All through that two hours’ drive in a hired car Jon thought and thought. Whatever he did now, he must be disloyal to one or to the other. And with those passionate moments still rioting within him, he could get no grip on his position; and yet – he must!
He reached Wansdon at eleven, and, dismissing the car in the road, walked up to the house. Everyone had gone to bed, evidently assuming that he was staying the night at June’s for a further sitting. There was a light in his and Anne’s bedroom; and, at sight of it, the full shame of what he had done smote him. He could not bring himself to attract her attention, and he stole round the house seeking for some way of breaking in. At last he spied a spare-room window open at the top, and fetching a garden ladder, climbed it and got in. The burglarious act restored some self-possession. He went down into the hall, and out of the house, replaced the ladder, came in again and stole upstairs. But outside their door he halted. No light, now, came from under. She must be in bed. And, suddenly, he could not face going in. He would feel like Judas, kissing her. Taking off his boots and carrying them, he stole downstairs again to the dining-room. Having had nothing but a cup of tea since lunch, he got himself some biscuits and a drink. They altered his mood – no man could have resisted Fleur’s kisses in that moonlit coppice – no man! Must he, then, hurt one or the other so terribly? Why not follow Fleur’s wish? Why not secrecy? By continuing her lover in secret, he would not hurt Fleur; by not telling Anne, he would not hurt Anne! Like a leopard in a cage, he paced the room. And all that was honest in him refused, and all that was sage. As if one could remain the husband of two women, when one of them knew! As if Fleur would stand that long! And lies, subterfuge! And – Michael Mont! – a decent chap! He had done him enough harm as it was! No! A clean cut one way or the other! He stopped by the hearth, and leaned his arms on the stone mantelpiece. How still! Only that old clock which had belonged to his grandfather, ticking away time – time that cured everything, that made so little of commotions, ticking men and things to their appointed ends. Just in front of him on the mantelpiece was a photograph of his grandfather, old Jolyon, taken in his ’eighties – the last record of that old face, its broad brow, and white moustache, its sunken cheeks, deep, steady eyes, and strong jaw. Jon looked at it long! ‘Take a course and stick to it!’ the face, gazing back at him so deeply, seemed to say. He went to the bureau and sat down to write.
I am sorry I rushed away tonight, but it was better really. I had to think. I have thought. I’m only certain of one thing yet. To go on in secret is impossible. I shan’t say a word about tonight, of course, until you let me. But, Fleur, unless I can tell everything, it must end. You wouldn’t wish it otherwise, would you? Please answer to the Post Office, Nettlefold.
JON
He sealed this up, addressed it to her at Dorking, and, pulling on his boots, again stole out and posted it. When he got back he felt so tired, that, wrapped in an old coat, he fell asleep in an armchair. The moonlight played tricks through the half-drawn curtains, the old clock ticked, but Jon slept, dreamless.
He woke at daybreak, stole up to the bathroom, bathed and shaved noiselessly, and went out through a window, so as not to leave the front door unfastened. He walked up through the gap past the old chalk-pit, on to the Downs, by the path he had taken with Fleur seven years ago. Till he had heard from her he did not know what to do; and he dreaded Anne’s eyes, while his mind was still distraught. He went towards Chanctonbury Ring. There was a heavy dew, and the short turf was all spun over with it. All was infinitely beautiful, remote and stilly in the level sunlight. The beauty tore at his heart. He had come to love the Downs – they had a special loveliness, like no other part of the world that he had seen. Did this mean that he must now leave them, leave England again – leave everything, and cleave to Fleur? If she claimed him, if she decided on declaring their act of union, he supposed it did. And Jon walked in confusion of heart, such as he had not thought possible to man. From the Ring he branched away, taking care to avoid the horses at their early exercise. And this first subterfuge brought him face to face with immediate decision. What should he do till he had heard from Fleur? Her answer could not reach Nettlefold till the evening or even next morning. He decided, painfully, to go back to breakfast, and tell them he had missed his train, and entered in the night burglariously so as not to disturb them.
