She stood up. Mr. Settlewhite was speaking to her.
Chapter VII.
‘FED UP’
Guided by him into a room designed to shelter witnesses, Marjorie Ferrar looked at her lawyer.
“Well?”
“An unfortunate refusal, Miss Ferrar–very. I’m afraid the effect on the jury may be fatal. If we can settle it now, I should certainly say we’d better.”
“It’s all the same to me.”
“In that case you may take it I shall settle. I’ll go and see Sir Alexander and Mr. Bullfry at once.”
“How do I get out quietly?”
“Down those stairs. You’ll find cabs in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Excuse me,” he made her a grave little bow and stalked away.
Marjorie Ferrar did not take a cab; she walked. If her last answer had been fatal, on the whole she was content. She had told no lies to speak of, had stood up to ‘that sarcastic beast,’ and given him sometimes as good as she had got. Alec! Well, she couldn’t help it! He had insisted on her going into Court; she hoped he liked it now she’d been! Buying a newspaper, she went into a restaurant and read a description of herself, accompanied by a photograph. She ate a good lunch, and then continued her walk along Piccadilly. Passing into the Park, she sat down under a tree coming into bud, and drew the smoke of a cigarette quietly into her lungs. The Row was almost deserted. A few persons of little or no consequence occupied a few chairs. A riding mistress was teaching a small boy to trot. Some sparrows and a pigeon alone seemed to take a distant interest in her. The air smelled of Spring. She sat some time with the pleasant feeling that nobody in the world knew where she was. Odd, when you thought of it–millions of people every day, leaving their houses, offices, shops, on their way to the next place, were as lost to the world as stones in a pond! Would it be nice to disappear permanently, and taste life incognita? Bertie Curfew was going to Moscow again. Would he take her as secretary, and bonne amie? Bertie Curfew–she had only pretended to be tired of him! The thought brought her face to face with the future. Alec! Explanations! It was hardly the word! He had a list of her debts, and had said he would pay them as a wedding-present. But–if there wasn’t to be a wedding? Thank God, she had some ready money. The carefully ‘laid-up’ four-year-old in her father’s stable had won yesterday. She had dribbled ‘a pony’ on at a nice price. She rose and sauntered along, distending her bust–in defiance of the boylike fashion, which, after all, was on the wane–to take in the full of a sweet wind.
Leaving the Park, she came to South Kensington station and bought another paper. It had a full account under the headlines: ‘Modern Morality Attacked.’ ‘Miss Marjorie Ferrar in the Box.’ It seemed funny to stand there reading those words among people who were reading the same without knowing her from Eve, except, perhaps, by her clothes. Continuing her progress towards Wren Street, she turned her latch-key in the door, and saw a hat. Waiting for her already! She took her time; and, pale from powder, as though she had gone through much, entered the studio.
MacGown was sitting with his head in his hands. She felt real pity for him–too strong, too square, too vital for that attitude! He raised his face.
“Well, Alec!”
“Tell me the truth, Marjorie. I’m in torment.”
She almost envied him the depth of his feeling, however unreasonable after her warnings. But she said, ironically:
“Who was it knew me better than I knew myself?”
In the same dull voice he repeated:
“The truth, Marjorie, the truth!”
But why should she go into the confessional? Was he entitled to her past? His rights stopped at her future. It was the old business–men expecting more from women than they could give them. Inequality of the sexes. Something in that, perhaps, in the old days when women bore children, and men didn’t; but now that women knew all about sex and only bore children when they wanted to, and not always even then, why should men be freer?
And she said, slowly: “In exchange for your adventures I’ll tell you mine.”
“For God’s sake don’t mock me; I’ve had hell these last hours.”
His face showed it, and she said with feeling:
“I said you’d be taking a toss over me, Alec. Why on earth did you insist on my bringing this case? You’ve had your way, and now you don’t like it.”
“It’s true, then?”
“Yes. Why not?”
He uttered a groan, recoiling till his back was against the wall, as if afraid of being loose in the room.
“Who was he?”
“Oh! no! That I can’t possibly tell you. And how many affairs have you had?”
He paid no attention. He wouldn’t! He knew she didn’t love him; and such things only mattered if you loved! Ah! well! His agony was a tribute to her, after all!
“You’re well out of me,” she said, sullenly; and, sitting down, she lighted a cigarette. A scene! How hateful! Why didn’t he go? She’d rather he’d be violent than deaf and dumb and blind like this.
