The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 (108 page)

‘You know, Michael, I feel I should be ever so much more interested if I ran a place of my own in the country – a sort of rest-house that I could make attractive for girls who wanted air and that.'

To Michael, remembering the canteen, it seemed ‘an idea' indeed. To Fleur it seemed more – a ‘lease and release', as her father might have put it. Her scheming mind had seen the
possibilities. She would be able to go there without let or cavil, and none would know what she did with her time. A base of operations with a fool-proof title was essential for a relationship, however innocent, with Jon. She began at once to learn to drive the car; for the ‘rest-house' must not be so near him as to excite suspicion. She approached her father on the finance of the matter. At first doubtfully, and then almost cordially, Soames approved. If he would pay the rent and rates of the house, she would manage the rest out of her own pocket. She could not have bettered such a policy by way of convincing him that her interest was genuine; for he emphatically distrusted the interest of people in anything that did not cost them money. A careful study of the map suggested to her the neighbourhood of Dorking. Box Hill had a reputation for air and beauty, and was within an hour's fast drive of Wansdon. In the next three weeks she found and furnished a derelict house, rambling and cheap, close to the road on the London side of Box Hill, with a good garden and stables that could be converted easily. She completed her education with the car, and engaged a couple who could be left in charge with impunity. She consulted Michael and the Hilarys freely. In fact, like a mother cat, who carefully misleads the household as to where she is going to ‘lay' her kittens, so Fleur, by the nature of her preparations, disguised her round-about design. ‘The Meads Rest House', as it was called, was opened at the end of August.

All this time she possessed her soul with only the scantiest news of Jon. A letter from Holly told her that negotiations for Green Hill Farm were ‘hanging fire' over the price, though Jon was more and more taken with it; and Anne daily becoming more rural and more English. Rondavel was in great form again, and expected to win at Doncaster. Val had already taken a long shot about him for the Derby next year.

Fleur replied in a letter so worded as to give the impression that she had no other interest in the world just then but her new scheme. They must all drive over to see whether her ‘Rest House' didn't beat the canteen. The people were ‘such dears' – it was all ‘terribly amusing'. She wished to convey the feeling that she
had no fears of herself, no alarm in the thought of Jon; and that her work in life was serious. Michael, never wholly deserted by the naïveté of a good disposition, was more and more deceived. To him her mind seemed really occupied; and certainly her body, for she ran up from Dorking almost daily and spent the week-ends with him either at ‘The Shelter', where Kit was installed with his grandparents, or at Lippinghall, where they always made a fuss of Fleur. Rowing her on the river in bland weather, Michael recaptured a feeling of security. ‘Old Forsyte' must have let his imagination run away with him, the old boy
was
rather like a hen where Fleur was concerned, clucking and turning an inflamed eye on everything that came near!

Parliament had risen, and slum conversion work was now all that he was doing. These days on that river, which he ever associated with his wooing, were the happiest he had spent since the strike began – the strike that in narrowed form dragged wearyingly on, so that people ceased to mention it, the weather being warm.

And Soames? By his daughter's tranquil amiability, he, too, was tranquillized. He would look at Michael and say nothing, in accordance with the best English traditions, and his own dignity. It was he who revived the idea of Fleur's getting painted by June's ‘lame duck'. He felt it would occupy her mind still further. He would like, however, to see the fellow's work first, though he supposed it would mean a visit to June's.

‘If she were to be out,' he said to Fleur, ‘I shouldn't mind having a look round her studio.'

‘Shall I arrange that, then, Dad?'

‘Not too pointedly,' said Soames; ‘or she'll get into a fantod.'

Accordingly at the following week-end Fleur said to him:

‘If you'll come up with me on Monday, dear, we'll go round. The Rafaelite will be in, but June won't. She doesn't want to see you any more than you want to see her.'

‘H'm!' said Soames. ‘She always spoke her mind.'

They went up in his car. After forming his opinion Soames
was to return, and Fleur to go on home. The Rafaelite met them at the head of the stairs. To Soames he suggested a bullfighter (not that he had ever seen one in the flesh), with his short whiskers and his broad, pale face which wore the expression: ‘If you suppose yourself capable of appreciating my work, you make a mistake.' Soames's face, on the other hand wore the expression: ‘If you suppose that I want to appreciate your work, you make a greater.' And, leaving him to Fleur, he began to look round. In truth he was not unfavourably impressed. The work had turned its back on modernity. The surfaces were smooth, the drawing in perspective, and the colouring full. He perceived a new note, or rather the definite revival of an old one. The chap had undoubted talent; whether it would go down in these days he did not know, but its texture was more agreeable to live with than any he had seen for some time. When he came to the portrait of June he stood for a minute, with his head on one side, and then said, with a pale smile:

‘You've got her to the life.' It pleased him to think that June had evidently not seen in it what he saw. But when his eyes fell on the picture of Anne, his face fell, too, and he looked quickly at Fleur, who said:

‘Yes, Dad? What do you think of that?'

The thought had flashed through Soames's mind: ‘Is it to get in touch with
him
that she's ready to be painted?'

‘Finished?' he asked.

The Rafaelite answered:

‘Yes. Going down to them tomorrow.'

Soames's face rose again. That risk was over then!

‘Quite clever!' he murmured. ‘The lily's excellent.' And he passed on to a sketch of the woman who had opened the door to them.

‘That's recognisable! Not at all bad.'

In these quiet ways he made it clear that, while he approved on the whole, he was not going to pay any extravagant price. He took an opportunity when Fleur was out of hearing, and said:

‘So you want to paint my daughter. What's your figure?'

