PART I

Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.

TO LET

by

John Galsworthy

AUTHOR'S NOTE

With this volume, The Forsyte Saga--that series comprising "The Man of

Property," "Indian Summer of a Forsyte" (from the volume "Five Tales"),

"In Chancery," and "Awakening"--comes to an end. J. G.

CONTENTS

PART I

I. ENCOUNTER

II. FINE FLEUR FORSYTE

III. AT ROBIN HILL

IV. THE MAUSOLEUM

V. THE NATIVE HEATH

VI. JON

VII. FLEUR

VIII. IDYLL ON GRASS

IX. GOYA

X. TRIO

XI. DUET

XII. CAPRICE

PART II

I. MOTHER AND SON

II. FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

III. MEETINGS

IV. IN GREEN STREET

V. PURELY FORSYTE AFFAIRS

VI. SOAMES' PRIVATE LIFE

VII. JUNE TAKES A HAND

VIII. THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH

IX. FAT IN THE FIRE

X. DECISION

XI. TIMOTHY PROPHESIES

PART III

I. OLD JOLYON WALKS

II. CONFESSION

III. IRENE!

IV. SOAMES COGITATES

V. THE FIXED IDEA

VI. DESPERATE

VII. EMBASSY

VIII. THE DARK TUNE

IX. UNDER THE OAK-TREE

X. FLEUR'S WEDDING

XI. THE LAST OF THE FORSYTES

PART I

I

ENCOUNTER

Soames Forsyte emerged from the Knightsbridge Hotel, where he was

staying, in the afternoon of the 12th of May, 1920, with the intention

of visiting a collection of pictures in a Gallery off Cork Street, and

looking into the Future. He walked. Since the War he never took a cab

if he could help it. Their drivers were, in his view, an uncivil lot,

though, now that the War was over and supply beginning to exceed demand

again, getting more civil in accordance with the custom of human

nature. Still, he had not forgiven them, deeply identifying them with

gloomy memories and, now dimly, like all members of their class, with

revolution. The considerable anxiety he had passed through during the

War, and the more considerable anxiety he had since undergone in the

Peace, had produced psychological consequences in a tenacious nature.

He had, mentally, so frequently experienced ruin, that he had ceased to

believe in its material probability. Paying away four thousand a year

in income and super-tax, one could not very well be worse off! A

fortune of a quarter of a million, encumbered only by a wife and one

daughter, and very diversely invested, afforded substantial guarantee

even against that "wildcat notion"--a levy on capital. And as to

confiscation of war profits, he was entirely in favor of it, for he had

none, and "serve the beggars right!" The price of pictures, moreover,

had, if anything, gone up, and he had done better with his collection

since the War began than ever before. Air-raids, also, had acted

beneficially on a spirit congenitally cautious, and hardened a

character already dogged. To be in danger of being entirely dispersed

inclined one to be less apprehensive of the more partial dispersions

involved in levies and taxation, while the habit of condemning the

impudence of the Germans had led naturally to condemning that of Labor,

if not openly at least in the sanctuary of his soul.

He walked. There was, moreover, time to spare, for Fleur was to meet

him at the Gallery at four o'clock, and it was as yet but half past

two. It was good for him to walk--his liver was a little constricted

and his nerves rather on edge. His wife was always out when she was in

Town, and his daughter WOULD flibberty-gibbet all over the place like

most young women since the War. Still, he must be thankful that she had

been too young to do anything in that War itself. Not, of course, that

he had not supported the War from its inception, with all his soul, but

between that and supporting it with the bodies of his wife and

daughter, there had been a gap fixed by something old-fashioned within

him which abhorred emotional extravagance. He had, for instance,

strongly objected to Annette, so attractive, and in 1914 only

thirty-five, going to her native France, her "chere patrie" as, under

the stimulus of war, she had begun to call it, to nurse her "braves

poilus," forsooth! Ruining her health and her looks! As if she were

really a nurse! He had put a stopper on it. Let her do needlework for

them at home, or knit! She had not gone, therefore, and had never been

quite the same woman since. A bad tendency of hers to mock at him, not

openly, but in continual little ways, had grown. As for Fleur, the War

had resolved the vexed problem whether or not she should go to school.

She was better away from her mother in her war mood, from the chance of

air-raids, and the impetus to do extravagant things; so he had placed

her in a seminary as far West as had seemed to him compatible with

excellence, and had missed her horribly. Fleur! He had never regretted

the somewhat outlandish name by which at her birth he had decided so

suddenly to call her--marked concession though it had been to the

French. Fleur! A pretty name--a pretty child! But restless--too

restless; and wilful! Knowing her power too over her father! Soames

often reflected on the mistake it was to dote on his daughter. To get

old and dote! Sixty-five! He was getting on; but he didn't feel it,

for, fortunately perhaps, considering Annette's youth and good looks,

his second marriage had turned out a cool affair. He had known but one

real passion in his life--for that first wife of his--Irene. Yes, and

that fellow, his Cousin Jolyon, who had gone off with her, was looking

very shaky, they said. No wonder, at seventy-two, after twenty years of

a third marriage!

Soames paused a moment in his march to lean over the railings of the

Row. A suitable spot for reminiscence, half-way between that house in

Park Lane which had seen his birth and his parents' deaths, and the

little house in Montpellier Square where thirty-five years ago he had

enjoyed his first edition of matrimony. Now, after twenty years of his

second edition, that old tragedy seemed to him like a previous

existence--which had ended when Fleur was born in place of the son he

had hoped for. For many years he had ceased regretting, even vaguely,

the son who had not been born; Fleur filled the bill in his heart.

After all, she bore his name; and he was not looking forward at all to

the time when she would change it. Indeed, if he ever thought of such a

calamity, it was seasoned by the vague feeling that he could make her

rich enough to purchase perhaps and extinguish the name of the fellow

who married her--why not, since, as it seemed, women were equal to men

nowadays? And Soames, secretly convinced that they were not, passed his

curved hand over his face vigorously, till it reached the comfort of

his chin. Thanks to abstemious habits, he had not grown fat and flabby;

his nose was pale and thin, his grey moustache close-clipped, his

eyesight unimpaired. A slight stoop closened and corrected the

expansion given to his face by the heightening of his forehead in the

recession of his grey hair. Little change had Time wrought in the

"warmest" of the young Forsytes, as the last of the old

Forsytes--Timothy--now in his hundred and first year, would have

phrased it.

The shade from the plane-trees fell on his neat Homburg hat; he had

given up top hats--it was no use attracting attention to wealth in days

like these. Plane-trees! His thoughts travelled sharply to Madrid--the

Easter before the War, when, having to make up his mind about that Goya

picture, he had taken a voyage of discovery to study the painter on his

spot. The fellow had impressed him--great range, real genius! Highly as

the chap ranked, he would rank even higher before they had finished

with him. The second Goya craze would be greater even than the first;

oh, yes! And he had bought. On that visit he had--as never

before--commissioned a copy of a fresco painting called "La Vendimia,"

wherein was the figure of a girl with an arm akimbo, who had reminded

him of his daughter. He had it now in the Gallery at Mapledurham, and

rather poor it was--you couldn't copy Goya. He would still look at it,

however, if his daughter were not there, for the sake of something

irresistibly reminiscent in the light, erect balance of the figure, the

width between the arching eyebrows, the eager dreaming of the dark

eyes. Curious that Fleur should have dark eyes, when his own were

grey--no pure Forsyte had brown eyes--and her mother's blue! But of

course her grandmother Lamotte's eyes were dark as treacle!

He began to walk on again towards Hyde Park Corner. No greater change

in all England than in the Row! Born almost within hail of it, he could

remember it from 1860 on. Brought there as a child between the

crinolines to stare at tight-trousered dandies in whiskers, riding with

a cavalry seat; to watch the doffing of curly-brimmed and white top

hats; the leisurely air of it all, and the little bow-legged man in a

long red waistcoat who used to come among the fashion with dogs on

several strings, and try to sell one to his mother: King Charles

spaniels, Italian greyhounds, affectionate to her crinoline--you never

saw them now. You saw no quality of any sort, indeed, just working

people sitting in dull rows with nothing to stare at but a few young

bouncing females in pot hats, riding astride, or desultory Colonials

charging up and down on dismal-looking hacks; with, here and there,

little girls on ponies, or old gentlemen jogging their livers, or an

orderly trying a great galumphing cavalry horse; no thoroughbreds, no

grooms, no bowing, no scraping, no gossip--nothing; only the trees the

same--the trees indifferent to the generations and declensions of

mankind. A democratic England--dishevelled, hurried, noisy, and

seemingly without an apex. And that something fastidious in the soul of

Soames turned over within him. Gone for ever, the close borough of rank

and polish! Wealth there was--oh, yes! wealth--he himself was a richer

man than his father had ever been; but manners, flavour, quality, all

gone, engulfed in one vast, ugly, shoulder-rubbing, petrol-smelling

Cheerio. Little half-beaten pockets of gentility and caste lurking here

and there, dispersed and chetif, as Annette would say; but nothing ever

again firm and coherent to look up to. And into this new hurly-burly of

bad manners and loose morals his daughter--flower of his life--was

flung! And when those Labour chaps got power--if they ever did--the

worst was yet to come!

He passed out under the archway, at last no longer--thank

goodness!--disfigured by the gun-grey of its search-light. 'They'd

better put a search-light on to where they're all going,' he thought,

'and light up their precious democracy!' And he directed his steps

along the Club fronts of Piccadilly. George Forsyte, of course, would

be sitting in the bay window of the Iseeum. The chap was so big now

that he was there nearly all his time, like some immovable, sardonic,

humorous eye noting the decline of men and things. And Soames hurried,

ever constitutionally uneasy beneath his cousin's glance. George, who,

as he had heard, had written a letter signed "Patriot" in the middle of

the War, complaining of the Government's hysteria in docking the oats

of race-horses. Yes, there he was, tall, ponderous, neat, clean-shaven,

with his smooth hair, hardly thinned, smelling, no doubt, of the best

hair-wash, and a pink paper in his hand. Well, he didn't change! And

for perhaps the first time in his life Soames felt a kind of sympathy

tapping in his waistcoat for that sardonic kinsman. With his weight,

his perfectly parted hair, and bull-like gaze, he was a guarantee that

the old order would take some shifting yet. He saw George move the pink

paper as if inviting him to ascend--the chap must want to ask something

about his property. It was still under Soames's control; for in the

adoption of a sleeping partnership at that painful period twenty years

back when he had divorced Irene, Soames had found himself almost

insensibly retaining control of all purely Forsyte affairs.

