Or: “Look, Jon! Val and I had a race down that avenue. Oh! and there’s the log we used to jump. Still there!”
And Anne was in ecstasies over the deer and the grass, so different from the American varieties.
To Fleur the Park meant nothing.
“Jon,” she said, suddenly, “what are you going to do to get in at Robin Hill?”
“Tell the lodge-keeper that I want to show my wife where I lived as a boy; and give him a couple of good reasons. I don’t want to see the house, all new furniture and that.”
“Couldn’t we go in at the bottom, through the coppice?” and her eyes added: “As we did that day.”
“We might come on someone, and get turned back.”
The couple of good reasons secured their top entrance to the grounds; the ‘family’ was not ‘in residence.’
Bosinney’s masterpiece wore its mellowest aspect. The sun-blinds were down, for the sun was streaming on its front, past the old oak tree, where was now no swing. In Irene’s rose-garden, which had replaced old Jolyon’s fernery, buds were forming, but only one rose was out.
“‘Rose, you Spaniard!’” Something clutched Fleur’s heart. What was Jon thinking—what remembering, with those words and that frown? Just here she had sat between his father and his mother, believing that she and Jon would live here some day; together watch the roses bloom, the old oak drop its leaves; together say to their guests: “Look! There’s the Grand Stand at Epsom—see? Just above those poplars!”
And now she could not even walk beside him, who was playing guide to that girl, his wife! Beside her aunt she walked instead. Winifred was extremely intrigued. She had never yet seen this house, which Soames had built with the brains of young Bosinney; which Irene, with ‘that unfortunate little affair of hers’ had wrecked; this house where Old Uncle Jolyon, and Cousin Jolyon had died; and Irene, so ironically, had lived and had this boy Jon—a nice boy, too; this house of Forsyte song and story. It was very distinguished and belonged to a peer now, which, since it had gone out of the family, seemed suitable. In the walled fruit-garden, she said to Fleur:
“Your grandfather came down here once, to see how it was getting on. I remember his saying: ‘It’ll cost a pretty penny to keep up.’ And I should think it does. But it was a pity to sell it. Irene’s doing, of course! She never cared for the family. Now, if only—” But she stopped short of the words: “you and Jon had made a match of it.”
“What on earth would Jon have done, Auntie, with a great place like this so near London? He’s a poet.”
“Yes,” murmured Winifred—not very quick, because in her youth quickness had not been fashionable. “There’s too much glass, perhaps.” And they went down through the meadow.
The coppice! Still there at the bottom of the field. But Fleur lingered now, stood by the fallen log, waited till she could say:
“Listen! The cuckoo, Jon!”
The cuckoo’s song, and the sight of bluebells under the larch trees! Beside her Jon stood still! Yes, and the Spring stood still. There went the song—over and over!
“It was HERE we came on your mother, Jon, and our stars were crossed. Oh, Jon!”
Could so short a sound mean so much, say so much, be so startling? His face! She jumped on to the log at once.
“No ghosts, my dear!”
And, with a start, Jon looked up at her.
She put her hands on his shoulders and jumped down. And among the bluebells they went on. And the bird sang after them.
“That bird repeats himself,” said Fleur.
Chapter XI.
PERAMBULATION
The instinct in regard to his daughter, which by now formed part of his protective covering against the machinations of Fate, had warned Soames, the day before, that Fleur was up to something when she went out while he was having breakfast. Seen through the window waving papers at him, she had an air of unreality, or at least an appearance of not telling him anything. As something not quite genuine in the voice warns a dog that he is about to be left, so was Soames warned by the ostentation of those papers. He finished his breakfast, therefore, too abruptly for one constitutionally given to marmalade, and set forth to Green Street. Since that young fellow Jon was staying there, this fashionable locality was the seat of any reasonable uneasiness. If, moreover, there was a place in the world where Soames could still unbutton his soul, it was his sister Winifred’s drawing-room, on which in 1879 he himself had impressed so deeply the personality of Louis Quinze that, in spite of jazz and Winifred’s desire to be in the heavier modern fashion, that monarch’s incurable levity was still to be observed.
