Val jerked up his hand, then. At that signal of distress Winifred cried out:
“That’ll do, Soames—stop!”
In the boy, the Dartie and the Forsyte were struggling. For debts, drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy; but the pearls—no! That was too much! And suddenly he found his mother’s hand squeezing his.
“You see,” he heard Soames say, “we can’t have it all begin over again. There’s a limit; we must strike while the iron’s hot.”
Val freed his hand.
“But—you’re—never going to bring out that about the pearls! I couldn’t stand that—I simply couldn’t!”
Winifred cried out:
“No, no, Val—oh no! That’s only to show you how impossible your father is!” And his uncle nodded. Somewhat assuaged, Val took out a cigarette. His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh! it was unbearable—just as he was going up to Oxford!
“Can’t mother be protected without?” he said. “I could look after her. It could always be done later if it was really necessary.”
A smile played for a moment round Soames’s lips, and became bitter.
“You don’t know what you’re talking of; nothing’s so fatal as delay in such matters.”
“Why?”
“I tell you, boy, nothing’s so fatal. I know from experience.”
His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val regarded him round-eyed, never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling. Oh! Yes—he remembered now—there had been an Aunt Irene, and something had happened—something which people kept dark; he had heard his father once use an unmentionable word of her.
“I don’t want to speak ill of your father,” Soames went on doggedly, “but I know him well enough to be sure that he’ll be back on your mother’s hands before a year’s over. You can imagine what that will mean to her and to all of you after this. The only thing is to cut the knot for good.”
In spite of himself, Val was impressed; and, happening to look at his mother’s face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight into the fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered most.
“All right, mother,” he said; “we’ll back you up. Only I’d like to know when it’ll be. It’s my first term, you know. I don’t want to be up there when it comes off.”
“Oh! my dear boy,” murmured Winifred, “it is a bore for you.” So, by habit, she phrased what, from the expression of her face, was the most poignant regret. “When will it be, Soames?”
“Can’t tell—not for months. We must get restitution first.”
“What the deuce is that?” thought Val. “What silly brutes lawyers are! Not for months! I know one thing: I’m not going to dine in!” And he said:
“Awfully sorry, mother, I’ve got to go out to dinner now.”
Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully; they both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the expression of feeling.
Val sought the misty freedom of Green Street, reckless and depressed. And not till he reached Piccadilly did he discover that he had only eighteen-pence. One couldn’t dine off eighteen pence, and he was very hungry. He looked longingly at the windows of the Iseeum Club, where he had often eaten of the best with his father! Those pearls! There was no getting over them! But the more he brooded and the further he walked the hungrier he naturally became. Short of trailing home, there were only two places where he could go—his grandfather’s in Park Lane, and Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road. Which was the less deplorable? At his grandfather’s he would probably get a better dinner on the spur of the moment. At Timothy’s they gave you a jolly good feed when they expected you, not otherwise. He decided on Park Lane, not unmoved by the thought that to go up to Oxford without affording his grandfather a chance to tip him was hardly fair to either of them. His mother would hear he had been there, of course, and might think it funny; but he couldn’t help that. He rang the bell.
“Hullo, Warmson, any dinner for me, d’you think?”
“They’re just going in, Master Val. Mr. Forsyte will be very glad to see you. He was saying at lunch that he never saw you nowadays.”
Val grinned.
“Well, here I am. Kill the fatted calf, Warmson, let’s have fizz.”
Warmson smiled faintly—in his opinion Val was a young limb.
“I will ask Mrs. Forsyte, Master Val.”
“I say,” Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, “I’m not at school any more, you know.”
Warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond the stag’s horn coat stand, with the words:
“Mr. Valerus, ma’am.”
“Confound him!” thought Val, entering.
A warm embrace, a “Well, Val!” from Emily, and a rather quavery “So there you are at last!” from James, restored his sense of dignity.
“Why didn’t you let us know? There’s only saddle of mutton. Champagne, Warmson,” said Emily. And they went in.
At the great dining table, shortened to its utmost, under which so many fashionable legs had rested, James sat at one end, Emily at the other, Val halfway between them; and something of the loneliness of his grandparents, now that all their four children were flown, reached the boy’s spirit. “I hope I shall kick the bucket long before I’m as old as grandfather,” he thought. “Poor old chap, he’s as thin as a rail!” And lowering his voice while his grandfather and Warmson were in discussion about sugar in the soup, he said to Emily:
“It’s pretty brutal at home, Granny. I suppose you know.”
“Yes, dear boy.”
“Uncle Soames was there when I left. I say, isn’t there anything to be done to prevent a divorce? Why is he so beastly keen on it?”
“Hush, my dear!” murmured Emily; “we’re keeping it from your grandfather.”
James’s voice sounded from the other end.
