Keep a sharp eye open, and go on as they were! No good stirring hornets’ nests! He had got so far in thought and progress, when a voice said:
“Well met, Forsyte! Are you going my way?”
“Old Mont,” coming down the steps of ‘Snooks’!
“I don’t know,” said Soames.
“I’m off to the Aeroplane for lunch.”
“That new-fangled place?”
“Rising, you know, Forsyte–rising.”
“I’ve just been seeing Elderson. He’s bought two copies of your book.”
“Dear me! Poor fellow!”
Soames smiled faintly. “That’s what he said of you! And who d’you think sold them to him? Young Butterfield.”
“Is he still alive?”
“He was, this morning.”
Sir Lawrence’s face took on a twist:
“I’ve been thinking, Forsyte. They tell me Elderson keeps two women.”
Soames stared. The idea was attractive; would account for everything.
“My wife says it’s one too many, Forsyte. What do you say?”
“I?” said Soames. “I only know the chap’s as cool as a cucumber. I’m going in here. Good-bye!”
One could get no help from that baronet fellow; he couldn’t take anything seriously. Two women! At Elderson’s age! What a life! There were always men like that, not content with one thing at a time–living dangerously. It was mysterious to him. You might look and look into chaps like that, and see nothing. And yet, there they were! He crossed the hall, and went into the room where connoisseurs were lunching. Taking down the menu at the service table, he ordered himself a dozen oysters; but, suddenly remembering that the month contained no “r,” changed them to a fried sole.
Chapter VIII.
LEVANTED
“No, dear heart, Nature’s ‘off’!”
“How d’you mean, Michael?”
“Well, look at the Nature novels we get. Sedulous stuff pitched on Cornish cliffs or Yorkshire moors–ever been on a Yorkshire moor? – it comes off on you; and the Dartmoor brand. Gosh! Dartmoor, where the passions come from–ever been on Dartmoor? Well, they don’t, you know. And the South Sea bunch! Oh, la, la! And the poets, the splash-and-splutter school don’t get within miles of Nature. The village idiot school is a bit better, certainly. After all, old Wordsworth made Nature, and she’s a bromide. Of course, there’s raw nature with the small ‘n’; but if you come up against that, it takes you all your time to keep alive–the Nature we gas about is licensed, nicely blended and bottled. She’s not modern enough for contemporary style.”
“Oh! well, let’s go on the river, anyway, Michael. We can have tea at ‘The Shelter.’”
They were just reaching what Michael always called ‘this desirable residence,’ when Fleur leaned forward, and, touching his knee, said:
“I’m not half as nice to you as you deserve, Michael.”
“Good Lord, darling! I thought you were.”
“I know I’m selfish; especially just now.”
“It’s only the eleventh baronet.”
“Yes; it’s a great responsibility. I only hope he’ll be like you.”
Michael slid in to the landing-stage, shipped his sculls, and sat down beside her.
“If he’s like me, I shall disown him. But sons take after their mothers.”
“I meant in character. I want him frightfully to be cheerful and not restless, and have the feeling that life’s worth while.”
Michael stared at her lips–they were quivering; at her cheek, slightly browned by the afternoon’s sunning; and, bending sideways, he put his own against it.
“He’ll be a sunny little cuss, I’m certain.”
Fleur shook her head.
“I don’t want him greedy and self-centred; it’s in my blood, you know. I can see it’s ugly, but I can’t help it. How do you manage not to be?”
Michael ruffled his hair with his free hand.
“The sun isn’t too hot for you, is it, ducky?”
“No. Seriously, Michael–how?”
“But I AM. Look at the way I want you. Nothing will cure me of that.”
A slight pressure of her cheek on his own was heartening, and he said:
“Do you remember coming down the garden one night, and finding me in a boat just here? When you’d gone, I stood on my head, to cool it. I was on my uppers; I didn’t think I’d got an earthly–” He stopped. No! He would not remind her, but that was the night when she said: “Come again when I know I can’t get my wish!” The unknown cousin!
Fleur said quietly:
“I was a pig to you, Michael, but I was awfully unhappy. That’s gone. It’s gone at last; there’s nothing wrong now, except my own nature.”
Conscious that his feelings betrayed the period, Michael said:
“Oh! if that’s all! What price tea?”