Hesitating for just a moment, he nodded and went in. Since the death of

his brother-in-law Montague Dartie, in Paris, which no one had quite

known what to make of, except that it was certainly not suicide--the

Iseeum Club had seemed more respectable to Soames. George, too, he

knew, had sown the last of his wild oats, and was committed definitely

to the joys of the table, eating only of the very best so as to keep

his weight down, and owning, as he said, "just one or two old screws to

give me an interest in life." He joined his cousin, therefore, in the

bay window without the embarrassing sense of indiscretion he had been

used to feel up there. George put out a well-kept hand.

"Haven't seen you since the War," he said. "How's your wife?"

"Thanks," said Soames coldly, "well enough."

Some hidden jest curved, for a moment, George's fleshy face, and

gloated from his eye.

"That Belgian chap, Profond," he said, "is a member here now. He's a

rum customer."

"Quite!" muttered Soames. "What did you want to see me about?"

"Old Timothy; he might go off the hooks at any moment. I suppose he's

made his Will."

"Yes."

"Well, you or somebody ought to give him a look up--last of the old

lot; he's a hundred, you know. They say he's like a mummy. Where are

you goin' to put him? He ought to have a pyramid by rights."

Soames shook his head. "Highgate, the family vault."

"Well, I suppose the old girls would miss him, if he was anywhere else.

They say he still takes an interest in food. He might last on, you

know. Don't we GET anything for the old Forsytes? Ten of them--average

age eighty-eight--I worked it out. That ought to be equal to triplets."

"Is that all?" said Soames. "I must be getting on."

'You unsociable devil,' George's eyes seemed to answer.

"Yes, that's all: Look him up in his mausoleum--the old chap might want

to prophesy." The grin died on the rich curves of his face, and he

added: "Haven't you attorneys invented a way yet of dodging this damned

income tax? It hits the fixed inherited income like the very deuce. I

used to have two thousand five hundred a year; now I've got a beggarly

fifteen hundred, and the price of living doubled."

"Ah!" murmured Soames, "the turf's in danger."

Over George's face moved a gleam of sardonic self-defence.

"Well," he said, "they brought me up to do nothing, and here I am in

the sere and yellow, getting poorer every day. These Labour chaps mean

to have the lot before they've done. What are you going to do for a

living when it comes? I shall work a six-hour day teaching politicians

how to see a joke. Take my tip, Soames; go into Parliament, make sure

of your four hundred--and employ me."

And, as Soames retired, he resumed his seat in the bay window.

Soames moved along Piccadilly deep in reflections excited by his

cousin's words. He himself had always been a worker and a saver, George

always a drone and a spender; and yet, if confiscation once began, it

was he--the worker and the saver--who would be looted! That was the

negation of all virtue, the overturning of all Forsyte principles.

Could civilisation be built on any other? He did not think so. Well,

they wouldn't confiscate his pictures, for they wouldn't know their

worth. But what would they be worth, if these maniacs once began to

milk capital? A drug on the market. 'I don't care about myself,' he

thought; 'I could live on five hundred a year, and never know the

difference, at my age.' But Fleur! This fortune, so wisely invested,

these treasures so carefully chosen and amassed, were all for her. And

if it should turn out that he couldn't give or leave them to her--well,

life had no meaning, and what was the use of going in to look at this

crazy, futuristic stuff with the view of seeing whether it had any

future?

Arriving at the Gallery off Cork Street, however, he paid his shilling,

picked up a catalogue, and entered. Some ten persons were prowling

round. Soames took steps and came on what looked to him like a

lamp-post bent by collision with a motor omnibus. It was advanced some

three paces from the wall, and was described in his catalogue as

"Jupiter." He examined it with curiosity, having recently turned some

of his attention to sculpture. 'If that's Jupiter,' he thought, 'I

wonder what Juno's like.' And suddenly he saw her, opposite. She

appeared to him like nothing so much as a pump with two handles,

lightly clad in snow. He was still gazing at her, when two of the

prowlers halted on his left. "Epatant!" he heard one say.

"Jargon!" growled Soames to himself.

The other's boyish voice replied:

"Missed it, old bean; he's pulling your leg. When Jove and Juno created

he them, he was saying: 'I'll see how much these fools will swallow.'

And they've lapped up the lot."

"You young duffer! Vospovitch is an innovator. Don't you see that he's

brought satire into sculpture? The future of plastic art, of music,

painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric. It was bound to.

People are tired--the bottom's tumbled out of sentiment."

"Well, I'm quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty. I was

through the War. You've dropped your handkerchief, sir."

Soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him. He took it with

some natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose. It had the right

scent--of distant Eau de Cologne--and his initials in a corner.

Slightly reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man's face. It had

rather fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush growing

out of it on each side, and small lively eyes, above a normally dressed

appearance.

"Thank you," he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, added: "Glad

to hear you like beauty; that's rare, nowadays."

"I dote on it," said the young man; "but you and I are the last of the

old guard, sir."

Soames smiled.

"If you really care for pictures," he said, "here's my card. I can show

you some quite good ones any Sunday, if you're down the river and care

to look in."

"Awfully nice of you, sir. I'll drop in like a bird. My name's

Mont-Michael." And he took off his hat.

Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in

response, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who had a

purple tie, dreadful little slug-like whiskers, and a scornful look--as

if he were a poet!

It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he went

and sat down in an alcove. What had possessed him to give his card to a

rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that? And Fleur,

always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filagree figure

from a clock when the hour strikes. On the screen opposite the alcove

was a large canvas with a great many square tomato-colored blobs on it,

and nothing else, so far as Soames could see from where he sat. He

looked at his catalogue: "No. 32--'The Future Town'--Paul Post." 'I

suppose that's satiric too,' he thought. 'What a thing!' But his second

impulse was more cautious. It did not do to condemn hurriedly. There

had been those stripey, streaky creations of Monet's, which had turned

out such trumps; and then the stippled school; and Gauguin. Why, even

since the Post-Impressionists there had been one or two painters not to

be sneezed at. During the thirty-eight years of his connoisseur's life,

indeed, he had marked so many "movements," seen the tides of taste and

technique so ebb and flow, that there was really no telling anything

except that there was money to be made out of every change of fashion.

This too might quite well be a case where one must subdue primordial

instinct, or lose the market. He got up and stood before the picture,

trying hard to see it with the eyes of other people. Above the tomato

blobs was what he took to be a sunset, till some one passing said:

"He's got the airplanes wonderfully, don't you think!" Below the tomato

blobs was a band of white with vertical black stripes, to which he

could assign no meaning whatever, till some one else came by,

murmuring: "What expression he gets with his foreground!" Expression?

Of what? Soames went back to his seat. The thing was "rich," as his

father would have said, and he wouldn't give a damn for it. Expression!

Ah! they were all Expressionists now, he had heard, on the Continent.

So it was coming here too, was it? He remembered the first wave of

influenza in 1887--or 8--hatched in China, so they said. He wondered

where this--this Expressionism--had been hatched. The thing was a

regular disease!

He had become conscious of a woman and a youth standing between him and

the "Future Town." Their backs were turned; but very suddenly Soames

put his catalogue before his face, and drawing his hat forward, gazed

through the slit between. No mistaking that back, elegant as ever

though the hair above had gone grey. Irene! His divorced wife--Irene!

And this, no doubt, was her son--by that fellow Jolyon Forsyte--their

boy, six months older than his own girl! And mumbling over in his mind

the bitter days of his divorce, he rose to get out of sight, but

quickly sat down again. She had turned her head to speak to her boy;

her profile was still so youthful that it made her grey hair seem

powdery, as if fancy-dressed; and her lips were smiling as Soames,

first possessor of them, had never seen them smile. Grudgingly he

admitted her still beautiful, and in figure almost as young as ever.

And how that boy smiled back at her! Emotion squeezed Soames' heart.

The sight infringed his sense of justice. He grudged her that boy's

smile--it went beyond what Fleur gave him, and it was undeserved. Their

son might have been his son; Fleur might have been her daughter, if she

had kept straight! He lowered his catalogue. If she saw him, all the

better! A reminder of her conduct in the presence of her son, who

probably knew nothing of it, would be a salutary touch from the finger

of that Nemesis which surely must soon or late visit her! Then,

half-conscious that such a thought was extravagant for a Forsyte of his

age, Soames took out his watch. Past four! Fleur was late. She had gone

to his niece Imogen Cardigan's, and there they would keep her smoking

cigarettes and gossiping, and that. He heard the boy laugh, and say

eagerly: "I say, Mum, is this one of Auntie June's lame ducks?"

"Paul Post--I believe it is, darling."

The word produced a little shock in Soames; he had never heard her use

it. And then she saw him. His eyes must have had in them something of

George Forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand crisped the folds

of her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went stony. She moved on.

"It IS a caution," said the boy, catching her arm again.

Soames stared after them. That boy was good-looking, with a Forsyte

chin, and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something sunny, like a

glass of old sherry spilled over him; his smile perhaps, his hair.

Better than they deserved--those two! They passed from his view into

the next room, and Soames continued to regard the Future Town, but saw

it not. A little smile snarled up his lips. He was despising the

vehemence of his own feelings after all these years. Ghosts! And yet as

one grew old--was there anything but what was ghost-like left? Yes,

there was Fleur! He fixed his eyes on the entrance. She was due; but

she would keep him waiting, of course! And suddenly he became aware of

a sort of human breeze--a short, slight form clad in a sea-green

djibbah with a metal belt and a fillet binding unruly red-gold hair all

streaked with grey. She was talking to the Gallery attendants, and

something familiar riveted his gaze--in her eyes, her chin, her hair,

her spirit--something which suggested a thin Skye terrier just before

its dinner. Surely June Forsyte! His cousin June--and coming straight

to his recess! She sat down beside him, deep in thought, took out a

tablet, and made a pencil note. Soames sat unmoving. A confounded thing

cousinship! "Disgusting!" he heard her murmur; then, as if resenting

the presence of an overhearing stranger, she looked at him. The worst

had happened.

"Soames!"

Soames turned his head a very little.

"How are YOU?" he said. "Haven't seen you for twenty years."

"No. Whatever made YOU come here?"

"My sins," said Soames. "What stuff!"

"Stuff? Oh, yes--of course; it hasn't ARRIVED yet."

