He would like to see where that old chap had been born and bred before he emerged at the end of the eighteenth century and built the house of Forsyte. He would take Riggs, and go down, and if Fleur wouldn’t come–perhaps all the better! Be dull for her! Roots were nothing to young people. Yes, he would go and look at his roots while the weather was still fine. But first to put old Gradman in order. It would do him good to see the old fellow after this experience–he never left the office till half-past five. And, replacing the daguerreotype, Soames took a taxi to the Poultry, reflecting as he went. How difficult it was to keep things secure, with chaps like Elderson and this fellow Stainford always on the look-out. There was the country too, – no sooner was it out of one than it was into another mess; the coal strike would end when people began to feel the winter pinch, but something else would crop up, some war or disturbance or other. And then there was Fleur–she had fifty thousand of her own. Had he been wrong to make her so independent? And yet–the idea of controlling her through money had always been repulsive to him. Whatever she did–she was his only child, one might say his only love. If she couldn’t keep straight for love of her infant and himself, to say nothing of her husband–he couldn’t do it for her by threat of cutting her off or anything like that! Anyway, things were looking better with her, and perhaps he had been wrong.
The City had just begun to disgorge its daily life. Its denizens were scurrying out like rabbits; they didn’t scurry in like that, he would bet–work-shy, nowadays! Ten where it used to be nine; five where it used to be six. Still, with the telephone and one thing and another, they got through as much perhaps; and didn’t drink all the beer and sherry and eat all the chops they used to–a skimpier breed altogether, compared with that old boy whose effigy he had just been gazing at, a shadowy, narrow-headed lot, with a nervy, anxious look, as if they’d invested in life and found it a dropping stock. And not a tailcoat or a silk hat to be seen. Settling his own more firmly on his head, he got out at the familiar backwater off the Poultry, and entered the offices of Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte.
Old Gradman was still there, his broad, bent back just divested of its workaday coat.
“Ah! Mr. Soames, I was just going. Excuse me while I put on my coat.”
A frock-coat made in the year one, to judge by the cut of it!
“I go at half-past five now. There isn’t much to do as a rule. I like to get a nap before supper. It’s a pleasure to see you; you’re quite a stranger.”
“Yes,” said Soames. “I don’t come in much, but I’ve been thinking. If anything should happen to either or both of us, things would soon be in Queer Street, Gradman.”
“Aow! We won’t think about tha-at!”
“But we must; we’re neither of us young men.”
“Well, I’m not a chicken, but you’re NO age, Mr. Soames.”
“Seventy-one.”
“Dear, dear! It seems only the other day since I took you down to school at Slough. I remember what happened then better than I do what happened yesterday.”
“So do I, Gradman; and that’s a sign of age. Do you recollect that young chap who came here and told me about Elderson?”
“Aow, yes! Nice young feller. Buttermilk or some such name.”
“Butterfield. Well, I’m going to put him under you here, and I want you to get him au fait with everything.”
The old fellow seemed standing very still; his face, in its surround of grey beard and hair, was quite expressionless. Soames hurried on:
“It’s just precautionary. Some day you’ll be wanting to retire.”
Gradman lifted his hand with a heavy gesture.
“I’ll die in ‘arness, I ‘ope,” he said.
“That’s as you like, Gradman. You’ll remain as you always have been–in full charge; but you’ll have someone to rely on if you don’t feel well or want a holiday or what not.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Soames. To have a young man about the place–“
“A good young fellow, Gradman. And, for some reason, grateful to me and to my son-inlaw. He won’t give you any trouble. We none of us live for ever, you know.”
The old chap’s face had puckered queerly, his voice grated more than usual.
“It seems going to meet trouble. I’m quite up to the work, Mr. Soames.”
“Oh! I know how you feel,” said Soames. “I feel much the same myself, but Time stands still for no man, and we must look to the future.”
A sigh escaped from its grizzled prison.
“Well, Mr. Soames, if you’ve made up your mind, we’ll say no more; but I don’t like it.”
“Let me give you a lift to your station.”
“I’d rather walk, thank you; I like the air. I’ll just lock up.”
Soames perceived that not only drawers but feeling required locking-up, and went out.
Faithful old chap! One might go round to Polkingford’s and see if one could pick up that bit of plate.
