Pannus et circesses, as Mr. Mont says, sir.”
“Ha! Have you seen this canteen they’re running?”
“No, sir; I believe they’ve got the beetle man in this evening. I’m told there’s a proper lot of beetles.”
“Ugh!”
“Yes, sir; it’s a nahsty insect.”
Having finished dinner, Soames lighted the second of his two daily cigars, and took up the earpieces of the wireless. He had resisted this invention as long as he could–but in times like these! “London calling!” Yes, and the British Isles listening! Trouble in Glasgow? There would be–lot of Irish there! More ‘specials’ wanted? There’d soon be plenty of those. He must tell that fellow Riggs to enlist. This butler chap, too, could well be spared. Trains! They seemed to be running a lot of trains already. After listening with some attention to the Home Secretary, Soames put the earpieces down and took up The British Gazette. It was his first sustained look at this tenuous production, and he hoped it would be his last. The paper and printing were deplorable. Still, he supposed it was something to have got it out at all. Tampering with the freedom of the Press! Those fellows were not finding it so easy as they thought. They had tampered, and the result was a Press much more definitely against them than the Press they had suppressed. Burned their fingers there! And quite unnecessary–old-fashioned notion now–influence of the Press. The war had killed it. Without confidence in truth there was no influence. Politicians or the Press–if you couldn’t believe them, they didn’t count! Perhaps they would re-discover that some day. In the meantime the papers were like cocktails–tittilators mostly of the appetite and the nerves. How sleepy he was! He hoped Fleur wouldn’t be very late coming in. Mad thing, this strike, making everybody do things they weren’t accustomed to, just as Industry, too, was beginning–or at least pretending–to recover. But that was it! With every year, in these times, it was more difficult to do what you said you would. Always something or other turning up! The world seemed to live from hand to mouth, and at such a pace, too! Sitting back in the Spanish chair, Soames covered his eyes from the light, and the surge of sleep mounted to his brain; strike or no strike, the soft, inexorable tide washed over him.
A tickling, and over his hand, thin and rather brown, the fringe of a shawl came dangling. Why! With an effort he climbed out of an abyss of dreams. Fleur was standing beside him. Pretty, bright, her eyes shining, speaking quickly, excitedly, it seemed to him.
“Here you are, then, Dad!” Her lips felt hot and soft on his forehead, and her eyes–What was the matter with her? She looked so young–she looked so–how express it?
“So you’re in!” he said. “Kit’s getting talkative. Had anything to eat?”
“Heaps!”
“This canteen–”
She flung off her shawl.
“I’m enjoying it frightfully.”
Soames noted with surprise the rise and fall of her breast, as if she had been running. Her cheeks, too, were very pink.
“You haven’t caught anything, have you–in that place?”
Fleur laughed. A sound–delicious and unwarranted.
“How funny you are, Dad! I hope the strike lasts!”
“Don’t be foolish!” said Soames. “Where’s Michael?”
“Gone up. He called for me, after the House. Nothing doing there, he says.”
“What’s the time?”
“Past twelve, dear. You must have had a real good sleep.”
“Just nodding.”
“We saw a tank pass, on the Embankment–going East. It looked awfully queer. Didn’t you hear it?”
“No,” said Soames.
“Well, don’t be alarmed if you hear another. They’re on their way to the docks, Michael says.”
“Glad to hear it–shows the Government means business. But you must go up. You’re overtired.”
She gazed at him over the Spanish shawl on her arm–whistling some tune.
“Good-night!” he said. “I shall be coming up in a minute.”
She blew him a kiss, twirled round, and went.
“I don’t like it,” murmured Soames to himself; “I don’t know why, but I don’t like it.”
She had looked too young. Had the strike gone to her head? He rose to squirt some soda-water into a glass–that nap had left a taste in his mouth.