That day, with its anxiety and its watchfulness of self, was one of the most wretched he had ever spent; and he could not free himself from the feeling that Anne was reading his thoughts. It was as if each passed the day looking at the other unobserved – almost unbearable! In the afternoon he asked for a horse to ride over to Green Hill Farm, and said he would be back late. He rode on into Nettlefold and went to the Post office. There was a telegram: ‘Must see you. Will be at Green Hill Farm to-morrow at noon. Don’t fail me.—F.’
Jon destroyed it, and rode homewards. Wretchedness and strain for another eighteen hours! Was there anything in the world worse than indecision? He rode slowly so as to have the less time at home, dreading the night. He stopped at a wayside inn to eat, and again went by way of Green Hill Farm to save at least the letter of his tale. It was nearly ten and full moonlight before he got back.
‘It’s a wonderful night,’ he said, when he came into the drawing-room. ‘The moonlight’s simply marvellous.’ It was Holly who answered; Anne, sitting by the fire, did not even look up. ‘She knows,’ thought Jon, ‘she knows something.’ Very soon after, she said she was sleepy, and went up. Jon stayed, talking to Holly. Val had gone on from town to Newmarket, and would not be back till Friday. They sat one on each side of the wood fire. And, looking at his sister’s face, charming and pensive, Jon was tempted. She was so wise and sympathetic. It would be a relief to tell her everything. But Fleur’s command held him back – it was not his secret.
‘Well, Jon, is it all right about the farm?’
‘I’ve got some new figures; I’m going into them to-night.’
‘I do wish it were settled, and we knew you were going to be near for certain. I shall be awfully disappointed if you’re not.’
‘Yes; but I must make sure this time.’
‘Anne’s very set on it. She doesn’t say much, but she really is. It’s such a charming old place.’
‘I don’t want a better, but it must pay its way.’
‘Is that your real reason, Jon?’
‘Why not?’
‘I thought perhaps you were secretly afraid of settling again. But you’re the head of the family, Jon – you ought to settle.’
‘Head of the family!’
‘Yes, the only son of the only son of the eldest son right back to the primeval Jolyon.’
‘Nice head!’ said Jon bitterly.
‘Yes – a nice head.’ And, suddenly rising, Holly bent over and kissed the top of it.
‘Bless you! Don’t sit up too late. Anne’s rather in the dumps.’
Jon turned out the lamp and stayed huddled in his chair before the fire. Head of the family! He had done them proud! And if –! Ha! That would, indeed, be illustrious! What would the old fellow whose photograph he had been looking at last night think, if he knew? Ah, what a coil! For in his inmost heart he knew that Anne was more his mate, more her with whom he could live and work and have his being, than ever Fleur could be. Madness, momentary madness, coming on him from the past – the past, and the potency of her will to have and hold him! He got up, and drew aside the curtains. There, between two elm trees, the moon, mysterious and powerful, shone, and all was moving with its light up to the crest of the Downs. What beauty, what stillness! He threw the window up and stepped out; like some dark fluid spilled on the whitened grass, the ragged shadow of one elm tree reached almost to his feet. From their window above a light shone. He must go up and face it. He had not been alone with her since – ! If only he knew for certain what he was going to do! And he realized now that in obeying that impulse to rush away from Fleur he had been wrong; he ought to have stayed and thre
shed it out there and then. And yet, who could have behaved reasonably, sanely, feeling as he had felt? He stepped back to the window, and stopped with his heart in his mouth. There between firelight and moonlight stood Anne! Slender, in a light wrapper drawn close, she was gazing towards him. Jon closed the window and drew the curtain.
‘Sorry, darling, you’ll catch cold – the moonlight got me.’ She moved to the far side of the hearth, and stood looking at him.
‘Jon, I’m going to have a child.’
‘You – !’
‘Yes. I didn’t tell you last month because I wanted to be sure.’
