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

see a fixed object, preferably dark, which suddenly changes shape and position. Jon saw the fixed object; it had dark eyes and passably dark hair, and changed its position, but never its shape. The knowledge that between him and that object there was already a secret understanding (however impossible to understand) thrilled him so that he waited feverishly, and began to copy out his poem⁠—which of course he would never dare to show her⁠—till the sound of horses’ hoofs roused him, and, leaning from his window, he saw her riding forth with Val. It was clear that she wasted no time, but the sight filled him with grief. He wasted his. If he had not bolted, in his fearful ecstasy, he might have been asked to go too. And from his window he sat and watched them disappear, appear again in the chine of the road, vanish, and emerge once more for a minute clear on the outline of the Down. “Silly brute!” he thought; “I always miss my chances.”

Why couldn’t he be self-confident and ready? And, leaning his chin on his hands, he imagined the ride he might have had with her. A weekend was but a weekend, and he had missed three hours of it. Did he know anyone except himself who would have been such a flat? He did not.

He dressed for dinner early, and was first down. He would miss no more. But he missed Fleur, who came down last. He sat opposite her at dinner, and it was terrible⁠—impossible to say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing, impossible to keep his eyes fixed on her in the only natural way; in sum, impossible to treat normally one with whom in fancy he had already been over the hills and far away; conscious, too, all the time, that he must seem to her, to all of them, a dumb gawk. Yes, it was terrible! And she was talking so well⁠—swooping with swift wing this way and that. Wonderful how she had learned an art which he found so disgustingly difficult. She must think him hopeless indeed!

His sister’s eyes, fixed on him with a certain astonishment, obliged him at last to look at Fleur; but instantly her eyes, very wide and eager, seeming to say, “Oh! for goodness’ sake!” obliged him to look at Val, where a grin obliged him to look at his cutlet⁠—that, at least, had no eyes, and no grin, and he ate it hastily.

“Jon is going to be a farmer,” he heard Holly say; “a farmer and a poet.”

He glanced up reproachfully, caught the comic lift of her eyebrow just like their father’s, laughed, and felt better.

Val recounted the incident of Monsieur Prosper Profond; nothing could have been more favourable, for, in relating it, he regarded Holly, who in turn regarded him, while Fleur seemed to be regarding with a slight frown some thought of her own, and Jon was really free to look at her at last. She had on a white frock, very simple and well made; her arms were bare, and her hair had a white rose in it. In just that swift moment of free vision, after such intense discomfort, Jon saw her sublimated, as one sees in the dark a slender white fruit-tree; caught her like a verse of poetry flashed before the eyes of the mind, or a tune which floats out in the distance and dies. He wondered giddily how old she was⁠—she seemed so much more self-possessed and experienced than himself. Why mustn’t he say they had met? He remembered suddenly his mother’s face; puzzled, hurt-looking, when she answered: “Yes, they’re relations, but we don’t know them.” Impossible that his mother, who loved beauty, should not admire Fleur if she did know her.

Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answered the advances of this newfound brother-in-law. As to riding (always the first consideration with Val) he could have the young chestnut, saddle and unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought it in. Jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he had gone up one in his host’s estimation.

“Fleur,” said Val, “can’t ride much yet, but she’s keen. Of course, her father doesn’t know a horse from a cartwheel. Does your Dad ride?”

“He used to; but now he’s⁠—you know, he’s⁠—” He stopped, so hating the word “old.” His father was old, and yet not old; no⁠—never!

“Quite,” muttered Val. “I used to know your brother up at Oxford, ages ago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in New College Gardens. That was a queer business,” he added, musing; “a good deal came out of it.”

Jon’s eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research, when his sister’s voice said gently from the doorway:

“Come along, you two,” and he rose, his heart pushing him toward something far more modern.

Fleur having declared that it was “simply too wonderful to stay indoors,” they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an old sundial threw a long shadow. Two box hedges at right angles, dark and square, barred off the orchard. Fleur turned through that angled opening.

“Come on!” she called. Jon glanced at the others, and followed. She was running among the trees like a ghost. All was lovely and foamlike above her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles. She vanished. He thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her standing quite still.

“Isn’t it jolly?” she cried, and Jon answered:

“Rather!”

She reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her fingers, said:

“I suppose I can call you Jon?”

“I should think so just.”

“All right! But you know there’s a feud between our families?”

Jon stammered: “Feud? Why?”

“It’s ever so romantic and silly. That’s why I pretended we hadn’t met. Shall we get up early tomorrow morning and go for a walk before breakfast and have it out? I hate being slow