The Forsyte saga - Complete
With a sort of terror she saw the girl sink on her knees and bury
her face in the djibbah. A strangled sob mounted to June's ears.
“It's all right—all right,” she murmured, “Don't! There, there!”
But the point of the girl's chin was pressed ever closer into her
thigh, and the sound was dreadful of her sobbing.
Well, well! It had to come. She would feel better afterward! June
stroked the short hair of that shapely head; and all the
scattered mother-sense in her focussed itself 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
control life, but we can fight it. Make the best of things. I've
had to. I held on, 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 choked
laugh. In truth it was a thin and rather wild and wasted spirit
she was looking at, but it had brave eyes.
“All right!” she said. “I'm sorry. I shall forget him, I suppose,
if I fly fast and far enough.”
And, scrambling to her feet, she went over to the wash-stand.
June watched her removing with cold water the traces of emotion.
Save for a little becoming pinkness there was nothing left when
she stood before the mirror. June got off the bed and took a
pin-cushion in her hand. To put two pins into the wrong places
was all the vent she found for sympathy.
“Give me a kiss,” she said when Fleur was ready, and dug her chin
into the 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 and her eyes half closed, and went down-stairs. In the
doorway of the drawing-room stood Soames as if unquiet at his
daughter's tardiness. June tossed her head and passed down on to
the half-landing. Her cousin Francie 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!” said Francie, and her eyes, of a Celtic grey,
goggled. That old feud! Really, it was quite romantic!
Soames, moving to the well of the staircase, saw June go, and
drew a breath of satisfaction. Why didn't Fleur come? They would
miss their train. That train would bear her away from him, yet he
could not help fidgeting at the thought that they would lose it.
And then she did come, running down in her tan-coloured frock and
black velvet cap, and passed 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. How would she treat him at this
last moment of her girlhood? He couldn't hope for much!
Her lips pressed the middle of his cheek.
“Daddy!” she said, and was past and gone! Daddy! She hadn't
called him that for years. He drew a long breath and followed
slowly down. There was all the folly with that confetti stuff and
the rest of it to go through with yet. But he would like just to
catch her smile, if she leaned out, though they would hit her in
the eye with the shoe, if they didn'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
the heads—the silly hats and heads. They were in the car now; and
there was that stuff, showering, and there went the shoe. A flood
of something welled up in Soames, and—he didn't know—he couldn't
see!
XI.—THE LAST OF THE OLD FORSYTES
When they came to prepare that terrific symbol Timothy
Forsyte—the one pure individualist left, the only man who hadn't
heard of the Great War—they found him wonderful—not even death
had undermined his soundness.
To Smither and Cook that preparation came like final evidence of
what they had never believed possible—the end of the old Forsyte
family on earth. Poor Mr. Timothy must now take a harp and sing
in the company of Miss 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 been cremated. Secretly Cook thought that Mr.
Timothy would be upset—he had always been so set against barrel
organs. How many times had she not said: “Drat the thing! There
it is again! Smither, you'd better run up and see what you can
do.” And in her heart she would so have enjoyed the tunes, if she
hadn't known that Mr. Timothy would ring the bell in a 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 the
man would go—Timothy had ever underrated the value of emotion.
Luckily he had taken the organs for blue-bottles in his last
years, which had been 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 her own in regard to heaven
that it quite put one about sometimes.
She cried while Timothy was being prepared, and they all had
sherry afterward out of the yearly Christmas bottle, which would
not be needed now. Ah! dear! She had been there five-and-forty
years and Smither three-and-forty! And now they would be going to
a tiny house in Tooting, to live on their savings and what Miss
Hester had so kindly left them—for to take fresh service after
the glorious past—No! But they would like just to see Mr. Soames
again, and Mrs. Dartie, and Miss Francie, 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 had been their baby,
getting younger and younger every day, till at last he had been
too young to live.
They spent the regulation hours of waiting in polishing and
dusting, in catching the one mouse left, and asphyxiating the
last beetle so as to leave it nice, discussing with each other
what they would buy at the sale. Miss Ann's workbox; Miss Juley's
(that is Mrs. Julia's) seaweed album; the fire-screen Miss Hester
had crewelled; and Mr. Timothy's hair—little golden curls, glued
into a black frame. Oh! they must have those—only the price of
things had gone up so!
It fell to Soames to issue invitations for the funeral. He had
them drawn up by Gradman in his office—only blood relations, and
no flowers. Six carriages were ordered. The Will would be read
afterward at the house.
He arrived at eleven o'clock to see that all was ready. At a
quarter past old Gradman came in black gloves and crape on his
hat. He and Soames stood in the drawing-room waiting. At
half-past eleven the carriages 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
his family were to the dead than to the living. But, now, the way
they had flocked to Fleur's wedding and abstained from Timothy's
funeral, seemed to show some vital change. There might, of
course, be another reason; for Soames felt that if he had not
known the contents of Timothy's Will, he might have stayed away
himself through delicacy. Timothy had left a lot of money, with
nobody in particular to leave it to. They mightn't like to seem
to expect something.
At twelve o'clock the procession left the door; Timothy alone in
the first carriage under glass. Then Soames alone; then Gradman
alone; then Cook and Smither together. They started at a walk,
but were soon trotting under a bright sky. At the entrance to
Highgate Cemetery they were delayed by service in the Chapel.
Soames would have liked to stay outside in the sunshine. He
didn't believe a word of it; on the other hand, 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
the family vault. It was not very distinguished for the funeral
of the last old Forsyte.
He took Gradman into his carriage on the way back to the
Bayswater Road with a certain glow in his heart. He had a
surprise in pickle for the old chap who had served the Forsytes
four-and-fifty years-a treat that was entirely his doing. How
well he remembered saying to Timothy the day—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 leaving him five
thousand?” and his surprise, seeing the difficulty there had been
in getting Timothy to leave anything, when Timothy had nodded.
And now the old chap would be as pleased as Punch, for Mrs.
Gradman, he knew, had a weak heart, and their son had lost a leg
in the War. It was extraordinarily gratifying to Soames to have
left him five thousand pounds of Timothy's money. They sat down
together in the little drawing-room, whose walls—like a vision of
heaven—were sky-blue and gold with every picture-frame
unnaturally bright, and every speck of dust removed from every
piece of furniture, to read that little masterpiece—the Will of
Timothy. With his back to the light in Aunt Hester's chair,
Soames faced Gradman with his face to the light, on Aunt Ann's
sofa; and, crossing his legs, began:
“This is the last Will and Testament of me Timothy Forsyte of The
Bower Bayswater Road, London I appoint my nephew Soames Forsyte
of The Shelter Mapleduram and Thomas Gradman of 159 Folly Road
Highgate (hereinafter called 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 free of legacy duty and to the said
Thomas Gradman I leave the sum of five thousand pounds free of
legacy duty.”
Soames paused. Old Gradman was leaning forward, convulsively
gripping a stout black knee with each of his thick hands; his
mouth had fallen open so that the gold fillings of three teeth
gleamed; his eyes were blinking, two tears rolled slowly out of
them. Soames read hastily on.
“All the rest of my property of whatsoever description I bequeath
to my Trustees upon Trust to convert and hold the same upon the
following trusts namely To pay thereout all my debts funeral
expenses and outgoings of any kind in connection with my Will and
to hold the residue thereof in trust for that male lineal
descendant of my father Jolyon Forsyte by his marriage with Ann
Pierce who after the decease of all lineal descendants whether
male or female of my said father by his said marriage in being at