On Forsyte ’Change news of the enlistment spread fast, together
with the report that June, not to be outdone, was going to become
a Red Cross nurse. These events were so extreme, so subversive of
pure Forsyteism, as to have a binding effect upon the family, and
Timothy’s was thronged next Sunday afternoon by members trying to
find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each
other a sense of family credit. Giles and Jesse Hayman would no
longer defend the coast but go to South Africa quite soon; Jolly
and Val would be following in April; as to June—well, you never
knew what she would really do.
The retirement from Spion Kop and the absence of any good news
from the seat of war imparted an air of reality to all this,
clinched in startling fashion by Timothy. The youngest of the old
Forsytes—scarcely eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble
their father, “Superior Dosset,” even in his best-known
characteristic of drinking Sherry—had been invisible for so many
years that he was almost mythical. A long generation had elapsed
since the risks of a publisher’s business had worked on his
nerves at the age of forty, so that he had got out with a mere
thirty-five thousand pounds in the world, and started to make his
living by careful investment. Putting by every year, at compound
interest, he had doubled his capital in forty years without
having once known what it was like to shake in his shoes over
money matters. He was now putting aside some two thousand a year,
and, with the care he was taking of himself, expected, so Aunt
Hester said, to double his capital again before he died. What he
would do with it then, with his sisters dead and himself dead,
was often mockingly queried by free spirits such as Francie,
Euphemia, or young Nicholas’ second, Christopher, whose spirit
was so free that he had actually said he was going on the stage.
All admitted, however, that this was best known to Timothy
himself, and possibly to Soames, who never divulged a secret.
Those few Forsytes who had seen him reported a man of thick and
robust appearance, not very tall, with a brown-red complexion,
grey hair, and little of the refinement of feature with which
most of the Forsytes had been endowed by “Superior Dosset’s”
wife, a woman of some beauty and a gentle temperament. It was
known that he had taken surprising interest in the war, sticking
flags into a map ever since it began, and there was uneasiness as
to what would happen if the English were driven into the sea,
when it would be almost impossible for him to put the flags in
the right places. As to his knowledge of family movements or his
views about them, little was known, save that Aunt Hester was
always declaring that he was very upset. It was, then, in the
nature of a portent when Forsytes, arriving on the Sunday after
the evacuation of Spion Kop, became conscious, one after the
other, of a presence seated in the only really comfortable
armchair, back to the light, concealing the lower part of his
face with a large hand, and were greeted by the awed voice of
Aunt Hester:
“Your Uncle Timothy, my dear.”
Timothy’s greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and
rather, as it were, passed over by him than expressed:
“How de do? How de do? ’Xcuse me gettin’ up!”
Francie was present, and Eustace had come in his car; Winifred
had brought Imogen, breaking the ice of the restitution
proceedings with the warmth of family appreciation at Val’s
enlistment; and Marian Tweetyman with the last news of Giles and
Jesse. These with Aunt Juley and Hester, young Nicholas,
Euphemia, and—of all people!—George, who had come with Eustace in
the car, constituted an assembly worthy of the family’s palmiest
days. There was not one chair vacant in the whole of the little
drawing-room, and anxiety was felt lest someone else should
arrive.
The constraint caused by Timothy’s presence having worn off a
little, conversation took a military turn. George asked Aunt
Juley when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing
her to a state of gaiety; whereon he turned to Nicholas and said:
“Young Nick’s a warrior bold, isn’t he? When’s he going to don
the wild khaki?”
Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation,
intimated that of course his mother was very anxious.
“The Dromios are off, I hear,” said George, turning to Marian
Tweetyman; “we shall all be there soon. _En avant_, the Forsytes!
Roll, bowl, or pitch! Who’s for a cooler?”
Aunt Juley gurgled, George was _so_ droll! Should Hester get
Timothy’s map? Then he could show them all where they were.
At a sound from Timothy, interpreted as assent, Aunt Hester left
the room.
George pursued his image of the Forsyte advance, addressing
Timothy as Field Marshal; and Imogen, whom he had noted at once
for “a pretty filly,”—as Vivandière; and holding his top hat
between his knees, he began to beat it with imaginary drumsticks.
The reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed. All
laughed—George was licensed; but all felt that the family was
being “rotted”; and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it
was going to give five of its members to the service of the
Queen. George might go too far; and there was relief when he got
up, offered his arm to Aunt Juley, marched up to Timothy, saluted
him, kissed his aunt with mock passion, said, “Oh! what a treat,
dear papa! Come on, Eustace!” and walked out, followed by the
grave and fastidious Eustace, who had never smiled.
Aunt Juley’s bewildered, “Fancy not waiting for the map! You
mustn’t mind him, Timothy. He’s _so_ droll!” broke the hush, and
Timothy removed the hand from his mouth.
“I don’t know what things are comin’ to,” he was heard to say.
“What’s all this about goin’ out there? That’s not the way to
beat those Boers.”
Francie alone had the hardihood to observe: “What is, then, Uncle
Timothy?”
“All this new-fangled volunteerin’ and expense—lettin’ money out
of the country.”
Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby
with eruptions. With the assistance of Euphemia it was laid on
the piano, a small Colwood grand, last played on, it was
believed, the summer before Aunt Ann died, thirteen years ago.
Timothy rose. He walked over to the piano, and stood looking at
his map while they all gathered round.
“There you are,” he said; “that’s the position up to date; and
very poor it is. H’m!”
“Yes,” said Francie, greatly daring, “but how are you going to
alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?”
“Men!” said Timothy; “you don’t want men—wastin’ the country’s
money. You want a Napoleon, he’d settle it in a month.”
