And the water-nymph’s browned face and eyes and legs flitted torturingly in the tangled glades of her vision. She quieted down at last. At least, for a few minutes, she had had him to herself, heart against heart. That was something.
She rose late, pale and composed again. At ten o’clock the startling appearance of her father’s car completed the masking of her face. She greeted him with an emphatic gratitude quite unfelt.
“Dad! How lovely! Where have you sprung from?”
“Nettlefold. I spent the night there.”
“At the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Why! I was there myself last night at a dance!”
“Oh!” said Soames, “that fancy dress affair–they told me of it. Pleasant?”
“Not very; I left early. If I’d known you were there! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down to fetch us home?”
“It just came into my mind that it was better for the boy than the train.”
And Fleur could not tell what he had seen, or if, indeed, he had seen anything.
Fortunately, during the journey up, Kit had much to say, and Soames dozed, very tired after a night of anxiety, indecision, and little sleep. The aspect of the South Square house, choice and sophisticated, and the warmth of Michael’s greeting, quite beautifully returned by Fleur, restored to him at least a measure of equanimity. Here, at all events, was no unhappy home; that counted much in the equation of a future into which he could no longer see.
After lunch he went up to Michael’s study to discuss slum conversion. Confronted, while they were talking, with Fleur’s water-colour, Soames rediscovered the truth that individuals are more interesting than the collection of them called the State. Not national welfare, but the painter of those passion fruits, possessed his mind. How prevent her from eating them?
“Yes, sir. That’s really quite good, isn’t it? I wish Fleur would take seriously to water-colour work.”
Soames started.
“I wish she’d take seriously to anything, and keep her mind occupied.”
Michael looked at him. ‘Rather like a dog,’ Soames thought, ‘trying to understand.’ Suddenly, he saw the young man wet his lips.
“You’ve got something to tell me, sir, I believe. I remember what you said to me some weeks ago. Is it anything to do with that?”
“Yes,” answered Soames, watching his eyes. “Don’t take it too much to heart, but I’ve reason to believe she’s never properly got over the feeling she used to have. I don’t know how much you’ve heard about that boy and girl affair.”
“Pretty well all, I think.” Again he saw Michael moisten his lips.
“Oh! From her?”
“No. Fleur’s never said a word. From Miss June Forsyte.”
“That woman! SHE’S sure to have plumped it all out. But Fleur’s fond of you.”
“I belong.”
It seemed to Soames a queer way of putting it; pathetic, somehow!
“Well,” he said, “I’ve not made a sign. Perhaps you’d like to know how I formed my view.”
“No, sir.”
Soames glanced quickly at him and away again. This was a bitter moment, no doubt, for young Michael! Was one precipitating a crisis which one felt, deeply yet vaguely, had to be reached and passed? He himself knew how to wait, but did this modern young man, so feather-pated and scattery? Still, he was a gentleman. That at least had become a cardinal belief with Soames. And it was a comfort to him, looking at the “White Monkey,” on the wall, who had so slender a claim to such a title.
“The only thing,” he muttered, “is to wait–”
“Not ‘and see,’ sir; anything but that. I can wait and not see, or I can have the whole thing out.”
“No,” said Soames, with emphasis, “don’t have it out! I may be mistaken. There’s everything against it; she knows which side her bread is buttered.”
“Don’t!” said Michael, and got up.
“Now, now,” murmured Soames, “I’ve upset you. Everything depends on keeping your head.”
Michael emitted an unhappy little laugh.
“YOU can’t go round the world again, sir. Perhaps I’D better, this time, and alone.”
Soames looked at him. “This won’t do,” he said. “She’s got a strong affection for you; it’s just feverishness, if it’s anything. Take it like a man, and keep quiet.” He was talking to the young man’s back now, and found it easier. “She was always a spoiled child, you know; spoiled children get things into their heads, but it doesn’t amount to anything. Can’t you get her interested in these slums?”
Michael turned round.
“How far has it gone?”
“There you go!” said Soames. “Not any way so far as I know. I only happened to see her dancing with him last night at that hotel, and noticed her–her expression.”
The word “eyes” had seemed somehow too extravagant.
