And with it Michael had to remain discontented.
All through the house it was a wakeful night. Soames had the three o’clock tremors, which cigars and the fresh air wherein he was obliged to play his golf had subdued for some time past. He was disturbed, too, by that confounded great clock from hour to hour, and by a stealthy noise between three and four, as of some one at large in the house.
This was, in fact, Francis Wilmot. Ever since his impulsive denial that Soames was a liar, the young man had been in a peculiar state of mind. As Soames surmised, he too had overheard Marjorie Ferrar slandering her hostess; but in the very moment of his refutation, like Saul setting forth to attack the Christians, he had been smitten by blindness. Those blue eyes, pouring into his the light of defiance, had finished with a gleam which seemed to say: ‘Young man, you please me!’ And it haunted him. That lissome nymph–with her white skin and red-gold hair, her blue eyes full of insolence, her red lips full of joy, her white neck fragrant as a pine-wood in sunshine–the vision was abiding. He had been watching her all through the evening; but it was uncanny the way she had left her image on his senses in that one long moment, so that now he got no sleep. Though he had not been introduced, he knew her name to be Marjorie Ferrar, and he thought it ‘fine.’ Countryman that he was and with little knowledge of women–she was unlike any woman he had known. And he had given her the lie direct! This made him so restless that he drank the contents of his water-bottle, put on his clothes, and stole down-stairs. Passing the Dandie, who stirred as though muttering: ‘Unusual! But I know those legs!’ he reached the hall, where a milky glimmer came in through the fanlight. Lighting a cigarette, he sat down on the marble coat-sarcophagus. It cooled his anatomy, so that he got off it, turned up the light, saw a telephone directory resting beside him, and mechanically sought the letter ‘F.’ There she was! “Ferrar, Marjorie, 3, River Studios, Wren Street.” Switching off the light, he slipped back the door-chain, and stole out. He knew his way to the river, and went towards it.
It was the hour when sound, exhausted, has trailed away, and one can hear a moth pass. London, in clear air, with no smoke going up, slept beneath the moon. Bridges, towers, water, all silvered, had a look as if withdrawn from man. Even the houses and the trees enjoyed their moony hour apart, and seemed to breathe out with Francis Wilmot a stanza from “The Ancient Mariner”:
‘O Sleep, it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given,
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven
That slid into my soul!’
He turned at random to the right along the river. Never in his life had he walked through a great city at the dead hour. Not a passion alive, nor a thought of gain; haste asleep, and terrors dreaming; here and there would be one turning on his bed; perchance a soul passing. Down on the water lighters and barges lay shadowy and abandoned, with red lights burning; the lamps along the Embankment shone without purpose, as if they had been freed. Man was away. In the whole town only himself up and doing–what? Natively shrewd and resourceful in all active situations, the young Southerner had little power of diagnosis, and certainly did not consider himself ridiculous wandering about like this at night, not even when he suddenly felt that if he could ‘locate’ her windows, he could go home and sleep. He passed the Tate Gallery and saw a human being with moonlit buttons.
“Pardon me, officer,” he said, “but where is Wren Street?”
“Straight on and fifth to the right.”
Francis Wilmot resumed his march. The ‘moving’ moon was heeling down, the stars were gaining light, the trees had begun to shiver. He found the fifth turning, walked down ‘the block,’ and was no wiser; it was too dark to read names or numbers. He passed another buttoned human effigy and said:
“Pardon me, officer, but where are River Studios?”
“Comin’ away from them; last house on the right.”
Francis Wilmot retraced his steps. There it was, then–by itself, back from the street. He stood before it and gazed at dark windows. She might be behind any one of them! Well! He had ‘located’ her; and, in the rising wind, he turned and walked home. He went up-stairs stealthily as he had come down, past the Dandie, who again raised his head, muttered: ‘Still more unusual, but the same legs!’ entered his room, lay down, and fell asleep like a baby.
Chapter VIII.
ROUND AND ABOUT
General reticence at breakfast concerning the incident of the night before, made little impression on Soames, because the young American was present, before whom, naturally, one would not discuss it; but he noted that Fleur was pale. In his early-morning vigil legal misgivings had assailed him. Could one call even a red-haired baggage ‘traitress’ in the hearing of some half-dozen persons with impunity? He went off to his sister Winifred’s after breakfast, and told her the whole story.