"It never will," said Soames; "it must be making a dead loss."

"Of course it is."

"How d'you know?"

"It's my Gallery."

Soames sniffed from sheer surprise.

"Yours? What on earth makes you run a show like this?"

"_I_ don't treat Art as if it were grocery."

Soames pointed to the Future Town. "Look at that! Who's going to live

in a town like that, or with it on his walls?"

June contemplated the picture for a moment. "It's a vision," she said.

"The deuce!"

There was silence, then June rose. 'Crazy-looking creature!' he thought.

"Well," he said, "you'll find your young stepbrother here with a woman

I used to know. If you take my advice, you'll close this exhibition."

June looked back at him. "Oh! You Forsyte!" she said, and moved on.

About her light, fly-away figure, passing so suddenly away, was a look

of dangerous decisions. Forsyte! Of course, he was a Forsyte! And so

was she! But from the time when, as a mere girl, she brought Bosinney

into his life to wreck it, he had never hit it off with June--and never

would! And here she was, unmarried to this day, owning a Gallery!...

And suddenly it came to Soames how little he knew now of his own

family. The old aunts at Timothy's had been dead so many years; there

was no clearing-house for news. What had they all done in the War?

Young Roger's boy had been wounded, St. John Hayman's second son

killed; young Nicholas' eldest had got an O. B. E., or whatever they

gave them. They had all joined up somehow, he believed. That boy of

Jolyon's and Irene's, he supposed, had been too young; his own

generation, of course, too old, though Giles Hayman had driven a car

for the Red Cross--and Jesse Hayman been a special constable--those

"Dromios" had always been of a sporting type! As for himself, he had

given a motor ambulance, read the papers till he was sick of them,

passed through much anxiety, invested in War Bonds, bought no clothes,

lost seven pounds in weight; he didn't know what more he could have

done at his age. Indeed, it struck him that he and his family had taken

this war very differently to that affair with the Boers, which had been

supposed to tax all the resources of the Empire. In that old war, of

course, his nephew Val Dartie had been wounded, that fellow Jolyon's

first son had died of enteric, "the Dromios" had gone out on horses,

and June had been a nurse; but all that had seemed in the nature of a

portent, while in THIS war everybody had done "their bit," so far as he

could make out, as a matter of course. It seemed to show the growth of

something or other--or perhaps the decline of something else. Had the

Forsytes become less individual, or more Imperial, or less provincial?

Or was it simply that one hated Germans?... Why didn't Fleur come, so

that he could get away? He saw those three return together from the

other room and pass back along the far side of the screen. The boy was

standing before the Juno now. And, suddenly, on the other side of her,

Soames saw--his daughter with eyebrows raised, as well they might be.

He could see her eyes glint sideways at the boy, and the boy look back

at her. Then Irene slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him on.

Soames saw him glancing round, and Fleur looking after them as the

three went out.

A voice said cheerfully: "Bit thick, isn't it, sir?"

The young man who had handed him his handkerchief was again passing.

Soames nodded.

"I don't know what we're coming to."

"Oh! That's all right, sir," answered the young man cheerfully; "they

don't either."

Fleur's voice said, precisely as if he had been keeping her waiting:

"Hallo, Father! There you are!"

The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on.

"Well," said Soames, looking her up and down, "you're a punctual sort

of young woman!"

This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and color,

with short, dark-chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes were set in

whites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and yet in repose

were almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed lids, held over them

in a sort of suspense. She had a charming profile, and nothing of her

father in her face save a decided chin. Aware that his expression was

softening as he looked at her, Soames frowned to preserve the

unemotionalism proper to a Forsyte. He knew she was only too inclined

to take advantage of his weakness.

Slipping her hand under his arm, she said:

"Who was that?"

"He picked up my handkerchief. We talked about the pictures."

"You're not going to buy THAT, Father?"

"No," said Soames grimly; "nor that Juno you've been looking at."

Fleur dragged at his arm. "Oh! Let's go! It's a ghastly show."

In the doorway they passed the young man called Mont and his partner.

But Soames had hung out a board marked "Trespassers will be

prosecuted," and he barely acknowledged the young fellow's salute.

"Well," he said in the street, "whom did you meet at Imogen's?"

"Aunt Winifred, and that Monsieur Profond."

"Oh!" muttered Soames; "that chap! What does your aunt see in him?"

"I don't know. He looks pretty deep--mother says she likes him."

Soames grunted.

"Cousin Val and his wife were there, too."

"What!" said Soames. "I thought they were back in South Africa."

"Oh, no! They've sold their farm. Cousin Val is going to train

race-horses on the Sussex Downs. They've got a jolly old manor-house;

they asked me down there."

Soames coughed: the news was distasteful to him. "What's his wife like

now?"

"Very quiet, but nice, I think."

Soames coughed again. "He's a rackety chap, your cousin Val."

"Oh! no, Father; they're awfully devoted. I promised to go--Saturday to

Wednesday next."

"Training race-horses!" said Soames. It was bad enough, but not the

reason for his distaste. Why the deuce couldn't his nephew have stayed

out in South Africa? His own divorce had been bad enough, without his

nephew's marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; a half-sister

too of June, and of that boy whom Fleur had just been looking at from

under the pump-handle. If he didn't look out, Fleur would come to know

all about that old disgrace! Unpleasant things! They were round him

this afternoon like a swarm of bees!

"I don't like it!" he said.

"I want to see the race-horses," murmured Fleur; "and they've promised

I shall ride. Cousin Val can't walk much, you know; but he can ride

perfectly. He's going to show me their gallops."

"Racing!" said Soames. "It's a pity the War didn't knock that on the

head. He's taking after his father, I'm afraid."

"I don't know anything about his father."

"No," said Soames grimly. "He took an interest in horses and broke his

neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for your aunt." He

frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he had

attended in Paris six years ago, because Montague Dartie could not

attend it himself--perfectly normal stairs in a house where they played

baccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them had

gone to his brother-in-law's head. The French procedure had been very

loose; he had had a lot of trouble with it.

A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. "Look! The people who were

in the Gallery with us."

"What people?" muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well.

"I think that woman's beautiful."

"Come into this pastry-cook's," said Soames abruptly, and tightening

his grip on her arm, he turned into a confectioner's. It was--for

him--a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: "What will

you have?"

"Oh! I don't want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch."

"We MUST have something now we're here," muttered Soames, keeping hold

of her arm.

"Two teas," he said; "and two of those nougat things."

But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Those

three--those three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to her

boy, and his answer:

"Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt." And the three sat

down.

At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts and

shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had ever

loved--his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor--Soames was

not so much afraid of THEM as of his cousin June. She might make a

scene--she might introduce those two children--she was capable of

anything. He bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate.

Working at it with his finger, he glanced at Fleur. She was masticating

dreamily, but her eyes were on the boy. The Forsyte in him said:

"Think, feel, and you're done for!" And he wiggled his finger

desperately. Plate! Did Jolyon wear a plate? Did that woman wear a

plate? Time had been when he had seen her wearing nothing! That was

something, anyway, which had never been stolen from him. And she knew

it, though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she had

never been his wife. An acid humor stirred in his Forsyte blood; a

subtle pain divided by hair's-breadth from pleasure. If only June did

not suddenly bring her hornets about his ears! The boy was talking.

"Of course, Auntie June,"--so he called his half-sister "Auntie," did

he?--well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!--"it's jolly good of

you to encourage them. Only--hang it all!" Soames stole a glance.

Irene's startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy. She--she had

these devotions--for Bosinney--for that boy's father--for this boy! He

touched Fleur's arm, and said:

"Well, have you had enough?"

"One more, Father, please."

She would be sick! He went to the counter to pay. When he turned round

again he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a handkerchief which

the boy had evidently just handed to her.

"F.F.," he heard her say. "Fleur Forsyte--it's mine all right. Thank

you ever so."

Good God! She had caught the trick from what he'd told her in the

Gallery--monkey!

"Forsyte? Why--that's my name too. Perhaps we're cousins."

"Really! We must be. There aren't any others. I live at Mapledurham;

where do you?"

"Robin Hill."

Question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he could

lift a finger. He saw Irene's face alive with startled feeling, gave

the slightest shake of his head, and slipped his arm through Fleur's.

"Come along!" he said.

She did not move.

"Didn't you hear, Father? Isn't it queer--our name's the same. Are we

cousins?"

"What's that?" he said. "Forsyte? Distant, perhaps."

"My name's Jolyon, sir. Jon, for short."

"Oh! Ah!" said Soames. "Yes. Distant. How are you? Very good of you.

Good-bye!"

He moved on.

"Thanks awfully," Fleur was saying. "Au revoir!"

"Au revoir!" he heard the boy reply.

II

FINE FLEUR FORSYTE

Emerging from the "pastry-cook's," Soames' first impulse was to vent

his nerves by saying to his daughter: "Dropping your handkerchief!" to

which her reply might well be: "I picked that up from you!" His second

impulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie. But she would surely

question him. He gave her a sidelong look, and found she was giving him

the same. She said softly:

"Why don't you like those cousins, Father?"

Soames lifted the corner of his lip.

"What made you think that?"

"Cela se voit."

'That sees itself!' What a way of putting it!

After twenty years of a French wife Soames had still little sympathy

with her language; a theatrical affair and connected in his mind with

all the refinements of domestic irony.

"How?" he asked.

"You MUST know them; and you didn't make a sign. I saw them looking at

you."

"I've never seen the boy in my life," replied Soames with perfect truth.

"No; but you've seen the others, dear."

Soames gave her another look. What had she picked up? Had her Aunt

Winifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking? Every

breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, and

Winifred warned many times that he wouldn't have a whisper of it reach

her for the world. So far as she ought to know, he had never been

married before. But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearness

often almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence.

"Well," he said, "your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel. The

two families don't know each other."

"How romantic!"

'Now, what does she mean by that?' he thought. The word was to him

extravagant and dangerous--it was as if she had said: "How jolly!"

"And they'll continue not to know each other," he added, but instantly

regretted the challenge in those words. Fleur was smiling. In this age,

when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and paying

no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the very

thing to excite her wilfulness. Then, recollecting the expression on

Irene's face, he breathed again.

"What sort of a quarrel?" he heard Fleur say.

"About a house. It's ancient history for you. Your grandfather died the

day you were born. He was ninety."

"Ninety? Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?"

"I don't know," said Soames. "They're all dispersed now. The old ones

are dead, except Timothy."

