The Forsyte saga - Complete
South Seas of the Channel, would be kneeling too, about six rows
behind. Yes! This was a funny “small” business, however it turned
out; still it was in a proper church and would be in the proper
papers to-morrow morning.
They had begun a hymn; she could hear the ninth baronet across
the aisle, singing of the hosts of Midian. Her little finger
touched Val's thumb—they were holding the same hymn-book—and a
tiny thrill passed through her, preserved—from twenty years ago.
He stooped and whispered:
“I say, d'you remember the rat?” The rat at their wedding in Cape
Colony, which had cleaned its whiskers behind the table at the
Registrar's! And between her little and third forgers she
squeezed his thumb hard.
The hymn was over, the prelate had begun to deliver his
discourse. He told them of the dangerous times they lived in, and
the awful conduct of the House of Lords in connection with
divorce. They were all soldiers—he said—in the trenches under the
poisonous gas of the Prince of Darkness, and must be manful. The
purpose of marriage was children, not mere sinful happiness.
An imp danced in Holly's eyes—Val's eyelashes were meeting.
Whatever happened; 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 the
vestry; 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 scrutinized one of whom she had often heard. Fresh
from South Africa, and ignorant of her kith and kin, she never
saw one without 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 young
Mont's face. His lips and ears were twitching, his eyes, shifting
from his feet to the hand within his arm, stared suddenly before
them as if to face a firing party. He gave Holly the feeling that
he was spiritually intoxicated. But Fleur! Ah! That was
different. The girl was perfectly composed, prettier than ever,
in her white robes and veil over her banged dark chestnut hair;
her eyelids hovered demure over her dark hazel eyes. Outwardly,
she seemed all there. But inwardly, where was she? As those two
passed, Fleur raised her eyelids—the restless glint of those
clear whites remained on Holly's vision as might the flutter of
caged bird's wings.
In Green Street Winifred stood to receive, just a little less
composed than usual. Soames' request for the use of her house had
come on her at a deeply psychological moment. Under the influence
of a remark of Prosper Profond, she had begun to exchange her
Empire for Expressionistic furniture. There were the most amusing
arrangements, with violet, green, and orange blobs and scriggles,
to be had at Mealard's. Another month and the change would have
been complete. Just now, the very “intriguing” recruits she had
enlisted, did not march too well with the old guard. It was as if
her regiment were half in khaki, half in scarlet and bearskins.
But her strong and comfortable character made the best of it in a
drawing-room which typified, perhaps, more perfectly than she
imagined, the semi-bolshevized imperialism of her country. After
all, this was a day of merger, and you couldn't have too much of
it! Her eyes travelled indulgently among her guests. Soames had
gripped the back of a buhl chair; young Mont was behind that
“awfully amusing” screen, which no one as yet had been able to
explain to her. The ninth baronet had shied violently at a round
scarlet table, inlaid under glass with blue Australian butteries'
wings, and was clinging to her Louis-Quinze cabinet; Francie
Forsyte had seized the new mantel-board, finely carved with
little purple grotesques on an ebony ground; George, over by the
old spinet, was holding a little sky-blue book as if about to
enter bets; Prosper Profond was twiddling the knob of the open
door, black with peacock-blue panels; and Annette's hands, close
by, were grasping her own waist; two Muskhams clung to the
balcony among the plants, as if feeling ill; Lady Mont, thin and
brave-looking, had taken up her long-handled glasses and was
gazing at the central light shade, of ivory and orange dashed
with deep magenta, as if the heavens had opened. Everybody, in
fact, seemed holding on to something. Only Fleur, still in her
bridal dress, was detached from all support, flinging her words
and glances to left and right.
The room was full of the bubble and the squeak of conversation.
