Джон Голсуорси - The Silver Spoon

A conversation with Fleur that evening contributed to his intention that it should not.

“What’s happened to that young American?” he said.

Fleur smiled acidly. “Francis Wilmot? Oh! he’s ‘fallen for’ Marjorie Ferrar.”

“‘Fallen for her’?” said Soames. “What an expression!”

“Yes, dear; it’s American.”

“‘For’ her? It means nothing, so far as I can see.”

“Let’s hope not, for his sake! She’s going to marry Sir Alexander MacGown, I’m told.”

“Oh!”

“Did Michael tell you that he hit him on the nose?”

“Which—who?” said Soames testily. “Whose nose?”

“MacGown’s, dear; and it bled like anything.”

“Why on earth did he do that?”

“Didn’t you read his speech about Michael?”

“Oh!” said Soames. “Parliamentary fuss—that’s nothing. They’re always behaving like children, there. And so she’s going to marry him. Has he been putting her up to all this?”

“No; SHE’S been putting him.”

Soames discounted the information with a sniff; he scented the hostility of woman for woman. Still, chicken and egg—political feeling and social feeling, who could say which first prompted which? In any case, this made a difference. Going to be married—was she? He debated the matter for some time, and then decided that he would go and see Settlewhite and Stark. If they had been a firm of poor repute or the kind always employed in ‘causes celebres,’ he wouldn’t have dreamed of it; but, as a fact, they stood high, were solid family people, with an aristocratic connection and all that.

He did not write, but took his hat and went over from ‘The Connoisseurs’ to their offices in King Street, St. James’s. The journey recalled old days—to how many such negotiatory meetings had he not gone or caused his adversaries to come! He had never cared to take things into Court if they could be settled out of it. And always he had approached negotiation with the impersonality of one passionless about to meet another of the same kidney—two calculating machines, making their livings out of human nature. He did not feel like that today; and, aware of this handicap, stopped to stare into the print and picture shop next door. Ah! There were those first proofs of the Roussel engravings of the Prince Consort Exhibition of ‘51, that Old Mont had spoken of—he had an eye for an engraving, Old Mont. Ah! and there was a Fred Walker, quite a good one! Mason, and Walker—they weren’t done for yet by any means. And the sensation that a man feels hearing a blackbird sing on a tree just coming into blossom, stirred beneath Soames’ ribs. Long—long since he had bought a picture! Let him but get this confounded case out of the way, and he could enjoy himself again. Riving his glance from the window, he took a deep breath, and walked into Settlewhite and Stark’s.

The chief partner’s room was on the first floor, and the chief partner standing where chief partners stand.

“How do you do, Mr. Forsyte? I’ve not met you since ‘Bobbin against the L. & S. W.’ That must have been 1900!”

“1899,” said Soames. “You were for the Company.”

Mr. Settlewhite pointed to a chair.

Soames sat down and glanced up at the figure before the fire. H’m! A long-lipped, long-eyelashed, long-chinned face; a man of his own calibre, education, and probity! He would not beat about the bush.

“This action,” he said, “is a very petty business. What can we do about it?”

Mr. Settlewhite frowned.

“That depends, Mr. Forsyte, on what you have to propose? My client has been very grossly libelled.”

Soames smiled sourly.

“She began it. And what is she relying on—private letters to personal friends of my daughter’s, written in very natural anger! I’m surprised that a firm of your standing—”

Mr. Settlewhite smiled.

“Don’t trouble to compliment my firm! I’m surprised myself that you’re acting for your daughter. You can hardly see all round the matter. Have you come to offer an apology?”

“That!” said Soames. “I should have thought it was for your client to apologise.”

“If such is your view, I’m afraid it’s no use continuing this discussion.”

Soames regarded him fixedly.

“How do you think you’re going to prove damage? She belongs to the fast set.”

Mr. Settlewhite continued to smile.

“I understand she’s going to marry Sir Alexander MacGown,” said Soames.

Mr. Settlewhite’s lips tightened.

“Really, Mr. Forsyte, if you have come to offer an apology and a substantial sum in settlement, we can talk. Otherwise—”

“As a sensible man,” said Soames, “you know that these Society scandals are always dead sea fruit—nothing but costs and vexation, and a feast for all the gossips about town. I’m prepared to offer you a thousand pounds to settle the whole thing, but an apology I can’t look at. A mutual expression of regret—perhaps; but an apology’s out of the question.”

“Fifteen hundred I might accept—the insults have had wide currency. But an apology is essential.”

Soames sat silent, chewing the injustice of it all. Fifteen hundred! Monstrous! Still he would pay even that to keep Fleur out of Court. But humble-pie! She wouldn’t eat it, and he couldn’t make her, and he didn’t know that he wanted to. He got up.

“Look here, Mr. Settlewhite, if you take this into Court, you will find yourself up against more than you think. But the whole thing is so offensive to me, that I’m prepared to meet you over the money, though I tell you frankly I don’t believe a Jury would award a penny piece. As to an apology, a ‘formula’ could be found, perhaps”—why the deuce was the fellow smiling? – “something like this: ‘We regret that we have said hasty things about each other,’ to be signed by both parties.”

Mr. Settlewhite caressed his chin.

“Well, I’ll put your proposition before my client. I join with you in wishing to see the matter settled, not because I’m afraid of the result”—‘Oh, no!’ thought Soames—“but because these cases, as you say, are not edifying.” He held out his hand.

Soames gave it a cold touch.

“You understand that this is entirely ‘without prejudice,’” he said, and went on. ‘She’ll take it!’ he thought. Fifteen hundred pounds of his money thrown away on that baggage, just because for once she had been labelled what she was; and all his trouble to get evidence wasted! For a moment he resented his devotion to Fleur. Really it was fatuous to be so fond as that! Then his heart rebounded. Thank God! He had settled it.

Christmas was at hand. It did not alarm him, therefore, that he received no answering communication. Fleur and Michael were at Lippinghall with the ninth and eleventh baronets. He and Annette had Winifred and the Cardigans down at ‘The Shelter.’ Not till the 6th of January did he receive a letter from Messrs. Settlewhite and Stark.

“DEAR SIR,

“In reference to your call of the 17th ultimo, your proposition was duly placed before our client, and we are instructed to say that she will accept the sum of L1,500—fifteen hundred pounds—and an apology, duly signed by your client, copy of which we enclose.

“We are, dear Sir,

“Faithfully yours,

“SETTLEWHITE AND STARK.”

Soames turned to the enclosure. It ran thus:

I, Mrs. Michael Mont, withdraw the words concerning Miss Marjorie Ferrar contained in my letters to Mrs. Ralph Ppynrryn and Mrs. Edward Maltese of October 4th last, and hereby tender a full and free apology for having written them.

“(Signed)”

Pushing back the breakfast-table, so violently that it groaned, Soames got up.