Fleur clasped her hands.

"Timothy? Isn't that delicious?"

"Not at all," said Soames. It offended him that she should think

"Timothy" delicious--a kind of insult to his breed. This new generation

mocked at anything solid and tenacious. "You go and see the old boy. He

might want to prophesy." Ah! If Timothy could see the disquiet England

of his greatnephews and greatnieces, he would certainly give tongue.

And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes--George was still in

the window, with the same pink paper in his hand.

"Where is Robin Hill, Father?"

Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! What

did she want to know for?

"In Surrey," he muttered; "not far from Richmond, Why?"

"Is the house there?"

"What house?"

"That they quarrelled about."

"Yes. But what's all that to do with you? We're going home

to-morrow--you'd better be thinking about your frocks."

"Bless you! They're all thought about. A family feud? It's like the

Bible, or Mark Twain--awfully exciting. What did YOU do in the feud,

Father?"

"Never you mind."

"Oh! But if I'm to keep it up?"

"Who said you were to keep it up?"

"You, darling."

"I? I said it had nothing to do with you."

"Just what _I_ think, you know; so that's all right."

She was too sharp for him; FINE, as Annette sometimes called her.

Nothing for it but to distract her attention.

"There's a bit of rosaline point in here," he said, stopping before a

shop, "that I thought you might like."

When he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, Fleur said:

"Don't you think that boy's mother is the most beautiful woman of her

age you've ever seen?"

Soames shivered. Uncanny, the way she stuck to it!

"I don't know that I noticed her."

"Dear, I saw the corner of your eye."

"You see everything--and a great deal more, it seems to me!"

"What's her husband like? He must be your first cousin, if your fathers

were brothers."

"Dead, for all I know," said Soames, with sudden vehemence. "I haven't

seen him for twenty years."

"What was he?"

"A painter."

"That's quite jolly."

The words: "If you want to please me you'll put those people out of

your head," sprang to Soames's lips, but he choked them back--he must

NOT let her see his feelings.

"He once insulted me," he said.

Her quick eyes rested on his face.

"I see! You didn't avenge it, and it rankles. Poor Father! You let me

have a go!"

It was really like lying in the dark with a mosquito hovering above his

face. Such pertinacity in Fleur was new to him, and, as they reached

the hotel, he said grimly:

"I did my best. And that's enough about these people. I'm going up till

dinner."

"I shall sit here."

With a parting look at her extended in a chair--a look half-resentful,

half-adoring--Soames moved into the lift and was transported to their

suite on the fourth floor. He stood by the window of the sitting-room

which gave view over Hyde Park, and drummed a finger on its pane. His

feelings were confused, tetchy, troubled. The throb of that old wound,

scarred over by Time and new interests, was mingled with displeasure

and anxiety, and a slight pain in his chest where that nougat stuff had

disagreed. Had Annette come in? Not that she was any good to him in

such a difficulty. Whenever she had questioned him about his first

marriage, he had always shut her up; she knew nothing of it, save that

it had been the great passion of his life, and his marriage with

herself but domestic makeshift. She had always kept the grudge of that

up her sleeve, as it were, and used it commercially. He listened. A

sound--the vague murmur of a woman's movements--was coming through the

door. She was in. He tapped.

"Who?"

"I," said Soames.

She had been changing her frock, and was still imperfectly clothed; a

striking figure before her glass. There was a certain magnificence

about her arms, shoulders, hair, which had darkened since he first knew

her, about the turn of her neck, the silkiness of her garments, her

dark-lashed, grey-blue eyes--she was certainly as handsome at forty as

she had ever been. A fine possession, an excellent housekeeper, a

sensible and affectionate enough mother. If only she weren't always so

frankly cynical about the relations between them! Soames, who had no

more real affection for her than she had for him, suffered from a kind

of English grievance, in that she had never dropped even the thinnest

veil of sentiment over their partnership. Like most of his countrymen

and women, he held the view that marriage should be based on mutual

love, but that when from a marriage love had disappeared, or been found

never to have really existed--so that it was manifestly not based on

love--you must not admit it. There it was, and the love was not--but

there you were, and must continue to be! Thus you had it both ways, and

were not tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality, like the

French. Moreover, it was necessary in the interests of propriety. He

knew that she knew that they both knew there was no love between them,

but he still expected her not to admit in words or conduct such a

thing, and he could never understand what she meant when she talked of

the hypocrisy of the English. He said:

"Whom have you got at 'The Shelter' next week?"

Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve--he always

wished she wouldn't do that.

"Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans"--she took up a tiny stick

of black--"and Prosper Profond."

"That Belgian chap? Why him?"

Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said:

"He amuses Winifred."

"I want some one to amuse Fleur; she's restive."

"R-restive?" repeated Annette. "Is it the first time you see that, my

friend? She was born r-restive, as you call it."

Would she never get that affected roll out of her r's?

He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked:

"What have you been doing?"

Annette looked at him, reflected in her glass. Her just-brightened lips

smiled, rather full, rather ironical.

"Enjoying myself," she said.

"Oh!" answered Soames glumly. "Ribbandry, I suppose."

It was his word for all that incomprehensible running in and out of

shops that women went in for. "Has Fleur got her summer dresses?"

"You don't ask if I have mine."

"You don't care whether I do or not."

"Quite right. Well, she has; and I have mine--terribly expensive."

"H'm!" said Soames. "What does that chap Profond do in England?"

Annette raised the eyebrows she had just finished.

"He yachts."

"Ah!" said Soames; "he's a sleepy chap."

"Sometimes," answered Annette, and her face had a sort of quiet

enjoyment. "But sometimes very amusing."

"He's got a touch of the tar-brush about him."

Annette stretched herself.

"Tar-brush?" she said; "what is that? His mother was Armenienne."

"That's it, then," muttered Soames. "Does he know anything about

pictures?"

"He knows about everything--a man of the world."

"Well, get some one for Fleur. I want to distract her. She's going off

on Saturday to Val Dartie and his wife; I don't like it."

"Why not?"

Since the reason could not be explained without going into family

history, Soames merely answered:

"Racketing about. There's too much of it."

"I like that little Mrs. Val; she is very quiet and clever."

"I know nothing of her except--This thing's new." And Soames took up a

creation from the bed.

Annette received it from him.

"Would you hook me?" she said.

Soames hooked. Glancing once over her shoulder into the glass, he saw

the expression on her face, faintly amused, faintly contemptuous, as

much as to say: 'Thanks! You will never learn!' No, thank God, he

wasn't a Frenchman! He finished with a jerk, and the words:

"It's too low here." And he went to the door, with the wish to get away

from her and go down to Fleur again.

Annette stayed a powder-puff, and said with startling suddenness:

"Que tu es grossier!"

He knew the expression--he had reason to. The first time she had used

it he had thought it meant "What a grocer you are!" and had not known

whether to be relieved or not when better informed. He resented the

word--he was NOT coarse! If he was coarse, what was that chap in the

room beyond his, who made those horrible noises in the morning when he

cleared his throat, or those people in the Lounge who thought it

well-bred to say nothing but what the whole world could hear at the top

of their voices--quacking inanity! Coarse, because he had said her

dress was low! Well, so it was! He went out without reply.

Coming into the Lounge from the far end, he at once saw Fleur where he

had left her. She sat with crossed knees, slowly balancing a foot in

silk stocking and grey shoe, sure sign that she was dreaming. Her eyes

showed it too--they went off like that sometimes. And then, in a

moment, she would come to life, and be as quick and restless as a

monkey. And she knew so much, so self-assured, and not yet nineteen.

What was that odious word? Flapper! Dreadful young creatures--squealing

and squawking and showing their legs! The worst of them bad dreams, the

best of them powdered angels! Fleur was NOT a flapper, NOT one of those

slangy, ill-bred young females. And yet she was frighteningly

self-willed, and full of life, and determined to enjoy it. Enjoy! The

word brought no puritan terror to Soames; but it brought the terror

suited to his temperament. He had always been afraid to enjoy to-day

for fear he might not enjoy to-morrow so much. And it was terrifying to

feel that his daughter was divested of that safeguard. The very way she

sat in that chair showed it--lost in her dream. He had never been lost

in a dream himself--there was nothing to be had out of it; and where

she got it from he did not know! Certainly not from Annette! And yet

Annette, as a young girl, when he was hanging about her, had once had a

flowery look. Well, she had lost it now!

Fleur rose from her chair--swiftly, restlessly, and flung herself down

at a writing-table. Seizing ink and writing-paper, she began to write

as if she had not time to breathe before she got her letter written.

And suddenly she saw him. The air of desperate absorption vanished, she

smiled, waved a kiss, made a pretty face as if she were a little

puzzled and a little bored.

Ah! She was "fine"--"fine!"

III

AT ROBIN HILL

Jolyon Forsyte had spent his boy's nineteenth birthday at Robin Hill,

quietly going into his affairs. He did everything quietly now, because

his heart was in a poor way, and, like all his family, he disliked the

idea of dying. He had never realised how much till one day, two years

ago, he had gone to his doctor about certain symptoms, and been told:

"At any moment, on any overstrain."

He had taken it with a smile--the natural Forsyte reaction against an

unpleasant truth. But with an increase of symptoms in the train on the

way home, he had realised to the full the sentence hanging over him. To

leave Irene, his boy, his home, his work--though he did little enough

work now! To leave them for unknown darkness, for the unimaginable

state, for such nothingness that he would not even be conscious of wind

stirring leaves above his grave, nor of the scent of earth and grass.

Of such nothingness that, however hard he might try to conceive it, he

never could, and must still hover on the hope that he might see again

those he loved! To realise this was to endure very poignant spiritual

anguish. Before he reached home that day, he had determined to keep it

from Irene. He would have to be more careful than man had ever been,

for the least thing would give it away and make her as wretched as

himself, almost. His doctor had passed him sound in other respects, and

seventy was nothing of an age--he would last a long time yet, IF HE

COULD!