‘Anne!’
She was holding up her hand.
‘Wait a minute!’
Jon gripped the back of a chair, he knew what was coming.
‘Something’s happened between you and Fleur.’
Jon held his breath, staring at her eyes; dark, unflinching, startled, they stared back at him.
‘Everything’s happened, hasn’t it?’
Jon bent his head.
‘Yesterday? Don’t explain, don’t excuse yourself or her. Only – what does it mean?’
Without raising his head, Jon answered:
‘That depends on you.’
‘On me?’
‘After what you’ve just told me. Oh! Anne, why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘Yes; I kept it too long!’
He understood what she meant – she had kept it as a weapon of defence. And, seeming to himself unforgivable, he said:
‘Forgive me, Anne – forgive me!’
‘Oh! Jon, I don’t just know.’
‘I swear that I will never see her again.’
He raised his eyes now, and saw that she had sunk on her knees by the fire, holding a hand out to it, as if cold. He dropped on his knees beside her.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘love is the cruellest thing in the world.’
‘Yes.’
She had covered her eyes with her hand; and it seemed hours that he knelt there, waiting for a movement, a sign, a word. At last she dropped her hand.
‘All right. It’s over. But don’t kiss me – yet.’
Chapter Ten
BITTER APPLE
LIFE revived in Fleur while she went about her business in the morning. Standing in sunshine before the hollyhocks and sun-flowers of the ‘Rest House’ garden, she reviewed past and future with feverish vigour. Of course Jon was upset! She had taken him by storm! He was old-fashioned, conscientious; he couldn’t take things lightly. But since already he had betrayed his conscience, he would realize what had happened outweighed what more could happen. It was the first step that counted! They had always belonged to each other. She felt no remorse; then why should he – when his confusion was over? It was for the best, perhaps, that he had run away from her till he could see the inexorability of his position. Her design was quite unshaken by the emotions she had been through. Jon was hers now, he could not betray their secret unless she gave him leave. He must and would conform to the one course possible – secrecy. Infidelity had been achieved – one act or many, what did it matter? Ah! But she would make up to him the loss of self-respect with her love, and with her wisdom. She would make him a success. In spite of that American chit, he should succeed with his farming, become important to his county, to his country, perhaps. She would be circumspection itself – for his sake, for her own, for Michael’s, Kit’s, her father’s.
With a great bunch of autumn flowers to which was clinging one bee, she went back into the house to put them in water. On the table in the hall were a number of little bags of bitter-apple prepared by her caretaker’s wife against the moth, which were all over a house that had been derelict for a year. She busied herself with stowing them in drawers. The second post brought her Jon’s letter.
She read it, and spots of burning colour became fixed in her cheeks. He had written this before he slept – it was all part of his confusion! But she must see him at once – at once! She got out the car, and, driving to a village where she was not known, sent a telegram to the post office at Nettlefold. Dreadful to have to wait over the night! But she knew it might be evening or even next morning before he could call for it.
Never did time go so slowly. For now she was shaken again. Was she over-estimating her power, relying too much on her sudden victory in a moment of passion, under-estimating Jon’s strength after resolve taken? She remembered how in those old days she had failed to move him from renunciation. And, unable to keep still, she went up lonely on to Box Hill, and wandered among its yew trees and spindleberry bushes, till she was tired out and the sun was nearly down. With the sinking light the loneliness up there repelled her, for she was not a real nature-lover, and for an anxious heart Nature has little comfort. She was glad to be back, listening to the chatter of the supper-eating girls. It had no interest for her, but at least it was not melancholy like the space and shadows of the open. She suddenly remembered that she had missed her ‘sitting’ and had sent no word. The Rafaelite would gnash his teeth: perhaps he had set her ‘Folly’ dress up on a dummy, to paint the sound from its silver bells. Bells! Michael! Poor Michael! But was he to be pitied, who had owned her for years while at heart she belonged to another? She went up to bed early. If only she could sleep till it was time to start! This force that played with hearts, tore them open, left them quivering – made them wait and ache, and ache and wait! Had the Victorian Miss, whom they had taken to praising again, ever to go through what she had gone through since first she saw her fate in front of that grotesque Juno – or was it Venus? – in the gallery off Cork Street? The disciplined Victorian Miss? Admit – oh! freely – that she, Fleur Mont, was undisciplined; still, she hadn’t worn her heart upon her sleeve. She hadn’t kicked and screamed. Surely she deserved a spell of happiness! Not more than a spell – she wouldn’t ask for more than that! Things wore out, hearts wore out! But to have the heart she wanted against her own, as last night, and then to lose it straightaway? It could not be! And so at last she slept, and the moon that had watched over her victory came by, to look in through the curtain chinks, and make her dream.
