couldn't have tried. You--you betrayed me, Father!"

Bitterly wounded, Soames gazed at her passionate figure writhing therein front of him. 

"You didn't try--you didn't--I was a fool--I won't believe he could--heever could! Only yesterday he--! Oh! why did I ask you?"

"Yes, " said Soames quietly, "why did you? I swallowed my feelings; Idid my best for you, against my judgment--and this is my reward. Good-night!"

With every nerve in his body twitching he went towards the door. 

Fleur darted after him. 

"He gives me up? You mean that? Father!"

Soames turned and forced himself to answer:

"Yes. "

"Oh!" cried Fleur. "What did you--what could you have done in those olddays?"

The breathless sense of really monstrous injustice cut the power ofspeech in Soames' throat. What had HE done! What had they done to him!And with quite unconscious dignity he put his hand on his breast, andlooked at her. 

"It's a shame!" cried Fleur passionately. 

Soames went out. He mounted, slow and icy, to his picture-gallery, andpaced among his treasures. Outrageous! Oh! Outrageous! She was spoiled!Ah! and who had spoiled her? He stood still before the Goya copy. Accustomed to her own way in everything--Flower of his life! And nowthat she couldn't have it. He turned to the window for some air. Daylight was dying, the moon rising, gold behind the poplars! Whatsound was that? Why! That piano thing! A dark tune, with a thrum and athrob! She had set it going--what comfort could she get from that? Hiseyes caught movement down there beyond the lawn, under the trellis oframbler roses and young acacia-trees, where the moonlight fell. Thereshe was, roaming up and down. His heart gave a little sickening jump. What would she do under this blow? How could he tell? What did he knowof her--he had only loved her all his life--looked on her as the appleof his eye! He knew nothing--had no notion. There she was--and thatdark tune--and the river gleaming in the moonlight!

'I must go out, ' he thought. He hastened down to the drawing-room, lighted just as he had left it, with the piano thrumming out thatwaltz, or fox-trot, or whatever they called it in these days, andpassed through on to the verandah. Where could he watch, without herseeing him? And he stole down through the fruit garden to theboat-house. He was between her and the river now, and his heart feltlighter. She was his daughter, and Annette's--she wouldn't do anythingfoolish; but there it was--he didn't know! From the boat-house windowhe could see the last acacia and the spin of her skirt when she turnedin her restless march. That tune had run down at last--thank goodness!He crossed the floor and looked through the farther window at the waterslow-flowing past the lilies. It made little bubbles against them, bright where a moon-streak fell. He remembered suddenly that earlymorning when he had slept in this boat-house after his father died, andshe had just been born--nearly nineteen years ago! Even now he recalledthe unaccustomed world when he woke up, the strange feeling it hadgiven him. That day the second passion of his life began--for this girlof his, roaming under the acacias. What a comfort she had been to him!And all the soreness and sense of outrage left him. If he could makeher happy again, he didn't care! An owl flew, queeking, queeking; a batflitted by; the moonlight brightened and broadened on the water. Howlong was she going to roam about like this! He went back to the window, and suddenly saw her coming down to the bank. She stood quite close, onthe landing-stage. And Soames watched, clenching his hands. Should hespeak to her? His excitement was intense. The stillness of her figure, its youth, its absorption in despair, in longing, in--itself. He wouldalways remember it, moonlit like that; and the faint sweet reek of theriver and the shivering of the willow leaves. She had everything in theworld that he could give her, except the one thing that she could nothave because of him! The perversity of things hurt him at that moment, as might a fish-bone in his throat. Then, with an infinite relief, hesaw her turn back towards the house. What could he give her to makeamends? Pearls, travel, horses, other young men--anything shewanted--that he might lose the memory of her young figure lonely by thewater! There! She had set that tune going again! Why--it was a mania!Dark, thrumming, faint, travelling from the house. It was as though shehad said: "If I can't have something to keep me going, I shall die ofthis!" Soames dimly understood. Well, if it helped her, let her keep itthrumming on all night! And, mousing back through the fruit garden, heregained the verandah. Though he meant to go in and speak to her now, he still hesitated, not knowing what to say, trying hard to recall howit felt to be thwarted in love. He ought to know, ought toremember--and he could not! Gone--all real recollection; except that ithad hurt him horribly. In this blankness he stood passing hishandkerchief over hands and lips, which were very dry. By craning hishead he could just see Fleur, standing with her back to that pianostill grinding out its tune, her arms tight crossed on her breast, alighted cigarette between her lips, whose smoke half veiled her face. The expression on it was strange to Soames, the eyes shone and stared, and every feature was alive with a sort of wretched scorn and anger. Once or twice he had seen Annette look like that--the face was toovivid, too naked, not HIS daughter's at that moment. And he dared notgo in, realising the futility of any attempt at consolation. He satdown in the shadow of the ingle-nook. Monstrous trick, that Fate hadplayed him! Nemesis! That old unhappy marriage! And in God's name--why?How was he to know, when he wanted Irene so violently, and sheconsented to be his, that she would never love him? The tune died andwas renewed, and died again, and still Soames sat in the shadow, waiting for he knew not what. The fag of Fleur's cigarette, flungthrough the window, fell on the grass; he watched it glowing, burningitself out. The moon had freed herself above the poplars, and pouredher unreality on the garden. Comfortless light, mysterious, withdrawn--like the beauty of that woman who had never lovedhim--dappling the nemesias and the stocks with a vesture not of earth. Flowers! And his flower so unhappy! Ah, why could one not put happinessinto Local Loans, gild its edges, insure it against going down? Lighthad ceased to flow out now from the drawing-room window. All was silentand dark in there. Had she gone up? He rose, and, tiptoeing, peered in. It seemed so! He entered. The verandah kept the moonlight out; and atfirst he could see nothing but the outlines of furniture blacker thanthe darkness. He groped towards the farther window to shut it. His footstruck a chair, and he heard a gasp. There she was, curled and crushedinto the corner of the sofa! His hand hovered. Did she want hisconsolation? He stood, gazing at that ball of crushed frills and hairand graceful youth, trying to burrow its way out of sorrow. How leaveher there? At last he touched her hair, and said: "Come, darling, better go to bed. I'll make it up to you, somehow. " How fatuous! Butwhat could he have said?

