Джон Голсуорси - Лучшее из «Саги о Форсайтах» / The Best of The Forsyte Saga

“But Job didn’t have land,” Fleur murmured; “he only had flocks and herds and moved on.”

“Ah!” answered Michael Mont, “I wish my gov’nor would move on. Not that I want his land. Land’s an awful bore in these days, don’t you think?”

“We never have it in my family,” said Fleur. “We have everything else. I believe one of my great-uncles once had a sentimental farm in Dorset, because we came from there originally, but it cost him more than it made him happy.”

“Did he sell it?”

“No; he kept it.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody would buy it.”

“Good for the old boy!”

“No, it wasn’t good for him. Father says it soured him. His name was Swithin.”

“What a corking name!”

“Do you know that we’re getting farther off, not nearer? This river flows.”

“Splendid!” cried Mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; “it’s good to meet a girl who’s got wit.”

“But better to meet a young man who’s got it in the plural.”

Young Mont raised a hand to tear his hair.

“Look out!” cried Fleur. “Your scull!”

“All right! It’s thick enough to bear a scratch.”

“Do you mind sculling?” said Fleur severely. “I want to get in.”

“Ah!” said Mont; “but when you get in, you see, I shan’t see you any more to-day. Fini, as the French girl said when she jumped on her bed after saying her prayers. Don’t you bless the day that gave you a French mother, and a name like yours?”

“I like my name, but Father gave it me. Mother wanted me called Marguerite.”

“Which is absurd. Do you mind calling me M. M. and letting me call you F. F.? It’s in the spirit of the age.”

“I don’t mind anything, so long as I get in.”

Mont caught a little crab, and answered: “That was a nasty one!”

“Please row.”

“I am.” And he did for several strokes, looking at her with rueful eagerness. “Of course, you know,” he ejaculated, pausing, “that I came to see you, not your father’s pictures.”

Fleur rose.

“If you don’t row, I shall get out and swim.”

“Really and truly? Then I could come in after you.”

“Mr. Mont, I’m late and tired; please put me on shore at once.”

When she stepped out on to the garden landing-stage he rose, and grasping his hair with both hands, looked at her.

Fleur smiled.

“Don’t!” cried the irrepressible Mont. “I know you’re going to say: ‘Out, damned hair!’”

Fleur whisked round, threw him a wave of her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. M.M.!” she called, and was gone among the rose-trees. She looked at her wrist-watch and the windows of the house. It struck her as curiously uninhabited. Past six! The pigeons were just gathering to roost, and sunlight slanted on the dovecot, on their snowy feathers, and beyond in a shower on the top boughs of the woods. The click of billiard-balls came from the ingle-nook – Jack Cardigan, no doubt; a faint rustling, too, from an eucalyptus-tree, startling Southerner in this old English garden. She reached the verandah and was passing in, but stopped at the sound of voices from the drawing-room to her left. Mother! Monsieur Profond! From behind the verandah screen which fenced the ingle-nook she heard these words:

“I don’t, Annette.”

Did Father know that he called her mother “Annette”? Always on the side of her Father – as children are ever on one side or the other in houses where relations are a little strained – she stood, uncertain. Her mother was speaking in her low, pleasing, slightly metallic voice – one word she caught: “Demain.” And Profond’s answer: “All right.” Fleur frowned. A little sound came out into the stillness. Then Profond’s voice: “I’m takin’ a small stroll.”

Fleur darted through the window into the morning-room. There he came from the drawing-room, crossing the verandah, down the lawn; and the click of billiard-balls which, in listening for other sounds, she had ceased to hear, began again. She shook herself, passed into the hall, and opened the drawing-room door. Her mother was sitting on the sofa between the windows, her knees crossed, her head resting on a cushion, her lips half parted, her eyes half closed. She looked extraordinarily handsome.

“Ah! Here you are, Fleur! Your father is beginning to fuss.”

“Where is he?”

“In the picture-gallery. Go up!”

“What are you going to do to-morrow, Mother?”

“To-morrow? I go up to London with your aunt.”

“I thought you might be. Will you get me a quite plain parasol?”

“What colour?”

“Green. They’re all going back, I suppose.”

“Yes, all; you will console your father. Kiss me, then.”

Fleur crossed the room, stooped, received a kiss on her forehead, and went out past the impress of a form on the sofa-cushions in the other corner. She ran up-stairs.

Fleur was by no means the old-fashioned daughter who demands the regulation of her parents’ lives in accordance with the standard imposed upon herself. She claimed to regulate her own life, not those of others; besides, an unerring instinct for what was likely to advantage her own case was already at work. In a disturbed domestic atmosphere the heart she had set on Jon would have a better chance. None the less was she offended, as a flower by a crisping wind. If that man had really been kissing her mother it was – serious, and her father ought to know. “Demain! [144]” “All right!” And her mother going up to Town! She turned into her bedroom and hung out of the window to cool her face, which had suddenly grown very hot. Jon must be at the station by now! What did her father know about Jon? Probably everything – pretty nearly!

She changed her dress, so as to look as if she had been in some time, and ran up to the gallery.

Soames was standing stubbornly still before his Alfred Stevens – the picture he loved best. He did not turn at the sound of the door, but she knew he had heard, and she knew he was hurt. She came up softly behind him, put her arms round his neck, and poked her face over his shoulder till her cheek lay against his. It was an advance which had never yet failed, but it failed her now, and she augured the worst. “Well,” he said stonily, “so you’ve come!”

“Is that all,” murmured Fleur, “from a bad parent?” And she rubbed her cheek against his.

Soames shook his head so far as that was possible.

“Why do you keep me on tenterhooks like this, putting me off and off?”

“Darling, it was very harmless.”

“Harmless! Much you know what’s harmless and what isn’t.”

Fleur dropped her arms.

“Well, then, dear, suppose you tell me; and be quite frank about it.”

And she went over to the window-seat.

Her father had turned from his picture, and was staring at his feet. He looked very grey. ‘He has nice small feet,’ she thought, catching his eye, at once averted from her.

“You’re my only comfort,” said Soames suddenly, “and you go on like this.”

Fleur’s heart began to beat.

“Like what, dear?”

Again Soames gave her a look which, but for the affection in it, might have been called furtive.

“You know what I told you,” he said. “I don’t choose to have anything to do with that branch of our family.”

“Yes, ducky, but I don’t know why I shouldn’t.”

Soames turned on his heel.

“I’m not going into the reasons,” he said; “you ought to trust me, Fleur!”

The way he spoke those words affected Fleur, but she thought of Jon, and was silent, tapping her foot against the wainscot. Unconsciously she had assumed a modern attitude, with one leg twisted in and out of the other, with her chin on one bent wrist, her other arm across her chest, and its hand hugging her elbow; there was not a line of her that was not involuted, and yet – in spite of all – she retained a certain grace.