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

His things had already been brought up. He had a hurried bath and came down to find Holly alone⁠—Val had gone to Town and would not be back till the last train.

Since Val’s advice to him to ask his sister what was the matter between the two families, so much had happened⁠—Fleur’s disclosure in the Green Park, her visit to Robin Hill, today’s meeting⁠—that there seemed nothing to ask. He talked of Spain, his sunstroke, Val’s horses, their father’s health. Holly startled him by saying that she thought their father not at all well. She had been twice to Robin Hill for the weekend. He had seemed fearfully languid, sometimes even in pain, but had always refused to talk about himself.

“He’s awfully dear and unselfish⁠—don’t you think, Jon?”

Feeling far from dear and unselfish himself, Jon answered: “Rather!”

“I think, he’s been a simply perfect father, so long as I can remember.”

“Yes,” answered Jon, very subdued.

“He’s never interfered, and he’s always seemed to understand. I shall never forget his letting me go to South Africa in the Boer War when I was in love with Val.”

“That was before he married Mother, wasn’t it?” said Jon suddenly.

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh! nothing. Only, wasn’t she engaged to Fleur’s father first?”

Holly put down the spoon she was using, and raised her eyes. Her stare was circumspect. What did the boy know? Enough to make it better to tell him? She could not decide. He looked strained and worried, altogether older, but that might be the sunstroke.

“There was something,” she said. “Of course we were out there, and got no news of anything.” She could not take the risk.

It was not her secret. Besides, she was in the dark about his feelings now. Before Spain she had made sure he was in love; but boys were boys; that was seven weeks ago, and all Spain between.

She saw that he knew she was putting him off, and added:

“Have you heard anything of Fleur?”

“Yes.”

His face told her, then, more than the most elaborate explanations. So he had not forgotten!

She said very quietly: “Fleur is awfully attractive, Jon, but you know⁠—Val and I don’t really like her very much.”

“Why?”

“We think she’s got rather a ‘having’ nature.”

“ ‘Having.’ I don’t know what you mean. She⁠—she⁠—” he pushed his dessert plate away, got up, and went to the window.

Holly, too, got up, and put her arm round his waist.

“Don’t be angry, Jon dear. We can’t all see people in the same light, can we? You know, I believe each of us only has about one or two people who can see the best that’s in us, and bring it out. For you I think it’s your mother. I once saw her looking at a letter of yours; it was wonderful to see her face. I think she’s the most beautiful woman I ever saw⁠—Age doesn’t seem to touch her.”

Jon’s face softened; then again became tense. Everybody⁠—everybody was against him and Fleur! It all strengthened the appeal of her words: “Make sure of me⁠—marry me, Jon!”

Here, where he had passed that wonderful week with her⁠—the tug of her enchantment, the ache in his heart increased with every minute that she was not there to make the room, the garden, the very air magical. Would he ever be able to live down here, not seeing her? And he closed up utterly, going early to bed. It would not make him healthy, wealthy, and wise, but it closeted him with memory of Fleur in her fancy frock. He heard Val’s arrival⁠—the Ford discharging cargo, then the stillness of the summer night stole back⁠—with only the bleating of very distant sheep, and a nightjar’s harsh purring. He leaned far out. Cold moon⁠—warm air⁠—the Downs like silver! Small wings, a stream bubbling, the rambler roses! God⁠—how empty all of it without her! In the Bible it was written: Thou shalt leave father and mother and cleave to⁠—Fleur!

Let him have pluck, and go and tell them! They couldn’t stop him marrying her⁠—they wouldn’t want to stop him when they knew how he felt. Yes! He would go! Bold and open⁠—Fleur was wrong!

The nightjar ceased, the sheep were silent; the only sound in the darkness was the bubbling of the stream. And Jon in his bed slept, freed from the worst of life’s evils⁠—indecision.

XI Timothy Prophesies

On the day of the cancelled meeting at the National Gallery began the second anniversary of the resurrection of England’s pride and glory⁠—or, more shortly, the top hat. Lord’s⁠—that festival which the War had driven from the field⁠—raised its light and dark blue flags for the second time, displaying almost every feature of a glorious past. Here, in the luncheon interval, were all species of female and one species of male hat, protecting the multiple types of face associated with “the classes.” The observing Forsyte might discern in the free or unconsidered seats a certain number of the squash-hatted, but they hardly ventured on the grass; the old school⁠—or schools⁠—could still rejoice that the proletariat was not yet paying the necessary half-crown. Here was still a close borough, the only one left on a large scale⁠—for the papers were about to estimate the attendance at ten thousand. And the ten thousand, all animated by one hope, were asking each other one question: “Where are you lunching?” Something wonderfully uplifting and reassuring in that query and the sight of so many people like themselves voicing it! What reserve power in the British realm⁠—enough pigeons, lobsters, lamb, salmon mayonnaise, strawberries, and bottles of champagne to feed the lot! No miracle in prospect⁠—no case of seven loaves and a few fishes⁠—faith rested on surer foundations. Six thousand top hats, four thousand parasols would be doffed and furled, ten thousand mouths all speaking the same English would be filled. There was life in the old dog yet! Tradition! And again Tradition! How strong and how elastic! Wars might rage, taxation prey, Trades Unions take toll, and Europe perish of starvation; but the ten thousand would be