Um–dum–bom–um–dum–bom–um–dum–bom! A grunching noise! Another of those tanks? He would like to see one of those great things! For the idea that they were going down to the docks gave him a feeling almost of exhilaration. With them on the spot the country was safe enough. Putting on his motoring coat and hat, he went out, crossed the empty Square, and stood in the street, whence he could see the Embankment. There it came! Like a great primeval monster in the lamplit darkness, growling and gruntling along, a huge, fantastic tortoise–like an embodiment of inexorable power. ‘That’ll astonish their weak nerves!’ thought Soames, as the tank crawled, grunching, out of sight. He could hear another coming; but with a sudden feeling that it would be too much of a good thing, he turned on his heel. A sort of extravagance about them, when he remembered the blank-looking crowd around his car that afternoon, not a weapon among the lot, nor even a revolutionary look in their eyes!
“No BODY in the strike!” These great crawling monsters! Were the Government trying to pretend that there was? Playing the strong man! Something in Soames revolted slightly. Hang it! This was England, not Russia, or Italy! They might be right, but he didn’t like it! Too–too military! He put his latchkey into the keyhole. Um–dum–bom–um–dum–bom! Well, not many people would see or hear them–this time of night! He supposed they had got here from the country somewhere–he wouldn’t care to meet them wandering about in the old lanes and places. Father and mother and baby tanks–like–like a family of mastodons, m–m? No sense of proportion in things like that! And no sense of humour! He stood on the stairs listening. It was to be hoped they wouldn’t wake the baby!
Chapter V.
JEOPARDY
When, looking down the row of faces at her canteen table, Fleur saw Jon Forsyte’s, it was within her heart as if, in winter, she had met with honeysuckle. Recovering from that faint intoxication, she noted his appearance from further off. He was sitting seemingly indifferent to food; and on his face, which was smudged with coal-dust and sweat, was such a smile as men wear after going up a mountain or at the end of a long run–tired, charming, and as if they have been through something worth while. His lashes–long and dark as in her memory–concealed his eyes, and quarrelled with his brighter hair, touzled to the limit of its shortness.
Continuing to issue her instructions to Ruth La Fontaine, Fleur thought rapidly. Jon! Dropped from the skies into her canteen, stronger-looking, better knit; with more jaw, and deeper set eyes, but frightfully like Jon! What was to be done about it? If only she could turn out the lights, steal up behind, lean over and kiss him on that smudge above his left eye! Yes! And then–what? Silly! And now, suppose he came out of his far-away smile and saw her! As likely as not he would never come into her canteen again. She remembered his conscience! And she took a swift decision. Not to-night! Holly would know where he was staying. At her chosen time, on her chosen ground, if–on second thoughts, she wanted to play with fire. And, giving a mandate to Ruth La Fontaine concerning buns, she looked back over her shoulder at Jon’s absorbed and smiling face, and passed out into her little office.
And second thoughts began. Michael, Kit, her father; the solid security of virtue and possessions; the peace of mind into which she had passed of late! All jeopardised for the sake of a smile, and a scent of honeysuckle! No! That account was closed. To reopen it was to tempt Providence. And if to tempt Providence was the practice of Modernity, she wasn’t sure whether she was modern. Besides, who knew whether she COULD reopen that account? And she was seized by a gust of curiosity to see that wife of his–that substitute for herself. Was she in England? Was she dark, like her brother Francis? Fleur took up her list of purchases for the morrow. With so much to do, it was idiotic even to think about such things! The telephone! All day its bell had been ringing; since nine o’clock that morning she had been dancing to its pipe.
“Yes…? Mrs. Mont speaking. What? But I’ve ordered them… Oh! But really I MUST give them bacon and eggs in the morning. They can’t start on cocoa only… How? The Company can’t afford?… Well! Do you want an effective service or not?… Come round to see you about it? I really haven’t time… Yes, yes… now please do be nice to me and tell the manager that they simply must be properly fed. They look so tired. He’ll understand… Yes… Thank you ever so!” She hung up the receiver. “Damn!”
Someone laughed. “Oh! It’s you, Holly! Cheese-paring and red tape as usual! This is the fourth time today. Well, I don’t care–I’m going ahead. Look! Here’s Harridge’s list for tomorrow. It’s terrific, but it’s got to be. Buy it all; I’ll take the risk, if I have to go round and slobber on him.” And beyond the ironic sympathy on Holly’s face she seemed to see Jon’s smile. He should be properly fed–all of them should! And, without looking at her cousin, she said:
“I saw Jon in there. Where has he dropped from?”
