Soames hurried on:
“It’s just precautionary. Some day you’ll be wanting to retire.”
Gradman lifted his hand with a heavy gesture.
“I’ll die in ‘arness, I ‘ope,” he said.
“That’s as you like, Gradman. You’ll remain as you always have been–in full charge; but you’ll have someone to rely on if you don’t feel well or want a holiday or what not.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Soames. To have a young man about the place–“
“A good young fellow, Gradman. And, for some reason, grateful to me and to my son-inlaw. He won’t give you any trouble. We none of us live for ever, you know.”
The old chap’s face had puckered queerly, his voice grated more than usual.
“It seems going to meet trouble. I’m quite up to the work, Mr. Soames.”
“Oh! I know how you feel,” said Soames. “I feel much the same myself, but Time stands still for no man, and we must look to the future.”
A sigh escaped from its grizzled prison.
“Well, Mr. Soames, if you’ve made up your mind, we’ll say no more; but I don’t like it.”
“Let me give you a lift to your station.”
“I’d rather walk, thank you; I like the air. I’ll just lock up.”
Soames perceived that not only drawers but feeling required locking-up, and went out.
Faithful old chap! One might go round to Polkingford’s and see if one could pick up that bit of plate.
In that emporium, so lined with silver and gold, that a man wondered whether anything had ever been sold there, Soames stood considering. Must be something that a man could swear by–nothing arty or elegant. He supposed the old chap didn’t drink punch–a chapel-goer! How about those camels in silvergilt with two humps each and candles coming out of them? “Joseph Gradman, in gratitude from the Forsyte family” engraved between the humps? Gradman lived somewhere near the Zoo. M’m! Camels? No! A bowl was better. If he didn’t drink punch he could put rose-leaves or flowers into it.
“I want a bowl,” he said, “a really good one.”
“Yes, sir, I think we have the very article.”
They always had the very article!
“How about this, sir–massive silver–a very chaste design.”
“Chaste!” said Soames. “I wouldn’t have it at a gift.”
“No, sir; it isn’t perhaps EXACTLY what you require. Now, this is a nice little bowl.”
“No, no; something plain and solid that would hold about a gallon.”
“Mr. Bankwait–come here a minute. This gentleman wants an old-fashioned bowl.”
“Yes, sir; I think we have the very thing.”
Soames uttered an indistinguishable sound.
“There isn’t much demand for the old-fashioned bowl; but we have a very fine second-hand, that used to be in the Rexborough family.”
“With arms on?” said Soames. “That won’t do. It must be new, or free from arms, anyway.”
“Ah! Then this will be what you want, sir.”
“My Lord!” said Soames; and raising his umbrella he pointed in the opposite direction. “What’s that thing?”
With a slightly chagrined air the shopman brought the article from its case.
Upon a swelling base, with a waist above, a silver bowl sprang generously forth. Soames flipped it with his finger.
“Pure silver, sir; and, as you see, very delicate edging; not too bacchanalian in design; the best gilt within. I should say the very thing you want.”
“It might do. What’s the price?”
The shopman examined a cabalistic sign.
“Thirty-five pounds, sir.”
“Quite enough,” said Soames. Whether it would please old Gradman, he didn’t know, but the thing was in good taste, and would not do the family discredit. “I’ll have that, then,” he said. “Engrave these words on it,” and he wrote them down. “Send it to that address, and the account to me; and don’t be long about it.”
“Very good, sir. You wouldn’t like those goblets? – they’re perfect in their way.”
“Nothing more!” said Soames. “Good evening!” And, handing the shopman his card, with a cold circular glance, he went out. That was off his mind!
September sun sprinkled him, threading his way West along Piccadilly into the Green Park. These gentle autumn days were very pleasant. He didn’t get hot, and he didn’t feel cold. And the plane-trees looked their best, just making up their minds to turn; nice trees, shapely. And, crossing the grassy spaces, Soames felt almost mellow. A rather more rapid step behind impinged on his consciousness. A voice said:
“Ah! Forsyte! Bound for the meeting at Michael’s? Might we go along together?”
Old Mont, perky and talkative as ever! There he went–off at once!
