”
Anne disengaged her arm.
“No, you don’t think that. You’re awfully glad to be through with the American accent–you ARE, Jon.”
“It’s natural to like one’s own country’s best.”
“Well, I do want–there! – to speak English. I’m English by law, now, and by descent, all but one French great-grandmother. If we have children, they’ll be English, and we’re going to live in England. Shall you take Greenhill Farm?”
“Yes. And I’m not going to play at things any more. I’ve played twice, and this time I’m going all out.”
“You weren’t playing in North Carolina.”
“Not exactly. But this is different. It didn’t matter there. – What are peaches, anyway? It does here–it matters a lot. I mean to make it pay.”
“Bully!” said Anne: “I mean–er–splendid. But I never believed you’d say that.”
“Paying the only proof. I’m going in for tomatoes, onions, asparagus, and figs; and I mean to work the arable for all it’s worth; and if I can get any more land, I will.”
“Jon! What energy!” And she caught hold of his chin.
“All right!” said Jon, grimly. “You watch out, and see if I don’t mean it.”
“And you’ll leave the house to me? I’ll make it just too lovely!”
“That’s a bargain.”
“Kiss me, then.”
With her lips parted and her eyes looking into his, with just that suspicion of a squint which made them so enticing, Jon thought: ‘It’s quite simple. The other thing’s absurd. Why, of course!’ He kissed her forehead and lips, but, even while he did so, he seemed to see Fleur trembling up at him, and to hear her words: “Au revoir! It WAS a jolly accident!”
“Let’s go and have a look at Rondavel,” he said.
In his box, when those two went in, the grey colt stood by the far wall, idly contemplating a carrot in the hand of Greenwater.
“Clean off!” said the latter over his shoulder: “It’s goodbye to Goodwood! The colt’s sick.”
What had Fleur said: “Au revoir at Goodwood, if not before!”
“Perhaps it’s just a megrim, Greenwater,” said Anne.
“No, Ma’am; the horse has got a temperature. Well, we’ll win the Middle Park Plate with him yet!”
Jon passed his hand over the colt’s quarter: “Poor old son! Funny! You can tell he’s not fit by the feel of his coat!”
“You can that,” replied Greenwater: “But where’s he got it from? There isn’t a sick horse that I know of anywhere about. If there’s anything in the world more perverse than horses! – We didn’t train him for Ascot, and he goes and wins. We meant him for Goodwood, and he’s gone amiss. Mr. Dartie wants me to give him some South African stuff I never heard of.”
“They have a lot of horse sickness out there,” said Jon.
“See,” said the trainer, stretching his hand up to the colt’s ears; “no kick in him at all! Looks like blackberry sickness out of season. I’d give a good deal to know how he picked it up.”
The two young people left him standing by the colt’s dejected head, his dark, hawk-like face thrust forward, as if trying to read the sensations within his favourite.
That night, Jon went up, bemused by Val’s opinions on Communism, the Labour Party, the qualities inherent in the off-spring of “Sleeping Dove,” with a dissertation on a horse-sickness in South Africa. He entered a dim bedroom. A white figure was standing at the window. It turned when he came near and flung its arms round him.
“Jon, you mustn’t stop loving me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because men do. Besides, it’s not the fashion to be faithful.”
“Bosh!” said Jon, gently; “it’s just as much the fashion as it ever was.”
“I’m glad we shan’t be going to Goodwood. I’m afraid of her. She’s so clever.”
“Fleur?”
“You WERE in love with her, Jon; I feel it in my bones. I wish you’d told me.”
Jon leaned beside her in the window.
“Why?” he said, dully.
She did not answer. They stood side by side in the breathless warmth, moths passed their faces, a night-jar churred in the silence, and now and then, from the stables, came the stamp of a sleepless horse. Suddenly Anne stretched out her hand:
“Over there–somewhere–she’s awake, and wanting you. I’m not happy, Jon.”
“Don’t be morbid, darling!”
“But I’m NOT happy, Jon.”
Like a great child–slim within his arm, her cheek pressed to his, her dark earlock tickling his neck! And suddenly her lips came round to his, vehement.
“Love me!”
But when she was asleep, Jon lay wakeful. Moonlight had crept in and there was a ghost in the room–a ghost in a Goya dress, twirling, holding out its skirts, beckoning with its eyes, and with its lips seeming to whisper: “Me, too! Me, too!”