“Quite right, my dear boy,” was her comment. “They tell me that young woman is as fast as they’re made. Her father, you know, owned the horse that didn’t beat the French horse–I never can remember its name–in that race, the Something Stakes, at–dear me! what was the meeting?”
“I know nothing about racing,” said Soames.
But that afternoon at ‘The Connoisseurs Club’ a card was brought to him:
LORD CHARLES FERRAR
High Marshes,
Nr. Newmarket. Burton’s Club.
For a moment his knees felt a little weak; but the word ‘snob’ coming to his assistance, he said drily: “Show him into the strangers’ room.” He was not going to hurry himself for this fellow, and finished his tea before repairing to that forlorn corner.
A tallish man was standing in the middle of the little room, thin and upright, with a moustache brushed arrogantly off his lips, and a single eyeglass which seemed to have grown over the right eye, so unaided was it. There were corrugations in his thin weathered cheeks, and in his thick hair flecked at the sides with grey. Soames had no difficulty in disliking him at sight.
“Mr. Forsyte, I believe?”
Soames inclined his head.
“You made use of an insulting word to my daughter last night in the presence of several people.”
“Yes; it was richly deserved.”
“You were not drunk, then?”
“Not at all,” said Soames.
His dry precision seemed to disconcert the visitor, who twisted his moustache, frowned his eyeglass closer to his eye, and said:
“I have the names of those who overheard it. You will be good enough to write to each of them separately withdrawing your expression unreservedly.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind.”
A moment’s silence ensued.
“You are an attorney, I believe?”
“A solicitor.”
“Then you know the consequences of refusal.”
“If your daughter likes to go into Court, I shall be happy to meet her there.”
“You refuse to withdraw?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good evening, then!”
“Good evening!”
For two pins he would have walked round the fellow, the bristles rising on his back, but, instead, he stood a little to one side to let him out. Insolent brute! He could so easily hear again the voice of old Uncle Jolyon, characterising some person of the eighties as ‘a pettifogging little attorney.’ And he felt that, somehow or other, he must relieve his mind. ‘Old Mont’ would know about this fellow–he would go across and ask him.
At ‘The Aeroplane’ he found not only Sir Lawrence Mont, looking almost grave, but Michael, who had evidently been detailing to his father last evening’s incident. This was a relief to Soames, who felt the insults to his daughter too bitterly to talk of them. Describing the visit he had just received, he ended with the words:
“This fellow–Ferrar–what’s his standing?”
“Charlie Ferrar? He owes money everywhere, has some useful horses, and is a very good shot.”
“He didn’t strike me as a gentleman,” said Soames.
Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow, as if debating whether he ought to answer this remark about one who had ancestors, from one who had none.
“And his daughter,” said Soames, “isn’t a lady.”
Sir Lawrence wagged his head.
“Single-minded, Forsyte, single-minded; but you’re right; there’s a queer streak in that blood. Old Shropshire’s a dear old man; it skipped his generation, but it’s there–it’s there. His aunt–”
“He called me an attorney,” said Soames with a grim smile, “and she called me a liar. I don’t know which is worse.”
Sir Lawrence got up and looked into St. James’s Street. Soames had the feeling that the narrow head perched up on that straight thin back counted for more than his own, in this affair. One was dealing here with people who said and did what they liked and damned the consequences; this baronet chap had been brought up in that way himself, no doubt, he ought to know how their minds worked.
Sir Lawrence turned.
“She may bring an action, Forsyte; it was very public. What evidence have you?”
“My own ears.”
Sir Lawrence looked at the ears, as if to gauge their length.
“M’m! Anything else?”
“That paragraph.”
“She’ll get at the paper. Yes?”
“The man she was talking to.”
Michael ejaculated: “Philip Quinsey–put not your trust in Gath!”
“What more?”
“Well,” said Soames, “there’s what that young American overheard, whatever it was.”
“Ah!” said Sir Lawrence: “Take care she doesn’t get at HIM. Is that all?”
Soames nodded. It didn’t seem much, now he came to think of it!
“You say she called you a liar. How would it be to take the offensive?”
There was a silence; then Soames said: “Women? No!”
