“Oh! Uncle Swithin, you’ll kill me!” She had a great, if inconvenient, sense of humour.
During the third number Swithin remained awake, staring, pop-eyed, at the young man’s agility and wishing he had remembered to put cotton-wool in his ears. In the interval which followed he manoeuvred himself out of his seat, and not waiting for his carriage, took a four-wheeled cab to his Club, where he lit a cigar and instantly fell asleep. It was his opinion, afterwards recorded, that the fellow had made a lot of noise—a capering chap!
The concert, which produced the sum of thirteen pounds, three shillings and sixpence, cost Francie practically all her savings. Far more serious, however, was its spiritual effect. The notices were bad. Francie was furious. Guido, who had borne one bad notice beautifully with a curl of his lip, broke into imprecations at the second, tore at his hair after the third, and dissolved into tears with the fourth. Greatly moved, Francie took his head between her hands and kissed him above the tears. And with that kiss was born in her a serious feeling, not exactly bodily, but as if he belonged to her, and must be sustained through thick and thin. A fortnight later—a fortnight spent in storm and shine, during which she gave him a pair of silver-backed brushes, some special hair shampoo, some new ties, and an umbrella—she announced to her mother by note that she and Guido were engaged. She added that she was going to sleep at the Studio till father had got over the fit he would certainly have.
There again she went wrong in her psychology, incapable, like all the young Forsytes, of appreciating exactly the quality which had made the fortunes of all the old Forsytes. In a word, they had fits over small matters, but never over large. When stark reality stared them in the face they met it with the stare of a still starker reality.
Beyond the words: “The girl’s mad,” Roger, to the infinite relief of Mrs. Roger, said absolutely nothing. His face acquired a sudden dusky-red rigidity, and he left the dining-room. He went into his sanctum—the room where he had thought out the future of countless pieces of house property—took up a paper-knife and sat down in an armchair. He sat there for fully half an hour without a sound except the dull click of the paper-knife against his lower teeth still firm as rocks. Francie was his only daughter, and in his peculiar way (not for nothing was Roger considered eccentric in the family) he was fond of her; fonder than of his mere sons Roger, George, Eustace, and Thomas; and he sat, not fuming—the matter was too serious. Presently he arose and returned to the dining-room where Mrs. Roger was in distraction over the composition of a letter to her daughter.
“Do you know where that young fellow lives?” he said.
“Yes, Roger, at 5, Glendower Mews, Kensington.”
“Write a note asking him to lunch here with Francie today week. Do the same to Francie. Where’s The Times?”
Mrs. Roger produced The Times, and faltered out:
“What are you going to do, Roger?”
“Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies; don’t get into a fantod, leave it to me!”
He took The Times to his sanctum, scanned a page carefully, looked at his calendar, and wrote a note. Then he got up and stood with his square back to the fireplace and his head bent forward. His full, rather bumpy forehead was flushed. He alone of the old Forsytes had become entirely clean-shaven—another sign of eccentricity at that period—and his rather full lips were compressed into a straight line. The die he was going to cast was momentous even for one who had been bidding at auctions all his life. Ten minutes to ten! Taking up his cheque book, he signed a cheque form, tore it out, put his cheque book into his pocket and rang the bell.
The broad and cheerful butler stood within the doorway.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Come in, Smith, and shut the door. I want you to do a job for me. Take this note down in a cab at once, get what I’ve asked for, pay for it with this cheque—you can fill in the right amount; then bring it straight to me at 5, Glendower Mews. I’ll expect you soon after eleven. Look sharp, and take your toothbrush; you may be away for the night.”
“Yes, Sir.”
When the butler had removed his smile Roger stood at the window looking at the day. It was fine.
“I’ll take no chances,” he said, and went out into the hall. There he took down a grey top hat—the only one then in the family, extracted his umbrella from the stand, and went out. It was the Friday before August Bank Holiday, and he was only in town because a house that he intended to buy was coming up to auction on the Tuesday. He walked slowly, taking care not to get hot. The young fellow—a fiddler and a foreigner—would not be up before eleven, but he had no intention of missing him, and he arrived at Glendower Place about half-past ten. He knew it well enough, for he owned a house there. The Mews was round the corner. Noting that it had but one entrance, he went on patrol. Beyond cats and caretakers no one took any interest in him, and he spent thus a good half-hour. As a neighbouring clock struck eleven a hansom cab drew up and Smith alighted. He handed Roger a large envelope. Having perused its contents, Roger nodded. “Wait here,” he said to the cabman. “Now, Smith, follow me.” At Number 5 he raised his umbrella and knocked. The door was opened by the very pattern of a coachman’s wife.
“I want to see the young foreign gentleman who lodges here—Mr. Guido Ratcatski.” The strains of a bow being scraped up and down a violin were audible. “Up these stairs, I suppose?”
The coachman’s wife, with her eyes on Roger’s hat, replied:
“Yes, Sir, and mind the little step at the top.”
Roger ascended, followed by the smiling Smith.
“Stay here,” said Roger, at the little step; and, raising his umbrella, tapped. The door was opened.
“Good morning,” said Roger, removing his hat and walking in. “Good place for practising you have here. Sit down, I want to talk to you.”
The young man, who was in his hair and shirt-sleeves, put down his violin, and, frowning darkly, leaned against the window-sill, crossing his arms.
Roger surveyed the room. It was, in his view, exceptionally sordid, containing a yellow chest of drawers, an iron bedstead, a round washstand, some clothes littered about, and little else. It was hot, too, had a sloping roof, and smelled of stables. “Phew!” he said.
Behind the young foreigner’s glowering gaze, his shrewd grey eyes had not failed to remark a certain panic.
“Well, young man, I take it you’re ambitious.”
“Ambeetious? Vot is dat?”
“Want to get on in your profession.”
“Yees.”
“That’s right—quite right, and so you will! Now, about this affair with my daughter?”
“Vell!”
Roger looked straight into his eyes.
“It won’t do, you know. You can’t afford to marry a girl who’ll have nothing. I won’t beat about the bush. She’s got no money of her own, and if she marries you, she won’t get a penny from me.”
“Money!” said the young man, violently: “Money! It ees all money!”
“Yes,” said Roger, “all money. And I repeat, she won’t get a penny from me. How old are you?”
“Tventee-fife.”
“She was bottled in fifty-eight. She’s thirty if a day. You told me you made a hundred a year. With her stories she makes fifty if she’s lucky. A hundred and fifty a year between you? Are you going to support babies on that, at the beginning of your career?”
“Ve lof each oder,” said the young man, sullenly.