‘A hundred and fifty.'

‘Rather tall for these days – you're a young man. However – so long as you make a good thing of it!'

The Rafaelite bowed ironically.

‘Yes,' said Soames, ‘I dare say; you think all your geese are swans – never met a painter who didn't. You won't keep her sitting long, I suppose – she's busy. That's agreed, then. Goodbye! Don't come down!'

As they went out he said to Fleur:

‘I've fixed that. You can begin sitting when you like. His work's better than you'd think from the look of him. Forbidding chap, I call him.'

‘A painter has to be forbidding, Dad; otherwise people would think he was cadging.'

‘Something in that,' said Soames. ‘I'll get back now, as you won't let me take you home. Good-bye! Take care of yourself, and don't overdo it.' And, receiving her kiss, he got into the car.

Fleur began to walk towards her eastward-bound bus as his car moved west, nor did he see her stop, give him some law, then retrace her steps to June's.

POSSESSING THE SOUL

J
UST
as in a very old world to find things or people of pure descent is impossible, so with actions; and the psychologist who traces them to single motives is like Soames, who believed that his daughter wanted to be painted in order that she might see herself hanging on a wall. Everybody, he knew, had themselves hung sooner or later, and generally sooner. Yet Fleur, though certainly not averse to being hung, had motives that were hardly
so single as all that. In the service of this complexity, she went back to June's. That little lady, who had been lurking in her bedroom so as not to meet her kinsman, was in high feather.

‘Of course the price is nominal,' she said. ‘Harold ought really to be getting every bit as much for his portraits as Thorn or Lippen. Still, it's so important for him to be making something while he's waiting to take his real place. What have you come back for?'

‘Partly for the pleasure of seeing you,' said Fleur, ‘and partly because we forgot to arrange for the first sitting. I think my best time would be three o'clock.'

‘Yes,' murmured June doubtfully, not so much from doubt as from not having suggested it herself. ‘I think Harold could manage that. Isn't his work exquisite?'

‘I particularly like the thing he's done of Anne. It's going down to them tomorrow, I hear.'

‘Yes; Jon's coming to fetch it.'

Fleur looked hastily into the little dim mirror to see that she was keeping expression off her face.

‘What do you think I ought to wear?'

June's gaze swept her from side to side.

‘Oh! I expect he'll want an artificial scheme with you.'

‘Exactly! But what colour? One must come in something.'

‘We'll go up and ask him.'

The Rafaelite was standing before his picture of Anne. He turned and looked at them, without precisely saying: ‘Good Lord! These women!' and nodded, gloomily, at the suggestion of three o'clock.

‘What do you want her in?' asked June.

The Rafaelite stared at Fleur as if determining where her ribs left off and her hip-bones began.

‘Gold and silver,' he said at last.

June clasped her hands.

‘Now isn't that extraordinary? He's seen through you at once. Your gold and silver room. Harold, how
did
you?'

‘I happen to have an old “Folly” dress,' said Fleur, ‘silver and gold, with bells, that I haven't worn since I was married.'

‘A “Folly”!' cried June. ‘The very thing. If it's pretty. Some are hideous, of course.'

‘Oh, it's pretty, and makes a charming sound.'

‘He can't paint that,' said June. Then added dreamily: ‘But you could suggest it, Harold – like Leonardo.'

‘Leonardo!'

‘Oh! Of course! I know, he wasn't –'

The Rafaelite interrupted.

‘Don't make your face up,' he said to Fleur.

‘No,' murmured Fleur. ‘June, I do so like that of Anne. Has it struck you that she's sure to want Jon painted now?'

‘Of course. I'll make him promise when he comes tomorrow.'

‘He's going to begin farming, you know; he'll make that an excuse. Men hate being painted.'

‘Oh, that's all nonsense,' said June. ‘In old days they loved it. Anyway, Jon must sit before he begins. They'll make a splendid pair.'

Behind the Rafaelite's back Fleur bit her lip.

‘He must wear a turn-down shirt. Blue, don't you think, Harold – to go with his hair?'

‘Pink, with green spots,' muttered the Rafaelite.

Then three o'clock tomorrow?' said Fleur hastily.

June nodded. ‘Jon's coming to lunch, so he'll be gone before you come.'

‘All right, then. Au revoir!'

She held her hand out to the Rafaelite, who seemed surprised at the gesture.

‘Good-bye, June!'

June came suddenly close and kissed her on the chin. At that moment the little lady's face looked soft and pink, and her eyes soft; her lips were warm, too, as if she were warm all through.

Fleur went away thinking: ‘Ought I to have asked her not to tell Jon I was going to be painted?' But surely June, the warm, the single-eyed, would never tell Jon anything that might stop him being useful to her Rafaelite. She stood, noting the geography around ‘The Poplars'. The only approach to this
backwater was by a road that dipped into it and came out again. Just here, she would not be seen from the house, and could see Jon leaving after lunch whichever way he went. But then he would have to take a taxi, for the picture. It struck her bitterly that she, who had been his first-adored, should have to scheme to see him. But if she didn't, she would never see him! Ah! what a ninny she had been at Wansdon in those old days when her room was next to his. One little act, and nothing could have kept him from her for all time, not his mother nor the old feud; not her father; nothing, and then there had been no vows of hers or his, no Michael, no Kit, no nymph-eyed girl in barrier between them; nothing but youth and innocence. And it seemed to her that youth and innocence were over-rated.

She lit on no plan by which she could see him without giving away the fact that she had schemed. She would have to possess her soul a little longer. Let him once get his head into the painter's noose, and there would be not one but many chances.