“Quite right, Forsyte! They have their privileges still. There’s nothing for it but to wait and see how the cat jumps. Traitress! I suppose you know how much the word costs?”
“The cost,” said Soames, “is nothing; it’s the publicity!”
His imagination was playing streets ahead of him. He saw himself already in ‘the box,’ retailing the spiteful purrings of that cat, casting forth to the public and the papers the word ‘snob,’ of his own daughter; for if he didn’t, he would have no defence. Too painful!
“What does Fleur say?” he asked, suddenly, of Michael.
“War to the knife.”
Soames jumped in his chair.
“Ah!” he said: “That’s a woman all over–no imagination!”
“That’s what I thought at first, sir, but I’m not so sure. She says if Marjorie Ferrar is not taken by the short hairs, she’ll put it across everybody–and that the more public the thing is, the less harm she can do.”
“I think,” said Sir Lawrence, coming back to his chair, “I’ll go and see old Shropshire. My father and his shot woodcock together in Albania in ‘fifty-four.”
Soames could not see the connection, but did not snub the proposal. A marquess was a sort of gone-off duke; even in this democratic age, he would have some influence, one supposed.
“He’s eighty,” went on Sir Lawrence, “and gets gout in the stomach, but he’s as brisk as a bee.”
Soames could not be sure whether it was a comfort.
“The grass shall not grow, Forsyte. I’ll go there now.”
They parted in the street, Sir Lawrence moving north–towards Mayfair.
The Marquess of Shropshire was dictating to his secretary a letter to his County Council, urging on them an item of his lifelong programme for the electrification of everything. One of the very first to take up electricity, he had remained faithful to it all his brisk and optimistic days. A short, bird-like old man, in shaggy Lovat tweeds, with a blue tie of knitted silk passed through a ring, bright cheeks and well-trimmed white beard and moustache, he was standing in his favourite attitude, with one foot on a chair, his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his hand.
“Ah! young Mont!” he said: “Sit down.”
Sir Lawrence took a chair, crossed his knees, and threaded his finger-tips. He found it pleasing to be called ‘young Mont,’ at sixty-six or so.
“Have you brought me another of your excellent books?”
“No, Marquess; I’ve come for your advice.”
“Ah! Go on, Mr. Mersey: ‘In this way, gentlemen, you will save at least three thousand a year to your rate-payers; confer a blessing on the countryside by abolishing the smoke of four filthy chimneys; and make me your obliged servant,
‘SHROPSHIRE.’
Thank you, Mr. Mersey. Now, my dear young Mont?”
Having watched the back of the secretary till it vanished, and the old peer pivot his bright eyes, with their expression of one who means to see more every day, on the face of his visitor, Sir Lawrence took his eyeglass between thumb and finger, and said:
“Your granddaughter, sir, and my daughter-inlaw want to fight like billy-o.”
“Marjorie?” said the old man, and his head fell to one side like a bird’s. “I draw the line–a charming young woman to look at, but I draw the line. What has she done now?”
“Called my daughter-inlaw a snob and a lion-hunter; and my daughter-inlaw’s father has called your granddaughter a traitress to her face.”
“Bold man,” said the marquess; “bold man! Who is he?”
“His name is Forsyte.”
“Forsyte?” repeated the old peer; “Forsyte? The name’s familiar–now where would that be? Ah! Forsyte and Treffry–the big tea men. My father had his tea from them direct–real caravan; no such tea now. Is that the–?”
“Some relation, perhaps. This man is a solicitor–retired; chiefly renowned for his pictures. A man of some substance, and probity.”
“Indeed! And IS his daughter a–a lion-hunter?”
Sir Lawrence smiled.
“She’s a charmer. Likes to have people about her. Very pretty. Excellent little mother; some French blood.”
“Ah!” said the marquess: “the French! Better built round the middle than our people. What do you want me to do?”
“Speak to your son Charles.”
The old man took his foot off the chair, and stood nearly upright. His head moved sideways with a slight continuous motion.
“I never speak to Charlie,” he said, gravely. “We haven’t spoken for six years.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. Didn’t know. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, no; pleasure to see you. If I run across Marjorie, I’ll see–I’ll see. But, my dear Mont, what shall we do with these young women–no sense of service; no continuity; no hair; no figures? By the way, do you know this Power Scheme on the Severn?” He held up a pamphlet: “I’ve been at them to do it for years. My Colliery among others could be made to pay with electricity; but they won’t move. We want some Americans over here.”