In that emporium, so lined with silver and gold, that a man wondered whether anything had ever been sold there, Soames stood considering. Must be something that a man could swear by–nothing arty or elegant. He supposed the old chap didn’t drink punch–a chapel-goer! How about those camels in silvergilt with two humps each and candles coming out of them? “Joseph Gradman, in gratitude from the Forsyte family” engraved between the humps? Gradman lived somewhere near the Zoo. M’m! Camels? No! A bowl was better. If he didn’t drink punch he could put rose-leaves or flowers into it.
“I want a bowl,” he said, “a really good one.”
“Yes, sir, I think we have the very article.”
They always had the very article!
“How about this, sir–massive silver–a very chaste design.”
“Chaste!” said Soames. “I wouldn’t have it at a gift.”
“No, sir; it isn’t perhaps EXACTLY what you require. Now, this is a nice little bowl.”
“No, no; something plain and solid that would hold about a gallon.”
“Mr. Bankwait–come here a minute. This gentleman wants an old-fashioned bowl.”
“Yes, sir; I think we have the very thing.”
Soames uttered an indistinguishable sound.
“There isn’t much demand for the old-fashioned bowl; but we have a very fine second-hand, that used to be in the Rexborough family.”
“With arms on?” said Soames. “That won’t do. It must be new, or free from arms, anyway.”
“Ah! Then this will be what you want, sir.”
“My Lord!” said Soames; and raising his umbrella he pointed in the opposite direction. “What’s that thing?”
With a slightly chagrined air the shopman brought the article from its case.
Upon a swelling base, with a waist above, a silver bowl sprang generously forth. Soames flipped it with his finger.
“Pure silver, sir; and, as you see, very delicate edging; not too bacchanalian in design; the best gilt within. I should say the very thing you want.”
“It might do. What’s the price?”
The shopman examined a cabalistic sign.
“Thirty-five pounds, sir.”
“Quite enough,” said Soames. Whether it would please old Gradman, he didn’t know, but the thing was in good taste, and would not do the family discredit. “I’ll have that, then,” he said. “Engrave these words on it,” and he wrote them down. “Send it to that address, and the account to me; and don’t be long about it.”
“Very good, sir. You wouldn’t like those goblets? – they’re perfect in their way.”
“Nothing more!” said Soames. “Good evening!” And, handing the shopman his card, with a cold circular glance, he went out. That was off his mind!
September sun sprinkled him, threading his way West along Piccadilly into the Green Park. These gentle autumn days were very pleasant. He didn’t get hot, and he didn’t feel cold. And the plane-trees looked their best, just making up their minds to turn; nice trees, shapely. And, crossing the grassy spaces, Soames felt almost mellow. A rather more rapid step behind impinged on his consciousness. A voice said:
“Ah! Forsyte! Bound for the meeting at Michael’s? Might we go along together?”
Old Mont, perky and talkative as ever! There he went–off at once!
“What’s your view of all these London changes, Forsyte? You remember the peg-top trouser, and the crinoline–Leech in his prime–Old Pam on his horse–September makes one reminiscent.”
“It’s all on the surface,” said Soames.
“On the surface? I sometimes have that feeling. But there is a real change. It’s the difference between the Austen and Trollope novels and these modern fellows. There are no parishes left. Classes? Yes, but divided by man, not by God, as in Trollope’s day.”
Soames sniffed. The chap was always putting things in that sort of way!
“At the rate we’re going, they’ll soon not be divided at all,” he said.
“I think you’re wrong there, Forsyte. I should never be surprised to see the horse come back.”
“The horse,” muttered Soames; “what he got to do with it?”
“What we must look for,” said Sir Lawrence, swinging his cane, “is the millennium. Then we shall soon be developing individuality again. And the millennium’s nearly here.”
“I don’t in the least follow you,” said Soames.
“Education’s free; women have the vote; even the workman has or soon will have his car; the slums are doomed–thanks to you, Forsyte; amusement and news are in every home; the liberal Party’s up the spout; Free Trade’s a moveable feast; sport’s cheap and plentiful; dogma’s got the knock; so has the General Strike; Boy Scouts are increasing rapidly; dress is comfortable; and hair is short–it’s all millennial.”
“What’s all that got to do with the horse?”
“A symbol, my dear Forsyte. It’s impossible to standardize or socialize the horse.
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