Such a conclusion, followed out for nearly two years, develops to the

full the subtler side of character. Naturally not abrupt, except when

nervously excited, Jolyon had become control incarnate. The sad

patience of old people who cannot exert themselves was masked by a

smile which his lips preserved even in private. He devised continually

all manner of cover to conceal his enforced lack of exertion. Mocking

himself for so doing, he counterfeited conversion to the Simple Life;

gave up wine and cigars, drank a special kind of coffee with no coffee

in it. In short, he made himself as safe as a Forsyte in his condition

could, under the rose of his mild irony. Secure from discovery, since

his wife and son had gone up to Town, he had spent the fine May day

quietly arranging his papers, that he might die to-morrow without

inconveniencing any one, giving in fact a final polish to his

terrestrial state. Having docketed and enclosed it in his father's old

Chinese cabinet, he put the key into an envelope, wrote the words

outside: "Key of the Chinese cabinet, wherein will be found the exact

state of me. J.F.," and put it in his breast-pocket, where it would be,

always about him, in case of accident. Then, ringing for tea, he went

out to have it under the old oak-tree.

All are under sentence of death; Jolyon, whose sentence was but a

little more precise and pressing, had become so used to it, that he

thought habitually, like other people, of other things. He thought of

his son now.

Jon was nineteen that day, and Jon had come of late to a decision.

Educated neither at Eton like his father, nor at Harrow, like his dead

half-brother, but at one of those establishments which, designed to

avoid the evil and contain the good of the Public School system, may or

may not contain the evil and avoid the good, Jon had left in April

perfectly ignorant of what he wanted to become. The War, which had

promised to go on for ever, had ended just as he was about to join the

army, six months before his time. It had taken him ever since to get

used to the idea that he could now choose for himself. He had held with

his father several discussions, from which, under a cheery show of

being ready for anything--except, of course, the Church, Army, Law,

Stage, Stock Exchange, Medicine, Business, and Engineering--Jolyon had

gathered rather clearly that Jon wanted to go in for nothing. He

himself had felt exactly like that at the same age. With him that

pleasant vacuity had soon been ended by an early marriage, and its

unhappy consequences. Forced to become an underwriter at Lloyd's he had

regained prosperity before his artistic talent had outcropped. But

having--as the simple say--"learned" his boy to draw pigs and other

animals, he knew that Jon would never be a painter, and inclined to the

conclusion that his aversion from everything else meant that he was

going to be a writer. Holding, however, the view that experience was

necessary even for that profession, there seemed to Jolyon nothing in

the meantime, for Jon, but University, travel, and perhaps the eating

of dinners for the Bar. After that one would see, or more probably one

would not. In face of these proffered allurements, however, Jon had

remained undecided.

Such discussions with his son had confirmed in Jolyon a doubt whether

the world had really changed. People said that it was a new age. With

the profundity of one not too long for any age, Jolyon perceived that

under slightly different surfaces, the era was precisely what it had

been. Mankind was still divided into two species: The few who had

"speculation" in their souls, and the many who had none, with a belt of

hybrids like himself in the middle. Jon appeared to have speculation;

it seemed to his father a bad lookout.

With something deeper, therefore, than his usual smile, he had heard

the boy say, a fortnight ago: "I should like to try farming, Dad; if it

won't cost you too much. It seems to be about the only sort of life

that doesn't hurt anybody; except art, and of course that's out of the

question for me."

Jolyon subdued his smile, and answered:

"All right; you shall skip back to where we were under the first Jolyon

in 1760. It'll prove the cycle theory, and incidentally, no doubt, you

may grow a better turnip than he did."

A little dashed, Jon had answered:

"But don't you think it's a good scheme, Dad?"

"Twill serve, my dear; and if you should really take to it, you'll do

more good than most men, which is little enough."

To himself, however, he had said: "But he won't take to it. I give him

four years. Still, it's healthy, and harmless."

After turning the matter over and consulting with Irene, he wrote to

his daughter Mrs. Val Dortie, asking if they knew of a farmer near them

on the Downs who would take Jon as an apprentice. Holly's answer had

been enthusiastic. There was an excellent man quite close; she and Val

would love Jon to live with them.

The boy was due to go to-morrow.

Sipping weak tea with lemon in it, Jolyon gazed through the leaves of

the old oak-tree at that view which had appeared to him desirable for

thirty-two years. The tree beneath which he sat seemed not a day older!

So young, the little leaves of brownish gold; so old, the

whitey-grey-green of its thick rough trunk, A tree of memories, which

would live on hundreds of years yet, unless some barbarian cut it

down--would see old England out at the pace things were going! He

remembered a night three years before, when, looking from his window,

with his arm close round Irene, he had watched a German aeroplane

hovering, it seemed, right over the old tree. Next day they had found a

bomb hole in a field on Gage's farm. That was before he knew that he

was under sentence of death. He could almost have wished the bomb had

finished him. It would have saved a lot of hanging about, many hours of

cold fear in the pit of his stomach. He had counted on living to the

normal Forsyte age of eighty-five or more, when Irene would be seventy.

As it was, she would miss him. Still there was Jon, more important in

her life than himself; Jon, who adored his mother.

Under that tree, where old Jolyon--waiting for Irene to come to him

across the lawn--had breathed his last, Jolyon wondered, whimsically,

whether, having put everything in such perfect order, he had not better

close his own eyes and drift away. There was something undignified in

parasitically clinging on to the effortless close of a life wherein he

regretted two things only--the long division between his father and

himself when he was young, and the lateness of his union with Irene.

From where he sat he could see a cluster of apple-trees in blossom.

Nothing in Nature moved him so much as fruit-trees in blossom; and his

heart ached suddenly because he might never see them flower again.

Spring! Decidedly no man ought to have to die while his heart was still

young enough to love beauty! Blackbirds sang recklessly in the

shrubbery, swallows were flying high, the leaves above him glistened;

and over the fields was every imaginable tint of early foliage,

burnished by the level sunlight, away to where the distant 'smoke-bush'

blue was trailed along the horizon. Irene's flowers in their narrow

beds had startling individuality that evening, little deep assertions

of gay life. Only Chinese and Japanese painters, and perhaps Leonardo,

had known how to get that startling little ego into each painted

flower, and bird, and beast--the ego, yet the sense of species, the

universality of life as well. They were the fellows! 'I've made nothing

that will live!' thought Jolyon; 'I've been an amateur--a mere lover,

not a creator. Still, I shall leave Jon behind me when I go.' What luck

that the boy had not been caught by that ghastly war! He might so

easily have been killed, like poor Jolly twenty years ago out in the

Transvaal. Jon would do something some day--if the Age didn't spoil

him--an imaginative chap! His whim to take up farming was but a bit of

sentiment, and about as likely to last. And just then he saw them

coming up the field: Irene and the boy, walking from the station, with

their arms linked. And, getting up, he strolled down through the new

rose garden to meet them....

Irene came into his room that night and sat down by the window. She sat

there without speaking till he said:

"What is it, my love?"

"We had an encounter to-day."

"With whom?"

"Soames."

Soames! He had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two years;

conscious that it was bad for him. And, now, his heart moved in a

disconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his chest.

Irene went on quietly:

"He and his daughter were in the Gallery, and afterwards at the

confectioner's where we had tea."

Jolyon went over and put his hand on her shoulder.

"How did he look?"

"Grey; but otherwise much the same."

"And the daughter?"

"Pretty. At least, Jon thought so."

Jolyon's heart side-slipped again. His wife's face had a strained and

puzzled look.

"You didn't--?" he began.

"No; but Jon knows their name. The girl dropped her handkerchief and he

picked it up."

Jolyon sat down on his bed. An evil chance!

"June was with you. Did she put her foot into it?"

"No; but it was all very queer and strained, and Jon could see it was."

Jolyon drew a long breath, and said:

"I've often wondered whether we've been right to keep it from him.

He'll find out some day."

"The later the better, Jolyon; the young have such cheap, hard

judgment. When you were nineteen what would you have thought of YOUR

mother if she had done what I have?" Yes! There it was! Jon worshipped

his mother; and knew nothing of the tragedies, the inexorable

necessities of life, nothing of the prisoned grief in an unhappy

marriage, nothing of jealousy, or passion--knew nothing at all, as yet!

"What have you told him?" he said at last.

"That they were relations, but we didn't know them; that you had never

cared much for your family, or they for you. I expect he will be asking

YOU."

Jolyon smiled. "This promises to take the place of air-raids," he said.

"After all, one misses them."

Irene looked up at him.

"We've known it would come some day."

He answered her with sudden energy:

"I could never stand seeing Jon blame you. He shan't do that, even in

thought. He has imagination; and he'll understand if it's put to him

properly. I think I had better tell him before he gets to know

otherwise."

"Not yet, Jolyon."

That was like her--she had no foresight, and never went to meet

trouble. Still--who knew?--she might be right. It was ill going against

a mother's instinct. It might be well to let the boy go on, if

possible, till experience had given him some touchstone by which he

could judge the values of that old tragedy; till love, jealousy,

longing, had deepened his charity. All the same, one must take

precautions--every precaution possible! And, long after Irene had left

him, he lay awake turning over those precautions. He must write to

Holly, telling her that Jon knew nothing as yet of family history.

Holly was discreet, she would make sure of her husband, she would see

to it! Jon could take the letter with him when he went to-morrow.

And so the day on which he had put the polish on his material estate

died out with the chiming of the stable clock; and another began for

Jolyon in the shadow of a spiritual disorder which could not be so

rounded off and polished....

But Jon, whose room had once been his day nursery, lay awake too, the

prey of a sensation disputed by those who have never known it, "love at

first sight!" He had felt it beginning in him with the glint of those

dark eyes gazing into his athwart the Juno--a conviction that this was

his 'dream'; so that what followed had seemed to him at once natural

and miraculous. Fleur! Her name alone was almost enough for one who was

terribly susceptible to the charm of words. In a homoeopathic age, when

boys and girls were coeducated, and mixed up in early life till sex was

almost abolished, Jon was singularly old-fashioned. His modern school

took boys only, and his holidays had been spent at Robin Hill with boy

friends, or his parents alone. He had never, therefore, been inoculated

against the germs of love by small doses of the poison. And now in the

dark his temperature was mounting fast. He lay awake, featuring

Fleur--as they called it--recalling her words, especially that "Au

revoir!" so soft and sprightly.

He was still so wide-awake at dawn that he got up, slipped on tennis

shoes, trousers, and a sweater, and in silence crept down-stairs and

out through the study window. It was just light; there was a smell of

grass. 'Fleur!' he thought; 'Fleur!' It was mysteriously white

out-of-doors, with nothing awake except the birds just beginning to

chirp. 'I'll go down into the coppice,' he thought. He ran down through

the fields, reached the pond just as the sun rose, and passed into the

coppice. Bluebells carpeted the ground there; among the larch-trees

there was mystery--the air, as it were, composed of that romantic

quality. Jon sniffed its freshness, and stared at the bluebells in the

sharpening light. Fleur! It rhymed with her! And she lived at

Mapledurham--a jolly name, too, on the river somewhere. He could find

it in the atlas presently. He would write to her. But would she answer?