Sir Lawrence had risen; the old man’s sense of service had so clearly taken the bit between its teeth again. He held out his hand.
“Good-bye, Marquess; delighted to see you looking so well.”
“Good-bye, my dear young Mont; command me at any time, and let me have another of your nice books.”
They shook hands; and from the Lovat clothes was disengaged a strong whiff of peat. Sir Lawrence, looking back, saw the old man back in his favourite attitude, foot on chair and chin on hand, already reading the pamphlet. ‘Some boy!’ he thought; ‘as Michael would say. But what has Charlie Ferrar done not to be spoken to for six years? Old Forsyte ought to be told about that.’
* * *
In the meantime ‘Old Forsyte’ and Michael were walking homeward across St. James’s Park.
“That young American,” said Soames; “what do you suppose made him put his oar in?”
“I don’t know, sir; and I don’t like to ask.”
“Exactly,” said Soames, glumly. There was, indeed, something repulsive to him in treating with an American over a matter of personal dignity.
“Do they use the word ‘snob’ over there?”
“I’m not sure; but, in the States to hunt lions is a form of idealism. They want to associate with what they think better than themselves. It’s rather fine.”
Soames did not agree; but found difficulty in explaining why. Not to recognise any one as better than himself or his daughter had been a sort of guiding principle, and guiding principles were not talked about. In fact, it was so deep in him that he hadn’t known of it.
“I shan’t mention it,” he said, “unless he does. What more can this young woman do? She’s in a set, I suppose?”
“The Panjoys–”
“Panjoys!”
“Yes, sir; out for a good time at any cost–they don’t really count, of course. But Marjorie Ferrar is frightfully in the limelight. She paints a bit; she’s got some standing with the Press; she dances; she hunts; she’s something of an actress; she goes everywhere week-ending. It’s the week-ends that matter, where people have nothing to do but talk. Were you ever at a weekend party, sir?”
“I?” said Soames: “Good Lord–no!”
Michael smiled–incongruity, indeed, could go no farther.
“We must get one up for you at Lippinghall.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re right, sir; nothing more boring. But they’re the coulisses of politics. Fleur thinks they’re good for me. And Marjorie Ferrar knows all the people we know, and lots more. It IS awkward.”
“I should go on as if nothing had happened,” said Soames: “But about that paper? They ought to be warned that this woman is venomous.”
Michael regarded his father-inlaw quizzically.
On entering, they found the man-servant in the hall.
“There’s a man to see you, sir, by the name of Bugfill.”
“Oh! Ah! Where have you put him, Coaker?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to make of him, sir, he shakes all over. I’ve stood him in the dining-room.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Michael.
Soames passed into the ‘parlour,’ where he found his daughter and Francis Wilmot.
“Mr. Wilmot is leaving us, Father. You’re just in time to say good-bye.”
If there were moments when Soames felt cordial, they were such as these. He had nothing against the young man; indeed, he rather liked the look of him; but to see the last of almost anybody was in a sense a relief; besides, there was this question of what he had overheard, and to have him about the place without knowing would be a continual temptation to compromise with one’s dignity and ask him what it was.
“Good-bye, Mr. Wilmot,” he said; “if you’re interested in pictures–” he paused, and, holding out, his hand, added, “you should look in at the British Museum.”
Francis Wilmot shook the hand deferentially.
“I will. It’s been a privilege to know you, sir.” Soames was wondering why, when the young man turned to Fleur.
“I’ll be writing to Jon from Paris, and I’ll surely send your love. You’ve been perfectly wonderful to me. I’ll be glad to have you and Michael visit me at any time you come across to the States; and if you bring the little dog, why–I’ll just be honoured to let him bite me again.”
He bowed over Fleur’s hand and was gone, leaving Soames staring at the back of his daughter’s neck.
“That’s rather sudden,” he said, when the door was closed; “anything upset him?”
She turned on him, and said coldly:
“Why did you make that fuss last night, Father?”
The injustice of her attack was so palpable, that Soames bit his moustache in silence. As if he could help himself, when she was insulted in his hearing!
“What good do you think you’ve done?”