“What’s your view of all these London changes, Forsyte? You remember the peg-top trouser, and the crinoline–Leech in his prime–Old Pam on his horse–September makes one reminiscent.”
“It’s all on the surface,” said Soames.
“On the surface? I sometimes have that feeling. But there is a real change. It’s the difference between the Austen and Trollope novels and these modern fellows. There are no parishes left. Classes? Yes, but divided by man, not by God, as in Trollope’s day.”
Soames sniffed. The chap was always putting things in that sort of way!
“At the rate we’re going, they’ll soon not be divided at all,” he said.
“I think you’re wrong there, Forsyte. I should never be surprised to see the horse come back.”
“The horse,” muttered Soames; “what he got to do with it?”
“What we must look for,” said Sir Lawrence, swinging his cane, “is the millennium. Then we shall soon be developing individuality again. And the millennium’s nearly here.”
“I don’t in the least follow you,” said Soames.
“Education’s free; women have the vote; even the workman has or soon will have his car; the slums are doomed–thanks to you, Forsyte; amusement and news are in every home; the liberal Party’s up the spout; Free Trade’s a moveable feast; sport’s cheap and plentiful; dogma’s got the knock; so has the General Strike; Boy Scouts are increasing rapidly; dress is comfortable; and hair is short–it’s all millennial.”
“What’s all that got to do with the horse?”
“A symbol, my dear Forsyte. It’s impossible to standardize or socialize the horse. We’re beginning to react against uniformity. A little more millennium and we shall soon be cultivating our souls and driving tandem again.”
“What’s that noise?” said Soames. “Sounds like a person in distress.”
Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow.
“It’s a vacuum cleaner, in Buckingham Palace. Very human things those.”
Soames grunted–the fellow couldn’t be serious! Well! He might HAVE to be before long. If Fleur–! But he would not contemplate that “if.”
“What I admire about the Englishman,” said Sir Lawrence, suddenly, “is his evolutionary character. He flows and ebbs, and flows again. Foreigners may think him a stick-inthe-mud, but he’s got continuity–a great quality, Forsyte. What are you going to do with your pictures when you take the ferry? Leave them to the nation?”
“Depends on how they treat me. If they’re going to clap on any more Death duties, I shall revoke the bequest.”
“The principle of our ancestors, eh? Voluntary service, or none. Great fellows, our ancestors.”
“I don’t know about yours,” said Soames; “mine were just yeomen. I’m going down to have a look at them tomorrow,” he added defiantly.
“Splendid! I hope you’ll find them at home.”
“We’re late,” said Soames, glancing in at the dining-room window, where the committee were glancing out: “Half-past six! What a funny lot they look!”
“We always look a funny lot,” said Sir Lawrence, following him into the house, “except to ourselves. That’s the first principle of existence, Forsyte.”
Chapter VII.
TO-MORROW
Fleur met them in the hall. After dropping Jon at Dorking she had exceeded the limit homewards, that she might appear to have nothing in her thoughts but the welfare of the slums. “The Squire” being among his partridges, the Bishop was in the chair. Fleur went to the sideboard, and, while Michael was reading the minutes, began pouring out the tea. The Bishop, Sir Godfrey Bedwin, Mr. Montross, her father-inlaw, and herself drank China tea; Sir Timothy–whisky and soda; Michael nothing; the Marquess, Hilary, and her father Indian tea; and each maintained that the others were destroying their digestions. Her father, indeed, was always telling her that she only drank China tea because it was the fashion–she couldn’t possibly like it. While she apportioned their beverages she wondered what they would think if they knew what, besides tea, was going on within her. To-morrow was Jon’s last sitting and she was going ‘over the top!’ All the careful possessing of her soul these two months since she had danced with him at Nettlefold would by this time tomorrow be ended. To-morrow at this hour she would claim her own. The knowledge that there must be two parties to any contact did not trouble her. She had the faith of a pretty woman in love. What she willed would be accomplished, but none should know of it! And, handing her cups, she smiled, pitying the ignorance of these wise old men. They should not know, nor anyone else, least of all the young man who last night had held her in his arms. And, thinking of one not yet so holding her, she sat down by the hearth, with her tea and her tables, while her pulses throbbed and her half-closed eyes saw Jon’s face turned round to her from the station door. Fulfilment! She, like Jacob, had served seven years–for the fulfilment of her love–seven long, long years! And–while she sat there listening to the edgeless booming of the Bishop and Sir Godfrey, to the random ejaculations of Sir Timothy, to her father’s close and cautious comments–that something clear, precise, unflinching woven into her nature with French blood, silently perfected the machinery of the stolen life, that should begin tomorrow after they had eaten of forbidden fruit. A stolen life was a safe life if there were no chicken-hearted hesitation, no squeamishness, and no remorse! She might have experienced a dozen stolen lives already, from the certainty she felt about that. She alone would arrange–Jon should be spared all. And no one should know!