Taking a somewhat circuitous course and looking in at the Connoisseurs’ Club on the way, Soames did not arrive until after Fleur’s departure. The first remark from Smither confirmed the uneasiness which had taken him forth.
“Mr. Soames! Oh! What a pity—Miss Fleur’s just gone! And nobody down yet but Mr. Jon.”
“Oh!” said Soames. “Did she see him?”
“Yes, sir. He’s in the dining-room, if you’d like to go in.”
Soames shook his head.
“How long are they staying, Smither?”
“Well, I did hear Mrs. Val say they were all going back to Wansdon the day after tomorrow. We shall be all alone again in case you were thinking of coming to us, Mr. Soames.”
Again Soames shook his head. “Too busy,” he said.
“What a beautiful young lady Miss Fleur ‘as grown, to be sure; such a colour she ‘ad this morning!”
Soames gave vent to an indeterminate sound. The news was not to his liking, but he could hardly say so in front of an institution. One could never tell how much Smither knew. She had creaked her way through pretty well every family secret in her time, from the days which his own matrimonial relations supplied Timothy’s with more than all the gossip it required. Yes, and were not his matrimonial relations, twice-laid, still supplying the raw material? Curiously sinister it seemed to him just then, that the son of his supplanter Jolyon should be here in this house, the nearest counterfeit of that old homing centre of the Forsytes, Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road. What a perversity there was in things! And, repeating the indeterminate sound, he said:
“By the way, I suppose that Mr. Stainford never came here again?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Soames; he called yesterday to see Mr. Val; but Mr. Val was gone.”
“He did—did he?” said Soames, round-eyed. “What did he take this time?”
“Oh! Of course I knew better than to let him in.”
“You didn’t give him Mr. Val’s address in the country?”
“Oh, no, sir; he knew it.”
“Deuce he did!”
“Shall I tell the mistress you’re here, Mr. Soames? She must be nearly down by now.”
“No; don’t disturb her.”
“I am that sorry, sir; it’s always such a pleasure to her to see you.”
Old Smither bridling! A good soul! No such domestics nowadays! And, putting on his hat, Soames touched its brim, murmuring:
“Well, good-bye, Smither. Give her my love!” and went out.
‘So!’ he thought, ‘Fleur’s seen that boy!’ The whole thing would begin over again! He had known it! And, very slowly, with his hat rather over his eyes, he made for Hyde Park Corner. This was for him a moment in deep waters, when the heart must be hardened to this dangerous decision or to that. With the tendency for riding past the hounds inherited from his father James in all matters which threatened the main securities of life, Soames rushed on in thought to the ruin of his daughter’s future, wherein so sacredly was embalmed his own.
“Such a colour she ‘ad this morning!” When she waved those papers at him, she was pale enough—too pale! A confounded chance! Breakfast time, too—worst time in the day—most intimate! His naturally realistic nature apprehended all the suggestions that lay in breakfast. Those who breakfasted alone together, slept together as often as not. Putting things into her head! Yes; and they were not boy and girl now! Well, it all depended on what their feelings were, if they still had any. And who was to know? Who, in heaven’s name, was to know? Automatically he had begun to encompass the Artillery Memorial. A great white thing which he had never yet taken in properly, and didn’t know that he wanted to. Yet somehow it was very real, and suited to his mood—faced things; nothing high-flown about that gun—short, barking brute of a thing; or those dark men—drawn and devoted under their steel hats! Nothing pretty-pretty about that memorial—no angels’ wings there! No Georges and no dragons, nor horses on the prance; no panoply, and no panache! There it ‘sot’—as they used to say—squatted like a great white toad on the nation’s life. Concreted thunder. Not an illusion about it! Good thing to look at once a day, and see what you’d got to avoid. ‘I’d like to rub the noses of those Crown Princes and military cocks-o’-the-walk on it,’ thought Soames, ‘with their—what was it?—“fresh and merry wars!”’ And, crossing the road in the sunshine, he passed into the Park, moving towards Knightsbridge.