Only his brain-storm for a reason! He must just bite on it. The singing ceased. Fleur was looking round. Now she would beckon! On the contrary, she came towards him. He could not help the cynical thought: ‘She’s hooked old Chalfont!’ He loved her, but he knew her little weaknesses. She came up and took hold of his sleeve.
“I’ve had enough, Michael, let’s slip off; d’you mind?”
“Quick!” he said, “before they spot us!”
In the cold air outside he thought: ‘Now? Or in her room?’
“I think,” said Fleur, “that Mr. Chalfont is overrated–he’s nothing but a mental yawn. He’s coming to lunch tomorrow week.”
Not now–in her room!
“Whom do you think to meet him, besides Alison?”
“Nothing jazzy.”
“Of course not; but it must be somebody intriguing, Michael. Bother! sometimes I think it isn’t worth it.”
Michael’s heart stood still. Was that a portent–sign of ‘the primitive’ rising within his adored practitioner of social arts? An hour ago he would have said:
“You’re right, my child; it jolly well isn’t!” But now–any sign of change was ominous! He slipped his arm in hers.
“Don’t worry, we’ll snare the just-right cuckoos, somehow.”
“A Chinese Minister would be perfect,” mused Fleur, “with Minho and Bart–four men–two women–cosy. I’ll talk to Bart.”
Michael had opened their front door. She passed him; he lingered to see the stars, the plane trees, a man’s figure motionless, collared to the eyes, hatted down to them. ‘Wilfrid!’ he thought: ‘Spain! Why Spain? And all poor devils who are in distress–the heart–oh! darn the heart!’ He closed the door.
But soon he had another to open, and never with less enthusiasm. Fleur was sitting on the arm of a chair, in the dim lavender pyjamas she sometimes wore just to keep in with things, staring at the fire. Michael stood, looking at her and at his own reflection beyond in one of the five mirrors–white and black, the pierrot pyjamas she had bought him. ‘Figures in a play,’ he thought, ‘figures in a play! Is it real?’ He moved forward and sat on the chair’s other arm.
“Hang it!” he muttered. “Wish I were Antinous!” And he slipped from the arm into the chair, to be behind her face, if she wanted to hide it from him.
“Wilfrid’s been telling me,” he said, quietly.
Off his chest! What now? He saw the blood come flushing into her neck and cheek.
“Oh! What business–how do you mean ‘telling you’?”
“Just that he’s in love with you–nothing more–there’s nothing more to tell, is there?” And drawing his feet up on to the chair, he clasped his hands hard round his knees. Already–already he had asked a question! Bite on it! Bite on it! And he shut his eyes.
“Of course,” said Fleur, very slowly, “there’s nothing more. If Wilfrid chooses to be so silly.”
Chooses! The word seemed unjust to one whose own ‘silliness’ was so recent–so enduring! And–curious! his heart wouldn’t bound. Surely it ought to have bounded at her words!
“Is that the end of Wilfrid, then?”
“The end? I don’t know.”
Ah! Who knew anything–when passion was about?
“Well,” he said, holding himself hard together, “don’t forget I love you awfully!”
He saw her eyelids flicker, her shoulders shrugging.
“Am I likely to?”
Bitter, cordial, simple–which? Suddenly her hands came round and took him by the ears. Holding them fast she looked down at him, and laughed. And again his heart WOULD not bound. If she did not lead him by the nose, she–! But he clutched her to him in the chair. Lavender and white and black confused–she returned his kiss. But from the heart? Who knew? Not Michael.
Chapter X.
PASSING OF A SPORTSMAN
Soames, disappointed of his daughter, said: “I’ll wait,” and took his seat in the centre of the jade green settee, oblivious of Ting-a-ling before the fire, sleeping off the attentions of Amabel Nazing, who had found him ‘just too cunning.’ Grey and composed, with one knee over the other, and a line between his eyes, he thought of Elderson and the condition of the world, and of how there was always something. And the more he thought, the more he wondered why he had ever been such a flat as to go on to a Board which had anything to do with foreign contracts. All the old wisdom that in the nineteenth century had consolidated British wealth, all the Forsyte philosophy of attending to one’s own business, and taking no risks, the close-fibred national individualism which refused to commit the country to chasing this wild goose or that, held within him silent demonstration. Britain was on the wrong tack politically to try and influence the Continent, and the P.P.R.S. on the wrong tack monetarily to insure business outside Britain. The special instinct of his breed yearned for resumption of the straight and private path. Never meddle with what you couldn’t control! ‘Old Mont’ had said: “Keep the ring!” Nothing of the sort: Mind one’s own business! That was the real ‘formula.’ He became conscious of his calf–Ting-a-ling was sniffing at his trousers.
“Oh!” said Soames. “It’s you!”
Placing his forepaws against the settee, Ting-a-ling licked the air.
“Pick you up?” said Soames. “You’re too long.” And again he felt that faint warmth of being liked.
‘There’s something about me that appeals to him,’ he thought, taking him by the scruff and lifting him on to a cushion. “You and I,” the little dog seemed saying with his stare–Chinese little object! The Chinese knew what they were about, they had minded their own business for five thousand years!