They went up the lawn arm-inarm. Nobody was at home–Soames in London, Annette at a garden party. “We’ll have tea on the verandah, please,” said Fleur. Sitting there, happier than he ever remembered being, Michael conceded a certain value to Nature, to the sunshine stealing down, the scent of pinks and roses, the sighing in the aspens. Annette’s pet doves were cooing; and, beyond the quietly-flowing river, the spires of poplar trees rose along the further bank. But, after all, he was only enjoying them because of the girl beside him, whom he loved to touch and look at, and because, for the first time, he felt as if she did not want to get up and flutter off to some one or something else. Curious that there could be, outside oneself, a being who completely robbed the world of its importance, ‘snooped,’ as it were, the whole ‘bag of tricks’–and she one’s own wife! Very curious, considering what one was! He heard her say:
“Of course, mother’s a Catholic; only, living with father down here, she left off practising. She didn’t even bother me much. I’ve been thinking, Michael–what shall we do about HIM?”
“Let him rip.”
“I don’t know. He must be taught something, because of going to school. The Catholics, you know, really do get things out of their religion.”
“Yes; they go it blind; it’s the only logical way now.”
“I think having no religion makes one feel that nothing matters.”
Michael suppressed the words: ‘We could bring him up as a sun-worshipper,’ and said, instead:
“It seems to me that whatever he’s taught will only last till he can think for himself; then he’ll settle down to what suits him.”
“But what do YOU think about things, Michael? You’re as good as any one I know.”
“Gosh!” murmured Michael, strangely flattered: “Is that so?”
“What DO you think? Be serious!”
“Well, darling, doctrinally nothing–which means, of course, that I haven’t got religion. I believe one has to play the game–but that’s ethics.”
“But surely it’s a handicap not to be able to rely on anything but oneself? If there’s something to be had out of any form of belief, one might as well have it.”
Michael smiled, but not on the surface.
“You’re going to do just as you like about the eleventh baronet, and I’m going to abet you. But considering his breeding–I fancy he’ll be a bit of a sceptic.”
“But I don’t WANT him to be. I’d rather he were snug, and convinced and all that. Scepticism only makes one restless.”
“No white monkey in him? Ah! I wonder! It’s in the air, I guess. The only thing will be to teach him a sense of other people, as young as possible, with a slipper, if necessary.”
Fleur gave him a clear look, and laughed.
“Yes,” she said: “Mother used to try, but father wouldn’t let her.”
They did not reach home till past eight o’clock.
“Either your father’s here, or mine,” said Michael, in the hall; “there’s a prehistoric hat.”
“It’s Dad’s. His is grey inside. Bart’s is buff.”
In the Chinese room Soames indeed was discovered, with an opened letter, and Ting-a-ling at his feet. He held the letter out to Michael, without a word.
There was no date, and no address; Michael read:
“DEAR MR. FORSYTE. – Perhaps you will be good enough to tell the Board at the meeting on Tuesday that I am on my way to immunity from the consequences of any peccadillo I may have been guilty of. By the time you receive this, I shall be there. I have always held that the secret of life, no less than that of business, is to know when not to stop. It will be no use to proceed against me, for my person will not be attachable, as I believe you call it in the law, and I have left no property behind. If your object was to corner me, I cannot congratulate you on your tactics. If, on the other hand, you inspired that young man’s visit as a warning that you were still pursuing the matter, I should like to add new thanks to those which I expressed when I saw you a few days ago.
“Believe me, dear Mr. Forsyte,
“Faithfully yours,
“ROBERT ELDERSON.”
Michael said cheerfully:
“Happy release! Now you’ll feel safer, sir.”
Soames passed his hand over his face, evidently wiping off its expression. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “This dog’s been keeping me company.”
Michael admired him at that moment. He was obviously swallowing his ‘grief,’ to save Fleur.
“Fleur’s a bit tired,” he said. “We’ve been on the river, and had tea at ‘The Shelter’; Madame wasn’t in. Let’s have dinner at once, Fleur.”
Fleur had picked up Ting-a-ling, and was holding her face out of reach of his avid tongue.
“Sorry you’ve had to wait, Dad,” she murmured, behind the yellow fur; “I’m just going to wash; shan’t change.”
When she had gone, Soames reached for the letter.
“A pretty kettle of fish!” he muttered. “Where it’ll end, I can’t tell!”
“But isn’t this the end, sir?”
Soames stared. These young people! Here he was, faced with a public scandal, which might lead to he didn’t know what–the loss of his name in the city, the loss of his fortune, perhaps;
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