Oh! She must. She had said "Au revoir!" Not good-bye! What luck that

she had dropped her handkerchief. He would never have known her but for

that. And the more he thought of that handkerchief, the more amazing

his luck seemed. Fleur! It certainly rhymed with her! Rhythm thronged

his head; words jostled to be joined together; he was on the verge of a

poem.

Jon remained in this condition for more than half an hour, then

returned to the house, and getting a ladder, climbed in at his bedroom

window out of sheer exhilaration. Then, remembering that the study

window was open, he went down and shut it, first removing the ladder,

so as to obliterate all traces of his feeling. The thing was too deep

to be revealed to mortal soul--even to his mother.

IV

THE MAUSOLEUM

There are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of Time,

leaving their bodies in the limbo of London. Such was not quite the

condition of "Timothy's" on the Bayswater Road, for Timothy's soul

still had one foot in Timothy Forsyte's body, and Smither kept the

atmosphere unchanging, of camphor and port wine and house whose windows

are only opened to air it twice a day.

To Forsyte imagination that house was now a sort of Chinese pill-box, a

series of layers in the last of which was Timothy. One did not reach

him, or so it was reported by members of the family who, out of

old-time habit or absent-mindedness, would drive up once in a blue moon

and ask after their surviving uncle. Such were Francie, now quite

emancipated from God (she frankly avowed atheism), Euphemia,

emancipated from old Nicholas, and Winifred Dartie from her "man of the

world." But, after all, everybody was emancipated now, or said they

were--perhaps not quite the same thing!

When Soames, therefore, took it on his way to Paddington station on the

morning after that encounter, it was hardly with the expectation of

seeing Timothy in the flesh. His heart made a faint demonstration

within him while he stood in full south sunlight on the newly whitened

doorstep of that little house where four Forsytes had once lived, and

now but one dwelt on like a winter fly; the house into which Soames had

come and out of which he had gone times without number, divested of, or

burdened with, fardels of family gossip; the house of the "old people"

of another century, another age.

The sight of Smither--still corseted up to the armpits because the new

fashion which came in as they were going out about 1903 had never been

considered "nice" by Aunts Juley and Hester--brought a pale

friendliness to Soames's lips; Smither, still faithfully arranged to

old pattern in every detail, an invaluable servant--none such

left--smiling back at him, with the words: "Why! it's Mr. Soames, after

all this time! And how are YOU, sir? Mr. Timothy will be so pleased to

know you've been."

"How is he?"

"Oh! he keeps fairly bobbish for his age, sir; but of course he's a

wonderful man. As I said to Mrs. Dartie when she was here last: It

WOULD please Miss Forsyte and Mrs. Juley and Miss Hester to see how he

relishes a baked apple still. But he's quite deaf. And a mercy, I

always think. For what we should have done with him in the air-raids, I

don't know."

"Ah!" said Soames. "What DID you do with him?"

"We just left him in his bed, and had the bell run down into the

cellar, so that Cook and I could hear him if he rang. It would never

have done to let him know there was a war on. As I said to Cook, 'If

Mr. Timothy rings, they may do what they like--I'm going up. My dear

mistresses would have a fit if they could see him ringing and nobody

going to him.' But he slept through them all beautiful. And the one in

the daytime he was having his bath. It WAS a mercy, because he might

have noticed the people in the street all looking up--he often looks

out of the window."

"Quite!" murmured Soames. Smither was getting garrulous! "I just want

to look round and see if there's anything to be done."

"Yes, sir. I don't think there's anything except a smell of mice in the

dining-room that we don't know how to get rid of. It's funny they

should be there, and not a crumb, since Mr. Timothy took to not coming

down, just before the war. But they're nasty little things; you never

know where they'll take you next."

"Does he leave his bed?"

"Oh! yes, sir; he takes nice exercise between his bed and the window in

the morning, not to risk a change of air. And he's quite comfortable in

himself; has his Will out every day regular. It's a great consolation

to him--that."

"Well, Smither, I want to see him, if I can; in case he has anything to

say to me."

Smither coloured up above her corsets.

"It WILL be an occasion!" she said. "Shall I take you round the house,

sir, while I send Cook to break it to him?"

"No, you go to him," said Soames. "I can go round the house by myself."

One could not confess to sentiment before another, and Soames felt that

he was going to be sentimental nosing round those rooms so saturated

with the past. When Smither, creaking with excitement, had left him,

Soames entered the dining-room and sniffed. In his opinion it wasn't

mice, but incipient wood-rot, and he examined the panelling. Whether it

was worth a coat of paint, at Timothy's age, he was not sure. The room

had always been the most modern in the house; and only a faint smile

curled Soames's lips and nostrils. Walls of a rich green surmounted the

oak dado; a heavy metal chandelier hung by a chain from a ceiling

divided by imitation beams. The pictures had been bought by Timothy, a

bargain, one day at Jobson's sixty years ago--three Snyder "still

lifes," two faintly coloured drawings of a boy and a girl, rather

charming, which bore the initials "J.R."--Timothy had always believed

they might turn out to be Joshua Reynolds, but Soames, who admired

them, had discovered that they were only John Robinson; and a doubtful

Morland of a white pony being shod. Deep-red plush curtains, ten

high-backed dark mahogany chairs with deep-red plush seats, a Turkey

carpet, and a mahogany dining-table as large as the room was small,

such was an apartment which Soames could remember unchanged in soul or

body since he was four years old. He looked especially at the two

drawings, and thought: 'I shall buy those at the sale.'

From the dining-room he passed into Timothy's study. He did not

remember ever having been in that room. It was lined from floor to

ceiling with volumes, and he looked at them with curiosity. One wall

seemed devoted to educational books, which Timothy's firm had published

two generations back--sometimes as many as twenty copies of one book.

Soames read their titles and shuddered. The middle wall had precisely

the same books as used to be in the library at his own father's in Park

Lane, from which he deduced the fancy that James and his youngest

brother had gone out together one day and bought a brace of small

libraries. The third wall he approached with more excitement. Here,

surely, Timothy's own taste would be found. It was. The books were

dummies. The fourth wall was all heavily curtained window. And turned

towards it was a large chair with a mahogany reading-stand attached, on

which a yellowish and folded copy of The Times, dated July 6, 1914, the

day Timothy first failed to come down, as if in preparation for the

war, seemed waiting for him still. In a corner stood a large globe of

that world never visited by Timothy, deeply convinced of the unreality

of everything but England, and permanently upset by the sea, on which

he had been very sick one Sunday afternoon in 1836, out of a pleasure

boat off the pier at Brighton, with Juley and Hester, Swithin and Hatty

Chessman; all due to Swithin, who was always taking things into his

head, and who, thank goodness, had been sick too. Soames knew all about

it, having heard the tale fifty times at least from one or other of

them. He went up to the globe, and gave it a spin; it emitted a faint

creak and moved about an inch, bringing into his purview a

daddy-long-legs which had died on it in latitude 44.

'Mausoleum!' he thought. 'George was right!' And he went out and up the

stairs. On the half landing he stopped before the case of stuffed

humming-birds which had delighted his childhood. They looked not a day

older, suspended on wires above pampas-grass. If the case were opened

the birds would not begin to hum, but the whole thing would crumble, he

suspected. It wouldn't be worth putting that into the sale! And

suddenly he was caught by a memory of Aunt Ann--dear old Aunt

Ann--holding him by the hand in front of that case and saying: "Look,

Soamey! Aren't they bright and pretty, dear little humming-birds!"

Soames remembered his own answer: "They don't hum, Auntie." He must

have been six, in a black velveteen suit with a light-blue collar--he

remembered that suit well! Aunt Ann with her ringlets, and her spidery

kind hands, and her grave old aquiline smile--a fine old lady, Aunt

Ann! He moved on up to the drawing-room door. There on each side of it

were the groups of miniatures. Those he would certainly buy in! The

miniatures of his four aunts, one of his uncle Swithin adolescent, and

one of his uncle Nicholas as a boy. They had all been painted by a

young lady friend of the family at a time, 1830, about, when miniatures

were considered very genteel, and lasting too, painted as they were on

ivory. Many a time had he heard the tale of that young lady: "Very

talented, my dear; she had quite a weakness for Swithin, and very soon

after she went into a consumption and died: so like Keats--we often

spoke of it."

Well, there they were! Ann, Juley, Hester, Susan--quite a small child;

Swithin, with sky-blue eyes, pink cheeks, yellow curls, white

waistcoat--large as life; and Nicholas, like Cupid with an eye on

heaven. Now he came to think of it, Uncle Nick had always been rather

like that--a wonderful man to the last. Yes, she must have had talent,

and miniatures had a certain back-watered cachet of their own, little

subject to the currents of competition on aesthetic Change. Soames

opened the drawing-room door. The room was dusted, the furniture

uncovered, the curtains drawn back, precisely as if his aunts still

dwelt there patiently waiting. And a thought came to him: When Timothy

died--why not? Would it not be almost a duty to preserve this

house--like Carlyle's--and put up a tablet, and show it? "Specimen of

mid-Victorian abode--entrance, one shilling, with catalogue." After

all, it was the completest thing, and perhaps the deadest in the London

of to-day. Perfect in its special taste and culture, if, that is, he

took down and carried over to his own collection the four Barbizon

pictures he had given them. The still sky-blue walls, the green

curtains patterned with red flowers and ferns; the crewel-worked

fire-screen before the cast-iron grate; the mahogany cupboard with

glass windows, full of little knick-knacks; the beaded footstools;

Keats, Shelley, Southey, Cowper, Coleridge, Byron's "Corsair" (but

nothing else), and the Victorian poets in a bookshelf row; the

marqueterie cabinet lined with dim red plush, full of family relics;

Hester's first fan; the buckles of their mother's father's shoes; three

bottled scorpions; and one very yellow elephant's tusk, sent home from

India by Great-uncle Edgar Forsyte, who had been in jute; a yellow bit

of paper propped up, with spidery writing on it, recording God knew

what! And the pictures crowding on the walls--all water-colours save

those four Barbizons looking like the foreigners they were, and

doubtful customers at that--pictures bright and illustrative, "Telling

the Bees," "Hey for the Ferry!" and two in the style of Frith, all

thimblerig and crinolines, given them by Swithin. Oh! many, many

pictures at which Soames had gazed a thousand times in supercilious

fascination; a marvellous collection of bright, smooth gilt frames.