“Not that American fellow?”
She could not help a laugh.
“Oh! no, poor boy!”
“How long did it last?”
“Nearly a year.”
“My God!”
He had rushed to the door. If only he would open it and go! That he could feel so violently! That figure by the door was just not mad! His stuffy passions!
And then he did pull the door open and was gone.
She threw herself at full length on the divan; not from lassitude, exactly, nor despair–from a feeling rather as if nothing mattered. How stupid and pre-war! Why couldn’t he, like her, be free, be supple, take life as it came? Passions, prejudices, principles, pity–old-fashioned as the stuffy clothes worn when she was a tot. Well! Good riddance! Fancy living in the same house, sharing the same bed, with a man so full of the primitive that he could ‘go off his chump’ with jealousy about her! Fancy living with a man who took life so seriously that he couldn’t even see himself doing it! Life was a cigarette to be inhaled and thrown away, a dance to be danced out. On with that dance!… Yes, but she couldn’t let him pay her debts, now, even if he wanted to. Married, she would have repaid him with her body; as it was–no! Oh! why didn’t some one die and leave her something? What a bore it all was! And she lay still, listening to the tea-time sounds of a quiet street–taxis rounding the corner from the river; the dog next door barking at the postman; that one-legged man–ex-Service–who came most afternoons and played on a poor fiddle. He expected her shilling–unhappy fellow! – she’d have to get up and give it him. She went to the little side window that looked on to the street, and suddenly recoiled. Francis Wilmot in the doorway with his hand up to the bell! Another scene! No, really! This was too much! There went the bell! No time to say ‘Not at home’! Well, let them all come–round her past, like bees round a honey-pot!
“Mr. Francis Wilmot.”
He stood there, large as the life he had nearly resigned–a little thinner, that was all.
“Well, Francis,” she said, “I thought you were ‘through with that fool business’?”
Francis Wilmot came gravely up and took her hand. “I sail tomorrow.”
Sail! Well, she could put up with that. He seemed to her just a thin, pale young man with dark hair and eyes and no juices in his system.
“I read the evening papers. I wondered if, perhaps, you’d wish to see me.”
Was he mocking her? But he wore no smile; there was no bitterness in his voice; and, though he was looking at her intently, she could not tell from his face whether he still had any feeling.
“You think I owe you something? I know I treated you very badly.”
He looked rather as if she’d hit him.
“For heaven’s sake, Francis, don’t say you’ve come out of chivalry. That’d be too funny.”
“I don’t follow you; I just thought, perhaps, you didn’t like to answer that question about a love-affair–because of me.”
Marjorie Ferrar broke into hysterical laughter.
“Senor Don Punctilio! Because of you? No, no, my dear!”
Francis Wilmot drew back, and made her a little bow.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said.
She had a sudden return of feeling for that slim unusual presence, with its grace and its dark eyes.
“I’m a free-lance again now, Francis, anyway.”
A long moment went by, and then he made her another little bow. It was a clear withdrawal.
“Then for God’s sake,” she said, “go away! I’m fed up!” And she turned her back on him.
When she looked round, he HAD gone, and that surprised her. He was a new variety, or a dead one, dug up! He didn’t know the rudiments of life–old-fashioned, a faire rire! And, back at full length on the divan, she brooded. Well, her courage was ‘not out’! To-morrow was Bella Magussie’s ‘At Home,’ to meet–some idiot. Everybody would be there, and so would she!
Chapter VIII.
FANTOCHES
Michael, screwed towards Sir James Foskisson’s averted face, heard the words: “Well, I shan’t answer,” he spun round. It was just as if she had said: “Yes, I have.” The judge was looking at her, every one looking at her. Wasn’t Bullfry going to help her? No! He was beckoning her out of the Box. Michael half rose, as she passed him. By George! He was sorry for MacGown! There he sat, poor devil! – with every one getting up all round him, still, and red as a turkey-cock.
Fleur! Michael looked at her face, slightly flushed, her gloved hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground. Had his whisper: ‘Stop this!’ his little abortive bow, offended her? How could one have helped sympathising with the ‘Pet of the Panjoys’ in so tight a place! Fleur must see that! The Court was emptying–fine birds, many–he could see her mother and her aunt and cousin, and Old Forsyte, talking with Foskisson. Ah! he had finished; was speaking: “We can go now.”
