The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 (102 page)

‘You weren't exactly playing in North Carolina.'

‘Not exactly. But this is different. It didn't matter there. What are peaches anyway? It does here – it matters a lot. I mean to make it pay.'

‘Bully!' said Anne: ‘I mean – er – splendid. But I never believed you'd say that.'

‘Paying's the only proof. I'm going in for tomatoes, onions, asparagus, and figs; and I mean to work the arable for all it's worth, and if I can get any more land, I will.'

‘Jon! What energy!' And she caught hold of his chin.

‘All right!' said Jon, grimly. ‘You watch out, and see if I don't mean it.'

‘And you'll leave the house to me? I'll make it just too lovely!'

‘That's a bargain.'

‘Kiss me, then.'

With her lips parted and her eyes looking into his, with just that suspicion of a squint which made them so enticing, Jon thought: ‘It's quite simple. The other thing's absurd. Why, of course!' He kissed her forehead and lips, but, even while he did so, he seemed to see Fleur trembling up at him, and to hear her words:
‘Au revoir!
It
was
a jolly accident!'

‘Let's go and have a look at Rondavel,' he said.

In his box, when those two went in, the grey colt stood by the far wall, idly contemplating a carrot in the hand of Greenwater.

‘Clean off!' said the latter over his shoulder: ‘It's good-bye to Goodwood! The colt's sick.'

What had Fleur said: ‘
Au revoir
at Goodwood, if not before!'

‘Perhaps it's just a megrim, Greenwater,' said Anne.

‘No, ma'am; the horse has got a temperature. Well, we'll win the Middle Park Plate with him yet.'

Jon passed his hand over the colt's quarter: ‘Poor old son! Funny! You can tell he's not fit by the feel of his coat!'

‘You can that,' said Greenwater: ‘But where's he got it from? There isn't a sick horse that I know of anywhere about. If there's anything in the world more perverse than horses –! We didn't train him for Ascot, and he goes and wins. We meant him for Goodwood, and he's gone amiss. Mr Dartie wants me to give him some South African stuff I never heard of.'

‘They have a lot of horse sickness out there,' said Jon. ‘See,' said the trainer, stretching his hand up to the colt's ears; ‘no kick in him at all! Looks like blackberry sickness out of season. I'd give a good deal to know how he picked it up.'

The two young people left him standing by the colt's dejected head, his dark, hawk-like face thrust forward, as if trying to read the sensations within his favourite.

That night, Jon went up, bemused by Val's opinions on Communism, the Labour Party, the qualities inherent in the offspring of ‘Sleeping Dove', with a dissertation on horse-sickness in South Africa. He entered a dim bedroom. A white figure was standing at the window. It turned when he came near and flung its arms round him.

‘Jon, you mustn't stop loving me.'

‘Why should I?'

‘Because men do. Besides, it's not the fashion to be faithful.'

‘Bosh!' said Jon gently; ‘it's just as much the fashion as it ever was.'

‘I'm glad we shan't be going to Goodwood. I'm afraid of her. She's so clever.'

‘Fleur?'

‘You
were
in love with her, Jon; I feel it in my bones. I wish you'd told me.'

Jon leaned beside her in the window.

‘Why?' he said dully.

She did not answer. They stood side by side in the breathless warmth, moths passed their faces, a night-jar churred in the silence, and now and then, from the stables, came the stamp of a sleepless horse. Suddenly Anne stretched out her hand.

‘Over there – somewhere – she's awake, and wanting you. I'm not happy, Jon.'

‘Don't be morbid, darling!'

‘But I'm
not
happy, Jon.'

Like a great child – slim within his arm, her cheek pressed to his, her dark earlock tickling his neck! And suddenly her lips came round to his, vehement

‘Love me!'

But when she was asleep, Jon lay wakeful. Moonlight had crept in and there was a ghost in the room – a ghost is a Goya dress, twirling, holding out its skirts, beckoning with its eyes, and with its lips seeming to whisper: ‘Me, too! Me, too!'

And, raising himself on his elbow, he looked resolutely at the dark bead beside him. No I There was – there should be nothing but that in the room! Reality – reality!

THAT THING AND THIS THING

O
N
the following Monday at breakfast Val said to Holly:

‘Listen to this!

D
EAR
D
ARTIE
, –

I think I can do you a good turn. I have some information that concerns your ‘Sleeping Dove' colt and your stable generally, worth
a great deal more than the fifty pounds which I hope you may feel inclined to pay for it. Are you coming up to town this week-end? If so, can I see you at the Brummell? Or I could come to Green Street if you prefer it. It's really rather vital.

Sincerely yours,

A
UBREY
S
TAINFORD

‘That fellow again!'

‘Pay no attention, Val.'

‘I don't know,' said Val glumly. ‘Some gang or other are taking altogether too much interest in the colt. Greenwater's very uneasy. I'd better get to the bottom of it, if I can.'

‘Consult your uncle, then, first. He's still at your mother's.'

Val made a wry face.

‘Yes,' said Holly; ‘but he'll know what you can do and what you can't. You really mustn't deal single-handed with people like that.'

‘All right, then. There's hanky-panky in the wind, I'm sure. Somebody knew all about the colt at Ascot.'

He took the morning train and arrived at his mother's at lunch-time. She and Annette were lunching out, but Soames, who was lunching in, crossed a cold hand with his nephew's.

‘Have you still got that young man and his wife staying with you?'

‘Yes,' said Val.

‘Isn't he ever going to do anything?'

On being told that Jon was about to do something, Soames grunted.

‘Farm – in England? What's he want to do that for? He'll only throw his money away. Much better go back to America, or some other new country. Why doesn't he try South Africa? His half-brother died out there.'

