It particularly annoyed him, entering that backwater of perfect peace, to think that a lot of unscrupulous Trusts and Combinations had been cornering the market in goods of all kinds, and keeping prices at an artificial height. Such abusers of the individualistic system were the ruffians who caused all the trouble, and it was some satisfaction to see them getting into a stew at last lest the whole thing might come down with a run-and land in the soup.
The offices of Cuthcott Kingson & Forsyte occupied the ground and first floors of a house on the right-hand side; and, ascending to his room, Soames thought: ‘Time we had a coat of paint.’
His old clerk Gradman was seated, where he always was, at a huge bureau with countless pigeonholes. Half-the-clerk stood beside him, with a broker’s note recording investment of the proceeds from sale of the Bryanston Square house, in Roger Forsyte’s estate. Soames took it, and said:
“Vancouver City Stock. H’m! It’s down today!”
With a sort of grating ingratiation old Gradman answered him:
“Ye-es; but everything’s down, Mr. Soames.” And half-the-clerk withdrew.
Soames skewered the document onto a number of other papers and hung up his hat.
“I want to look at my Will and Marriage Settlement, Gradman.”
Old Gradman, moving to the limit of his swivel chair, drew out two drafts from the bottom left-hand drawer. Recovering his body, he raised his grizzle-haired face, very red from stooping.
“Copies, sir.”
Soames took them. It struck him suddenly how like Gradman was to the stout brindled yard dog they had been wont to keep on his chain at ‘The Shelter,’ till one day Fleur had come and insisted it should be let loose, so that it had at once bitten the cook and been destroyed. If you let Gradman off his chair, would he bite the cook?
Checking this frivolous fancy, Soames unfolded his Marriage Settlement. He had not looked at it for over eighteen years, not since he remade his Will when his father died and Fleur was born. He wanted to see whether the words “during coverture” were in. Yes, they were—odd expression, when you thought of it, and derived perhaps from horse-breeding! Interest on fifteen thousand pounds (which he paid her without deducting income tax) so long as she remained his wife, and afterwards during widowhood “dum casta”—old-fashioned and rather pointed words, put in to insure the conduct of Fleur’s mother. His Will made it up to an annuity of a thousand under the same conditions. All right! He returned the copies to Gradman, who took them without looking up, swung the chair, restored the papers to their drawer, and went on casting up.
“Gradman! I don’t like the condition of the country; there are a lot of people about without any common sense. I want to find a way by which I can safeguard Miss Fleur against anything which might arise.”
Gradman wrote the figure “2” on his blotting-paper.
“Ye-es,” he said; “there’s a nahsty spirit.”
“The ordinary restraint against anticipation doesn’t meet the case.”
“Nao,” said Gradman.
“Suppose those Labour fellows come in, or worse! It’s these people with fixed ideas who are the danger. Look at Ireland!”
“Ah!” said Gradman.
“Suppose I were to make a settlement on her at once with myself as beneficiary for life, they couldn’t take anything but the interest from me, unless of course they alter the law.”
Gradman moved his head and smiled.
“Aoh!” he said, “they wouldn’t do tha-at!”
“I don’t know,” muttered Soames; “I don’t trust them.”
“It’ll take two years, sir, to be valid against death duties.”
Soames sniffed. Two years! He was only sixty-five!
“That’s not the point. Draw a form of settlement that passes all my property to Miss Fleur’s children in equal shares, with antecedent life-interests first to myself and then to her without power of anticipation, and add a clause that in the event of anything happening to divert her life-interest, that interest passes to the trustees, to apply for her benefit, in their absolute discretion.”
Gradman grated: “Rather extreme at your age, sir; you lose control.”
“That’s my business,” said Soames sharply.
Gradman wrote on a piece of paper. “Life-interest—anticipation—divert interest—absolute discretion…” and said:
“What trustees? There’s young Mr. Kingson, he’s a nice steady young fellow.”
“Yes, he might do for one. I must have three. There isn’t a Forsyte now who appeals to me.”
“Not young Mr. Nicholas? He’s at the Bar. We’ve given ’im briefs.”
“He’ll never set the Thames on fire,” said Soames.
A smile oozed out on Gradman’s face, greasy with countless mutton-chops, the smile of a man who sits all day.
“You can’t expect it, at his age, Mr. Soames.”
“Why? What is he? Forty?”
“Ye-es, quite a young fellow.”
“Well, put him in; but I want somebody who’ll take a personal interest. There’s no one that I can see.”
“What about Mr. Valerius, now he’s come home?”
“Val Dartie? With that father?”
“We-ell,” murmured Gradman, “he’s been dead seven years—the Statute runs against him.”
“No,” said Soames. “I don’t like the connection.”
He rose. Gradman said suddenly:
“If they were makin’ a levy on capital, they could come on the trustees, sir. So there you’d be just the same. I’d think it over, if I were you.”
“That’s true,” said Soames, “I will. What have you done about that dilapidation notice in Vere Street?”
“I ‘aven’t served it yet. The party’s very old. She won’t want to go out at her age.”
“I don’t know. This spirit of unrest touches every one.”
“Still, I’m lookin’ at things broadly, sir. She’s eighty-one.”
“Better serve it,” said Soames, “and see what she says. Oh! and Mr. Timothy? Is everything in order in case of accidents.”
“I’ve got the inventory of his estate all ready; had the furniture and pictures valued so that we know what reserves to put on. I shall be sorry when he goes, though. Dear me! It is a time since I first saw Mr. Timothy!”
“We can’t live for ever,” said Soames, taking down his hat.
“Nao,” said Gradman; “but it’ll be a pity—the last of the old family! Shall I take up the matter of that nuisance in Old Compton Street? Those organs—they’re nahsty things.”
“Do. I must call for Miss Fleur and catch the four o’clock. Good-day, Gradman.”
“Good-day, Mr. Soames. I hope Miss Fleur—”
“Well enough, but gads about too much.”
“Ye-es,” grated Gradman; “she’s young.”
Soames went out, musing: “Old Gradman! If he were younger I’d put him in the trust. There’s nobody I can depend on to take a real interest.”
Leaving the bilious and mathematical exactitude, the preposterous peace of that backwater, he thought suddenly: ‘During coverture! Why can’t they exclude fellows like Profond, instead of a lot of hard-working Germans?’ and was surprised at the depth of uneasiness which could provoke so unpatriotic a thought. But there it was! One never got a moment of real peace. Always something at the back of everything! And he made his way towards Green Street.