The Forsyte saga - Complete
Soames pointed to the Future Town. “Look at that! Who's going to
live in 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. 'Crazylooking creature!' he
thought.
“Well,” he said, “you'll find your young stepbrother here with a
woman I 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 look of dangerous decisions. Forsyte! Of course, he was a
Forsyte! And so was she! But from the time when, as a mere girl,
she brought Bosinney into his life to wreck it, he had never hit
it off with June and never would! And here she was, unmarried to
this day, owning a Gallery!... And suddenly it came to Soames how
little he knew now of his own family. The old aunts at Timothy's
had been dead so many years; there was 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 son killed; young
Nicholas' eldest had got an O. B. E., or whatever they gave them.
They had all joined up somehow, he believed. That boy of Jolyon's
and Irene's, he supposed, had been too young; his own generation,
of course, too old, though Giles Hayman had driven a car for the
Red Cross—and Jesse Hayman been a special constable—those
“Dromios” had always been of a sporting type! As for himself, he
had given a motor ambulance, read the papers till he was sick of
them, passed through much anxiety, bought no clothes, lost seven
pounds in weight; he didn't know what more he could have done at
his age. Indeed, thinking it over, it struck him that he and his
family had taken this war very differently to that affair with
the Boers, which had been supposed to tax all the resources of
the Empire. In that old war, of course, his nephew Val Dartie had
been wounded, that fellow Jolyon's first 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 a portent, while in this
war everybody had done “their bit,” so far as he could make out,
as a matter of course. It seemed to show the growth of something
or other—or perhaps the decline of something else. Had the
Forsytes become less individual, or more Imperial, or less
provincial? Or was it simply that one hated Germans?... Why
didn't Fleur come, so that he could get away? He saw those three
return together from the other room and pass back along the far
side of the screen. The boy was standing 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 back at her.
Then Irene slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him on.
Soames saw him glancing round, and Fleur looking after them as
the three 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;
“they don't either.”
Fleur's voice said: “Hallo, Father! Here you are!” precisely as
if he had been keeping her waiting.
The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on.
“Well,” said Soames, looking her up and down, “you're a punctual
sort of young woman!”
This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and
colour, with short, dark chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes
were set in whites so clear that they glinted when they moved,
and yet in repose were almost dreamy under very white,
black-lashed lids, held over them in a sort of suspense. She had
a charming profile, and nothing of her father in her face save a
decided chin. Aware that his expression was softening as he
looked at her, Soames frowned to preserve the unemotionalism
proper to a Forsyte. He knew she was only too inclined to 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
be prosecuted,” 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 train
race-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
like now?”
“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 to Wednesday next.”
“Training race-horses!” said Soames. It was extravagant, but not
the reason for his distaste. Why the deuce couldn't his nephew
have stayed out in South Africa? His own divorce had been bad
enough, without his nephew's marriage to the daughter of the
co-respondent; a half-sister too of June, and of that boy whom
Fleur had just been looking at from under the pump-handle. If he
didn't look out, she would come to know all about that old
disgrace! Unpleasant things! They were round him this 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
promised I shall ride. Cousin Val can't walk much, you know; but
he can ride perfectly. He's going to show me their gallops.”
“Racing!” said Soames. “It's a pity the War didn't knock that on
the head. 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 his neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for
your aunt.” He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those
stairs which he had attended in Paris six years ago, because
Montague Dartie could not attend it himself—perfectly normal
stairs in a house where they played baccarat. Either his winnings
or the way he had celebrated them had gone to his
brother-in-law's head. The French procedure had been very loose;
he had had a lot of trouble with it.
A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. “Look! The people
who were in 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
tightening his grip on her arm he turned into a confectioner's.
It was—for him—a surprising thing to do, and he said rather
anxiously: “What will you 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
hold of her arm.
“Two teas,” he said; “and two of those nougat things.”
But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Those
three—those three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to
her boy, and his answer:
“Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt.” And the three
sat down.
At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with
ghosts and shadows from his past, in presence of the only two
women he had ever loved—his divorced wife and his daughter by her
successor—Soames was not so much afraid of them as of his cousin
June. She might make a scene—she might introduce those two
children—she was capable of anything. 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 masticating dreamily, but her eyes
were on the boy. The Forsyte in him said: “Think, feel, and
you're done for!” And he wiggled his finger desperately. Plate!
Did Jolyon wear a plate? Did that woman wear a plate? Time had
been when he had seen her wearing nothing! That was something,
anyway, which had never been stolen from him. And she knew it,
though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she had
never been his wife. An acid humour stirred in his Forsyte blood;
a subtle pain divided by hair's breadth from pleasure. If only
June did not suddenly bring her hornets about his ears! The boy
was talking.
“Of course, Auntie June”—so he called his half-sister “Auntie,”
did he?—well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!—“it's jolly
good of you to encourage them. Only—hang it all!” Soames stole a
glance. Irene's startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy.
She—she had these devotions—for Bosinney—for that boy's
father—for this boy! He touched 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
round again he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a
handkerchief which the boy had evidently just handed to her.
“F. F.,” he heard her say. “Fleur Forsyte—it's mine all right.
Thank you ever so.”
Good God! She had caught the trick from what he'd told her in the
Gallery—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
could lift a finger. He saw Irene's face alive with startled
feeling, gave the 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
we cousins?”
“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
vent his nerves by saying to his daughter: 'Dropping your
hand-kerchief!' to which her reply might well be: 'I picked that