‘I shall resign,’ thought Soames. But what about Winifred, and Imogen, and some of the Rogers and Nicholases who had been putting money into this thing because he was a director? He wished they wouldn’t follow him like a lot of sheep! He rose from the settee. It was no good waiting, he would walk on to Green Street and talk to Winifred at once. She would have to sell again, though the shares had dropped a bit. And without taking leave of Ting-a-ling, he went out.
All this last year he had almost enjoyed life. Having somewhere to come and sit and receive a certain sympathy once at least a week, as in old days at Timothy’s, was of incalculable advantage to his spirit. In going from home Fleur had taken most of his heart with her; but Soames had found it almost an advantage to visit his heart once a week rather than to have it always about. There were other reasons conducing to light-heartedness. That diabolical foreign chap, Prosper Profond, had long been gone he didn’t know where, and his wife had been decidedly less restive and sarcastic ever since. She had taken up a thing they called Coue, and grown stouter. She used the car a great deal. Altogether she was more domestic. Then, too, he had become reconciled to Gauguin–a little slump in that painter had convinced him that he was still worth attention, and he had bought three more. Gauguin would rise again! Soames almost regretted his intuition of that second coming, for he had quite taken to the chap. His colour, once you got used to it, was very attractive. One picture, especially, which meant nothing so far as he could see, had a way of making you keep your eyes on it. He even felt uneasy when he thought of having to part with the thing at an enhanced price. But, most of all, he had been feeling so well, enjoying a recrudescence of youth in regard to Annette, taking more pleasure in what he ate, while his mind dwelt almost complacently on the state of money. The pound going up in value; Labour quiet! And now they had got rid of that Jack-o’-lantern, they might look for some years of solid Conservative administration. And to think, as he did, stepping across St. James’ Park towards Green Street, that he had gone and put his foot into a concern which he could not control, made him feel–well, as if the devil had been in it!
In Piccadilly he moused along on the Park side, taking his customary look up at the ‘Iseeum’ Club. The curtains were drawn, and chinks of light glowed, long and cosy. And that reminded him–some one had said George Forsyte was ill. Certainly he had not seen him in the bay window for months past. Well, George had always eaten and drunk too much. He crossed over and passed beneath the Club; and a sudden feeling–he didn’t know what–a longing for his own past, a sort of nostalgia–made him stop and mount the steps.
“Mr. George Forsyte in the Club?”
The janitor stared, a grey-haired, long-faced chap, whom he had known from away back in the ‘eighties.
“Mr. Forsyte, sir,” he said, “is very ill indeed. They say he won’t recover, sir.”
“What?” said Soames. “Nobody told me that.”
“He’s very bad–VERY bad indeed. It’s the heart.”
“The heart! Where is he?”
“At his rooms, sir; just round the corner. They say the doctors have given him up. He WILL be missed here. Forty years I’ve known him. One of the old school, and a wonderful judge of wine and horses. We none of us last for ever, they say, but I never thought to see HIM out. Bit too full-blooded, sir, and that’s a fact.”
With a slight shock Soames realised that he had never known where George lived, so utterly anchored had he seemed to that bay window above.
“Just give me the number of his rooms,” he said.
“Belville Row–No. 11, sir; I’m sure I hope you’ll find him better. I shall miss his jokes–I shall, indeed.”
Turning the corner into Belville Row, Soames made a rapid calculation. George was sixty-six, only one year younger than himself! If George was really in extremis it would be quite unnatural! ‘Comes of not leading a careful life,’ he thought; ‘always rackety–George! When was it I made his will?’ So far as he remembered, George had left his money to his brothers and sisters–no one else to leave it to. The feeling of kinship stirred in Soames, the instinct of family adjustment. George and he had never got on–opposite poles of temperament–still he would have to be buried, and who would see to it if not Soames, who had seen to so many Forsyte burials in his time? He recalled the nickname George had once given him, ‘the undertaker!’ H’m! Here was poetical justice! Belville Row! Ah! No. 11–regular bachelor-looking place! And putting his hand up to the bell, he thought: ‘Women!’ What had George done about women all his life?
His ring was answered by a man in a black cut-away coat with a certain speechless reticence.
“My cousin, Mr. George Forsyte? How is he?”
The man compressed his lips.
“Not expected to last the night, sir.”
Soames felt a little clutch beneath his Jaeger vest.
“Conscious?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you show him my card? He might possibly like to see me.”
“Will you wait in here, sir?” Soames passed into a low room panelled up to the level of a man’s chest, and above that line decorated with prints. George–a collector! Soames had never supposed he had it in him! On those walls, wherever the eye roved, were prints coloured and uncoloured, old and new, depicting the sports of racing and prize-fighting! Hardly an inch of the red wall space visible! About to examine them for marks of value, Soames saw that he was not alone. A woman–age uncertain in the shaded light–was sitting in a very high-backed chair before the fire with her elbow on the arm of it, and a handkerchief held to her face. Soames looked at her, and his nostrils moved in a stealthy sniff. ‘Not a lady,’ he thought. ‘Ten to one but there’ll be complications.’ The muffled voice of the cut-away man said:
“I’m to take you in, sir.” Soames passed his hand over his face and followed.
The bedroom he now entered was in curious contrast.
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