“Fleur, would you take a note of that?”
“Yes.”
And she wrote down on her tablets: “Ask Michael what I was to take a note of.”
“Mrs. Mont!”
“Yes, Sir Timothy?”
“Could you get up one of those what d’you call ‘ems for us?”
“Matinees?”
“No, no–jumble sales, don’t they call ’em?”
“Certainly.”
The more she got up for them the more impeccable her reputation, the greater her freedom, and the more she would deserve, and ironically enjoy, her stolen life.
Hilary speaking now. What would HE think if he knew?
“But I think we OUGHT to have a matinee, Fleur. The public are so good, they’ll always pay a guinea to go to what most of them would give a guinea any day not to go to. What so you say, Bishop?”
“A matinee–by all means!”
“Matinees–dreadful things!”
“Not if we got a pleasant play, Mr. Forsyte–something a little old-fashioned–one of L.S.D.‘s. It would advertise us, you know. What do you think, Marquess?”
“My granddaughter Marjorie would get one up for you. It would do her good.”
“H’m. If SHE gets it up, it won’t be old-fashioned.” And Fleur saw her father’s face turning towards her, as he spoke. If only he knew how utterly she was beyond all that; how trivial to her seemed that heart-burning of the past.
“Mr. Montross, have you a theatre in your pocket?”
“I can get you one, Mr. Charwell.”
“First rate! Then, will you and the Marquess and my nephew here take that under your wings?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50
“It’s just precautionary. Some day you’ll be wanting to retire.”
Gradman lifted his hand with a heavy gesture.
“I’ll die in ‘arness, I ‘ope,” he said.
“That’s as you like, Gradman. You’ll remain as you always have been–in full charge; but you’ll have someone to rely on if you don’t feel well or want a holiday or what not.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Soames. To have a young man about the place–“
“A good young fellow, Gradman. And, for some reason, grateful to me and to my son-inlaw. He won’t give you any trouble. We none of us live for ever, you know.”
The old chap’s face had puckered queerly, his voice grated more than usual.
“It seems going to meet trouble. I’m quite up to the work, Mr. Soames.”
“Oh! I know how you feel,” said Soames. “I feel much the same myself, but Time stands still for no man, and we must look to the future.”
A sigh escaped from its grizzled prison.
“Well, Mr. Soames, if you’ve made up your mind, we’ll say no more; but I don’t like it.”
“Let me give you a lift to your station.”
“I’d rather walk, thank you; I like the air. I’ll just lock up.”
Soames perceived that not only drawers but feeling required locking-up, and went out.
Faithful old chap! One might go round to Polkingford’s and see if one could pick up that bit of plate.
In that emporium, so lined with silver and gold, that a man wondered whether anything had ever been sold there, Soames stood considering. Must be something that a man could swear by–nothing arty or elegant. He supposed the old chap didn’t drink punch–a chapel-goer! How about those camels in silvergilt with two humps each and candles coming out of them? “Joseph Gradman, in gratitude from the Forsyte family” engraved between the humps? Gradman lived somewhere near the Zoo. M’m! Camels? No! A bowl was better. If he didn’t drink punch he could put rose-leaves or flowers into it.
“I want a bowl,” he said, “a really good one.”
“Yes, sir, I think we have the very article.”
They always had the very article!
“How about this, sir–massive silver–a very chaste design.”
“Chaste!” said Soames. “I wouldn’t have it at a gift.”
“No, sir; it isn’t perhaps EXACTLY what you require. Now, this is a nice little bowl.”