And, raising himself on his elbow, he looked resolutely at the dark head beside him. No! There was–there should be nothing but that in the room! Reality–reality!
Chapter X.
THAT THING AND THIS THING
On the following Monday at breakfast Val said to Holly: Listen to this!
“DEAR DARTIE, –
“I think I can do you a good turn. I have some information that concerns your ‘Sleeping Dove’ colt and your stable generally, worth a great deal more than the fifty pounds which I hope you may feel inclined to pay for it. Are you coming up to town this week-end? If so, can I see you at the Brummell? Or I could come to Green Street if you prefer it. It’s really rather vital.
“Sincerely yours,
“AUBREY STAINFORD.”
“That fellow again!”
“Pay no attention, Val.”
“I don’t know,” said Val, glumly. “Some gang or other are taking altogether too much interest in the colt. Greenwater’s very uneasy. I’d better get to the bottom of it, if I can.”
“Consult your uncle, then, first. He’s still at your mother’s.”
Val made a wry face.
“Yes,” said Holly, “but he’ll know what you can do and what you can’t. You really mustn’t deal single-handed with people like that.”
“All right, then. There’s hanky-panky in the wind, I’m sure. Somebody knew all about the colt at Ascot.”
He took the morning train and arrived at his mother’s at lunch time. She and Annette were lunching-out, but Soames, who was lunching-in, crossed a cold hand with his nephew’s.
“Have you still got that young man and his wife staying with you?”
“Yes,” said Val.
“Isn’t he ever going to do anything?”
On being told that Jon was about to do something, Soames grunted.
“Farm–in England? What’s he want to do that for? He’ll only throw his money away. Much better go back to America, or some other new country. Why doesn’t he try South Africa? His half-brother died out there.”
“He won’t leave England again, Uncle Soames–seems to have developed quite a feeling for the old country.”
Soames masticated.
“Amateurs,” he said, “all the young Forsytes. How much has he got a year?”
“The same as Holly and her half-sister–only about two thousand, so long as his mother’s alive.”
Soames looked into his wineglass and took from it an infinitesimal piece of cork. His mother! She was in Paris again, he was told. SHE must have three thousand a year, now, at least. He remembered when she had nothing but a beggarly fifty pounds a year, and that fifty pounds too much, putting the thought of independence into her head. In Paris again! The Bois de Boulogne, that Green Niobe–all drinking water, he remembered it still, and the scene between them, there…
“What have YOU come up for?” he said to Val.
“This, Uncle Soames.”
Soames fixed on his nose the glasses he had just begun to need for reading purposes, read the letter, and returned it to his nephew.
“I’ve known impudence in my time, but this chap–!”
“What do you recommend me to do?”
“Pitch it into the waste-paper basket.”
Val shook his head.
“Stainford dropped in on me one day at Wansdon. I told him nothing; but you remember we couldn’t get more than fours at Ascot, and it was Rondavel’s first outing. And now the colt’s sick just before Goodwood; there’s a screw loose somewhere.”
“What do you think of doing, then?”
“I thought I’d see him, and that perhaps you’d like to be present, to keep me from making a fool of myself.”
“There’s something in that,” said Soames. “This fellow’s the coolest ruffian I ever came across.”
“He’s pedigree stock, Uncle Soames. Blood will tell.”
“H’m!” muttered Soames. “Well, have him here, if you must see him, but clear the room first and tell Smither to put away the umbrellas.”
Having seen Fleur and his grandson off to the sea that morning, he felt flat, especially as, since her departure, he had gathered from the map of Sussex that she would be quite near to Wansdon and the young man who was always now at the back of his thoughts. The notion of a return match with “this ruffian” Stainford, was, therefore, in the nature of a distraction. And, as soon as the messenger was gone, he took a chair whence he could see the street. On second thoughts he had not spoken about the umbrellas–it was not quite dignified; but he had counted them. The day was warm and rainy, and, through the open window of that ground-floor dining-room, the air of Green Street came in, wetted and a little charged with the scent of servants’ dinners.
“Here he is,” he said, suddenly, “languid beggar!”
Val crossed from the sideboard and stood behind his Uncle’s chair. Soames moved uneasily. This fellow and his nephew had been at College together, and had–goodness knew what other vices in common.
“By Jove!” he heard Val mutter: “He does look ill.”
The “languid beggar” wore the same dark suit and hat, and the same slow elegance that Soames had first noted on him;
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