“What’s that? What are you talking about?”
“About Val’s college,” returned Emily. “Young Pariser was there, James; you remember—he nearly broke the Bank at Monte Carlo afterwards.”
James muttered that he did not know—Val must look after himself up there, or he’d get into bad ways. And he looked at his grandson with gloom, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered.
“What I’m afraid of,” said Val to his plate, “is of being hard up, you know.”
By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of insecurity for his grandchildren.
“Well,” said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, “you’ll have a good allowance; but you must keep within it.”
“Of course,” murmured Val; “if it is good. How much will it be, Grandfather?”
“Three hundred and fifty; it’s too much. I had next to nothing at your age.”
Val sighed. He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. “I don’t know what your young cousin has,” said James; “he’s up there. His father’s a rich man.”
“Aren’t you?” asked Val hardily.
“I?” replied James, flustered. “I’ve got so many expenses. Your father. . . .” and he was silent.
“Cousin Jolyon’s got an awfully jolly place. I went down there with Uncle Soames—ripping stables.”
“Ah!” murmured James profoundly. “That house—I knew how it would be!” And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish bones. His son’s tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the Forsyte family, had still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of Robin Hill, because Robin Hill meant Holly, turned to Emily and said:
“Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?” And, receiving her nod, went on: “I wish you’d tell me about him, Granny. What became of Aunt Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully worked-up about something tonight.”
Emil
y laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught James’s ear.
“What’s that?” he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips. “Who’s been seeing her? I knew we hadn’t heard the last of that.”
“Now, James,” said Emily, “eat your dinner. Nobody’s been seeing anybody.”
James put down his fork.
“There you go,” he said. “I might die before you’d tell me of it. Is Soames getting a divorce?”
“Nonsense,” said Emily with incomparable aplomb; “Soames is much too sensible.”
James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers together on the skin and bone of it.
“She—she was always. . . .” he said, and with that enigmatic remark the conversation lapsed, for Warmson had returned. But later, when the saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and dessert, and Val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his grandfather’s kiss—like no other kiss in the world, from lips pushed out with a sort of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to weakness—he returned to the charge in the hall.
“Tell us about Uncle Soames, Granny. Why is he so keen on mother’s getting a divorce?”
“Your Uncle Soames,” said Emily, and her voice had in it an exaggerated assurance, “is a lawyer, my dear boy. He’s sure to know best.”
“Is he?” muttered Val. “But what did become of Aunt Irene? I remember she was jolly good-looking.”
“She—er. . . .” said Emily, “behaved very badly. We don’t talk about it.”
“Well, I don’t want everybody at Oxford to know about our affairs,” ejaculated Val; “it’s a brutal idea. Why couldn’t father be prevented without its being made public?”
Emily sighed. She had always lived rather in an atmosphere of divorce, owing to her fashionable proclivities—so many of those whose legs had been under her table having gained a certain notoriety. When, however, it touched her own family, she liked it no better than other people. But she was eminently practical, and a woman of courage, who never pursued a shadow in preference to its substance.
“Your mother,” she said, “will be happier if she’s quite free, Val. Good night, my dear boy; and don’t wear loud waistcoats up at Oxford, they’re not the thing just now. Here’s a little present.”
With another five pounds in his hand, and a little warmth in his heart, for he was fond of his grandmother, he went out into Park Lane. A wind had cleared the mist, the autumn leaves were rustling, and the stars were shining. With all that money in his pocket an impulse to see life beset him; but he had not gone forty yards in the direction of Piccadilly when Holly’s shy face, and her eyes with an imp dancing in their gravity, came up before him, and his hand seemed to be tingling again from the pressure of her warm gloved hand. “No, dash it!” he thought, “I’m going home!”
Chapter X
Soames Entertains the Future
It was full late for the river, but the weather was lovely, and summer lingered below the yellowing leaves. Soames took many looks at the day from his riverside garden near Mapledurham that Sunday morning.