“No, no; something plain and solid that would hold about a gallon.”
“Mr. Bankwait–come here a minute. This gentleman wants an old-fashioned bowl.”
“Yes, sir; I think we have the very thing.”
Soames uttered an indistinguishable sound.
“There isn’t much demand for the old-fashioned bowl; but we have a very fine second-hand, that used to be in the Rexborough family.”
“With arms on?” said Soames. “That won’t do. It must be new, or free from arms, anyway.”
“Ah! Then this will be what you want, sir.”
“My Lord!” said Soames; and raising his umbrella he pointed in the opposite direction. “What’s that thing?”
With a slightly chagrined air the shopman brought the article from its case.
Upon a swelling base, with a waist above, a silver bowl sprang generously forth. Soames flipped it with his finger.
“Pure silver, sir; and, as you see, very delicate edging; not too bacchanalian in design; the best gilt within. I should say the very thing you want.”
“It might do. What’s the price?”
The shopman examined a cabalistic sign.
“Thirty-five pounds, sir.”
“Quite enough,” said Soames. Whether it would please old Gradman, he didn’t know, but the thing was in good taste, and would not do the family discredit. “I’ll have that, then,” he said. “Engrave these words on it,” and he wrote them down. “Send it to that address, and the account to me; and don’t be long about it.”
“Very good, sir. You wouldn’t like those goblets? – they’re perfect in their way.”
“Nothing more!” said Soames. “Good evening!” And, handing the shopman his card, with a cold circular glance, he went out. That was off his mind!
September sun sprinkled him, threading his way West along Piccadilly into the Green Park. These gentle autumn days were very pleasant. He didn’t get hot, and he didn’t feel cold. And the plane-trees looked their best, just making up their minds to turn; nice trees, shapely. And, crossing the grassy spaces, Soames felt almost mellow. A rather more rapid step behind impinged on his consciousness. A voice said:
“Ah! Forsyte! Bound for the meeting at Michael’s? Might we go along together?”
Old Mont, perky and talkative as ever! There he went–off at once!
“What’s your view of all these London changes, Forsyte? You remember the peg-top trouser, and the crinoline–Leech in his prime–Old Pam on his horse–September makes one reminiscent.”
“It’s all on the surface,” said Soames.
“On the surface? I sometimes have that feeling. But there is a real change. It’s the difference between the Austen and Trollope novels and these modern fellows. There are no parishes left. Classes? Yes, but divided by man, not by God, as in Trollope’s day.”
Soames sniffed. The chap was always putting things in that sort of way!
“At the rate we’re going, they’ll soon not be divided at all,” he said.
“I think you’re wrong there, Forsyte. I should never be surprised to see the horse come back.”
“The horse,” muttered Soames; “what he got to do with it?”
“What we must look for,” said Sir Lawrence, swinging his cane, “is the millennium. Then we shall soon be developing individuality again. And the millennium’s nearly here.”
“I don’t in the least follow you,” said Soames.
“Education’s free; women have the vote; even the workman has or soon will have his car; the slums are doomed–thanks to you, Forsyte; amusement and news are in every home; the liberal Party’s up the spout; Free Trade’s a moveable feast; sport’s cheap and plentiful; dogma’s got the knock; so has the General Strike; Boy Scouts are increasing rapidly; dress is comfortable; and hair is short–it’s all millennial.”
“What’s all that got to do with the horse?”
“A symbol, my dear Forsyte. It’s impossible to standardize or socialize the horse. We’re beginning to react against uniformity. A little more millennium and we shall soon be cultivating our souls and driving tandem again.”
“What’s that noise?” said Soames. “Sounds like a person in distress.”
Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow.
“It’s a vacuum cleaner, in Buckingham Palace. Very human things those.”
Soames grunted–the fellow couldn’t be serious! Well! He might HAVE to be before long. If Fleur–! But he would not contemplate that “if.”
“What I admire about the Englishman,” said Sir Lawrence, suddenly, “is his evolutionary character. He flows and ebbs, and flows again. Foreigners may think him a stick-inthe-mud, but he’s got continuity–a great quality, Forsyte. What are you going to do with your pictures when you take the ferry? Leave them to the nation?”