IX

UNDER THE OAK-TREE

When their visitor had disappeared Jon and his mother stood withoutspeaking, till he said suddenly: "I ought to have seen him out. " ButSoames was already walking down the drive, and Jon went up-stairs tohis father's studio, not trusting himself to go back. The expression onhis mother's face confronting the man she had once been married to, hadsealed a resolution growing within him ever since she left him thenight before. It had put the finishing touch of reality. To marry Fleurwould be to hit his mother in the face; to betray his dead father! Itwas no good! Jon had the least resentful of natures. He bore hisparents no grudge in this hour of his distress. For one so young therewas a rather strange power in him of seeing things in some sort ofproportion. It was worse for Fleur, worse for his mother even, than itwas for him. Harder than to give up was to be given up, or to be thecause of some one you loved giving up for you. He must not, would notbehave grudgingly! While he stood watching the tardy sunlight, he hadagain that sudden vision of the world which had come to him the nightbefore. Sea on sea, country on country, millions on millions of people, all with their own lives, energies, joys, griefs, and suffering--allwith things they had to give up, and separate struggles for existence. Even though he might be willing to give up all else for the one thinghe couldn't have, he would be a fool to think his feelings matteredmuch in so vast a world, and to behave like a cry-baby or a cad. Hepictured the people who had nothing--the millions who had given up lifein the war, the millions whom the war had left with life and littleelse; the hungry children he had read of, the shattered men; people inprison, every kind of unfortunate. And--they did not help him much. Ifone had to miss a meal, what comfort in the knowledge that many othershad to miss it too? There was more distraction in the thought ofgetting away out into this vast world of which he knew nothing yet. Hecould not go on staying here, walled in and sheltered, with everythingso slick and comfortable, and nothing to do but brood and think whatmight have been. He could not go back to Wansdon, and the memories ofFleur. If he saw her again he could not trust himself; and if he stayedhere or went back there, he would surely see her. While they werewithin reach of each other that must happen. To go far away andquickly, was the only thing to do. But, however much he loved hismother, he did not want to go away with her. Then feeling that wasbrutal, he made up his mind desperately to propose that they should goto Italy. For two hours in that melancholy room he tried to masterhimself; then dressed solemnly for dinner. 

His mother had done the same. They ate little, at some length, andtalked of his father's catalogue. The Show was arranged for October, and beyond clerical detail there was nothing more to do. 

After dinner she put on a cloak and they went out; walked a little, talked a little, till they were standing silent at last beneath theoak-tree. Ruled by the thought: 'If I show anything, I show all, ' Jonput his arm through hers and said quite casually:

"Mother, let's go to Italy. "

Irene pressed his arm, and said as casually:

"It would be very nice; but I've been thinking you ought to see and domore than you would if I were with you. "

"But then you'd be alone. "

"I was once alone for more than twelve years. Besides, I should like tobe here for the opening of Father's show. "

Jon's grip tightened round her arm; he was not deceived. 

"You couldn't stay here all by yourself; it's too big. "

"Not here, perhaps. In London, and I might go to Paris, after the showopens. You ought to have a year at least, Jon, and see the world. "

"Yes, I'd like to see the world and rough it. But I don't want to leaveyou all alone. "

"My dear, I owe you that at least. If it's for your good, it'll be formine. Why not start to-morrow? You've got your passport. "

"Yes; if I'm going it had better be at once. Only--Mother--if--if Iwanted to stay out somewhere--America or anywhere, would you mindcoming presently?"

"Wherever and whenever you send for me. But don't send until you reallywant me. "

Jon drew a deep breath. 

"I feel England's choky. "

They stood a few minutes longer under the oak-tree--looking out towhere the grand stand at Epsom was veiled in evening. The branches keptthe moonlight from them, so that it only fell everywhere else--over thefields and far away, and on the windows of the creepered house behind, which soon would be to let. 

X

FLEUR'S WEDDING

The October paragraphs describing the wedding of Fleur Forsyte toMichael Mont hardly conveyed the symbolic significance of this event. In the union of the great-granddaughter of "Superior Dosset" with theheir of a ninth baronet was the outward and visible sign of that mergerof class in class which buttresses the political stability of a realm. The time had come when the Forsytes might resign their naturalresentment against a "flummery" not theirs by birth, and accept it asthe still more natural due of their possessive instincts. Besides, theyreally had to mount to make room for all those so much more newly rich. In that quiet but tasteful ceremony in Hanover Square, and afterwardsamong the furniture in Green Street, it had been impossible for thosenot in the know to distinguish the Forsyte troop from the Montcontingent--so far away was "Superior Dosset" now. Was there, in thecrease of his trousers, the expression of his moustache, his accent, orthe shine on his top hat, a pin to choose between Soames and the ninthbaronet himself? Was not Fleur as self-possessed, quick, glancing, pretty, and hard as the likeliest Muskham, Mont, or Charwell fillypresent? If anything, the Forsytes had it in dress and looks andmanners. They had become "upper class" and now their name would beformally recorded in the Stud Book, their money joined to land. Whetherthis was a little late in the day, and those rewards of the possessiveinstinct, lands and money destined for the melting-pot--was still aquestion so moot that it was not mooted. After all, Timothy had saidConsols were goin' up. Timothy, the last, the missing link; Timothy inextremis on the Bayswater Road--so Francie had reported. It waswhispered, too, that this young Mont was a sort of socialist--strangelywise of him, and in the nature of insurance, considering the days theylived in. There was no uneasiness on that score. The landed classesproduced that sort of amiable foolishness at times, turned to safe usesand confined to theory. As George remarked to his sister Francie:"They'll soon be having puppies--that'll give him pause. "