‘He won't leave England again, Uncle Soames – seems to have developed quite a feeling for the old country.'

Soames masticated.

‘Amateurs,' he said, ‘all the young Forsytes. How much has he got a year?'

‘The same as Holly and her half-sister – only about two thousand, so long as his mother's alive.'

Soames looked into his wineglass and took from it an infinitesimal piece of cork. His mother! She was in Paris again, he was told.
She
must have three thousand a year, now, at least. He remembered when she had nothing but a beggarly fifty pounds a year, and that fifty pounds too much, putting the thought of independence into her head. In Paris again! The Bois de Boulogne, that Green Niobe – all drinking water, he remembered it still, and the scene between them there.…

‘What have
you
come up for?' he said to Val.

‘This, Uncle Soames.'

Soames fixed on his nose the glasses he had just begun to need for reading purposes, read the letter, and returned it to his nephew.

‘I've known impudence in my time, but this chap –!'

‘What do you recommend me to do?'

‘Pitch it into the waste-paper basket?'

Val shook his head.

‘Stainford dropped in on me one day at Wansdon. I told him nothing; but you remember we couldn't get more than fours at Ascot, and it was Rondavel's first outing. And now the colt's sick just before Goodwood; there's a screw loose somewhere.'

‘What do you think of doing, then?'

‘I thought I'd see him, and that perhaps you'd like to be present, to keep me from making a fool of myself.'

,‘There's something in that,' said Soames. ‘This fellow's the coolest ruffian I ever came across.'

‘He's pedigree stock, Uncle Soames. Blood will tell.'

‘H'm!' muttered Soames. ‘Well, have him here, if you must see him, but clear the room first and tell Smither to put away the umbrellas.'

Having seen Fleur and his grandson off to the sea that morning, he felt flat, especially as, since her departure, he had gathered from the map of Sussex that she would be quite near to Wansdon and the young man who was always now at the back of his thoughts. The notion of a return match with ‘this
ruffian' Stainford, was, therefore, in the nature of a distraction. And, as soon as the messenger was gone, he took a chair whence he could see the street. On second thoughts he had not spoken about the umbrellas – it was not quite dignified; but he had counted them. The day was warm and rainy, and, through the open window of that ground-floor dining-room, the air of Green Street came in, wetted and a little charged with the scent of servants' dinners.

‘Here he is,' he said suddenly, ‘languid beggar!'

Val crossed from the sideboard and stood behind his uncle's chair. Soames moved uneasily. This fellow and his nephew had been at college together, and had – goodness knew what other vices in common.

‘By Jove!' he heard Val mutter. ‘He does look ill.'

The ‘languid beggar' wore the same dark suit and hat, and the same slow elegance that Soames had first noted on him; a raised eyebrow and the half-lidded eyes despised as ever the bitter crow's-footed exhaustion on his face. And that indefinable look of a damned soul, lost to all but its contempt for emotion, awakened within Soames, just as it had before, the queerest little quirk of sympathy.

‘He'd better have a drink,' he said.

Val moved back to the sideboard.

They heard the bell, voices in the hall; then Smither appeared, red, breathless, deprecatory.

‘Will you see that gentleman, sir, who took the you know what, sir?'

‘Show him in, Smither.'

Val turned towards the door. Soames remained seated.

The ‘languid beggar' entered, nodded to Val, and raised his eyebrows at Soames, who said:

‘How d'you do, Mr Stainford?'

‘Mr Forsyte, I think?'

‘Whisky or brandy, Stainford?'

‘Brandy, thanks.'

‘Smoke, won't you? You wanted to see me. My uncle here is my solicitor.'

Soames saw Stainford smile. It was as if he had said: ‘Really! How wonderful these people are!' He lighted the proffered cigar, and there was silence.

‘Well?' said Val at last.

‘I'm sorry your “Sleeping Dove” colt's gone amiss, Dartie.'

‘How did you know that?'

‘Exactly! But before I tell you, d'you mind giving me fifty pounds and your word that my name's not mentioned.'

Soames and his nephew stared in silence. At last Val said:

‘What guarantee have I that your information's worth fifty pounds, or even five?'

‘The fact that I knew your colt had gone amiss.'

However ignorant of the Turf, Soames could see that the fellow had scored.

‘You mean you know where the leakage is?'

Stainford nodded.

‘We were college pals,' said Val. ‘What would you expect me to do if I knew that about a stable of yours?'

‘My dear Dartie, there's no analogy. You're a man of means, I'm not.'

Trite expressions were knocking against Soames's plate. He swallowed them. What use in talking to a chap like this!

‘Fifty pounds is a lot,' said Val. ‘Is your information of real value?'

‘Yes – on my word of honour.'

Soames sniffed audibly.

‘If I buy this leakage from you,' said Val, ‘can you guarantee that it won't break out in another direction?'

‘Highly improbable that two pipes will leak in your stable.'

‘I find it hard to believe there's one.'

‘Well, there is.'

Soames saw his nephew move up to the table and begin counting over a roll of notes.

‘Tell me what you know, first, and I'll give them to you if on the face of it your information's probable. I won't mention your name.'

Soames saw the languid eyebrows lift.

‘I'm not so distrustful as you, Dartie. Get rid of a boy called Sinnet – that's where your stable leaks.'

‘Sinnet?' said Val; ‘my best boy? What proof have you?'

Stainford took out a dirty piece of writing-paper and held it up. Val read aloud:

‘ “The grey colt's amiss all right – he'll be no good for Goodwood.” All right?' he repeated. ‘Does that means he engineered it?'

Stainford shrugged his shoulders.

‘Can I have this bit of paper?' said Val.

‘If you'll promise not to show it to him.'