And the boudoir-grand piano, beautifully dusted, hermetically sealed as

ever; and Aunt Juley's album of pressed seaweed on it. And the

gilt-legged chairs, stronger than they looked. And on one side of the

fireplace the sofa of crimson silk, where Aunt Ann, and after her Aunt

Juley, had been wont to sit, facing the light and bolt upright. And on

the other side of the fire the one really easy chair, back to the

light, for Aunt Hester. Soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to see

them sitting there. Ah! and the atmosphere--even now, of too many

stuffs and washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried bee's

wings. 'No,' he thought, 'there's nothing like it left; it ought to be

preserved.' And, by George, they might laugh at it, but for a standard

of gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness of skin and eye

and nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow--to-day with its Tubes and

cars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, bare-necked girls

visible up to the knees and down to the waist if you took the trouble

(agreeable to the satyr within each Forsyte but hardly his idea of a

lady), with their feet, too, screwed round the legs of their chairs

while they ate, and their "So longs," and their "Old Beans," and their

laughter--girls who gave him the shudders whenever he thought of Fleur

in contact with them; and the hard-eyed, capable, older women who

managed life and gave him the shudders too. No! his old aunts, if they

never opened their minds, their eyes, or very much their windows, at

least had manners, and a standard, and reverence for past and future.

With rather a choky feeling he closed the door and went tiptoeing

up-stairs. He looked in at a place on the way: H'm! in perfect order of

the eighties, with a sort of yellow oilskin paper on the walls. At the

top of the stairs he hesitated between four doors. Which of them was

Timothy's? And he listened. A sound as of a child slowly dragging a

hobby-horse about, came to his ears. That must be Timothy! He tapped,

and a door was opened by Smither very red in the face.

Mr. Timothy was taking his walk, and she had not been able to get him

to attend. If Mr. Soames would come into the back room, he could see

him through the door.

Soames went into the back room and stood watching.

The last of the old Forsytes was on his feet, moving with the most

impressive slowness, and an air of perfect concentration on his own

affairs, backward and forward between the foot of his bed and the

window, a distance of some twelve feet. The lower part of his square

face, no longer clean-shaven, was covered with snowy beard clipped as

short as it could be, and his chin looked as broad as his brow where

the hair was also quite white, while nose and cheeks and brow were a

good yellow. One hand held a stout stick, and the other grasped the

skirt of his Jaeger dressing-gown, from under which could be seen his

bed-socked ankles and feet thrust into Jaeger slippers. The expression

on his face was that of a crossed child, intent on something that he

has not got. Each time he turned he stumped the stick, and then dragged

it, as if to show that he could do without it.

"He still looks strong," said Soames under his breath.

"Oh! yes, sir. You should see him take his bath--it's wonderful; he

does enjoy it so."

Those quite loud words gave Soames an insight. Timothy had resumed his

babyhood.

"Does he take any interest in things generally?" he said, also aloud.

"Oh! yes, sir; his food and his Will. It's quite a sight to see him

turn it over and over, not to read it, of course; and every now and

then he asks the price of Consols, and I write it on a slate for

him--very large. Of course, I always write the same, what they were

when he last took notice, in 1914. We got the doctor to forbid him to

read the paper when the war broke out. Oh! he did take on about that at

first. But he soon came round, because he knew it tired him; and he's a

wonder to conserve energy as he used to call it when my dear mistresses

were alive, bless their hearts! How he did go on at them about that;

they were always so active, if you remember, Mr. Soames."

"What would happen if I were to go in?" asked Soames. "Would he

remember me? I made his Will, you know, after Miss Hester died in 1907."

"Oh! that, sir," replied Smither doubtfully, "I couldn't take on me to

say. I think he might; he really is a wonderful man for his age."

Soames moved into the doorway, and, waiting for Timothy to turn, said

in a loud voice: "Uncle Timothy!"

Timothy trailed back half-way, and halted.

"Eh?" he said.

"Soames," cried Soames at the top of his voice, holding out his hand,

"Soames Forsyte!"

"No!" said Timothy, and stumping his stick loudly on the floor, he

continued his walk.

"It doesn't seem to work," said Soames.

"No, sir," replied Smither, rather crestfallen; "you see, he hasn't

finished his walk. It always was one thing at a time with him. I expect

he'll ask me this afternoon if you came about the gas, and a pretty job

I shall have to make him understand."

"Do you think he ought to have a man about him?"

Smither held up her hands. "A man! Oh! no. Cook and me can manage

perfectly. A strange man about would send him crazy in no time. And my

mistresses wouldn't like the idea of a man in the house. Besides, we're

so proud of him."

"I suppose the doctor comes?"

"Every morning. He makes special terms for such a quantity, and Mr.

Timothy's so used, he doesn't take a bit of notice, except to put out

his tongue."

"Well," said Soames, turning away, "it's rather sad and painful to me."

"Oh! sir," returned Smither anxiously, "you mustn't think that. Now

that he can't worry about things, he quite enjoys his life, really he

does. As I say to Cook, Mr. Timothy is more of a man than he ever was.

You see, when he's not walkin', or takin' his bath, he's eatin', and

when he's not eatin', he's sleeping and there it is. There isn't an

ache or a care about him anywhere."

"Well," said Soames, "there's something in that. I'll go down. By the

way, let me see his Will."

"I should have to take my time about that, sir; he keeps it under his

pillow, and he'd see me, while he's active."

"I only want to know if it's the one I made," said Soames; "you take a

look at its date some time, and let me know."

"Yes, sir; but I'm sure it's the same, because me and Cook witnessed,

you remember, and there's our names on it still, and we've only done it

once."

"Quite!" said Soames. He did remember. Smither and Jane had been proper

witnesses, having been left nothing in the Will that they might have no

interest in Timothy's death. It had been--he fully admitted--an almost

improper precaution, but Timothy had wished it, and, after all, Aunt

Hester had provided for them amply.

"Very well," he said; "good-bye, Smither. Look after him, and if he

should say anything at any time, put it down, and let me know."

"Oh! yes, Mr. Soames; I'll be sure to do that. It's been such a

pleasant change to see you. Cook will be quite excited when I tell her."

Soames shook her hand and went down-stairs. He stood for fully two

minutes by the hat-stand whereon he had hung his hat so many times. 'So

it all passes,' he was thinking; 'passes and begins again. Poor old

chap!' And he listened, if perchance the sound of Timothy trailing his

hobby-horse might come down the well of the stairs; or some ghost of an

old face show over the banisters, and an old voice say: "Why, it's dear

Soames, and we were only saying that we hadn't seen him for a week!"

Nothing--nothing! Just the scent of camphor, and dust-motes in a

sunbeam through the fanlight over the door. The little old house! A

mausoleum! And, turning on his heel, he went out, and caught his train.

V

THE NATIVE HEATH

"His foot's upon his native heath,

His name's--Val Dartie."

With some such feeling did Val Dartie, in the fortieth year of his age,

set out that same Thursday morning very early from the old manor-house

he had taken on the north side of the Sussex Downs. His destination was

Newmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn of 1899, when he

stole over from Oxford for the Cambridgeshire. He paused at the door to

give his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port into his pocket.

"Don't overtire your leg, Val, and don't bet too much."

With the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes looking

into his, Val felt both leg and pocket safe. He should be moderate;

Holly was always right--she had a natural aptitude. It did not seem so

remarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to others, that--half Dartie as

he was--he should have been perfectly faithful to his young first

cousin during the twenty years since he married her romantically out in

the Boer War; and faithful without any feeling of sacrifice or

boredom--she was so quick, so slyly always a little in front of his

mood. Being first cousins they had decided, or rather Holly had, to

have no children; and, though a little sallower, she had kept her

looks, her slimness, and the colour of her dark hair. Val particularly

admired the life of her own she carried on, besides carrying on his,

and riding better every year. She kept up her music, she read an awful

lot--novels, poetry, all sorts of stuff. Out on their farm in Cape

Colony she had looked after all the "nigger" babies and women in a

miraculous manner. She was, in fact,--clever; yet made no fuss about

it, and had no "side." Though not remarkable for humility, Val had come

to have the feeling that she was his superior, and he did not grudge

it--a great tribute. It might be noted that he never looked at Holly

without her knowing of it, but that she looked at him sometimes

unawares.

He has kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so on the

platform, though she was going to the station with him, to drive the

car back. Tanned and wrinkled by Colonial weather and the wiles

inseparable from horses, and handicapped by the leg which, weakened in

the Boer War, had probably saved his life in the war just past, Val was

still much as he had been in the days of his courtship; his smile as

wide and charming, his eyelashes, if anything, thicker and darker, his

eyes screwed up under them, as bright a grey, his freckles rather

deeper, his hair a little grizzled at the sides. He gave the impression

of one who has lived actively WITH HORSES in a sunny climate.

Twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said:

"When is young Jon coming?"

"To-day."

"Is there anything you want for him? I could bring it down on Saturday."

"No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur--one forty."

Val gave the Ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new country

on bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven at every

hole.

"That's a young woman who knows her way about," he said. "I say, has it

struck you?"

"Yes," said Holly.

"Uncle Soames and your dad--bit awkward, isn't it?"

"She won't know, and he won't know, and nothing must be said, of

course. It's only for five days, Val."

"Stable secret! Righto!" If Holly thought it safe, it was. Glancing

slyly round at him, she said: "Did you notice how beautifully she asked

herself?"

"No!"

"Well, she did. What do you think of her, Val?"

"Pretty, and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got her

monkey up, I should say."

"I'm wondering," Holly murmured, "whether she is the modern young

woman. One feels at sea coming home into all this."

"You? You get the hang of things so quick."

Holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket.

"You keep one in the know," said Val, encouraged. "What do you think of

that Belgian fellow, Profond?"

"I think he's rather 'a good devil.'"

Val grinned.

"He seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family. In fact, our

family is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying a

Frenchwoman, and your dad marrying Soames's first. Our grandfathers

would have had fits!"

"So would anybody's, my dear."

"This car," said Val suddenly, "wants rousing; she doesn't get her hind

legs under her up-hill. I shall have to give her her head on the slope

if I'm to catch that train."

There was that about horses which had prevented him from ever really

sympathising with a car, and the running of the Ford under his

guidance, compared with its running under that of Holly, was always

noticeable. He caught the train.

