The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (acx book reading txt) 📕

“Come along!” he said.

She did not move.

“Didn’t you hear, Father? Isn’t it queer⁠—our name’s the same. Are we cousins?”

“What’s that?” he said. “Forsyte? Distant, perhaps.”

“My name’s Jolyon, sir. Jon, for short.”

“Oh! Ah!” said Soames. “Yes. Distant. How are you? Very good of you. Goodbye!”

He moved on.

“Thanks awfully,” Fleur was saying. “Au revoir!”

“Au revoir!” he heard the boy reply.

Emerging from the “pastry-cook’s,” Soames’ first impulse was to vent his nerves by saying to his daughter: “Dropping your handkerchief!” to which her reply might well be: “I picked that up from you!” His second impulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie. But she would surely question him. He gave her a sidelong look, and found she was giving him the same. She said softly:

“Why don’t you like those cousins, Father?” Soames lifted the corner of his lip.

“What made you think that?”

“Cela se voit.”

“That sees itself!” What a way of putting it! After twenty years of a French wife Soames had still little sympathy with her language; a theatrical affair and connected in his mind with all the refinements of domestic irony.

“How?” he asked.

“You must know them; and you didn’t make a sign. I saw them looking at you.”

“I’ve never seen the boy in my life,” replied Soames with perfect truth.

“No; but you’ve seen the others, dear.”

Soames gave her another look. What had she picked up? Had her Aunt Winifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking? Every breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, and Winifred warned many times that he wouldn’t have a whisper of it reach her for the world. So far as she ought to know, he had never been married before. But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearness often almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence.

“Well,” he said, “your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel. The two families don’t know each other.”

“How romantic!”

“Now, what does she mean by that?” he thought. The word was to him extravagant and dangerous⁠—it was as if she had said: “How jolly!”

“And they’ll continue not to know each, other,” he added, but instantly regretted the challenge in those words. Fleur was smiling. In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the very thing to excite her wilfulness. Then, recollecting the expression on Irene’s face, he breathed again.

“What sort of a quarrel?” he heard Fleur say.

“About a house. It’s ancient history for you. Your grandfather died the day you were born. He was ninety.”

“Ninety? Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?”

“I don’t know,” said Soames. “They’re all dispersed now. The old ones are dead, except Timothy.”

Fleur clasped her hands.

“Timothy? Isn’t that delicious?”

“Not at all,” said Soames. It offended him that she should think “Timothy” delicious⁠—a kind of insult to his breed. This new generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious. “You go and see the old boy. He might want to prophesy.” Ah! If Timothy could see the disquiet England of his great-nephews and great-nieces, he would certainly give tongue. And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes⁠—George was still in the window, with the same pink paper in his hand.

“Where is Robin Hill, Father?”

Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! What did she want to know for?

“In Surrey,” he muttered; “not far from Richmond. Why?”

“Is the house there?”

“What house?”

“That they quarrelled about.”

“Yes. But what’s all that to do with you? We’re going home tomorrow⁠—you’d better be thinking about your frocks.”

“Bless you! They’re all thought about. A family feud? It’s like the Bible, or Mark Twain⁠—awfully exciting. What did you do in the feud, Father?”

“Never you mind.”

“Oh! But if I’m to keep it up?”

“Who said you were to keep it up?”

“You, darling.”

“I? I said it had nothing to do with you.”

“Just what I think, you know; so that’s all right.”

She was too sharp for him; fine, as Annette sometimes called her. Nothing for it but to distract her attention.

“There’s a bit of rosaline point in here,” he said, stopping before a shop, “that I thought you might like.”

When he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, Fleur said:

“Don’t you think that boy’s mother is the most beautiful woman of her age you’ve ever seen?”

Soames shivered. Uncanny, the way she stuck to it!

“I don’t know that I noticed her.”

“Dear, I saw the corner of your eye.”

“You see everything⁠—and a great deal more, it seems to me!”

“What’s her husband like? He must be your first cousin, if your fathers were brothers.”

“Dead, for all I know,” said Soames, with sudden vehemence. “I haven’t seen him for twenty years.”

“What was he?”

“A painter.”

“That’s quite jolly.”

The words: “If you want to please me you’ll put those people out of your head,” sprang to Soames’ lips, but he choked them back⁠—he must not let her see his feelings.

“He once insulted me,” he said.

Her quick eyes rested on his face.

“I see! You didn’t avenge it, and it rankles. Poor Father! You let me have a go!”

It was really like lying in the dark with a mosquito hovering above his face. Such pertinacity in Fleur was new to him, and, as they reached the hotel, he said grimly:

“I did my best. And that’s enough about these people. I’m going up till dinner.”

“I shall sit here.”

With a parting look at her extended in a chair⁠—a look half-resentful, half-adoring⁠—Soames moved into the lift and was transported to their suite on the fourth floor. He stood by the window of the sitting-room which gave view over Hyde Park, and drummed a finger on its pane. His feelings were confused, tetchy, troubled. The throb of that old wound, scarred over by Time and new interests, was mingled with displeasure and anxiety, and a slight pain in his chest where that nougat stuff had disagreed. Had Annette come in? Not