They followed him along the corridor, down the stairs, into the air.
“We’ve time for a snack,” Soames was saying. “Come in here!”
In one of several kennels without roofs in a celebrated room with a boarded floor, they sat down.
“Three chump chops, sharp,” said Soames, and staring at the cruet-stand, added: “She’s cooked her goose. They’ll drop it like a hot potato. I’ve told Foskisson he can settle, with both sides paying their own costs. It’s more than they deserve.”
“He ought never to have asked that question, sir.”
Fleur looked up sharply.
“Really, Michael!”
“Well, darling, we agreed he shouldn’t. Why didn’t Bullfry help her out, sir?”
“Only too glad to get her out of the Box; the judge would have asked her himself in another minute. It’s a complete fiasco, thank God!”
“Then we’ve won?” said Fleur.
“Unless I’m a Dutchman,” answered Soames.
“I’m not so sure,” muttered Michael.
“I tell you it’s all over; Bullfry’ll never go on with it.”
“I didn’t mean that, sir.”
Fleur said acidly: “Then what DO you mean, Michael?”
“I don’t think we shall be forgiven, that’s all.”
“What for?”
“Well, I dare say I’m all wrong. Sauce, sir?”
“Worcester–yes. This is the only place in London where you can rely on a floury potato. Waiter–three glasses of port, quick!”
After fifteen minutes of concentrated mastication, they returned to the Court.
“Wait here,” said Soames, in the hall; “I’ll go up and find out.”
In that echoing space, where a man’s height was so inconsiderable, Fleur and Michael stood, not speaking, for some time.
“She couldn’t know that Foskisson had been told not to follow it up, of course,” he said, at last. “Still, she must have expected the question. She should have told a good one and have done with it. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.”
“You’d feel sorry for a flea that bit you, Michael. What do you mean by our not being forgiven?”
“Well! The drama was all on her side, and it’s drama that counts. Besides, there’s her engagement!”
“That’ll be broken off.”
“Exactly! And if it is, she’ll have sympathy; while if it isn’t, he’ll have it. Anyway, we shan’t. Besides, you know, she stood up for what we all really believe nowadays.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Well, don’t we talk of every one being free?”
“Yes, but is there any connection between what we say and what we do?”
“No,” said Michael.
And just then Soames returned.
“Well, sir?”
“As I told you, Bullfry caught at it. They’ve settled. It’s a moral victory.”
“Oh! not moral, I hope, sir.”
“It’s cost a pretty penny, anyway,” said Soames, looking at Fleur. “Your mother’s quite annoyed–she’s no sense of proportion. Very clever the way Foskisson made that woman lose her temper.”
“He lost his, at the end. That’s his excuse, I suppose.”
“Well,” said Soames, “it’s all over! Your mother’s got the car; we’ll take a taxi.”
On the drive back to South Square, taking precisely the same route, there was precisely the same silence.
When a little later Michael went over to the House, he was edified by posters.
“Society Libel Action.”
“Marquess’s Granddaughter and K. C.”
“Dramatic Evidence.”
“Modern Morality!”
All over–was it? With publicity–in Michael’s opinion–it had but just begun! Morality! What was it–who had it, and what did they do with it? How would he have answered those questions himself? Who could answer them, nowadays, by rote or rule? Not he, or Fleur! They had been identified with the Inquisition, and what was their position, now? False, if not odious! He passed into the House. But, try as he would, he could not fix his attention on the Purity of Food, and passed out again. With a curious longing for his father, he walked rapidly down Whitehall. Drawing blank at ‘Snooks’’ and The Aeroplane, he tried the Parthenaeum as a last resort. Sir Lawrence was in a corner of a forbidden room, reading a life of Lord Palmerston. He looked up at his son.
“Ah! Michael! They don’t do justice to old Pam. A man without frills, who worked like a nigger. But we mustn’t talk here!” And he pointed to a member who seemed awake. “Shall we take a turn before the old gentleman over there has a fit? The books here are camouflage; it’s really a dormitory.”
He led the way, with Michael retailing the events of the morning.
“Foskisson?” said Sir Lawrence, entering the Green Park. “He was a nice little chap when I left Winchester. To be professionally in the right is bad for a man’s character–counsel, parsons, policemen, they all suffer from it. Judges, High Priests, Arch–Inspectors, aren’t so bad–they’ve suffered from it so long that they’ve lost consciousness.”