“Paris. He’s putting up with us in Green Street.”
Fleur stuck her chin forward, and gave a little laugh.
“Quaint to see him again, all smudgy like that! His wife with him?”
“Not yet,” said Holly; “she’s in Paris still, with his mother.”
“Oh! It’d be fun to see him some time!”
“He’s stoking an engine on the local service–goes out at six, and doesn’t get in till about midnight.”
“Of course; I meant after, if the strike ever ends.”
Holly nodded. “His wife wants to come over and help; would you like her in the canteen?”
“If she’s the right sort.”
“Jon says: Very much so.”
“I don’t see why an American should worry herself. Are they going to live in England?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! Well, we’re both over the measles.”
“If you get them again grown-up, Fleur, they’re pretty bad.”
Fleur laughed. “No fear!” And her eyes, hazel, clear, glancing, met her cousin’s eyes, deep, steady, grey.
“Michael’s waiting for you with the car,” said Holly.
“All right! Can you carry on till they’ve finished? Norah Curfew’s on duty at five tomorrow morning. I shall be round at nine, before you start for Harridge’s. If you think of anything else, stick it on the list–I’ll make them stump up somehow. Good-night, Holly.”
“Good-night, my dear.”
Was there a gleam of pity in those grey eyes? Pity, indeed!
“Give Jon my love. I do wonder how he likes stoking! We must get some more washbasins in.”
Sitting beside Michael, who was driving their car, she saw again, as it were, Jon’s smile in the glass of the wind-screen, and in the dark her lips pouted as if reaching for it. Measles–they spotted you, and raised your temperature! How empty the streets were, now that the taxis were on strike! Michael looked round at her.
“Well, how’s it going?”
“The beetle man was a caution, Michael. He had a face like a ravaged wedge, a wave of black hair, and the eyes of a lost soul; but he was frightfully efficient.”
“Look! There’s a tank; I was told of them. They’re going down to the docks. Rather provocative! Just as well there are no papers for them to get into.”
Fleur laughed.
“Father’ll be at home. He’s come up to protect me. If there really was shooting, I wonder what he’d do–take his umbrella?
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“Ha! Have you seen this canteen they’re running?”
“No, sir; I believe they’ve got the beetle man in this evening. I’m told there’s a proper lot of beetles.”
“Ugh!”
“Yes, sir; it’s a nahsty insect.”
Having finished dinner, Soames lighted the second of his two daily cigars, and took up the earpieces of the wireless. He had resisted this invention as long as he could–but in times like these! “London calling!” Yes, and the British Isles listening! Trouble in Glasgow? There would be–lot of Irish there! More ‘specials’ wanted? There’d soon be plenty of those. He must tell that fellow Riggs to enlist. This butler chap, too, could well be spared. Trains! They seemed to be running a lot of trains already. After listening with some attention to the Home Secretary, Soames put the earpieces down and took up The British Gazette. It was his first sustained look at this tenuous production, and he hoped it would be his last. The paper and printing were deplorable. Still, he supposed it was something to have got it out at all. Tampering with the freedom of the Press! Those fellows were not finding it so easy as they thought. They had tampered, and the result was a Press much more definitely against them than the Press they had suppressed. Burned their fingers there! And quite unnecessary–old-fashioned notion now–influence of the Press. The war had killed it. Without confidence in truth there was no influence. Politicians or the Press–if you couldn’t believe them, they didn’t count! Perhaps they would re-discover that some day. In the meantime the papers were like cocktails–tittilators mostly of the appetite and the nerves. How sleepy he was! He hoped Fleur wouldn’t be very late coming in. Mad thing, this strike, making everybody do things they weren’t accustomed to, just as Industry, too, was beginning–or at least pretending–to recover. But that was it! With every year, in these times, it was more difficult to do what you said you would. Always something or other turning up! The world seemed to live from hand to mouth, and at such a pace, too! Sitting back in the Spanish chair, Soames covered his eyes from the light, and the surge of sleep mounted to his brain; strike or no strike, the soft, inexorable tide washed over him.
A tickling, and over his hand, thin and rather brown, the fringe of a shawl came dangling. Why! With an effort he climbed out of an abyss of dreams. Fleur was standing beside him. Pretty, bright, her eyes shining, speaking quickly, excitedly, it seemed to him.