Soames, who had no notion, made no attempt to enlighten her. He only felt sore inside.
“You’ve made me feel as if I couldn’t look anybody in the face. But I’m going to, all the same. If I’m a lion-hunter and a snob, I’ll do it thoroughly. Only I do wish you wouldn’t go on thinking I’m a child and can’t defend myself.”
And still Soames was silent, sore to the soles of his boots.
Fleur flashed a look at him, and said:
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help it; everything’s queered;” and she too went out of the room.
Soames moved blindly to the window and stood looking out. He saw a cab with luggage drive away; saw some pigeons alight, peck at the pavement, and fly off again; he saw a man kissing a woman in the dusk; a policeman light his pipe and go off duty. He saw many human and interesting things; he heard Big Ben chime. Nothing in it all! He was staring at a silver spoon. He himself had put it in her mouth at birth.
Chapter IX.
POULTRY AND CATS
He who had been stood in the dining-room, under the name of Bugfill, was still upright. Rather older than Michael, with an inclination to side-whisker, darkish hair, and a pale face stamped with that look of schooled quickness common to so many actors but unfamiliar to Michael, he was grasping the edge of the dining-table with one hand, and a wide-brimmed black hat with the other. The expression of his large, dark-circled eyes was such that Michael smiled and said:
“It’s all right, Mr. Bergfeld, I’m not a Manager. Do sit down, and smoke.”
The visitor silently took the proffered chair and cigarette with an attempt at a fixed smile. Michael sat on the table.
“I gather from Mrs. Bergfeld that you’re on the rocks.”
“Fast,” said the shaking lips.
“Your health, and your name, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“You want an open-air job, I believe? I haven’t been able to think of anything very gaudy, but an idea did strike me last night in the stilly watches. How about raising poultry–everybody’s doing it.”
“If I had my savings.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bergfeld told me about them. I can inquire, but I’m afraid–”
“It’s robbery.” The chattered sound let Michael at once into the confidence of the many Managers who had refused to employ him who uttered it.
“I know,” he said, soothingly, “robbing Peter to pay Paul. That clause in the Treaty was a bit of rank barbarism, of course, camouflage it as they like. Still, it’s no good to let it prey on your mind, is it?”
But his visitor had risen. “To take from civilian to pay civilian! Then why not take civilian life for civilian life? What is the difference? And England does it–the leading nation to respect the individual. It is abominable.”
Michael began to feel that he was overdoing it.
“You forget,” he said, “that the war made us all into barbarians, for the time being; we haven’t quite got over it yet. And your country dropped the spark into the powder magazine, you know. But what about this poultry stunt?”
Bergfeld seemed to make a violent effort to control himself.
“For my wife’s sake,” he said, “I will do anything; but unless I get my savings back, how can I start?”
“I can’t promise; but perhaps I could start you. That hair-dresser below you wants an open-air job, too. What’s his name, by the way?”
“Swain.”
“How do you get on with him?”
“He is an opinionated man, but we are good friends enough.”
Michael got off the table. “Well, leave it to me to think it out. We shall be able to do something, I hope;” and he held out his hand.
Bergfeld took it silently, and his eyes resumed the expression with which they had first looked at Michael.
‘That man,’ thought Michael, ‘will be committing suicide some day, if he doesn’t look out.’ And he showed him to the door. He stood there some minutes gazing after the German actor’s vanishing form, with a feeling as if the dusk were formed out of the dark stories of such as he and the hair-dresser and the man who had whispered to him to stand and deliver a job. Well, Bart must lend him that bit of land beyond the coppice at Lippinghall. He would buy a War hut if there were any left and some poultry stock, and start a colony–the Bergfelds, the hair-dresser, and Henry Boddick. They could cut the timber in the coppice, and put up the fowl-houses for themselves. It would be growing food–a practical experiment in Foggartism! Fleur would laugh at him. But was there anything one could do nowadays that somebody couldn’t laugh at? He turned back into the house. Fleur was in the hall.
“Francis Wilmot has gone,” she said.
“Why?”
“He’s off to Paris.”
“What was it he overheard last night?”
“Do you suppose I asked?”
“Well, no,” said Michael, humbly. “Let’s go up and look at Kit, it’s about his bath time.”
The eleventh baronet, indeed, was already in his bath.
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