The church with white flowers and something blue in the middle of theEast window, looked extremely chaste, as though endeavouring tocounteract the somewhat lurid phraseology of a Service calculated tokeep the thoughts of all on puppies. Forsytes, Haymans, Tweetymans, satin the left aisle; Monts, Charwells, Muskhams in the right; while asprinkling of Fleur's fellow-sufferers at school, and of Mont'sfellow-sufferers in the war, gaped indiscriminately from either side, and three maiden ladies, who had dropped in on their way fromSkyward's, brought up the rear, together with two Mont retainers andFleur's old nurse. In the unsettled state of the country as full ahouse as could be expected. 

Mrs. Val Dartie, who sat with her husband in the third row, squeezedhis hand more than once during the performance. To her, who knew theplot of this tragi-comedy, its most dramatic moment was well-nighpainful. 'I wonder if Jon knows by instinct, ' she thought--Jon, out inBritish Columbia. She had received a letter from him only that morningwhich had made her smile and say:

"Jon's in British Columbia, Val, because he wants to be in California. He thinks it's too nice there. "

"Oh!" said Val, "so he's beginning to see a joke again. "

"He's bought some land and sent for his mother. "

"What on earth will she do out there?"

"All she cares about is Jon. Do you still think it a happy release?"

Val's shrewd eyes narrowed to grey pin-points between their dark lashes. 

"Fleur wouldn't have suited him a bit. She's not bred right. "

"Poor little Fleur!" sighed Holly. Ah! it was strange--this marriage!The young man, Mont, had caught her on the rebound, of course, in thereckless mood of one whose ship has just gone down. Such a plunge couldnot but be--as Val put it--an outside chance. There was little to betold from the back view of her young cousin's veil, and Holly's eyesreviewed the general aspect of this Christian wedding. She who had madea love-match which had been successful, had a horror of unhappymarriages. This might not be one in the end--but it was clearly atoss-up; and to consecrate a toss-up in this fashion with manufacturedunction before a crowd of fashionable free-thinkers--for who thoughtotherwise than freely, or not at all, when they were 'dolled'up--seemed to her as near a sin as one could find in an age which hadabolished them. Her eyes wandered from the prelate in his robes (aCharwell--the Forsytes had not as yet produced a prelate) to Val, beside her, thinking--she was certain of--the Mayfly filly at fifteento one for the Cambridgeshire. They passed on and caught the profile ofthe ninth baronet, in counterfeitment of the kneeling process. Shecould just see the neat ruck above his knees where he had pulled histrousers up, and thought: 'Val's forgotten to pull up his!' Her eyespassed to the pew in front of her, where Winifred's substantial formwas gowned with passion, and on again to Soames and Annette kneelingside by side. A little smile came on her lips--Prosper Profond, backfrom the South Seas of the Channel, would be kneeling too, about sixrows behind. Yes! This was a funny "small" business, however it turnedout; still it was in a proper church and would be in the proper papersto-morrow morning. 

They had begun a hymn; she could hear the ninth baronet across theaisle, singing of the hosts of Midian. Her little finger touched Val'sthumb--they were holding the same hymn-book--and a tiny thrill passedthrough her, preserved from twenty years ago. He stooped and whispered:

"I say, d'you remember the rat?" The rat at their wedding in CapeColony, which had cleaned its whiskers behind the table at theRegistrar's! And between her little and third finger she squeezed histhumb hard. 

The hymn was over, the prelate had begun to deliver his discourse. Hetold them of the dangerous times they lived in, and the awful conductof the House of Lords in connection with divorce. They were allsoldiers--he said--in the trenches under the poisonous gas of thePrince of Darkness, and must be manful. The purpose of marriage waschildren, not mere sinful happiness. 

An imp danced in Holly's eyes--Val's eyelashes were meeting. Whateverhappened, he must NOT snore. Her finger and thumb closed on his thigh;till he stirred uneasily. 

The discourse was over, the danger past. They were signing in thevestry; and general relaxation had set in. 

A voice behind her said:

"Will she stay the course?"

"Who's that?" she whispered. 

"Old George Forsyte!"

Holly demurely scrutinised one of whom she had often heard. Fresh fromSouth Africa, and ignorant of her kith and kin, she never saw onewithout an almost childish curiosity. He was very big, and very dapper;his eyes gave her a funny feeling of having no particular clothes. 

"They're off!" she heard him say. 

They came, stepping from the chancel. Holly looked first in youngMont's face. His lips and ears were twitching, his eyes, shifting fromhis feet to the hand within his arm, stared suddenly before them as ifto face a firing party. He gave Holly the feeling that he wasspiritually intoxicated. But Fleur! Ah! That was different. The girlwas perfectly composed, prettier than ever, in her white robes and veilover her banged dark chestnut hair; her eyelids hovered demure over herdark hazel eyes. Outwardly, she seemed all there. But, inwardly, wherewas she? As those two passed, Fleur raised her eyelids--the restlessglint of those clear whites remained on Holly's vision as might theflutter of a caged bird's wings. 