“Here you are, then, Dad!” Her lips felt hot and soft on his forehead, and her eyes–What was the matter with her? She looked so young–she looked so–how express it?
“So you’re in!” he said. “Kit’s getting talkative. Had anything to eat?”
“Heaps!”
“This canteen–”
She flung off her shawl.
“I’m enjoying it frightfully.”
Soames noted with surprise the rise and fall of her breast, as if she had been running. Her cheeks, too, were very pink.
“You haven’t caught anything, have you–in that place?”
Fleur laughed. A sound–delicious and unwarranted.
“How funny you are, Dad! I hope the strike lasts!”
“Don’t be foolish!” said Soames. “Where’s Michael?”
“Gone up. He called for me, after the House. Nothing doing there, he says.”
“What’s the time?”
“Past twelve, dear. You must have had a real good sleep.”
“Just nodding.”
“We saw a tank pass, on the Embankment–going East. It looked awfully queer. Didn’t you hear it?”
“No,” said Soames.
“Well, don’t be alarmed if you hear another. They’re on their way to the docks, Michael says.”
“Glad to hear it–shows the Government means business. But you must go up. You’re overtired.”
She gazed at him over the Spanish shawl on her arm–whistling some tune.
“Good-night!” he said. “I shall be coming up in a minute.”
She blew him a kiss, twirled round, and went.
“I don’t like it,” murmured Soames to himself; “I don’t know why, but I don’t like it.”
She had looked too young. Had the strike gone to her head? He rose to squirt some soda-water into a glass–that nap had left a taste in his mouth.
Um–dum–bom–um–dum–bom–um–dum–bom! A grunching noise! Another of those tanks? He would like to see one of those great things! For the idea that they were going down to the docks gave him a feeling almost of exhilaration. With them on the spot the country was safe enough. Putting on his motoring coat and hat, he went out, crossed the empty Square, and stood in the street, whence he could see the Embankment. There it came! Like a great primeval monster in the lamplit darkness, growling and gruntling along, a huge, fantastic tortoise–like an embodiment of inexorable power. ‘That’ll astonish their weak nerves!’ thought Soames, as the tank crawled, grunching, out of sight. He could hear another coming; but with a sudden feeling that it would be too much of a good thing, he turned on his heel. A sort of extravagance about them, when he remembered the blank-looking crowd around his car that afternoon, not a weapon among the lot, nor even a revolutionary look in their eyes!
“No BODY in the strike!” These great crawling monsters! Were the Government trying to pretend that there was? Playing the strong man! Something in Soames revolted slightly. Hang it! This was England, not Russia, or Italy! They might be right, but he didn’t like it! Too–too military! He put his latchkey into the keyhole. Um–dum–bom–um–dum–bom! Well, not many people would see or hear them–this time of night! He supposed they had got here from the country somewhere–he wouldn’t care to meet them wandering about in the old lanes and places. Father and mother and baby tanks–like–like a family of mastodons, m–m? No sense of proportion in things like that! And no sense of humour! He stood on the stairs listening. It was to be hoped they wouldn’t wake the baby!
Chapter V.
JEOPARDY
When, looking down the row of faces at her canteen table, Fleur saw Jon Forsyte’s, it was within her heart as if, in winter, she had met with honeysuckle. Recovering from that faint intoxication, she noted his appearance from further off. He was sitting seemingly indifferent to food; and on his face, which was smudged with coal-dust and sweat, was such a smile as men wear after going up a mountain or at the end of a long run–tired, charming, and as if they have been through something worth while. His lashes–long and dark as in her memory–concealed his eyes, and quarrelled with his brighter hair, touzled to the limit of its shortness.
Continuing to issue her instructions to Ruth La Fontaine, Fleur thought rapidly. Jon! Dropped from the skies into her canteen, stronger-looking, better knit; with more jaw, and deeper set eyes, but frightfully like Jon! What was to be done about it? If only she could turn out the lights, steal up behind, lean over and kiss him on that smudge above his left eye! Yes! And then–what? Silly! And now, suppose he came out of his far-away smile and saw her! As likely as not he would never come into her canteen again. She remembered his conscience! And she took a swift decision. Not to-night! Holly would know where he was staying. At her chosen time, on her chosen ground, if–on second thoughts, she wanted to play with fire. And, giving a mandate to Ruth La Fontaine concerning buns, she looked back over her shoulder at Jon’s absorbed and smiling face, and passed out into her little office.