“Depends on how they treat me. If they’re going to clap on any more Death duties, I shall revoke the bequest.”
“The principle of our ancestors, eh? Voluntary service, or none. Great fellows, our ancestors.”
“I don’t know about yours,” said Soames; “mine were just yeomen. I’m going down to have a look at them tomorrow,” he added defiantly.
“Splendid! I hope you’ll find them at home.”
“We’re late,” said Soames, glancing in at the dining-room window, where the committee were glancing out: “Half-past six! What a funny lot they look!”
“We always look a funny lot,” said Sir Lawrence, following him into the house, “except to ourselves. That’s the first principle of existence, Forsyte.”
Chapter VII.
TO-MORROW
Fleur met them in the hall. After dropping Jon at Dorking she had exceeded the limit homewards, that she might appear to have nothing in her thoughts but the welfare of the slums. “The Squire” being among his partridges, the Bishop was in the chair. Fleur went to the sideboard, and, while Michael was reading the minutes, began pouring out the tea. The Bishop, Sir Godfrey Bedwin, Mr. Montross, her father-inlaw, and herself drank China tea; Sir Timothy–whisky and soda; Michael nothing; the Marquess, Hilary, and her father Indian tea; and each maintained that the others were destroying their digestions. Her father, indeed, was always telling her that she only drank China tea because it was the fashion–she couldn’t possibly like it. While she apportioned their beverages she wondered what they would think if they knew what, besides tea, was going on within her. To-morrow was Jon’s last sitting and she was going ‘over the top!’ All the careful possessing of her soul these two months since she had danced with him at Nettlefold would by this time tomorrow be ended. To-morrow at this hour she would claim her own. The knowledge that there must be two parties to any contact did not trouble her. She had the faith of a pretty woman in love. What she willed would be accomplished, but none should know of it! And, handing her cups, she smiled, pitying the ignorance of these wise old men. They should not know, nor anyone else, least of all the young man who last night had held her in his arms. And, thinking of one not yet so holding her, she sat down by the hearth, with her tea and her tables, while her pulses throbbed and her half-closed eyes saw Jon’s face turned round to her from the station door. Fulfilment! She, like Jacob, had served seven years–for the fulfilment of her love–seven long, long years! And–while she sat there listening to the edgeless booming of the Bishop and Sir Godfrey, to the random ejaculations of Sir Timothy, to her father’s close and cautious comments–that something clear, precise, unflinching woven into her nature with French blood, silently perfected the machinery of the stolen life, that should begin tomorrow after they had eaten of forbidden fruit. A stolen life was a safe life if there were no chicken-hearted hesitation, no squeamishness, and no remorse! She might have experienced a dozen stolen lives already, from the certainty she felt about that. She alone would arrange–Jon should be spared all. And no one should know!
“Fleur, would you take a note of that?”
“Yes.”
And she wrote down on her tablets: “Ask Michael what I was to take a note of.”
“Mrs. Mont!”
“Yes, Sir Timothy?”
“Could you get up one of those what d’you call ‘ems for us?”
“Matinees?”
“No, no–jumble sales, don’t they call ’em?”
“Certainly.”
The more she got up for them the more impeccable her reputation, the greater her freedom, and the more she would deserve, and ironically enjoy, her stolen life.
Hilary speaking now. What would HE think if he knew?
“But I think we OUGHT to have a matinee, Fleur. The public are so good, they’ll always pay a guinea to go to what most of them would give a guinea any day not to go to. What so you say, Bishop?”
“A matinee–by all means!”
“Matinees–dreadful things!”
“Not if we got a pleasant play, Mr. Forsyte–something a little old-fashioned–one of L.S.D.‘s. It would advertise us, you know. What do you think, Marquess?”
“My granddaughter Marjorie would get one up for you. It would do her good.”
“H’m. If SHE gets it up, it won’t be old-fashioned.” And Fleur saw her father’s face turning towards her, as he spoke. If only he knew how utterly she was beyond all that; how trivial to her seemed that heart-burning of the past.
“Mr. Montross, have you a theatre in your pocket?”
“I can get you one, Mr. Charwell.”
“First rate! Then, will you and the Marquess and my nephew here take that under your wings?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50