In Green Street Winifred stood to receive, just a little less composedthan usual. Soames' request for the use of her house had come on her ata deeply psychological moment. Under the influence of a remark ofProsper Profond, she had begun to exchange her Empire forExpressionistic furniture. There were the most amusing arrangements, with violet, green, and orange blobs and scriggles, to be had atMealard's. Another month and the change would have been complete. Justnow, the very "intriguing" recruits she had enlisted did not march toowell with the old guard. It was as if her regiment were half in khaki, half in scarlet and bearskins. But her strong and comfortable charactermade the best of it in a drawing-room which typified, perhaps, moreperfectly than she imagined, the semi-bolshevised imperialism of hercountry. After all, this was a day of merger, and you couldn't have toomuch of it! Her eyes travelled indulgently among her guests. Soames hadgripped the back of a buhl chair; young Mont was behind that "awfullyamusing" screen, which no one as yet had been able to explain to her. The ninth baronet had shied violently at a round scarlet table, inlaidtinder glass with blue Australian butterflies' wings, and was clingingto her Louis-Quinze cabinet; Francie Forsyte had seized the newmantel-board, finely carved with little purple grotesques on an ebonyground; George, over by the old spinet, was holding a little sky-bluebook as if about to enter bets; Prosper Profond was twiddling the knobof the open door, black with peacock-blue panels; and Annette's hands, close by, were grasping her own waist; two Muskhams clung to thebalcony among the plants, as if feeling ill; Lady Mont, thin andbrave-looking, had taken up her long-handled glasses and was gazing atthe central light shade, of ivory and orange dashed with deep magenta, as if the heavens had opened. Everybody, in fact, seemed holding on tosomething. Only Fleur, still in her bridal dress, was detached from allsupport, flinging her words and glances to left and right. 

The room was full of the bubble and the squeak of conversation. Nobodycould hear anything that anybody said; which seemed of littleconsequence, since no one waited for anything so slow as an answer. Modern conversation seemed to Winifred so different from the days ofher prime, when a drawl was all the vogue. Still it was diverting, which, of course, was all that mattered. Even the Forsytes were talkingwith extreme rapidity--Fleur and Christopher, and Imogen, and youngNicholas's youngest, Patrick. Soames, of course, was silent; butGeorge, by the spinet, kept up a running commentary, and Francie, byher mantel-shelf. Winifred drew nearer to the ninth baronet. He seemedto promise a certain repose; his nose was fine and drooped a little, his grey moustaches too; and she said, drawling through her smile;

"It's rather nice, isn't it?"

His reply shot out of his smile like a snipped bread pellet:

"D'you remember, in Frazer, the tribe that buries the bride up to thewaist?"

He spoke as fast as anybody! He had dark, lively little eyes, too, allcrinkled round like a Catholic priest's. Winifred felt suddenly hemight say things she would regret. 

"They're always so diverting--weddings, " she murmured, and moved on toSoames. He was curiously still, and Winifred saw at once what wasdictating his immobility. To his right was George Forsyte, to his leftAnnette and Prosper Profond. He could not move without either seeingthose two together, or the reflection of them in George Forsyte'sjaping eyes. He was quite right not to be taking notice. 

"They say Timothy's sinking, " he said glumly. 

"Where will you put him, Soames?"

"Highgate. " And counted on his fingers. "It'll make twelve of themthere, including wives. How do you think Fleur looks?"

"Remarkably well. "

Soames nodded. He had never seen her look prettier, yet he could notrid himself of the impression that this business wasunnatural--remembering still that crushed figure burrowing into thecorner of the sofa. From that night to this day he had received fromher no confidences. He knew from his chauffeur that she had made onemore attempt on Robin Hill and drawn blank--an empty house, no one athome. He knew that she had received a letter, but not what was in it, except that it had made her hide herself and cry. He had remarked thatshe looked at him sometimes when she thought he wasn't noticing, as ifshe were wondering still what he had done--forsooth--to make thosepeople hate him so. Well, there it was! Annette had come back, andthings had worn on through the summer--very miserable, till suddenlyFleur had said she was going to marry young Mont. She had shown him alittle more affection when she told Soames that. And he hadyielded--what was the good of opposing it? God knew that he had neverwished to thwart her in anything! And the young man seemed quitedelirious about her. No doubt she was in a reckless mood, and she wasyoung, absurdly young. But if he opposed her, he didn't know what shewould do; for all he could tell she might want to take up a profession, become a doctor or solicitor, some nonsense. She had no aptitude forpainting, writing, music, in his view the legitimate occupations ofunmarried women, if they must do something in these days. On the whole, she was safer married, for he could see too well how feverish andrestless she was at home. Annette, too, had been in favour ofit--Annette, from behind the veil of his refusal to know what she wasabout, if she was about anything. Annette had said: "Let her marry thisyoung man. He is a nice boy--not so highty-flighty as he seems. " Whereshe got her expressions, he didn't know--but her opinion soothed hisdoubts. His wife, whatever her conduct, had clear eyes and an almostdepressing amount of common sense. He had settled fifty thousand onFleur, taking care that there was no cross settlement in case it didn'tturn out well. Could it turn out well? She had not got over that otherboy--he knew. They were to go to Spain for the honeymoon. He would beeven lonelier when she was gone. But later, perhaps, she would forget, and turn to him again!

Winifred's voice broke on his reverie. 

"Why! Of all wonders--June!"

There, in a djibbah--what things she wore!--with her hair straying fromunder a fillet, Soames saw his cousin, and Fleur going forward to greether. The two passed from their view out on to the stairway. 

"Really, " said Winifred, "she does the most impossible things! FancyHER coming!"

"What made you ask her?" muttered Soames. 

"Because I thought she wouldn't accept, of course. "

Winifred had forgotten that behind conduct lies the main trend ofcharacter; or, in other words, omitted to remember that Fleur was now a"lame duck. "

On receiving her invitation, June had first thought: 'I wouldn't gonear them for the world!' and then, one morning, had awakened from adream of Fleur waving to her from a boat with a wild unhappy gesture. And she had changed her mind. 

When Fleur came forward and said to her:

"Do come up while I'm changing my dress"; she had followed up thestairs. The girl led the way into Imogen's old bedroom, set ready forher toilet. 

June sat down on the bed, thin and upright, like a little spirit in thesere and yellow. Fleur locked the door. 

The girl stood before her divested of her wedding-dress. What a prettything she was!