“It was a full house,” said Michael, glumly, “and the papers have got hold of it.”
“They would.” And Sir Lawrence pointed to the ornamental water. “These birds,” he said, “remind me of China. By the way, I met your friend Desert yesterday at The Aeroplane–he’s more interesting now that he’s dropped Poetry for the East. Everybody ought to drop something. I’m too old now, but if I’d dropped baronetcy in time, I could have made quite a good contortionist.”
“What would you recommend for us in the House?” asked Michael, with a grin.
“Postmanship, my dear–carrying on, you know; a certain importance, large bags, dogs to bark at you, no initiative, and conversation on every door-step. By the way, do you see Desert?”
“I have seen him.”
Sir Lawrence screwed up his eyes.
“The providential,” he said, “doesn’t happen twice.”
Michael coloured; he had not suspected his father of such shrewd observation. Sir Lawrence swung his cane.
“Your man Boddick,” he said, “has persuaded some of his hens to lay; he’s giving us quite good eggs.”
Michael admired his reticence. But somehow that unexpected slanting allusion to a past domestic crisis roused the feeling that for so long now had been curled like a sleepy snake in his chest, that another crisis was brewing and must soon be faced.
“Coming along for tea, sir? Kit had tummy-ache this morning. How’s your last book doing? Does old Danby advertise it properly?”
“No,” said Sir Lawrence, “no; he’s keeping his head wonderfully; the book is almost dead.”
“I’m glad I dropped HIM, anyway,” said Michael, with emphasis. “I suppose, sir, you haven’t a tip to give us, now this case is over?”
Sir Lawrence gazed at a bird with a long red bill.
“When victorious,” he said, at last, “lie doggo. The triumphs of morality are apt to recoil on those who achieve them.”
“That’s what I feel, sir. Heaven knows I didn’t want to achieve one. My father-inlaw says my hitting MacGown on the boko really brought it into Court.”
Sir Lawrence whinnied.
“The tax on luxuries. It gets you everywhere. I don’t think I will come along, Michael–Old Forsyte’s probably there. Your mother has an excellent recipe for child’s tummyache; you almost lived on it at one time. I’ll telephone it from Mount Street. Good-bye!”
Michael looked after that thin and sprightly figure moving North. Had he troubles of his own? If so, he disguised them wonderfully. Good old Bart! And he turned towards South Square.
Soames was just leaving.
“She’s excited,” he said, on the door-step. “It’s the reaction. Give her a Seidlitz powder tonight. Be careful, too; I shouldn’t talk about politics.”
Michael went in. Fleur was at the open window of the drawing-room.
“Oh! here you are!” she said. “Kit’s all right again. Take me to the Cafe Royal to-night, Michael, and if there’s anything funny anywhere, for goodness’ sake, let’s see it. I’m sick of feeling solemn. Oh! And, by the way, Francis Wilmot’s coming in to say good-bye. I’ve had a note. He says he’s all right again.”
At the window by her side, Michael sniffed the unaccountable scent of grass. There was a South–West wind, and slanting from over the housetops, sunlight was sprinkling the soil, the buds, the branches. A blackbird sang; a piano-organ round a corner was playing ‘Rigoletto.’ Against his own, her shoulder was soft, and to his lips her cheek was warm and creamy…
When Francis Wilmot left them that evening after dinner at the Cafe Royal, Fleur said to Michael:
“Poor Francis! Did you ever see any one so changed? He might be thirty. I’m glad he’s going home to his river and his darkies. What are live oaks? Well! Are we going anywhere?”
Michael cloaked her shoulders.
“‘Great Itch,’ I think; there’s no other scream so certain.”
After their scream they came out into a mild night. High up in red and green the bright signs fled along the air: ‘Tomber’s Tires for Speed and Safety,’ ‘Milkoh Makes Mothers Merry.’ Through Trafalgar Square they went and down Whitehall, all moonlight and Portland stone.
“The night’s unreal,” said Fleur. “‘Fantoches’!”
Michael caught her waist.
“Don’t. Suppose some Member saw you!”
“He’d only sympathise. How nice and solid you feel!”
“No! Fantoches have no substance.”
“Then give me shadow.”
“The substance is in Bethnal Green.”
Michael dropped his arm.
“That’s a strange thought.”
“I have intuitions, Michael.”
“Because I can admire a good woman, can I not love you?”
“I shall never be ‘good’; it isn’t in me.”