With his own hands he put flowers about his little houseboat, and equipped the punt, in which, after lunch, he proposed to take them on the river. Placing those Chinese-looking cushions, he could not tell whether or no he wished to take Annette alone. She was so very pretty—could he trust himself not to say irrevocable words, passing beyond the limits of discretion? Roses on the veranda were still in bloom, and the hedges ever-green, so that there was almost nothing of middle-aged autumn to chill the mood; yet was he nervous, fidgety, strangely distrustful of his powers to steer just the right course. This visit had been planned to produce in Annette and her mother a due sense of his possessions, so that they should be ready to receive with respect any overture he might later be disposed to make. He dressed with great care, making himself neither too young nor too old, very thankful that his hair was still thick and smooth and had no grey in it. Three times he went up to his picture gallery. If they had any knowledge at all, they must see at once that his collection alone was worth at least thirty thousand pounds. He minutely inspected, too, the pretty bedroom overlooking the river where they would take off their hats. It would be her bedroom if—if the matter went through, and she became his wife. Going up to the dressing table he passed his hand over the lilac-coloured pincushion, into which were stuck all kinds of pins; a bowl of potpourri exhaled a scent that made his head turn just a little. His wife! If only the whole thing could be settled out of hand, and there was not the nightmare of this divorce to be gone through first; and with gloom puckered on his forehead, he looked out at the river shining beyond the roses and the lawn. Madame Lamotte would never resist this prospect for her child; Annette would never resist her mother. If only he were free! He drove to the station to meet them. What taste Frenchwomen had! Madame Lamotte was in black with touches of lilac colour, Annette in greyish lilac linen, with cream coloured gloves and hat. Rather pale she looked and Londony; and her blue eyes were demure. Waiting for them to come down to lunch, Soames stood in the open French window of the dining room moved by that sensuous delight in sunshine and flowers and trees which only came to the full when youth and beauty were there to share it with one. He had ordered the lunch with intense consideration; the wine was a very special Sauterne, the whole appointments of the meal perfect, the coffee served on the veranda super—excellent. Madame Lamotte accepted crème de menthe; Annette refused. Her manners were charming, with just a suspicion of the conscious beauty creeping into them. “Yes,” thought Soames, “another year of London and that sort of life, and she’ll be spoiled.”
Madame was in sedate French raptures. “Adorable! Le soleil est si bon! How everything is chic, is it not, Annette? Monsieur is a real Monte Cristo.” Annette murmured assent, with a look up at Soames which he could not read. He proposed a turn on the river. But to punt two persons when one of them looked so ravishing on those Chinese cushions was merely to suffer from a sense of lost opportunity; so they went but a short way towards Pangbourne, drifting slowly back, with every now and then an autumn leaf dropping on Annette or on her mother’s black amplitude. And Soames was not happy, worried by the thought: “How—when—where—can I say—what?” They did not yet even know that he was married. To tell them he was married might jeopardise his every chance; yet, if he did not definitely make them understand that he wished for Annette’s hand, it would be dropping into some other clutch before he was free to claim it.
At tea, which they both took with lemon, Soames spoke of the Transvaal.
“There’ll be war,” he said.
Madame Lamotte lamented.
“Ces pauvres gens bergers!” Could they not be left to themselves?
Soames smiled—the question seemed to him absurd.
Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could not abandon their legitimate commercial interests.
“Ah! that!” But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a little hypocrite. They were talking of justice and the Uitlanders, not of business. Monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of that.
“The Boers are only half-civilised,” remarked Soames; “they stand in the way of progress. It will never do to let our suzerainty go.”
“What does that mean to say? Suzerainty!”
“What a strange word!” Soames became eloquent, roused by these threats to the principle of possession, and stimulated by Annette’s eyes fixed on him. He was delighted when presently she said:
“I think monsieur is right. They should be taught a lesson.” She was sensible!
“Of course,” he said, “we must act with moderation. I’m no jingo. We must be firm without bullying. Will you come up and see my pictures?” Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that they knew nothing. They passed his last Mauve, that remarkable study of a Hay cart going Home, as if it were a l
ithograph. He waited almost with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collection—an Israels whose price he had watched ascending till he was now almost certain it had reached top value, and would be better on the market again. They did not view it at all. This was a shock; and yet to have in Annette a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly, half-baked predilections of the English middle-class to deal with. At the end of the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather ashamed—Meissonier was so steadily going down. Madame Lamotte stopped before it.
“Meissonier! Ah! What a jewel!” Soames took advantage of that moment. Very gently touching Annette’s arm, he said:
“How do you like my place, Annette?”
She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked down, and murmured:
“Who would not like it? It is so beautiful!”
“Perhaps someday—” Soames said, and stopped.
So pretty she was, so self-possessed—she frightened him. Those cornflower-blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate curves—she was a standing temptation to indiscretion! No! No! One must be sure of one’s ground—much surer! “If I hold off,” he thought, “it will tantalise her.” And he crossed over to Madame Lamotte, who was still in front of the Meissonier.
“Yes, that’s quite a good example of his later work. You must come again, madame, and see them lighted up. You must both come and spend a night.”
Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By moonlight too, the river must be ravishing!
Annette murmured:
“Thou art sentimental, Maman!”
Sentimental! That black-robed, comely, substantial Frenchwoman of the world! And suddenly he was certain as he could be that there was no sentiment in either of them. All the better. Of what use sentiment? And yet . . . !
He drove to the station with them, and saw them into the train. To the tightened pressure of his hand it seemed that Annette’s fingers responded just a little; her face smiled at him through the dark.
The Forsyte Saga Page 48