Nobody could hear anything that anybody said; which seemed of
little consequence, since no one waited for anything so slow as
an answer. Modern conversation seemed to Winifred so different
from the days of her prime, when a drawl was all the vogue. Still
it was “amusing,” which, of course, was all that mattered. Even
the Forsytes were talking with extreme rapidity—Fleur and
Christopher, and Imogen, and young Nicholas's youngest, Patrick.
Soames, of course, was silent; but George, by the spinet, kept up
a running commentary, and Francie, by her mantel-shelf. Winifred
drew nearer to the ninth baronet. He seemed to 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
the waist?”
He spoke as fast as anybody! He had dark lively little eyes, too,
all crinkled round like a Catholic priest's. Winifred felt
suddenly he might say things she would regret.
“They're always so amusing—weddings,” she murmured, and moved on
to Soames. He was curiously still, and Winifred saw at once what
was dictating his immobility. To his right was George Forsyte, to
his left Annette and Prosper Profond. He could not move without
either seeing those two together, or the reflection of them in
George Forsyte's japing 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.” He counted on his fingers. “It'll make twelve of them
there, including wives. How do you think Fleur looks?”
“Remarkably well.”
Soames nodded. He had never seen her look prettier, yet he could
not rid himself of the impression that this business was
unnatural—remembering still that crushed figure burrowing into
the corner of the sofa. From that night to this day he had
received from her no confidences. He knew from his chauffeur that
she had made one more attempt on Robin Hill and drawn blank—an
empty house, no one at home. 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 that she looked at him sometimes
when she thought he wasn't noticing, as if she were wondering
still what he had done—forsooth—to make those people hate him so.
Well, there it was! Annette had come back, and things had worn on
through the summer—very miserable, till suddenly Fleur had said
she was going to marry young Mont. She had shown him a little
more affection when she told him that. And he had yielded—what
was the good of opposing it? God knew that he had never wished to
thwart her in anything! And the young man seemed quite delirious
about her. No doubt she was in a reckless mood, and she was
young, absurdly young. But if he opposed her, he didn't know what
she would 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 for painting, writing, music, in his view the
legitimate occupations of unmarried women, if they must do
something in these days. On the whole, she was safer married, for
he could see too well how feverish and restless she was at home.
Annette, too, had been in favour of it—Annette, from behind the
veil of his refusal to know what she was about, if she was about
anything. Annette had said: “Let her marry this young man. He is
a nice boy—not so highty-flighty as he seems.” Where she got her
expressions, he didn't know—but her opinion soothed his doubts.
His wife, whatever her conduct, had clear eyes and an almost
depressing amount of common sense. He had settled fifty thousand
on Fleur, taking care that there was no cross settlement in case
it didn't turn out well. Could it turn out well? She had not got
over that other boy—he knew. They were to go to Spain for the
honeymoon. He would be even 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
from under a fillet, Soames saw his cousin, and Fleur going
forward to greet her. The two passed from their view out on to
the stairway.
“Really,” said Winifred, “she does the most impossible things!
Fancy her 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 of
character; 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
go near them for the world!' and then, one morning, had awakened
from a dream 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 the stairs. The girl led
the way into Imogen's old bedroom, set ready for her toilet.
June sat down on the bed, thin and upright, like a little spirit
in the sear and yellow. Fleur locked the door.
The girl stood before her divested of her wedding dress. What a
pretty thing she was!
“I suppose you think me a fool,” she said, with quivering lips,
“when it was to have been Jon. But what does it matter? Michael
wants me, and I don't care. It'll get me away from home.” Diving
her hand into the frills on her breast, she brought out a letter.
“Jon wrote me this.”
June read: “Lake Okanagen, British Columbia. I'm not coming back
to England. Bless you always. Jon.”
“She's made safe, you see,” said Fleur.
June handed back the letter.
“That's not fair to Irene,” she said, “she always told Jon he
could do as he wished.”
Fleur smiled bitterly. “Tell me, didn't she spoil your life too?”
June looked up. “Nobody can spoil a life, my dear. That's
nonsense. Things happen, but we bob up.”