The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) 📖

the decisive resolutions of his life. He would not be forced into another scandal. No! However he decided to deal with this matter⁠—and it required the most farsighted and careful consideration he would do nothing that might injure Fleur. That resolution taken, his mind answered the helm again, and he made his ablutions. His hands trembled as he dried them. Scandal he would not have, but something must be done to stop this sort of thing! He went into his wife’s room and stood looking around him. The idea of searching for anything which would incriminate, and entitle him to hold a menace over her, did not even come to him. There would be nothing⁠—she was much too practical. The idea of having her watched had been dismissed before it came⁠—too well he remembered his previous experience of that. No! He had nothing but this torn-up letter from some anonymous ruffian, whose impudent intrusion into his private life he so violently resented. It was repugnant to him to make use of it, but he might have to. What a mercy Fleur was not at home tonight! A tap on the door broke up his painful cogitations.

“Mr. Michael Mont, sir, is in the drawing-room. Will you see him?”

“No,” said Soames; “yes. I’ll come down.”

Anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes!

Michael Mont in flannels stood on the verandah smoking a cigarette. He threw it away as Soames came up, and ran his hand through his hair.

Soames’ feeling toward this young man was singular. He was no doubt a rackety, irresponsible young fellow according to old standards, yet somehow likeable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting out his opinions.

“Come in,” he said; “have you had tea?”

Mont came in.

“I thought Fleur would have been back, sir; but I’m glad she isn’t. The fact is, I⁠—I’m fearfully gone on her; so fearfully gone that I thought you’d better know. It’s old-fashioned, of course, coming to fathers first, but I thought you’d forgive that. I went to my own Dad, and he says if I settle down he’ll see me through. He rather cottons to the idea, in fact. I told him about your Goya.”

“Oh!” said Soames, inexpressibly dry. “He rather cottons?”

“Yes, sir; do you?”

Soames smiled faintly.

“You see,” resumed Mont, twiddling his straw hat, while his hair, ears, eyebrows, all seemed to stand up from excitement, “when you’ve been through the War you can’t help being in a hurry.”

“To get married; and unmarried afterward,” said Soames slowly.

“Not from Fleur, sir. Imagine, if you were me!”

Soames cleared his throat. That way of putting it was forcible enough.

“Fleur’s too young,” he said.

“Oh! no, sir. We’re awfully old nowadays. My Dad seems to me a perfect babe; his thinking apparatus hasn’t turned a hair. But he’s a Baronight, of course; that keeps him back.”

“Baronight,” repeated Soames; “what may that be?”

“Bart, sir. I shall be a Bart some day. But I shall live it down, you know.”

“Go away and live this down,” said Soames.

Young Mont said imploringly: “Oh! no, sir. I simply must hang around, or I shouldn’t have a dog’s chance. You’ll let Fleur do what she likes, I suppose, anyway. Madame passes me.”

“Indeed!” said Soames frigidly.

“You don’t really bar me, do you?” and the young man looked so doleful that Soames smiled.

“You may think you’re very old,” he said; “but you strike me as extremely young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof of maturity.”

“All right, sir; I give you our age. But to show you I mean business⁠—I’ve got a job.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes.”

Soames put his hand over his mouth⁠—he had so very nearly said: “God help the publisher!” His grey eyes scrutinised the agitated young man.

“I don’t dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me. Everything⁠—do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I know; but so she is to me.”

“That’s as may be. I’m glad you’ve told me, however. And now I think there’s nothing more to be said.”

“I know it rests with her, sir.”

“It will rest with her a long time, I hope.”

“You aren’t cheering,” said Mont suddenly.

“No,” said Soames, “my experience of life has not made me anxious to couple people in a hurry. Good night, Mr. Mont. I shan’t tell Fleur what you’ve said.”

“Oh!” murmured Mont blankly; “I really could knock my brains out for want of her. She knows that perfectly well.”

“I dare say.” And Soames held out his hand. A distracted squeeze, a heavy sigh, and soon after sounds from the young man’s motorcycle called up visions of flying dust and broken bones.

“The younger generation!” he thought heavily, and went out on to the lawn. The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell of fresh-cut grass⁠—the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. The sky was of a purplish hue⁠—the poplars black. Two or three boats passed on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm. “Three days’ fine weather,” thought Soames, “and then a storm!” Where was Annette? With that chap, for all he knew⁠—she was a young woman! Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he entered the summerhouse and sat down. The fact was⁠—and he admitted it⁠—Fleur was so much to him that his wife was very little⁠—very little; French⁠—had never been much more than a mistress, and he was getting indifferent to that side of things! It was odd how, with all this ingrained care for moderation and secure investment, Soames ever put his emotional eggs into one basket. First Irene⁠—now Fleur. He was dimly conscious of it, sitting there, conscious of its odd dangerousness. It had brought him to wreck and scandal once, but now⁠—now it should save him! He cared so much for Fleur that he would have no further scandal. If only he could get at that anonymous letter-writer, he would teach him not to meddle and stir up mud at the bottom of water which he wished should remain stagnant!⁠ ⁠… A distant flash,