“There’s always his wife,” he added, quickly, “she’s an attractive little thing; and he’s going to farm down there–they tell me. That’ll take him all his time. How would it be if I took Fleur to Scotland for August and September? With this strike on there’ll be some places in the market still.”
“No, sir. That’s only putting off the evil day. It must go to a finish, one way or the other.”
Soames did not answer for some time.
“It’s never any good to meet trouble half way,” he said at last. “You young people are always in a hurry. One can do things, but one can’t undo them. It’s not,” he went on, shyly, “as if this were anything new–an unfortunate old business revived for the moment; it’ll die away again as it did before, if it’s properly left alone. Plenty of exercise, and keep her mind well occupied.”
The young man’s expression was peculiar.
“And have you found that successful, sir, in your experience?” it seemed to say. That woman June had been blurting out his past, he shouldn’t wonder!
“Promise me, anyway, to keep what I’ve said to yourself, and do nothing rash.”
Michael shook his head. “I can’t promise anything; it must depend, but I’ll remember your advice, sir.”
And with this Soames had to be content.
Acting on that instinct, born of love, which guided him in his dealings with Fleur, he bade her an almost casual farewell, and next day returned to Mapledurham. He detailed to Annette everything that was not of importance, for to tell her what was would never do.
His home on these last days of July was pleasurable; and almost at once he went out fishing in the punt. There, in contemplation of his line and the gliding water, green with reflection, he felt rested. Bullrushes, water lilies, dragon flies, and the cows in his own fields, the incessant cooing of the wood pigeons–with their precious “Take TWO cows, David!”–the distant buzz of his gardener’s lawn mower, the splash of a water rat, shadows lengthening out from the poplars and the willow-trees, the scent of grass and of elder flowers bright along the banks, and the slow drift of the white river clouds–peaceful–very peaceful; and something of Nature’s calm entered his soul, so that the disappearance of his float recalled him to reality with a jerk.
‘It’ll be uneatable,’ he thought, winding at his line.
Chapter II.
OCCUPYING THE MIND
Comedy the real thing? Was it? Michael wondered. In saying to Soames that he could not wait and see, he had expressed a very natural abhorrence. Watch, spy, calculate–impossible! To go to Fleur and ask for a frank exposure of her feelings was what he would have liked to do; but he could not help knowing the depth of his father-inlaw’s affection and concern, and the length of his head; and he had sufficient feeling to hesitate before imperilling what was as much ‘old Forsyte’s’ happiness as his own. The ‘old boy’ had behaved so decently in pulling up his roots and going round the world with Fleur, that every consideration was due to him. It remained, then, to wait without attempting to see–hardest of all courses because least active. “Keep her mind well occupied!” So easy! Recollecting his own prenuptial feelings, he did not see how it was to be done. And Fleur’s was a particularly difficult mind to occupy with anything except that on which she had set her heart. The slums? No! She possessed one of those eminently sane natures which rejected social problems, as fruitless and incalculable. An immediate job, like the canteen, in which she could shine a little–she would perform beautifully; but she would never work for a remote object, without shining! He could see her clear eyes looking at the slums as they had looked at Foggartism, and his experiment with the out-of-works. He might take her to see Hilary and Aunt May, but it would be futile in the end.
Night brought the first acute trouble. What were to be his relations with her, if her feelings were really engaged elsewhere? To wait and not see meant continuation of the married state. He suspected Soames of having wished to counsel that. Whipped by longing, stung and half numbed by a jealousy he must not show, and unwishful to wound her, he waited for a sign, feeling as if she must know why he was waiting. He received it, and was glad, but it did not convince him. Still!
He woke much lighter in spirit.
At breakfast he asked her what she would like to do, now that she was back and the season over. Did this slum scheme amuse her at all, because, if so, there was a lot to do in it; she would find Hilary and May great sports.
“Rather! Anything really useful, Michael!”
He took her round to the Meads. The result was better than he had hoped.
For his uncle and aunt were human buildings the like of which Fleur had not yet encountered–positively fashioned, concreted in tradition, but freely exposed to sun and air, tiled with taste, and windowed with humour. Michael, with something of their ‘make-up,’ had neither their poise, nor active certainty.
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