She woke and lay thinking with the preternatural intensity of early morning thought. People would blame her if they knew; and was there any real possibility that they would not come to know? Suppose Jon remained immovably opposed to secrecy. What then? Was she prepared to give up all and follow him? It would mean more than in the ordinary case. It would mean isolation. For always, in the background, was the old barrier of the family feud; her father and his mother, and their abhorrence of union between her and Jon. And all the worldly sense in Fleur, brought to the edge of hard reality, shivered and recoiled. Money! It was not that they would lack money. But position, approval, appreciation, where in the world could they ever regain all that? And Kit? He would be lost to her. The Monts would claim him. She sat up in bed, seeing with utter clearness in the dark a truth she had never before seen naked – that the condition of conquest is sacrifice. Then she revolted. No! Jon would be reasonable, Jon would come round! In secret they would, they must, be happy, or if not happy, at least not starved. She would have to share him, he to share her; but they would each know that the other only pretended to belong elsewhere. But would it be pretence with him? Was he at heart all hers? Was he not, at least, as much his wife’s? Horribly clear she could see that girl’s face, its dark, eager eyes, with the something strange and so attractive in their setting. No! She would not think of her! It only weakened her power to win Jon over. Dawn opened a sleepy eye. A bird cheeped, and daylight crept in. She lay back resigned again to the dull ache of waiting. She rose unrested. A fine morning, dry as ever – save for the dew on the grass! At ten she would start! It would be easier to wait in motion even if she had to drive slow. She gave her morning orders, got out the car, and left. She drove by the clock so as to arrive at noon. The leaves were turning already, it would be an early fall. Had she put on the right frock? Would he like this soft russet, the colour of g
one-off apples? The red was prettier; but red caught the eye. And the eye must not be caught today. She drove the last mile at a foot’s pace, and drew up in the wooded lane just where the garden of Green Hill Farm ended in orchard, and the fields began. Very earnestly she scrutinized her face in the small mirror of her vanity-bag. Where had she read that one always looked one’s worst in a mirror? If so, it was a mercy. She remembered that Jon had once said he hated the look of lip salve; and, not touching her lips, she put away the mirror and got out. She walked slowly towards the entrance gate. From there a lane divided the house from the straw-yards and farm buildings sloping up behind it. In the fine autumn sunlight they ranged imposing, dry and deserted – no stock, not so much as a hen. Even Fleur’s unlearned mind realized the stiff job before anyone who took this farm. Had she not often heard Michael say that farming was more of a man’s job than any other in the England of today! She would let him take it, then that wretched conscience of his would be at rest on one score at least. She passed the gate and stood before the old house, gabled and red with Virginia creeper. Twelve had struck down in the village as she passed through. Surely he had not failed her! Five minutes she waited that seemed like five hours. Then, with her heart beating fast, she went up and rang the bell. It sounded far away in the empty house. Footsteps – a woman’s!
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘I was to meet Mr Forsyte here at noon about the farm.’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am; Mr Forsyte came early. He was very sorry he had to go away. He left this note for you.’
‘He’s not coming back?’
The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 Page 83