Soames sniffed. The thing smelled delicious. He held it to the light. Its greeny yellow tinge, its network of threads–quite Chinese! Was old Gradman going to throw its rind about, like that white monkey?
He was still holding it when a voice said:
“Aoh! I wasn’t expecting you today, Mr. Soames. I was going early; my wife’s got a little party.”
“So I see!” said Soames, restoring the melon to the table. “There’s nothing for you to do at the moment, but I came in to tell you to draw my resignations from the Forsyte trusts.”
The old chap’s face was such a study that he could not help a smile.
“You can keep me in Timothy’s; but the rest must go. Young Roger can attend to them. He’s got nothing to do.”
A gruff and deprecating: “Dear me! They won’t like it!” irritated Soames.
“Then they must lump it! I want a rest.”
He did not mean to enter into the reason–Gradman could read it for himself in the Financial News, or whatever he took in.
“Then I shan’t be seeing you so often, Mr. Soames; there’s never anything in Mr. Timothy’s. Dear me! I’m quite upset. Won’t you keep your sister’s?”
Soames looked at the old fellow, and compunction stirred within him–as ever, at any sign that he was appreciated.
“Well,” he said, “keep me in hers; I shall be in about my own affairs, of course. Good afternoon, Gradman. That’s a fine melon.”
He waited for no more words. The old chap! HE couldn’t last much longer, anyway, sturdy as he looked! Well, they would find it hard to match him!
On reaching the Poultry, he decided to go to Green Street and see Winifred–queerly and suddenly homesick for the proximity of Park Lane, for the old secure days, the efflorescent privacy of his youth under the wings of James and Emily. Winifred alone represented for him now, the past; her solid nature never varied, however much she kept up with the fashions.
He found her, a little youthful in costume, drinking China tea, which she did not like–but what could one do, other teas were ‘common!’ She had taken to a parrot. Parrots were coming in again. The bird made a dreadful noise. Whether under its influence or that of the China tea–which, made in the English way, of a brand the Chinese grew for foreign stomachs, always upset him–he was soon telling her the whole story.
When he had finished, Winifred said comfortably:
“Well, Soames, I think you did splendidly; it serves them right!”
Conscious that his narrative must have presented the truth as it would not appear to the public, Soames muttered:
“That’s all very well; you’ll find a very different version in the financial papers.”
“Oh! but nobody reads them. I shouldn’t worry. Do you do Coue? Such a comfortable little man, Soames; I went to hear him. It’s rather a bore sometimes, but it’s quite the latest thing.”
Soames became inaudible–he never confessed a weakness.
“And how,” asked Winifred, “is Fleur’s little affair?”
“‘Little affair!’” echoed a voice above his head. That bird! It was clinging to the brocade curtains, moving its neck up and down.
“Polly!” said Winifred: “don’t be naughty!”
“Soames!” said the bird.
“I’ve taught him that. Isn’t he rather sweet?”
“No,” said Soames. “I should shut him up; he’ll spoil your curtains.”
The vexation of the afternoon had revived within him suddenly. What was life, but parrotry? What did people see of the real truth? They just repeated each other, like a lot of shareholders, or got their precious sentiments out of The Daily Liar. For one person who took a line, a hundred followed on, like sheep!
“You’ll stay and dine, dear boy!” said Winifred.
Yes! he would dine. Had she a melon, by any chance? He’d no inclination to go and sit opposite his wife at South Square. Ten to one Fleur would not be down. And as to young Michael–the fellow had been there that afternoon and witnessed the whole thing; he’d no wish to go over it again.
He was washing his hands for dinner, when a maid, outside, said:
“You’re wanted on the ‘phone, sir.”
Michael’s voice came over the wire, strained and husky:
“That you, sir?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Fleur. It began this afternoon at three. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“What?” cried Soames. “How? Quick!”
“They say it’s all normal. But it’s so awful. They say quite soon, now.” The voice broke off.
“My God!” said Soames. “My hat!”
By the front door the maid was asking: “Shall you be back to dinner, sir?”
“Dinner!” muttered Soames, and was gone.