“Whatever you are’s enough for me.”
“Prettily said. The Square looks jolly, tonight! Open the doll’s house.”
The hall was dark, with just a glimmer coming through the fanlight. Michael took off her cloak and knelt down. He felt her fingers stir his hair; real fingers, and real all this within his arms; only the soul elusive. Soul?
“Fantoches!” came her voice, soft and mocking. “And so to bed!”
Chapter IX.
ROUT AT MRS. MAGUSSIE’S
There are routs social, political, propagandic; and routs like Mrs. Magussie’s. In one of Anglo–American birth, inexhaustible wealth, unimpeachable widowhood, and catholic taste, the word hostess had found its highest expression. People might die, marry, and be born with impunity so long as they met, preferably in her house, one of the largest in Mayfair. If she called in a doctor, it was to meet another doctor; if she went to church, it was to get Canon Forant to meet Dean Kimble at lunch afterwards. Her cards of invitation had the words: “To meet” printed on them; and she never put “me.” She was selfless. Once in a way she had a real rout, because once in a way a personality was available, whose name everybody, from poets to prelates, must know. In her intimate belief people loved to meet anybody sufficiently distinguished; and this was where she succeeded, because almost without exception they did. Her two husbands had ‘passed on,’ having met in their time nearly everybody. They had both been distinguished, and had first met in her house; and she would never have a third, for Society was losing its landmarks, and she was too occupied. People were inclined to smile at mention of Bella Magussie, and yet, how do without one who performed the function of cement? Without her, bishops could not place their cheeks by the jowls of ballet-girls, or Home Secretaries be fertilised by disorderly dramatists. Except in her house, the diggers-up of old civilisations in Beluchistan never encountered the levellers of modern civilisation in London. Nor was there any chance for lights of the Palace to meet those lights of the Halls–Madame Nemesia and Top Nobby. Nowhere else could a Russian dancer go in to supper with Sir Walter Peddel, M.D., F.R.S.T.R., P.M.V.S., ‘R.I.P.,’ as Michael would add. Even a bowler with the finest collection of ducks’ eggs in first-class cricket was not without a chance of wringing the hand of the great Indian economist Sir Banerjee Bath Babore. Mrs. Magussie’s, in fine, was a house of chief consequence; and her long face, as of the guardian of some first principle, moving above the waters of celebrity, was wrinkled in a great cause. To meet or not to meet? She had answered the question for good and all.
The “meetee” as Michael always called it for her opening rout in 1925 was the great Italian violinist Luigi Sporza, who had just completed his remarkable tour of the world, having in half the time played more often than any two previous musicians. The prodigious feat had been noted in the Press of all countries with every circumstance–the five violins he had tired out, the invitation he had received to preside over a South American Republic, the special steamer he had chartered to keep an engagement in North America, and his fainting fit in Moscow after the Beethoven and Brahms concertos, the Bach chaconne, and seventeen encores. During the lingering year of his great effort, his fame had been established. As an artist he had been known to a few, as an athlete he was now known to all.
Michael and Fleur, passing up the centre stairway, saw a man ‘not ‘arf like a bull’–Michael muttered–whose hand people were seizing, one after the other, to move away with a look of pain.
“Only Italy can produce men like that,” Michael said in Fleur’s ear. “Give him the go-by. He’ll hurt you.”
But Fleur moved forward.
“Made of sterner stuff,” murmured Michael. It was not the part of his beloved to miss the hand of celebrity, however horny! No portion of her charming face quivered as the great athlete’s grip closed on hers, and his eyes, like those of a tired minotaur, traversed her gracefulness with a gleam of interest.
‘Hulking brute!’ thought Michael, disentangling his own grasp, and drifting with her over shining space. Since yesterday’s ordeal and its subsequent spring-running, he had kept his unacceptable misgivings to himself; he did not even know whether, at this rout, she was deliberately putting their position to the test, or merely, without forethought, indulging her liking to be in the swim. And what a swim! In that great pillared salon, Members of Parliament, poets, musicians, very dry in the smile, as who should say: ‘I could have done it better,’ or ‘Imagine doing that!’ peers, physicians, dancers, painters, Labour Leaders, cricketers, lawyers, critics, ladies of fashion, and ladies who ‘couldn’t bear it’–every mortal person that Michael knew or didn’t know, seemed present. He watched Fleur’s eyes quartering them, busy as bees beneath the white lids he had kissed last night.
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