“But if you haven’t got him, Uncle Timothy?”
“That’s their business,” replied Timothy. “What have we kept the
Army up for—to eat their heads off in time of peace! They ought
to be ashamed of themselves, comin’ on the country to help them
like this! Let every man stick to his business, and we shall get
on.”
And looking round him, he added almost angrily:
“Volunteerin’, indeed! Throwin’ good money after bad! We must
save! Conserve energy that’s the only way.” And with a prolonged
sound, not quite a sniff and not quite a snort, he trod on
Euphemia’s toe, and went out, leaving a sensation and a faint
scent of barley-sugar behind him.
The effect of something said with conviction by one who has
evidently made a sacrifice to say it is ever considerable. And
the eight Forsytes left behind, all women except young Nicholas,
were silent for a moment round the map. Then Francie said:
“Really, I think he’s right, you know. After all, what is the
Army for? They ought to have known. It’s only encouraging them.”
“My dear!” cried Aunt Juley, “but they’ve been so progressive.
Think of their giving up their scarlet. They were always so proud
of it. And now they all look like convicts. Hester and I were
saying only yesterday we were sure they must feel it very much.
Fancy what the Iron Duke would have said!”
“The new colour’s very smart,” said Winifred; “Val looks quite
nice in his.”
Aunt Juley sighed.
“I do so wonder what Jolyon’s boy is like. To think we’ve never
seen him! His father must be so proud of him.”
“His father’s in Paris,” said Winifred.
Aunt Hester’s shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward
off her sister’s next remark, for Juley’s crumpled cheeks had
gushed.
“We had dear little Mrs. MacAnder here yesterday, just back from
Paris. And whom d’you think she saw there in the street? You’ll
never guess.”
“We shan’t try, Auntie,” said Euphemia.
“Irene! Imagine! After all this time; walking with a fair
beard....”
“Auntie! you’ll kill me! A fair beard....”
“I was going to say,” said Aunt Juley severely, “a fair-bearded
gentleman. And not a day older; she was always so pretty,” she
added, with a sort of lingering apology.
“Oh! tell us about her, Auntie,” cried Imogen; “I can just
remember her. She’s the skeleton in the family cupboard, isn’t
she? And they’re such fun.”
Aunt Hester sat down. Really, Juley had done it now!
“She wasn’t much of a skeleton as I remember her,” murmured
Euphemia, “extremely well-covered.”
“My dear!” said Aunt Juley, “what a peculiar way of putting
it—not very nice.”
“No, but what _was_ she like?” persisted Imogen.
“I’ll tell you, my child,” said Francie; “a kind of modern Venus,
very well-dressed.”
Euphemia said sharply: “Venus was never dressed, and she had blue
eyes of melting sapphire.”
At this juncture Nicholas took his leave.
“Mrs. Nick is awfully strict,” said Francie with a laugh.
“She has six children,” said Aunt Juley; “it’s very proper she
should be careful.”
“Was Uncle Soames awfully fond of her?” pursued the inexorable
Imogen, moving her dark luscious eyes from face to face.
Aunt Hester made a gesture of despair, just as Aunt Juley
answered:
“Yes, your Uncle Soames was very much attached to her.”
“I suppose she ran off with someone?”
“No, certainly not; that is—not precisely.”
“What did she do, then, Auntie?”
“Come along, Imogen,” said Winifred, “we must be getting back.”
But Aunt Juley interjected resolutely: “She—she didn’t behave at
all well.”
“Oh, bother!” cried Imogen; “that’s as far as I ever get.”
“Well, my dear,” said Francie, “she had a love affair which ended
with the young man’s death; and then she left your uncle. I
always rather liked her.”
“She used to give me chocolates,” murmured Imogen, “and smell
nice.”
“Of course!” remarked Euphemia.
“Not of course at all!” replied Francie, who used a particularly
expensive essence of gillyflower herself.
“I can’t think what we are about,” said Aunt Juley, raising her
hands, “talking of such things!”
“Was she divorced?” asked Imogen from the door.
“Certainly not,” cried Aunt Juley; “that is—certainly not.”
A sound was heard over by the far door. Timothy had re-entered
the back drawing-room. “I’ve come for my map,” he said. “Who’s
been divorced?”
“No one, Uncle,” replied Francie with perfect truth.
Timothy took his map off the piano.
“Don’t let’s have anything of that sort in the family,” he said.
“All this enlistin’s bad enough. The country’s breakin’ up; I
don’t know what we’re comin’ to.” He shook a thick finger at the
room: “Too many women nowadays, and they don’t know what they
want.”
So saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went
out as if afraid of being answered.
The seven women whom he had addressed broke into a subdued
murmur, out of which emerged Francie’s, “Really, the Forsytes!”
and Aunt Juley’s: “He must have his feet in mustard and hot water
to-night, Hester; will you tell Jane? The blood has gone to his
head again, I’m afraid....”
That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after
dinner, she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up:
“Hester, I can’t think where I’ve heard that dear Soames wants
Irene to come back to him again. Who was it told us that George
had made a funny drawing of him with the words, ‘He won’t be
happy till he gets it’.”
“Eustace,” answered Aunt Hester from behind _The Times;_ “he had
it in his pocket, but he wouldn’t show it us.”
Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, _The Times_
crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley
dropped another stitch.
“Hester,” she said, “I have had such a dreadful thought.”
“Then don’t tell me,” said Aunt Hester quickly.
“Oh! but I must. You can’t think how dreadful!” Her voice sank to
a whisper:
“Jolyon—Jolyon, they say, has a—has a fair beard, now.”