“Your Father didn’t wish you to hear,” she said, with all the aplomb she could muster. “These things will happen. I’ve often told him he ought to let you know.”
“Oh!” said Fleur, and that was all, but it made Winifred pat her shoulder — a firm little shoulder, nice and white! She never could help an appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who would have to be married, of course — though not to that boy Jon.
“We’ve forgotten all about it years and years ago,” she said comfortably. “Come and have dinner!”
“No, Auntie. I don’t feel very well. May I go upstairs?”
“My dear!” murmured Winifred, concerned; “you’re not taking this to heart? Why, you haven’t properly come out yet! That boy’s a child!”
“What boy? I’ve only got a headache. But I can’t stand that man to-night.”
“Well, well,” said Winifred; “go and lie down. I’ll send you some bromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Profond. What business had he to gossip? Though I must say I think it’s much better you should know.”
Fleur smiled. “Yes,” she said, and slipped from the room.
She went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, a fluttered, frightened feeling in her breast. Never in her life as yet had she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get what she had set her heart on. The sensations of the afternoon had been full, and poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top of them had really made her head ache. No wonder her father had hidden that photograph so secretly behind her own — ashamed of having kept it! But could he hate Jon’s mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressed her hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had they told Jon — had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him? Everything now turned on that! She knew, they all knew, except — perhaps — Jon!
She walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard. Jon loved his mother. If they had told him, what would he do? She could not tell. But if they had not told him, should she not — could she not get him for herself — get married to him, before he knew? She searched her memories of Robin Hill. His mother’s face so passive — with its dark eyes and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile — baffled her; and his father’s — kindly, sunken, ironic. Instinctively she felt they would shrink from telling Jon, even now, shrink from hurting him — for of course it would hurt him awfully to know!
Her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. So long as neither she herself nor Jon were supposed to know, there was still a chance — freedom to cover one’s tracks, and get what her heart was set on. But she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. Every one’s hand was against her — every one’s! It was as Jon had said — he and she just wanted to live and the past was in their way, a past they hadn’t shared in, and didn’t understand! Oh! What a shame! And suddenly she thought of June. Would she help them? For somehow June had left on her the impression that she would be sympathetic with their love, impatient of obstacle. Then, instinctively, she thought: ‘I won’t give anything away, though, even to her. I daren’t! I mean to have Jon; in spite of them all.’
Soup was brought up to her, and one of Winifred’s pet headache cachets. She swallowed both. Then Winifred herself appeared. Fleur opened her campaign with the words:
“You know, Auntie, I do wish people wouldn’t think I’m in love with that boy. Why, I’ve hardly seen him!”
Winifred, though experienced, was not ‘fine’. She accepted the remark with considerable relief. Of course, it was not pleasant for the girl to hear of the family scandal, and she set herself to minimise the matter, a task for which she was eminently qualified, raised fashionably under a comfortable mother and a father whose nerves might not be shaken, and for many years the wife of Montague Dartie. Her description was a masterpiece of understatement. Fleur’s father’s first wife had been very foolish. There had been a young man who had got run over, and she had left Fleur’s father. Then, years after, when it might all have come right again, she had taken up with their cousin Jolyon; and, of course, her father had been obliged to have a divorce. Nobody remembered anything of it now, except just the family. And, perhaps, it had all turned out for the best; her father had Fleur; and Jolyon and Irene had been quite happy, they said, and their boy was a nice boy. “Val having Holly, too, is a sort of plaster, don’t you know?” With these soothing words, Winifred patted her niece’s shoulder, thought: “She’s a nice, plump little thing!” and went back to Prosper Profond, who, in spite of his indiscretion, was very “amusing” this evening.
For some minutes after her aunt had gone Fleur remained under influence of bromide material and spiritual. But then reality came back. Her aunt had left out all that mattered — all the feeling, the hate, the love, the unforgivingness of passionate hearts. She, who knew so little of life, and had touched only the fringe of love, was yet aware by instinct that words have as little relation to fact and feeling as coin to the bread it buys. ‘Poor Father!’ she thought. ‘Poor me! Poor Jon! But I don’t care, I mean to have him!’ From the window of her darkened room she saw “that man” issue from the door below and “prowl” away. If he and her mother — how would that affect her chance? Surely it must make her father cling to her more closely, so that he would consent in the end to anything she wanted, or become reconciled the sooner to what she did without his knowledge.
She took some earth from the flower-box in the window, and with all her might flung it after that disappearing figure. It fell short, but the action did her good.
And a little puff of air came up from Green Street, smelling of petrol, not sweet.
Last updated on Wed Jan 12 09:33:24 2011 for eBooks@Adelaide.
To Let, by John Galsworthy
V Purely Forsyte Affairs
Soames, coming up to the City, with the intention of calling in at Green Street at the end of his day and taking Fleur back home with him, suffered from rumination. Sleeping partner that he was, he seldom visited the City now, but he still had a room of his own at Cuthcott Kingson & Forsyte’s, and one special clerk and a half assigned to the management of purely Forsyte affairs. They were somewhat in flux just now — an auspicious moment for the disposal of house property. And Soames was unloading the estates of his father and uncle Roger, and to some extent of his uncle Nicholas. His shrewd and matter-of-course probity in all money concerns had made him something of an autocrat in connection with these trusts. If Soames thought this or thought that, one had better save oneself the bother of thinking too. He guaranteed, as it were, irresponsibility to numerous Forsytes of the third and fourth generations. His fellow trustees, such as his cousins Roger or Nicholas, his cousins-inlaw Tweetyman and Spender, or his sister Cicely’s husband all trusted him; he signed first, and where he signed first they signed after, and nobody was a penny the worse. Just now they were all a good many pennies the better, and Soames was beginning to see the close of certain trusts, except for distribution of the income from securities as gilt-edged as was compatible with the period.
Passing the more feverish parts of the City towards the most perfect backwater in London, he ruminated. Money was extraordinarily tight; and morality extraordinarily loose! The War had done it. Banks were not lending; people breaking contracts all over the place. There was a feeling in the air and a look on faces that he did not like. The country seemed in for a spell of gambling and bankruptcies. There was satisfaction in the thought that neither he nor his trusts had an investment which could be affected by anything less maniacal than national repudiation or a levy on capital. If Soames had faith, it was in what he called “English common sense”— or the power to have things, if not one way then another. He might — like his father James before him — say he didn’t know what things were coming to, but he never in his heart believed they were. If it rested with him, they wouldn’t — and, after all, he was only an Englishman like any other, so quietly tenacious of what he had that he knew he would never really part with it without something more or less equivalent in exchange. Take his own case, for example! He was well off. Did that do anybody harm? He did not eat ten meals a day; he ate no more than, perhaps not so much as, a poor man. He spent no money on vice; breathed no more air, used no more water to speak of than the mechanic or the porter. He certainly had pretty things about him, but they had given employment in the making, and somebody must use them. He bought pictures, but Art must be encouraged. He was, in fact, an accidental channel through which money flowed, employing labour. What was there objectionable in that? In his charge money was in quicker and more useful flux than it would be in charge of the State and a lot of slow-fly money-sucking officials. And as to what he saved each year — it was just as much in flux as what he didn’t save, going into Water Board or Council Stocks, or something sound and useful. The State paid him no salary for being trustee of his own or other people’s money — HE DID ALL THAT FOR NOTHING. Therein lay the whole case against nationalisation — owners of private property were unpaid, and yet had every incentive to quicken up the flux. Under nationalisation — just the opposite! In a country smarting from officialism he felt that he had a strong case.