The Forsyte saga - Complete
“Does he take any interest in things generally?” he said, also
loud.
“Oh! yes, sir; his food and his Will. It's quite a sight to see
him turn it over and over, not to read it, of course; and every
now and then he asks the price of Consols, and I write it on a
slate for him—very large. Of course, I always write the same,
what they were when he last took notice, in 1914. We got the
doctor to forbid him to read the paper when the War broke out.
Oh! he did take on about that at first. But he soon came round,
because he knew it tired him; and he's a wonder to conserve
energy as he used to call it when my dear mistresses were 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 he
remember 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 to say. I think he might; he really is a wonderful man for his
age.”
Soames moved into the doorway, and waiting for Timothy to turn,
said in 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,
he continued his walk.
“It doesn't seem to work,” said Soames.
“No, sir,” replied Smither, rather crestfallen; “you see, he
hasn't finished his walk. It always was one thing at a time with
him. I expect he'll ask me this afternoon if you came about the
gas, and a pretty job I 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 manage
perfectly. A strange man about would send him crazy in no time.
And my mistresses wouldn't like the idea of a man in the house.
Besides, we're so—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 out his tongue.”
“Well,” said Soames, turning away, “it's rather sad and painful
to me.”
“Oh! sir,” returned Smither anxiously, “you mustn't think that.
Now that he can't worry about things, he quite enjoys his life,
really he does. 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', and when he's not eatin', he's sleepin'. and
there it is. There isn't an ache or a care about him anywhere.”
“Well,” said Soames, “there's something in that. I'll go down. By
the way, let me see his Will.”
“I should have to take my time about that, sir; he keeps it under
his pillow, 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 a look 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 it once.”
“Quite,” said Soames. He did remember. Smither and Jane had been
proper witnesses, having been left nothing in the Will that they
might have no interest in Timothy's death. It had been—he fully
admitted—an almost improper precaution, but Timothy had wished
it, and, after all, Aunt Hester had provided for them amply.
“Very well,” he said; “good-bye, Smither. Look after him, and if
he should 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 a
pleasant 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
two minutes by the hat-stand whereon he had hung his hat so many
times. 'So it all passes,' he was thinking; 'passes and begins
again. Poor old chap!' And he listened, if perchance the sound of
Timothy trailing his hobby-horse might come down the well of the
stairs; or some ghost of an old face show over the bannisters,
and an old voice say: 'Why, it's dear Soames, 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 a
sunbeam through the fanlight over the door. The little old house!
A mausoleum! 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-house he had taken on the north side of the Sussex
Downs. His destination was Newmarket, and he had not been there
since the autumn of 1899, when he stole over from Oxford for the
Cambridgeshire. He paused at the door to give 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
looking into 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 so remarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to
others, that—half Dartie as he was—he should have been perfectly
faithful to his young first cousin during the twenty years since
he married her romantically out in the Boer War; and faithful
without any feeling of sacrifice or boredom—she was so quick, so
slyly always a little in front of his mood. Being first cousins
they had decided, rather needlessly, to have no children; and,
though a little sallower, she had kept her looks, her slimness,
and the colour of her dark hair. Val particularly admired 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
awful lot—novels, poetry, all sorts of stuff. Out on their farm
in Cape colony she had looked after all the “nigger” babies and
women in a miraculous manner. She was, in fact, clever; yet made
no fuss about it, and had no “side.” Though not remarkable for
humility, Val had come to have the feeling that she was his
superior, and he did not grudge it—a great tribute. It might be
noted that he never looked at Holly without her knowing of it,
but that she looked at him sometimes unawares.
He had kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so
on the platform, though she was going to the station with him, to
drive the car back. Tanned and wrinkled by Colonial weather and
the wiles inseparable from horses, and handicapped by the leg
which, weakened in the Boer War, had probably saved his life in
the War just past, Val was still much as he had been in the days
of his courtship; his smile as wide and charming, his eyelashes,
if anything, thicker and darker, his eyes screwed up under them,
as bright a grey, his freckles rather deeper, his hair a little
grizzled at the sides. He gave the impression of 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
country on bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects
heaven at every hole.
“That's a young woman who knows her way about,” he said. “I say,
has it struck 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, of
course. It's only for five days, Val.”
“Stable secret! Righto!” If Holly thought it safe, it was.
Glancing slyly round at him, she said: “Did you notice how
beautifully she asked herself?”
“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 her monkey up, I should say.”
“I'm wondering,” Holly murmured, “whether she is the modern young
woman. 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 of that 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,
our family is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying
a Frenchwoman, and your Dad marrying Soames's first. Our
grandfathers would have had fits!”
“So would anybody's, my dear.”
“This car,” Val said suddenly, “wants rousing; she doesn't get
her hind legs under her uphill. I shall have to give her her head
on the slope if I'm to catch that train.”
There was that about horses which had prevented him from ever
really sympathising with a car, and the running of the Ford under
his guidance compared with its running under that of Holly was
always noticeable. 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 of Holly, his morning paper, the look of the bright day,
and his dim memory of Newmarket, Val plunged into the recesses of
a small square book, all names, pedigrees, tap-roots, and notes
about the make and shape of horses. The Forsyte in him was bent
on the acquisition of a certain strain of blood, and he was
subduing resolutely as yet the Dartie hankering for a Nutter. On
getting back to England, after the profitable sale of his South
African farm and stud, and observing that the sun seldom shone,
Val had said to himself: “I've absolutely got to have 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 extra pinch of
shrewdness and decision imparted by long residence in a new
country, Val had seen the weak point of modern breeding. They
were all hypnotised by fashion and high price. He should buy for
looks, and let names go hang! And here he was already, hypnotised
by the prestige of a certain strain of blood! Half-consciously,
he thought: 'There's something 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
those quiet meetings favourable to such as wish to look into
horses, rather than into the mouths of bookmakers; and Val clung
to the paddock. His twenty years of Colonial life, divesting him