"Take care going home; she'll throw you down if she can. Good-bye,

darling."

"Good-bye," called Holly, and kissed her hand.

In the train, after quarter of an hour's indecision between thoughts of

Holly, his morning paper, the look of the bright day, and his dim

memory of Newmarket, Val plunged into the recesses of a small square

book, all names, pedigrees, tap-roots, and notes about the make and

shape of horses. The Forsyte in him was bent on the acquisition of a

certain strain of blood, and he was subduing resolutely as yet the

Dartie hankering for a flutter. On getting back to England, after the

profitable sale of his South African farm and stud, and observing that

the sun seldom shone, Val had said to himself: "I've absolutely got to

have an interest in life, or this country will give me the blues.

Hunting's not enough, I'll breed and I'll train." With just that extra

pinch of shrewdness and decision imparted by long residence in a new

country, Val had seen the weak point of modern breeding. They were all

hypnotised by fashion and high price. He should buy for looks, and let

names go hang! And, here he was already, hypnotised by the prestige of

a certain strain of blood! Half consciously, he thought: 'There's

something in this damned climate which makes one go round in a ring.

All the same, I must have a strain of Mayfly blood.'

In this mood he reached the Mecca of his hopes. It was one of those

quiet meetings favorable to such as wish to look into horses, rather

than into the mouths of bookmakers; and Val clung to the paddock. His

twenty years of Colonial life, divesting him of the dandyism in which

he had been bred, had left him the essential neatness of the horseman,

and given him a queer and rather blighting eye over what he called "the

silly haw-haw" of some Englishmen, the 'flapping cockatoory' of some

Englishwomen--Holly had none of that and Holly was his model.

Observant, quick, resourceful, Val went straight to the heart of a

transaction, a horse, a drink; and he was on his way to the heart of a

Mayfly filly, when a slow voice said at his elbow:

"Mr. Val Dartie? How's Mrs. Val Dartie? She's well, I hope." And he saw

beside him the Belgian he had met at his sister Imogen's.

"Prosper Profond--I met you at lunch," added the voice. "How are you?"

murmured Val.

"I'm very well," replied Monsieur Profond, smiling with a certain

inimitable slowness. "A good devil" Holly had called him. Well! He

looked a little like a devil, with his dark, clipped, pointed beard; a

sleepy one though, and good-humoured, with fine eyes, unexpectedly

intelligent.

"Here's a gentleman wants to know you--cousin of yours--Mr. George

Forsyde."

Val saw a large form, and a face clean-shaven, bull-like, a little

lowering, with sardonic humour bubbling behind a full grey eye; he

remembered it dimly from old days when he used to dine with his father

at the Iseeum Club.

"I was a racing pal of your father's," George was saying. "How's the

stud? Like to buy one of my screws?"

Val grinned, to hide the sudden feeling that the bottom had fallen out

of breeding. They believed in nothing over here, not even in horses.

George Forsyte, Prosper Profond! The devil himself was not more

disillusioned than those two.

"Didn't know you were a racing man," he said to Monsieur Profond.

"I'm not. I don' care for it. I'm a yachtin' man. I don' care for

yachtin' either, but I like to see my friends. I've got some lunch, Mr.

Val Dartie, just a small lunch, if you'd like to 'ave some; not

much--just a small one--in my car."

"Thanks," said Val; "very good of you. I'll come along in about quarter

of an hour."

"Over there. Mr. Forsyde's comin'," and Monsieur Profond "poinded" with

a yellow-gloved finger; "small car, with a small lunch"; he moved on,

groomed, sleepy, and remote, George Forsyte following, neat, huge, and

with his jesting air.

Val remained gazing at the Mayfly filly. George Forsyte, of course, was

an old chap, but this Profond might be about his own age; Val felt

extremely young, as if the Mayfly filly were a toy at which those two

had laughed. The animal had lost reality.

"That 'small' mare"--he seemed to hear the voice of Monsieur

Profond--"what do you see in her--we must all die!"

And George Forsyte, crony of his father, racing still! The Mayfly

strain--was it any better than any other? He might just as well have a

flutter with his money instead.

"No, by gum!" he muttered suddenly, "if it's no good breeding horses,

it's no good doing anything. What did I come for? I'll buy her."

He stood back and watched the ebb of the paddock visitors towards the

stand. Natty old chips, shrewd portly fellows, Jews, trainers looking

as if they had never been guilty of seeing a horse in their lives;

tall, flapping, languid women, or brisk, loud-voiced women; young men

with an air as if trying to take it seriously--two or three of them

with only one arm!

'Life over here's a game!' thought Val. 'Muffin bell rings, horses run,

money changes hands; ring again, run again, money changes back.'

But, alarmed at his own philosophy, he went to the paddock gate to

watch the Mayfly filly canter down. She moved well; and he made his way

over to the "small" car. The "small" lunch was the sort a man dreams of

but seldom gets; and when it was concluded Monsieur Profond walked back

with him to the paddock.

"Your wife's a nice woman," was his surprising remark.

"Nicest woman I know," returned Val dryly.

"Yes," said Monsieur Profond; "she has a nice face. I admire nice

women."

Val looked at him suspiciously, but something kindly and direct in the

heavy diabolism of his companion disarmed him for the moment.

"Any time you like to come on my yacht, I'll give her a small cruise."

"Thanks," said Val, in arms again, "she hates the sea."

"So do I," said Monsieur Profond.

"Then why do you yacht?"

The Belgian's eyes smiled. "Oh! I don' know. I've done everything; it's

the last thing I'm doin'."

"It must be d--d expensive. I should want more reason than that."

Monsieur Prosper Profond raised his eyebrows, and puffed out a heavy

lower lip.

"I'm an easy-goin' man," he said.

"Were you in the war?" asked Val.

"Ye-es. I've done that too. I was gassed; it was a small bit

unpleasant." He smiled with a deep and sleepy air of prosperity, as if

he had caught it from his name. Whether his saying "small" when he

ought to have said "little" was genuine mistake or affectation, Val

could not decide; the fellow was evidently capable of anything. Among

the ring of buyers round the Mayfly filly who had won her race,

Monsieur Profond said: "You goin' to bid?"

Val nodded. With this sleepy Satan at his elbow, he felt in need of

faith. Though placed above the ultimate blows of Providence by the

forethought of a grandfather who had tied him up a thousand a year to

which was added the thousand a year tied up for Holly by HER

grand-father, Val was not flush of capital that he could touch, having

spent most of what he had realised from his South African farm on his

establishment in Sussex. And very soon he was thinking: 'Dash it! she's

going beyond me!' His limit--six hundred--exceeded, he dropped out of

the bidding. The Mayfly filly passed under the hammer at seven hundred

and fifty guineas. He was turning away vexed when the slow voice of

Monsieur Profond said in his ear:

"Well, I've bought that small filly, but I don't want her; you take her

and give her to your wife."

Val looked at the fellow with renewed suspicion, but the good humour in

his eyes was such that he really could not take offence.

"I made a small lot of money in the war," began Monsieur Profond in

answer to that look. "I 'ad armament shares. I like to give it away.

I'm always makin' money. I want very small lot myself. I like my

friends to 'ave it."

"I'll buy her of you at the price you gave," said Val with sudden

resolution.

"No," said Monsieur Profond. "You take her. I don' want her."

"Hang it! One doesn't--"

"Why not?" smiled Monsieur Profond. "I'm a friend of your family."

"Seven hundred and fifty guineas is not a box of cigars," said Val

impatiently.

"All right; you keep her for me till I want her, and do what you like

with her."

"So long as she's yours," said Val, "I don't mind that." "That's all

right," murmured Monsieur Profond, and moved away.

Val watched; he might be "a good devil," but then again he might not.

He saw him rejoin George Forsyte, and thereafter saw him no more.

He spent those nights after racing at his mother's house in Green

Street.

Winifred Dartie at sixty-two was marvellously preserved, considering

the three-and-thirty years during which she had put up with Montague

Dartie, till almost happily released by a French staircase. It was to

her a vehement satisfaction to have her favourite son back from South

Africa after all this time, to feel him so little changed, and to have

taken a fancy to his wife. Winifred, who in the late seventies, before

her marriage, had been in the vanguard of freedom, pleasure, and

fashion, confessed her youth outclassed by the donzellas of the day.

They seemed, for instance, to regard marriage as an incident, and

Winifred sometimes regretted that she had not done the same; a second,

third, fourth incident might have secured her a partner of less

dazzling inebriety; though, after all, he had left her Val, Imogen,

Maud, Benedict (almost a colonel and unharmed by the war)--none of whom

had been divorced as yet. The steadiness of her children often amazed

one who remembered their father; but, as she was fond of believing,

they were really all Forsytes, favouring herself, with the exception

perhaps of Imogen. Her brother's "little girl" Fleur frankly puzzled

Winifred. The child was as restless as any of these modern young

women--"She's a small flame in a draught," Prosper Profond had said one

day after dinner--but she did not flop, or talk at the top of her

voice. The steady Forsyteism in Winifred's own character instinctively

resented the feeling in the air, the modern girl's habits and her

motto: "All's much of a muchness! Spend! To-morrow we shall be poor!"

She found it a saving grace in Fleur that having set her heart on a

thing, she had no change of heart until she got it--though what

happened after, Fleur was, of course, too young to have made evident.

The child was a "very pretty little thing," too, and quite a credit to

take about, with her mother's French taste and gift for wearing

clothes; everybody turned to look at Fleur--great consideration to

Winifred, a lover of the style and distinction which had so cruelly

deceived her in the case of Montague Dartie.

In discussing her with Val, at breakfast on Saturday morning, Winifred

dwelt on the family skeleton.

"That little affair of your father-in-law and your Aunt Irene,

Val--it's old as the hills, of course, Fleur need know nothing about

it--making a fuss. Your Uncle Soames is very particular about that. So

you'll be careful."

"Yes! But it's dashed awkward--Holly's young half-brother is coming to

live with us while he learns farming. He's there already."

"Oh!" said Winifred. "That is a gaff! What is he like?"

"Only saw him once--at Robin Hill, when we were home in 1909; he was

naked and painted blue and yellow in stripes--a jolly little chap."

Winifred thought that "rather nice," and added comfortably: "Well,

Holly's sensible; she'll know how to deal with it. I shan't tell your

uncle. It'll only bother him. It's a great comfort to have you back, my

dear boy, now that I'm getting on."