"I suppose you think me a fool, " she said, with quivering lips, "whenit was to have been Jon. But what does it matter? Michael wants me, andI don't care. It'll get me away from home. " Diving her hand into thefrills on her breast, she brought out a letter. "Jon wrote me this. "

June read: "Lake Okanagen, British Columbia. I'm not coming back toEngland. Bless you always. Jon. "

"She's made safe, you see, " said Fleur. 

June handed back the letter. 

"That's not fair to Irene; she always told Jon he could do as hewished. "

Fleur smiled bitterly. "Didn't she spoil your life too?"

"Nobody can spoil a life, my dear. That's nonsense. Things happen, butwe bob up. "

Then with a sort of terror she saw the girl sink on her knees and buryher face in the djibbah, with a strangled sob. 

"It's all right--all right, " June murmured: "Don't! There, there!"

But the point of the girl's chin was pressed ever closer into herthigh, and the sound was dreadful of her sobbing. Well, well! It had tocome. She would feel better afterwards! June stroked the short hair ofthat shapely head and all the scattered mother-sense in her focusseditself and passed through the tips of her fingers into the girl's brain. 

"Don't sit down under it, my dear, " she said at last. "We can't controllife, but we can fight it. Make the best of things. I've had to. I heldon, like you; and I cried, as you're crying now. And look at me!"

Fleur raised her head; a sob merged suddenly into a little chokedlaugh. In truth it was a thin and rather wild and wasted spirit she waslooking at, but it had brave eyes. 

"All right!" she said. "I'm sorry. I shall forget him, I suppose, if Ifly fast and far enough. "

And, scrambling to her feet, she went over to the washstand. 

June watched her removing with cold water the traces of emotion. Savefor a little becoming pinkness there was nothing left when she stoodbefore the mirror. June got off the bed and took a pin-cushion in herhand. To put two pins into the wrong places was all the vent she foundfor sympathy. 

"Give me a kiss, " she said when Fleur was ready, and dug her chin intothe girl's warm cheek. 

"I want a whiff, " said Fleur; "don't wait. "

June left her, sitting on the bed with a cigarette between her lips andher eyes half closed, and went down-stairs. In the doorway of thedrawing-room stood Soames as if unquiet at his daughter's tardiness. June tossed her head and passed down on to the half landing. Her cousinFrancie was standing there. 

"Look!" said June, pointing with her chin at Soames. "That man's fatal!"

"How do you mean, " said Francie, "fatal?"

June did not answer her. "I shan't wait to see them off, " she said. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" And Francie's eyes, of a Celtic grey, goggled. That oldfeud! Really, it was quite romantic!

Soames, moving to the well of the staircase, saw June go, and drew abreath of satisfaction. But why didn't Fleur come? They would misstheir train. That train would bear her away from him, yet he could nothelp fidgeting at the thought that they would lose it. And then she didcome, running down in her tan-coloured frock and black velvet cap, andpassed him into the drawing-room. He saw her kiss her mother, her aunt, Val's wife, Imogen, and then come forth, quick and pretty as ever. Howwould she treat him at this last moment of her girlhood? He couldn'thope for much!

Her lips pressed the middle of his cheek. 

"Daddy!" she said, and was past and gone. Daddy! She hadn't called himthat for years. He drew a long breath and followed slowly down. Therewas all the folly with that confetti stuff and the rest of it to gothrough with, yet. But he would like just to catch her smile, if sheleaned out, though they would hit her in the eye with the shoe, if theydidn't take care. Young Mont's voice said fervently in his ear:

"Good-bye, sir; and thank you! I'm so fearfully bucked. "

"Good-bye, " he said; "don't miss your train. "

He stood on the bottom step but three, whence he could see above theheads--the silly hats and heads. They were in the car now; and therewas that stuff, showering, and there went the shoe. A flood ofsomething welled up in Soames, and--he didn't know--he couldn't see!

XI

THE LAST OF THE FORSYTES

When they came to prepare that terrific symbol Timothy Forsyte--the onepure individualist left, the only man who hadn't heard of the GreatWar--they found him wonderful--not even death had undermined hissoundness. 

To Smither and Cook that preparation came like final evidence of whatthey had never believed possible--the end of the old Forsyte family onearth. Poor Mr. Timothy must now take a harp and sing in the company ofMiss Forsyte, Mrs. Julia, Miss Hester; with Mr. Jolyon, Mr. Swithin, Mr. James, Mr. Roger, and Mr. Nicholas of the party. Whether Mrs. Hayman would be there was more doubtful, seeing that she had beencremated. Secretly Cook thought that Mr. Timothy would be upset--he hadalways been so set against barrel organs. How many times had she notsaid: "Drat the thing! There it is again! Smither, you'd better run upand see what you can do. " And in her heart she would so have enjoyedthe tunes, if she hadn't known that Mr. Timothy would ring the bell ina minute and say: "Here, take him a halfpenny and tell him to move on. "Often they had been obliged to add threepence of their own before theman would go--Timothy had ever underrated the value of emotion. Luckilyhe had taken the organs for blue-bottles in his last years, which hadbeen a comfort, and they had been able to enjoy the tunes. But a harp!Cook wondered. It WAS a change! And Mr. Timothy had never liked change. But she did not speak of this to Smither, who did so take a line of herown in regard to heaven that it quite put one about sometimes. 

She cried while Timothy was being prepared, and they all had sherryafterwards out of the yearly Christmas bottle, which would not beneeded now. Ah! dear! She had been there five-and-forty years andSmither nine-and-thirty! And now they would be going to a tiny house inTooting, to live on their savings and what Miss Hester had so kindlyleft them--for to take fresh service after the glorious past--No! Butthey WOULD like just to see Mr. Soames again, and Mrs. Dartie, and MissFrancie, and Miss Euphemia. And even if they had to take their own cab, they felt they must go to the funeral. For six years Mr. Timothy hadbeen their baby, getting younger and younger every day, till at last hehad been too young to live. 

