Walking in a sort of trance he had reached the Ritz. All was fiz-gig in the streets. Waiters stood on the pavement. Ladies of the night talked together excitedly or spoke to policemen as though they had lost their profession. Soames went on down Berkeley Square through quieter streets to his sister’s house. Winifred was waiting up for him, still in that half mourning for Montague Dartie, which Soames considered superfluous. As trustee, he had been compelled to learn the true history of that French staircase, if only to keep it from the rest of the world.
“They tell me war’s declared, Soames. Such a relief!”
“Relief! Pretty relief!”
“You know what I mean, dear boy. One never knows what those Radicals might have done.”
“This’ll cost a thousand millions,” said Soames, “before it’s over. Over? I don’t know when it’ll be over—the Germans are no joke.”
“But surely, Soames, with Russia and ourselves. And they say the French are so good now.”
“They’d say anything,” said Soames.
“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”
“Glad we haven’t ratted, yes. But it’s ruination all round. Where’s your boy Benedict?”
Winifred looked up sharply.
“Oh!” she said. “But he’s not even a volunteer.”
“He will be,” said Soames, gloomily.
“Do you really think it’s as serious as that, Soames?”
“Serious as hell,” answered Soames; “you mark my words.”
Winifred was silent for some minutes; on her face, so fashionably composed, was a look as though someone had half drawn up its blind. She said in a small voice:
“I’m thankful dear Val has got his leg. You don’t think we shall be invaded, Soames?”
“Not if they keep their heads. All depends on the fleet. They say there’s a chap called Jellicoe, but you never know. There are these Zeppelins, too—I shall send Fleur down to school in the west somewhere.”
“Ought one to lay in provisions?”
“If everyone does that, there’ll be a shortage, and that won’t do. The less fuss the better. I shall go down home by the first train. Going to bed, now. Good-night.” He kissed the forehead of a face where the blind was still half drawn down.
He slept well, and was back at Mapledurham before noon. Fleur’s greeting, and the bright peace of the river, soothed him, so that he lunched with a certain appetite. On the verandah, afterwards, his head gardener came up.
“They’re puttin’ off the ‘orticultural show this afternoon, Sir. Looks as if the Germans had bitten off more than they can chew, don’t you think, Sir?”
“Can’t tell,” said Soames. Everybody seemed to think it was going to be a picnic, and this annoyed him.
“It’s lucky Lord Kitchener’s over here,” said the gardener, “he’ll show them.”
“This may last a year and more,” said Soames; “no waste of any sort, d’you understand me?”
The gardener looked surprised.
“I thought—”
“Think what you like, but don’t waste anything, and grow vegetables. See?”
“Yes, Sir. So you think it’s serious, Sir?”
“I do,” said Soames.
“Yes, Sir.” The gardener moved away; a narrow-headed chap! That was the trouble; hearts were in the right place, but heads were narrow. They said those Germans had big round heads and no backs to them. So they had, if he remembered. He went in and took up The Times. To read the papers seemed the only thing one could do. While he was sitting there Annette came in. She was flushed and had a ball of wool in her hand.
“Well,” he said, over the top of the paper, “are you satisfied now?”
She came across to him.
“Put your paper down, Soames, and let me kiss you.”
“What for?” said Soames.
Annette removed The Times and sank on his knees. Placing her hands on his shoulders she bent and kissed him.
“Because you have not deserted my country. I am proud of England.”
“That’s new,” said Soames. She was a weight, and smelled of verbena; “I don’t know what we can do,” he added, “except at sea.”
“Oh! it is everything. We have not our backs on the wall any more; we have our backs on you.”
“You certainly have,” said Soames; not that it was unpleasant.
Annette rose. She stood, slightly transfigured.
“We shall beat those ‘orrible Germans now. Soames, we cannot keep Fräulein, she must go.”
“I thought that was coming. Why? It’s not her fault.”
“To have a German in the house? No!”
“Why not? She’s harmless. If you send her away, what’ll she do?”
“What she likes, but not in this house. Who knows if she is a spy.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Oh! you English are so slow—you wait always till the fat is in the fire, as you say.”
“I don’t see any good in hysteria,” muttered Soames.
“They will talk in the neighbourhood.”
“Let them!”
“Non! I have told her she must go. After the holiday Fleur must go to school. It is no use, Soames, I am not going to keep a German. ‘A la guerre comme à la guerre!’”
Soames uttered a sound of profound disapproval. There she went on her high horse! Something deeply just within him was offended, but something sagacious knew that if he opposed her, the situation would become impossible.
“Send her to me, then,” he said.
“Do not be sloppee with her,” said Annette, and went away.
Sloppy! The word outraged him. Sloppy! He was still brooding over it, when he became conscious that the German governess was in the room.
She was a tall young woman, with a rather high-cheek-boned, high-coloured face, and candid grey eyes, and she stood without speaking, her hands folded one over the other.
“This is a bad business, Fräulein.”
“Yes, Mr. Forsyte; Madame says I am to go.”
Soames nodded. “The French have very strong feelings. Have you made any arrangements?”
The young woman shook her head. Soames received an impression of desolation from the gesture.
“What arrangements could I make? No one will want me, I suppose. I wish I had gone back to Germany a week ago. Will they let me now?”
“Why not? This isn’t a seaside place. You’d better go up and see the authorities. I’ll give you a letter to say you’ve been quietly down here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Forsyte. That is kind.”
“I don’t want you to go,” said Soames. “It’s all nonsense; but one can’t control these things”; and, seeing two tears glistening on her cheekbones, he added hastily: “Fleur’ll miss you. Have you got money?”
“Very little. I send my salary to my old parents.”
There it was! Old parents, young children, invalids, and all the rest of it. The pinch! And here he was administering it! A personable young woman, too! Nothing against her except the war! “If I were you,” he said slowly, “I shouldn’t waste time. I’d go up before they know where they are. There’ll be a lot of hysteria. Wait a minute, I’ll give you money.”
He went to the old walnut bureau, which he had picked up in Reading—a fine piece with a secret drawer, and a bargain at that. He didn’t know what to give her—the whole thing was so uncertain. Though she stood there so quietly, he was conscious that her tears were in motion.
“Damn it!” he said, softly, “I shall give you a term’s salary and fifteen pounds in cash for your journey. If they won’t let you go, let me know when you come to the end of it.”
The young woman raised her clasped hands.
“I don’t want to take money, Mr. Forsyte.”
“Nonsense,” said Soames; “you’ll take what I give you. It’s all against my wish. You ought to be staying, in my opinion. What’s it to do with women?”
He took from the secret drawer an adequate number of notes and went towards her.
“I’ll send you to the station. Go up and see the authorities this very afternoon; and while you get ready I’ll write that letter.”