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

“Yes, sir; but I’m sure it’s the same, because me and Cook witnessed, you remember, and there’s our names on it still, and we’ve only done it once.”

“Quite,” said Soames. He did remember. Smither and Jane had been proper witnesses, having been left nothing in the will that they might have no interest in Timothy’s death. It had been⁠—he fully admitted⁠—an almost improper precaution, but Timothy had wished it, and, after all, Aunt Hester had provided for them amply.

“Very well,” he said; “goodbye, Smither. Look after him, and if he should say anything at any time, put it down, and let me know.”

“Oh! yes, Mr. Soames; I’ll be sure to do that. It’s been such a pleasant change to see you. Cook will be quite excited when I tell her.”

Soames shook her hand and went downstairs. He stood for fully two minutes by the hatstand whereon he had hung his hat so many times. “So it all passes,” he was thinking; “passes and begins again. Poor old chap!” And he listened, if perchance the sound of Timothy trailing his hobbyhorse might come down the well of the stairs; or some ghost of an old face show over the bannisters, and an old voice say: “Why, it’s dear Soames, and we were only saying that we hadn’t seen him for a week!”

Nothing⁠—nothing! Just the scent of camphor, and dust-motes in a sunbeam through the fanlight over the door. The little old house! A mausoleum! And, turning on his heel, he went out, and caught his train.

“His foot’s upon his native heath,
His name’s⁠—Val Dartie.”

With some such feeling did Val Dartie, in the fortieth year of his age, set out that same Thursday morning very early from the old manor-house he had taken on the north side of the Sussex Downs. His destination was Newmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn of 1899, when he stole over from Oxford for the Cambridgeshire. He paused at the door to give his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port into his pocket.

“Don’t overtire your leg, Val, and don’t bet too much.”

With the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes looking into his, Val felt both leg and pocket safe. He should be moderate; Holly was always right⁠—she had a natural aptitude. It did not seem so remarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to others, that⁠—half Dartie as he was⁠—he should have been perfectly faithful to his young first cousin during the twenty years since he married her romantically out in the Boer War; and faithful without any feeling of sacrifice or boredom⁠—she was so quick, so slyly always a little in front of his mood. Being first cousins they had decided, rather needlessly, to have no children; and, though a little sallower, she had kept her looks, her slimness, and the colour of her dark hair. Val particularly admired the life of her own she carried on, besides carrying on his, and riding better every year. She kept up her music, she read an awful lot⁠—novels, poetry, all sorts of stuff. Out on their farm in Cape colony she had looked after all the “nigger” babies and women in a miraculous manner. She was, in fact, clever; yet made no fuss about it, and had no “side.” Though not remarkable for humility, Val had come to have the feeling that she was his superior, and he did not grudge it⁠—a great tribute. It might be noted that he never looked at Holly without her knowing of it, but that she looked at him sometimes unawares.

He had kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so on the platform, though she was going to the station with him, to drive the car back. Tanned and wrinkled by Colonial weather and the wiles inseparable from horses, and handicapped by the leg which, weakened in the Boer War, had probably saved his life in the War just past, Val was still much as he had been in the days of his courtship; his smile as wide and charming, his eyelashes, if anything, thicker and darker, his eyes screwed up under them, as bright a grey, his freckles rather deeper, his hair a little grizzled at the sides. He gave the impression of one who has lived actively with horses in a sunny climate.

Twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said:

“When is young Jon coming?”

“Today.”

“Is there anything you want for him? I could bring it down on Saturday.”

“No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur⁠—one-forty.”

Val gave the Ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new country on bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven at every hole.

“That’s a young woman who knows her way about,” he said. “I say, has it struck you?”

“Yes,” said Holly.

“Uncle Soames and your Dad⁠—bit awkward, isn’t it?”

“She won’t know, and he won’t know, and nothing must be said, of course. It’s only for five days, Val.”

“Stable secret! Righto!” If Holly thought it safe, it was. Glancing slyly round at him, she said: “Did you notice how beautifully she asked herself?”

“No!”

“Well, she did. What do you think of her, Val?”

“Pretty and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got her monkey up, I should say.”

“I’m wondering,” Holly murmured, “whether she is the modern young woman. One feels at sea coming home into all this.”

“You? You get the hang of things so quick.”

Holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket.

“You keep one in the know,” said Val encouraged. “What do you think of that Belgian fellow, Profond?”

“I think he’s rather a good devil.”

Val grinned.

“He seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family. In fact, our family is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying a Frenchwoman, and your Dad marrying Soames’ first. Our grandfathers would have had fits!”

“So would anybody’s, my dear.”

“This car,” Val said suddenly, “wants rousing;