They spent the regulation hours of waiting in polishing and dusting, incatching the one mouse left, and asphyxiating the last beetle, so as toleave it nice, discussing with each other what they would buy at thesale. Miss Ann's work-box; Miss Juley's (that is Mrs. Julia's) seaweedalbum; the fire-screen Miss Hester had crewelled; and Mr. Timothy'shair--little golden curls, glued into a black frame. Oh! they must havethose--only the price of things had gone up so!

It fell to Soames to issue invitations for the funeral. He had themdrawn up by Gradman in his office--only blood relations, and noflowers. Six carriages were ordered. The Will would be read afterwardsat the house. 

He arrived at eleven o'clock to see that all was ready. At a quarterpast old Gradman came in black gloves and crape on his hat. He andSoames stood in the drawing-room waiting. At half-past eleven thecarriages drew up in a long row. But no one else appeared. Gradman said:

"It surprises me, Mr. Soames. I posted them myself. "

"I don't know, " said Soames; "he'd lost touch with the family. "

Soames had often noticed in old days how much more neighbourly hisfamily were to the dead than to the living. But, now, the way they hadflocked to Fleur's wedding and abstained from Timothy's funeral, seemedto show some vital change. There might, of course, be another reason;for Soames felt that if he had not known the contents of Timothy'sWill, he might have stayed away himself through delicacy. Timothy hadleft a lot of money, with nobody in particular to leave it to. Theymightn't like to seem to expect something. 

At twelve o'clock the procession left the door; Timothy alone in thefirst carriage under glass. Then Soames alone; then Gradman alone; thenCook and Smither together. They started at a walk, but were soontrotting under a bright sky. At the entrance to Highgate Cemetery theywere delayed by service in the Chapel. Soames would have liked to stayoutside in the sunshine. He didn't believe a word of it; on the otherhand, it was a form of insurance which could not safely be neglected, in case there might be something in it after all. 

They walked up two and two--he and Gradman, Cook and Smither--to thefamily vault. It was not very distinguished for the funeral of the lastold Forsyte. 

He took Gradman into his carriage on the way back to the Bayswater Roadwith a certain glow in his heart. He had a surprise in pickle for theold chap who had served the Forsytes four-and-fifty years--a treat thatwas entirely his doing. How well he remembered saying to Timothy theday after Aunt Hester's funeral: "Well, Uncle Timothy, there's Gradman. He's taken a lot of trouble for the family. What do you say to leavinghim five thousand?" and his surprise, seeing the difficulty there hadbeen in getting Timothy to leave anything, when Timothy had nodded. Andnow the old chap would be as pleased as Punch, for Mrs. Gradman, heknew, had a weak heart, and their son had lost a leg in the war. It wasextraordinarily gratifying to Soames to have left him five thousandpounds of Timothy's money. They sat down together in the littledrawing-room, whose walls--like a vision of heaven--were sky-blue andgold, with every picture-frame unnaturally bright, and every speck ofdust removed from every piece of furniture, to read that littlemasterpiece, --the Will of Timothy. With his back to the light in AuntHester's chair, Soames faced Gradman with his face to the light on AuntAnn's sofa; and, crossing his legs, began:

"This is the last Will and Testament of me Timothy Forsyte of The BowerBayswater Road London I appoint my nephew Soames Forsyte of The ShelterMapledurham and Thomas Gradman of 159 Folly Road Highgate (hereinaftercalled my Trustees) to be the trustees and executors of this my Will. To the said Soames Forsyte I leave the sum of one thousand pounds freeof legacy duty and to the said Thomas Gradman I leave the sum of fivethousand pounds free of legacy duty. "

Soames paused. Old Gradman was leaning forward, convulsively gripping astout black knee with each of his thick hands; his mouth had fallenopen so that the gold fillings of three teeth gleamed; his eyes wereblinking; two tears rolled slowly out of them. Soames read hastily on. 

"All the rest of my property of whatsoever description I bequeath to myTrustees upon Trust to convert and hold the same upon the followingtrusts namely. To pay thereout all my debts funeral expenses andoutgoings of any kind in connection with my Will and to hold theresidue thereof in trust for that male lineal descendant of my fatherJolyon Forsyte by his marriage with Ann Pierce who after the decease ofall lineal descendants whether male or female of my said father by hissaid marriage in being at the time of my death shall last attain theage of twenty-one years absolutely it being my desire that my propertyshall be nursed to the extreme limit permitted by the laws of Englandfor the benefit of such male lineal descendant as aforesaid. "

Soames read the investment and attestation clauses, and, ceasing, looked at Gradman. The old fellow was wiping his brow with a largehandkerchief, whose brilliant colour supplied a sudden festive tinge tothe proceedings. 

"My word, Mr. Soames!" he said, and it was clear that the lawyer in himhad utterly wiped out the man: "My word! Why, there are two babies now, and some quite young children--if one of them lives to be eighty--it'snot a great age--and add twenty-one--that's a hundred years; and Mr. Timothy worth a hundred and fifty thousand pound if he's worth a penny. Compound interest at five per cent doubles you in fourteen years. Infourteen years three hundred thousand--six hundred thousand intwenty-eight--twelve hundred thousand in forty-two--twenty-four hundredthousand in fifty-six--four million eight hundred thousand inseventy--nine million six hundred thousand in eighty-four--Why, in ahundred years it'll be twenty million! And we shan't live to see it! ItIS a Will!"

Soames said dryly: "Anything may happen. The State might take the lot;they're capable of anything in these days. "

"And carry five, " said Gradman to himself. "I forgot--Mr. Timothy's inConsols; we shan't get more than two per cent with this income tax. Tobe on the safe side, say seven million. Still, that's a pretty penny. "

Soames rose and handed him the Will. "You're going into the City. Takecare of that, and do what's necessary. Advertise; but there are nodebts. When's the sale?"