He hurried along, almost running, his eyes searching for a cab. None to be had, of course! None to be had! Opposite the ‘Iseeum’ Club he got one, open in the fine weather after last night’s storm. That storm! He might have known. Ten days before her time. Why on earth hadn’t he gone straight back, or at least telephoned where he would be? All that he had been through that afternoon was gone like smoke. Poor child! Poor little thing! And what about twilight sleep? Why hadn’t he been there? He might have–nature! Damn it! Nature–as if it couldn’t leave even her alone!
“Get on!” he said, leaning out: “Double fare!”
Past the Connoisseurs, and the Palace, and Whitehall; past all preserves whence nature was excluded, deep in the waters of primitive emotion Soames sat, grey, breathless. Past Big Ben–eight o’clock! Five hours! Five hours of it!
“Let it be over!” he muttered aloud: “Let it be over, God!”
Chapter XIV.
ON THE RACK
When his father-inlaw bowed to the Chairman and withdrew, Michael had restrained a strong desire to shout: “Bravo!” Who’d have thought the ‘old man’ could let fly like that? He had ‘got their goats’ with a vengeance. Quite an interval of fine mixed vociferation followed, before his neighbour, Mr. Sawdry, made himself heard at last.
“Now that the director implicated has resigned, I shall ‘ave pleasure in proposing a vote of confidence in the rest of the Board.”
Michael saw his father rise, a little finicky and smiling, and bow to the Chairman. “I take my resignation as accepted also; if you permit me, I will join Mr. Forsyte in retirement.”
Some one was saying:
“I shall be glad to second that vote of confidence.”
And brushing past the knees of Mr. Sawdry, Michael sought the door. From there he could see that nearly every hand was raised in favour of the vote of confidence; and with the thought: ‘Thrown to the shareholders!’ he made his way out of the hotel. Delicacy prevented him from seeking out those two. They had saved their dignity; but the dogs had had the rest.
Hurrying west, he reflected on the rough ways of justice. The shareholders had a grievance, of course; and some one had to get it in the neck to satisfy their sense of equity. They had pitched on Old Forsyte, who, of all, was least to blame; for if Bart had only held his tongue, they would certainly have lumped him into the vote of confidence. All very natural and illogical; and four o’clock already!
‘Counterfeits!’ The old feeling for Wilfrid was strong in him this day of publication. One must do everything one could for his book–poor old son! There simply must not be a frost.
After calling in at two big booksellers, he made for his club, and closeted himself in the telephone booth. In old days they ‘took cabs and went about.’ Ringing-up was quicker–was it? With endless vexations, he tracked down Sibley, Nazing, Upshire, Master, and half-a-dozen others of the elect. He struck a considered note likely to move them. The book–he said–was bound to ‘get the goat of the old guard and the duds generally’; it would want a bit of drum-beating from the cognoscenti. To each of them he appealed as the only one whose praise really mattered. “If you haven’t reviewed the book, old chap, will you? It’s you who count, of course.” And to each he added: “I don’t care two straws whether it sells, but I do want old Wilfrid to get his due.” And he meant it. The publisher in Michael was dead during that hour in the telephone booth, the friend alive and kicking hard. He came out with sweat running down his forehead, quite exhausted; and it was half-past five.
‘Cup of tea–and home!’ he thought. He reached his door at six. Ting-a-ling, absolutely unimportant, was cowering in the far corner of the hall.
“What’s the matter, old man?”
A sound from above, which made his blood run cold, answered–a long, low moaning.
“Oh, God!” he gasped, and ran upstairs.
Annette met him at the door. He was conscious of her speaking in French, of being called “mon cher,” of the words “vers trois heures… The doctor says one must not worry–all goes for the best.” Again that moan, and the door shut in his face; she was gone. Michael remained standing on the rug with perfectly cold sweat oozing from him, and his nails dug deep into his palms.
‘This is how one becomes a father!’ he thought: ‘This is how I became a son!’ That moaning! He could not bear to stay there, and he could not bear to go away. It might be hours, yet! He kept repeating to himself: “One must not worry–must not worry!” How easily said! How meaningless! His brain, his heart, ranging for relief, lighted on the strangest relief which could possibly have come to him. Suppose this child being born, had not been his–had been–been Wilfrid’s; how would he have been feeling, here, outside this door? It might–it might so easily have been–since nothing was sacred, now! Nothing except–yes, just that which was dearer than oneself–just that which was in there, moaning. He could not bear it on the rug, and went downstairs. Across and across the copper floor, a cigar in his mouth, he strode in vague, rebellious agony.
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