“Here’s where I used to be,” said Soames as they went along the Poultry; “and my father before me.”
“More genial, perhaps,” said Michael.
“The trustees are meeting us at the bank; you remember them?”
“Cousins of Fleur’s, weren’t they, sir?”
“Second cousins; young Roger’s eldest, and young Nicholas’. I chose them youngish. Very young Roger was wounded in the war—he does nothing. Very young Nicholas is at the Bar.”
Michael’s ears stood up. “What about the next lot, sir? Very very young Roger would be almost insulting, wouldn’t it?”
“There won’t be one,” said Soames, “with taxation where it is. He can’t afford it; he’s a steady chap. What are you going to call your boy, if it IS one?”
“We think Christopher, because of St. Paul’s and Columbus. Fleur wants him solid, and I want him enquiring.”
“H’m! And if it’s a girl?”
“Oh! – if it’s a girl—Anne.”
“Yes,” said Soames: “Very neat. Here they are!”
They had reached the bank, and in the entrance Michael saw two Forsytes between thirty and forty, whose chinny faces he dimly remembered. Escorted by a man with bright buttons down his front, they all went to a room, where a man without buttons produced a japanned box. One of the Forsytes opened it with a key; Soames muttered an incantation, and deposited the deed. When he and the chinnier Forsyte had exchanged a few remarks with the manager on the question of the bank rate, they all went back to the lobby and parted with the words: “Well, good-bye.”
“Now,” said Soames, in the din and hustle of the street, “he’s provided for, so far as I can see. When exactly do you expect it?”
“It should be just a fortnight.”
“Do you believe in this—this twilight sleep?”
“I should like to,” said Michael, conscious again of sweat on his forehead. “Fleur’s wonderfully calm; she does Coue night and morning.”
“That!” said Soames. He did not mention that he himself was doing it, thus giving away the state of his nerves. “If you’re going home, I’ll come, too.”
“Good!”
He found Fleur lying down with Ting-a-ling on the foot of the sofa.
“Your father’s here, darling. He’s been anointing the future with another fifty thou. I expect he’d like to tell you all about it.”
Fleur moved restlessly.
“Presently. If it’s going on as hot as this, it’ll be rather a bore, Michael.”
“Oh! but it won’t, ducky. Three days and a thunderstorm.”
Taking Ting-a-ling by the chin, he turned his face up.
“And how on earth is your nose going to be put out of joint, old man? There’s no joint to put.”
“He knows there’s something up.”
“He’s a wise little brute, aren’t you, old son?”
Ting-a-ling sniffed.
“Michael!”
“Yes, darling?”
“I don’t seem to care about anything now—it’s a funny feeling.”
“That’s the heat.”
“No. I think it’s because the whole business is too long. Everything’s ready, and now it all seems rather stupid. One more person in the world or one more out of it—what does it matter?”
“Don’t! It matters frightfully!”
“One more gnat to dance, one more ant to run about!”
Anguished, Michael said again:
“Don’t, Fleur! That’s just a mood.”
“Is Wilfrid’s book out?”
“It comes out tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry I gave you such a bad time, there. I only didn’t want to lose him.”
Michael took her hand.
“Nor did I—goodness knows!” he said.
“He’s never written, I suppose?”
“No.”
“Well, I expect he’s all right by now. Nothing lasts.”
Michael put her hand to his cheek.
“I do, I’m afraid,” he said.
The hand slipped round over his lips.
“Give Dad my love, and tell him I’ll be down to tea. Oh! I’m so hot!”
Michael hovered a moment, and went out. Damn the heat, upsetting her like this!
He found Soames standing in front of the white monkey.
“I should take this down, if I were you,” he muttered, “until it’s over.”
“Why, sir?” asked Michael, in surprise.
Soames frowned.
“Those eyes!”
Michael went up to the picture. Yes! He was a haunting kind of brute!
“But it’s such top-hole work, sir.”
Soames nodded.
“Artistically, yes. But at such times you can’t be too careful what she sees.”
“I believe you’re right. Let’s have him down.”
“I’ll hold him,” said Soames, taking hold of the bottom of the picture.
“Got him tight? Right-o. Now!”
“You can say I wanted an opinion on his period,” said Soames, when the picture had been lowered to the floor.
“There can hardly be a doubt of that, sir—the present!”
Soames stared. “What? Oh! You mean—? Ah! H’m! Don’t let her know he’s in the house.”
“No. I’ll lock him up.” Michael lifted the picture. “D’you mind opening the door, sir?”
“I’ll come back at tea-time,” said Soames. “That’ll look as if I’d taken him off. You can hang him again, later.”
“Yes. Poor brute!” said Michael, bearing the monkey off to limbo.
Chapter XI.
WITH A SMALL ‘n’
On the night of the Monday following, after Fleur had gone to bed, Michael and Soames sat listening to the mutter of London coming through the windows of the Chinese room opened to the brooding heat.
“They say the war killed sentiment,” said Soames suddenly: “Is that true?”
“In a way, yes, sir. We had so much reality that we don’t want any more.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I meant that only reality really makes you feel. So if you pretend there IS no reality, you don’t have to feel. It answers awfully well, up to a point.”
“Ah!” said Soames. “Her mother comes up tomorrow morning, to stay. This P. P. R. S. meeting of mine is at half-past two. Good-night!”
Michael, at the window, watched the heat gathered black over the Square. A few tepid drops fell on his outstretched hand. A cat stole by under a lamp-post, and vanished into shadow so thick that it seemed uncivilised.
Queer question of ‘Old Forsyte’s’ about sentiment; odd that he should ask it! ‘Up to a point! But don’t we all get past that point?’ he thought. Look at Wilfrid, and himself—after the war they had deemed it blasphemous to admit that anything mattered except eating and drinking, for tomorrow they died; even fellows like Nazing, and Master, who were never in the war, had felt like that ever since. Well, Wilfrid had got it in the neck; and he himself had got it in the wind; and he would bet that—barring one here and there whose blood was made of ink—they would all get it in the neck or wind soon or late. Why, he would cheerfully bear Fleur’s pain and risk, instead of her! But if nothing mattered, why should he feel like that?
Turning from the window, he leaned against the lacquered back of the jade-green settee, and stared at the wall space between the Chinese tea-chests. Jolly thoughtful of the ‘old man’ to have that white monkey down! The brute was potent—symbolic of the world’s mood: beliefs cancelled, faiths withdrawn! And, dash it! not only the young—but the old—were in that temper! ‘Old Forsyte,’ or he would never have been scared by that monkey’s eyes; yes, and his own governor, and Elderson, and all the rest. Young and old—no real belief in anything! And yet—revolt sprang up in Michael, with a whirr, like a covey of partridges. It DID matter that some person or some principle outside oneself should be more precious than oneself—it dashed well did! Sentiment, then, wasn’t dead—nor faith, nor belief, which were the same things. They were only shedding shell, working through chrysalis, into—butterflies, perhaps. Faith, sentiment, belief, had gone underground, possibly, but they were there, even in ‘Old Forsyte’ and himself. He had a good mind to put the monkey up again. No use exaggerating his importance!… By George! Some flare! A jagged streak of vivid light had stripped darkness off the night. Michael crossed, to close the windows. A shattering peal of thunder blundered overhead; and down came the rain, slashing and sluicing. He saw a man running, black, like a shadow across a dark blue screen; saw him by the light of another flash, suddenly made lurid and full of small meaning, with face of cheerful anxiety, as if he were saying: “Hang it, I’m getting wet!” Another frantic crash!