And second thoughts began. Michael, Kit, her father; the solid security of virtue and possessions; the peace of mind into which she had passed of late! All jeopardised for the sake of a smile, and a scent of honeysuckle! No! That account was closed. To reopen it was to tempt Providence. And if to tempt Providence was the practice of Modernity, she wasn’t sure whether she was modern. Besides, who knew whether she COULD reopen that account? And she was seized by a gust of curiosity to see that wife of his–that substitute for herself. Was she in England? Was she dark, like her brother Francis? Fleur took up her list of purchases for the morrow. With so much to do, it was idiotic even to think about such things! The telephone! All day its bell had been ringing; since nine o’clock that morning she had been dancing to its pipe.
“Yes…? Mrs. Mont speaking. What? But I’ve ordered them… Oh! But really I MUST give them bacon and eggs in the morning. They can’t start on cocoa only… How? The Company can’t afford?… Well! Do you want an effective service or not?… Come round to see you about it? I really haven’t time… Yes, yes… now please do be nice to me and tell the manager that they simply must be properly fed. They look so tired. He’ll understand… Yes… Thank you ever so!” She hung up the receiver. “Damn!”
Someone laughed. “Oh! It’s you, Holly! Cheese-paring and red tape as usual! This is the fourth time today. Well, I don’t care–I’m going ahead. Look! Here’s Harridge’s list for tomorrow. It’s terrific, but it’s got to be. Buy it all; I’ll take the risk, if I have to go round and slobber on him.” And beyond the ironic sympathy on Holly’s face she seemed to see Jon’s smile. He should be properly fed–all of them should! And, without looking at her cousin, she said:
“I saw Jon in there. Where has he dropped from?”
“Paris. He’s putting up with us in Green Street.”
Fleur stuck her chin forward, and gave a little laugh.
“Quaint to see him again, all smudgy like that! His wife with him?”
“Not yet,” said Holly; “she’s in Paris still, with his mother.”
“Oh! It’d be fun to see him some time!”
“He’s stoking an engine on the local service–goes out at six, and doesn’t get in till about midnight.”
“Of course; I meant after, if the strike ever ends.”
Holly nodded. “His wife wants to come over and help; would you like her in the canteen?”
“If she’s the right sort.”
“Jon says: Very much so.”
“I don’t see why an American should worry herself. Are they going to live in England?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! Well, we’re both over the measles.”
“If you get them again grown-up, Fleur, they’re pretty bad.”
Fleur laughed. “No fear!” And her eyes, hazel, clear, glancing, met her cousin’s eyes, deep, steady, grey.
“Michael’s waiting for you with the car,” said Holly.
“All right! Can you carry on till they’ve finished? Norah Curfew’s on duty at five tomorrow morning. I shall be round at nine, before you start for Harridge’s. If you think of anything else, stick it on the list–I’ll make them stump up somehow. Good-night, Holly.”
“Good-night, my dear.”
Was there a gleam of pity in those grey eyes? Pity, indeed!
“Give Jon my love. I do wonder how he likes stoking! We must get some more washbasins in.”
Sitting beside Michael, who was driving their car, she saw again, as it were, Jon’s smile in the glass of the wind-screen, and in the dark her lips pouted as if reaching for it. Measles–they spotted you, and raised your temperature! How empty the streets were, now that the taxis were on strike! Michael looked round at her.
“Well, how’s it going?”
“The beetle man was a caution, Michael. He had a face like a ravaged wedge, a wave of black hair, and the eyes of a lost soul; but he was frightfully efficient.”
“Look! There’s a tank; I was told of them. They’re going down to the docks. Rather provocative! Just as well there are no papers for them to get into.”
Fleur laughed.
“Father’ll be at home. He’s come up to protect me. If there really was shooting, I wonder what he’d do–take his umbrella?
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