"Tuesday week, " said Gradman. "Life or lives in bein' and twenty-oneyears afterwards--it's a long way off. But I'm glad he's left it in thefamily. " . .. 

The sale--not at Jobson's, in view of the Victorian nature of theeffects--was far more freely attended than the funeral, though not byCook and Smither, for Soames had taken it on himself to give them theirhearts' desires. Winifred was present, Euphemia, and Francie, andEustace had come in his car. The miniatures, Barbizons, and J. R. Drawings had been bought in by Soames; and relics of no marketablevalue were set aside in an off-room for members of the family who caredto have mementos. These were the only restrictions upon biddingcharacterised by an almost tragic langour. Not one piece of furniture, no picture or porcelain figure appealed to modern taste. Thehumming-birds had fallen like autumn leaves when taken from where theyhad not hummed for sixty years. It was painful to Soames to see thechairs his aunts had sat on, the little grand piano they hadpractically never played, the books whose outsides they had gazed at, the china they had dusted, the curtains they had drawn, the hearth-rugwhich had warmed their feet; above all, the beds they had lain and diedin--sold to little dealers, and the housewives of Fulham. And yet--whatcould one do? Buy them and stick them in a lumber-room? No; they had togo the way of all flesh and furniture, and be worn out. But when theyput up Aunt Ann's sofa and were going to knock it down for thirtyshillings, he cried out, suddenly: "Five pounds!" The sensation wasconsiderable, and the sofa his. 

When that little sale was over in the fusty saleroom, and thoseVictorian ashes scattered, he went out into the misty October sunshinefeeling as if cosiness had died out of the world, and the board "ToLet" was up, indeed. Revolutions on the horizon; Fleur in Spain; nocomfort in Annette; no Timothy's on the Bayswater Road. In theirritable desolation of his soul he went into the Goupenor Gallery. That chap Jolyon's water-colours were on view there. He went in to lookdown his nose at them--it might give him some faint satisfaction. Thenews had trickled through from June to Val's wife, from her to Val, from Val to his mother, from her to Soames, that the house--the fatalhouse at Robin Hill--was for sale, and Irene going to join her boy outin British Columbia, or some such place. For one wild moment thethought had come to Soames: 'Why shouldn't I buy it back? I meant itfor my--!' No sooner come than gone. Too lugubrious a triumph; with twomany humiliating memories for himself and Fleur. She would never livethere after what had happened. No, the place must go its way to somepeer or profiteer. It had been a bone of contention from the first, theshell of the feud and with the woman gone, it was an empty shell. "ForSale or To Let. " With his mind's eye he could see that board raisedhigh above the ivied wall which he had built. 

He passed through the first of the two rooms in the Gallery. There wascertainly a body of work! And now that the fellow was dead it did notseem so trivial. The drawings were pleasing enough, with quite a senseof atmosphere, and something individual in the brush work. 'His fatherand my father; he and I; his child and mine!' thought Soames. So it hadgone on! And all about that woman! Softened by the events of the pastweek, affected by the melancholy beauty of the autumn day, Soames camenearer than he had ever been to realisation of that truth--passing theunderstanding of a Forsyte pure--that the body of Beauty has aspiritual essence, uncapturable save by a devotion which thinks not ofself. After all, he was near that truth in his devotion to hisdaughter; perhaps that made him understand a little how he had missedthe prize. And there, among the drawings of his kinsman, who hadattained to that which he had found beyond his reach, he thought of himand her with a tolerance which surprised him. But he did not buy adrawing. 

Just as he passed the seat of custom on his return to the outer air hemet with a contingency which had not been entirely absent from his mindwhen he went into the Gallery--Irene, herself, coming in. So she hadnot gone yet, and was still paying farewell visits to that fellow'sremains! He subdued the little involuntary leap of hissubconsciousness, the mechanical reaction of his senses to the charm ofthis once-owned woman, and passed her with averted eyes. But when hehad gone by he could not for the life of him help looking back. This, then, was finality--the heat and stress of his life, the madness andthe longing thereof, the long, the only defeat he had known, would beover when she faded from his view this time; even such memories hadtheir own queer aching value. She, too, was looking back. Suddenly shelifted her gloved hand, her lips smiled faintly, her dark eyes seemedto speak. It was the turn of Soames to make no answer to that smile andthat little farewell wave; he went out into the fashionable streetquivering from head to foot. He knew what she had meant to say: "Nowthat I am going for ever out of the reach of you and yours--forgive me;I wish you well. " That was the meaning; last sign of that terriblereality--passing morality, duty, common sense--her aversion from himwho had owned her body but had never touched her spirit or her heart. It hurt; yes--more than if she had kept her mask unmoved, her handunlifted. 

Three days later, in that fast-yellowing October, Soames took ataxi-cab to Highgate Cemetery and mounted through its white forest tothe Forsyte vault. Close to the cedar, above catacombs and columbaria, tall, ugly, and individual, it looked like an apex of the competitivesystem. He could remember a discussion wherein Swithin had advocatedthe addition to its face of the pheasant proper. The proposal had beenrejected in favour of a wreath in stone, above the stark words: "Thefamily vault of Jolyon Forsyte: 1850. " It was in good order. All traceof the recent interment had been removed, and its sober grey gloomedreposefully in the sunshine. The whole family lay there now, except oldJolyon's wife, who had gone back under a contract to her own familyvault in Suffolk; old Jolyon himself lying at Robin Hill; and SusanHayman, cremated so that none knew where she might be. Soames gazed atit with satisfaction--massive, needing little attention; and this wasimportant, for he was well aware that no one would attend to it when hehimself was gone, and he would have to be looking out for lodgingssoon. He might have twenty years before him, but one never knew. Twentyyears without an aunt or uncle, with a wife of whom one had better notknow anything, with a daughter gone from home. His mood inclined tomelancholy and retrospection. This cemetery was quite full now--ofpeople with extraordinary names, buried in extraordinary taste. Still, they had a fine view up here, right over London. Annette had once givenhim a story to read by that Frenchman, Maupassant--a most lugubriousconcern, where all the skeletons emerged from their graves one night, and all the pious inscriptions on the stones were altered todescriptions of their sins. Not a true story at all. He didn't knowabout the French, but there was not much real harm in English peopleexcept their teeth and their taste, which were certainly deplorable. "The family vault of Jolyon Forsyte, 1850. " A lot of people had beenburied here since then--a lot of English life crumbled to mould anddust! The boom of an airplane passing under the gold-tinted cloudscaused him to lift his eyes. The deuce of a lot of expansion had goneon. But it all came back to a cemetery--to a name and a date on a tomb. And he thought with a curious pride that he and his family had donelittle or nothing to help this feverish expansion. Good solidmiddlemen, they had gone to work with dignity to manage and possess. "Superior Dosset, " indeed, had built, in a dreadful, and Jolyonpainted, in a doubtful period, but so far as he remembered not anotherof them all had soiled his hands by creating anything--unless youcounted Val Dartie and his horse-breeding. Collectors, solicitors, barristers, merchants, publishers, accountants, directors, land agents, even soldiers--there they had been! The country had expanded, as itwere, in spite of them. They had checked, controlled, defended, andtaken advantage of the process--and when you considered how "SuperiorDosset" had begun life with next to nothing, and his lineal descendantsalready owned what old Gradman estimated at between a million and amillion and a half, it was not so bad! And yet he sometimes felt as ifthe family bolt was shot, their possessive instinct dying out. Theyseemed unable to make money--this fourth generation; they were goinginto art, literature, farming, or the army; or just living on what wasleft them--they had no push and no tenacity. They would die out if theydidn't take care. 

Soames turned from the vault and faced towards the breeze. The air uphere would be delicious if only he could rid his nerves of the feelingthat mortality was in it. He gazed restlessly at the crosses and theurns, the angels, the "immortelles, " the flowers, gaudy or withering;and suddenly he noticed a spot which seemed so different from anythingelse up there that he was obliged to walk the few necessary yards andlook at it. A sober corner, with a massive queer-shaped cross of greyrough-hewn granite, guarded by four dark yew-trees. The spot was freefrom the pressure of the other graves, having a little box-hedgedgarden on the far side, arid in front a goldening birch-tree. Thisoasis in the desert of conventional graves appealed to the aestheticsense of Soames, and he sat down there in the sunshine. Through thosetrembling gold birch leaves he gazed out at London, and yielded to thewaves of memory. He thought of Irene in Montpellier Square, when herhair was rusty-golden and her white shoulders his--Irene, the prize ofhis love--passion, resistant to his ownership. He saw Bosinney's bodylying in that white mortuary, and Irene sitting on the sofa looking ather picture with the eyes of a dying bird. Again he thought of her bythe little green Niobe in the Bois de Boulogne, once more rejectinghim. His fancy took him on beside his drifting river on the Novemberday when Fleur was to be born, took him to the dead leaves floating onthe green-tinged water and the snake-headed weed for ever swaying andnosing, sinuous, blind, tethered. And on again to the window opened tothe cold starry night above Hyde Park, with his father lying dead. Hisfancy darted to that picture of "The Future Town, " to that boy's andFleur's first meeting; to the blueish trail of Prosper Profond's cigar, and Fleur in the window pointing down to where the fellow prowled. Tothe sight of Irene and that dead fellow sitting side by side in theStand at Lord's. To her and that boy at Robin Hill. To the sofa, whereFleur lay crushed up in the corner; to her lips pressed into his cheek, and her farewell "Daddy. " And suddenly he saw again Irene's grey-glovedhand waving its last gesture of release. 

He sat there a long time dreaming his career, faithful to the scut ofhis possessive instinct, warming himself even with its failures. 

"To Let"--the Forsyte age and way of life, when a man owned his soul, his investments, and his woman, without check or question. And now theState had, or would have, his investments, his woman had herself, andGod knew who had his soul. "To Let"--that sane and simple creed!

The waters of change were foaming in, carrying the promise of new formsonly when their destructive flood should have passed its full. He satthere, subconscious of them, but with his thoughts resolutely set onthe past--as a man might ride into a wild night with his face to thetail of his galloping horse. Athwart the Victorian dykes the waterswere rolling on property, manners, and morals, on melody and the oldforms of art--waters bringing to his mouth a salt taste as of blood, lapping to the foot of this Highgate Hill where Victorianism layburied. And sitting there, high up on its most individual spot, Soames--like a figure of Investment--refused their restless sounds. Instinctively he would not fight them--there was in him too muchprimeval wisdom, of Man the possessive animal. They would quiet downwhen they had fulfilled their tidal fever of dispossessing anddestroying; when the creations and the properties of others weresufficiently broken and dejected--they would lapse and ebb, and freshforms would rise based on an instinct older than the fever ofchange--the instinct of Home. 

"Je m'en fiche, " said Prosper Profond. Soames did not say "Je m'enfiche"--it was French, and the fellow was a thorn in his side--but deepdown he knew that change was only the interval of death between twoforms of life, destruction necessary to make room for fresher property. What though the board was up, and cosiness to let?--some one would comealong and take it again some day. 

And only one thing really troubled him, sitting there--the melancholycraving in his heart--because the sun was like enchantment on his faceand on the clouds and on the golden birch leaves, and the wind's rustlewas so gentle, and the yew-tree green so dark, and the sickle of a moonpale in the sky. 

Ah! He might wish and wish and never get it--the beauty and the lovingin the world!

THE END