The Forsyte Saga(353)
‘Yes, if I’m going it had better be at once. Only – Mother – if – if I wanted to stay out somewhere – America or anywhere, would you mind coming presently?’
‘Wherever and whenever you send for me. But don’t send until you really want me.’
Jon drew a deep breath.
‘I feel England’s choky.’
They stood a few minutes longer under the oak tree – looking out to where the grandstand at Epsom was veiled in evening. The branches kept the moonlight from them, so that it only fell everywhere else – over the fields and far away, and on the windows of the creepered house behind, which soon would be to let.
Chapter Ten
FLEUR’S WEDDING
THE October paragraphs describing the wedding of Fleur Forsyte to Michael Mont hardly conveyed the symbolic significance of this event. In the union of the great-granddaughter of ‘Superior Dosset’ with the heir of a ninth baronet was the outward and visible sign of that merger of class in class which buttresses the political stability of a realm. The time had come when the Forsytes might resign their natural resentment against a ‘flummery’ not theirs by birth, and accept it as the still more natural due of their possessive instincts. Besides, they had to mount to make room for all those so much more newly rich. In that quiet but tasteful ceremony in Hanover Square, and afterward among the furniture in Green Street, it had been impossible for those not in the know to distinguish the Forsyte troop from the Mont contingent – so far away was ‘Superior Dosset’ now. Was there, in the crease of his trousers, the expression of his moustache, his accent, or the shine on his top-hat, a pin to chose between Soames and the ninth baronet himself? Was not Fleur as self-possessed, quick, glancing, pretty, and hard as the likeliest Muskham, Mont, or Charwell filly present? If anything, the Forsytes had it in dress and looks and manners. They had become ‘upper class’ and now their name would be formally recorded in the Stud Book, their money joined to land. Whether this was a little late in the day, and those rewards of the possessive instinct, lands and money destined for the melting-pot was still a question so moot that it was not mooted. After all, Timothy had said Consols were goin’ up. Timothy, the last, the missing link; Timothy, in extremis on the Bayswater Road – so Francie had reported. It was whispered, too, that this young Mont was a sort of socialist – strangely wise of him, and in the nature of insurance, considering the days they lived in. There was no uneasiness on that score. The landed classes produced that sort of amiable foolishness at times, turned to safe uses and confined to theory. As George remarked to his sister Francie: ‘They’ll soon be having puppies – that’ll give him pause.’
The church with white flowers and something blue in the middle of the East window looked extremely chaste, as though endeavouring to counteract the somewhat lurid phraseology of a Service calculated to keep the thoughts of all on puppies. Forsytes, Haymans, Tweetymans, sat in the left aisle; Monts, Charwells, Muskhams in the right; while a sprinkling of Fleur’s fellow-sufferers at school, and of Mont’s fellow-sufferers in the War, gaped indiscriminately from either side, and three maiden ladies, who had dropped in on their way from Skyward’s, brought up the rear, together with two Mont retainers and Fleur’s old nurse. In the unsettled state of the country as full a house as could be expected.
Mrs Val Dartie, who sat with her husband in the third row, squeezed his hand more than once during the performance. To her, who knew the plot of this tragi-comedy, its most dramatic moment was wellnigh painful. ‘I wonder if Jon knows by instinct,’ she thought – Jon, out in British Columbia. She had received a letter from him only that morning which had made her smile and say:
‘Jon’s in British Columbia, Val, because he wants to be in California. He thinks it’s too nice there.’
‘Oh!’ said Val, ‘so he’s beginning to see a joke again.’
‘He’s bought some land and sent for his mother.’
‘What on earth will she do out there?’
‘All she cares about is Jon. Do you still think it a happy release?’
Val’s shrewd eyes narrowed to grey pin-points between their dark lashes.
‘Fleur wouldn’t have suited him a bit. She’s not bred right.’
‘Poor little Fleur!’ sighed Holly. Ah! it was strange – this marriage. The young man, Mont, had caught her on the rebound, of course, in the reckless mood of one whose ship has just gone down. Such a plunge could not but be – as Val put it – an outside chance. There was little to be told from the back view of her young cousin’s veil, and Holly’s eyes reviewed the general aspect of this Christian wedding. She, who had made a love-match which had been successful, had a horror of unhappy marriages. This might not be one in the end – but it was clearly a toss-up; and to consecrate a toss-up in this fashion with manufactured unction before a crowd of fashionable freethinkers – for who thought otherwise than freely, or not at all, when they were ‘dolled’ up – seemed to her as near a sin as one could find in an age which had abolished them. Her eyes wandered from the prelate in his robes (a Charwell – the Forsytes had not as yet produced a prelate) to Val, beside her, thinking – she was certain – of the Mayfly filly at fifteen to one for the Cambridgeshire. They passed on and caught the profile of the ninth baronet, in counterfeitment of the kneeling process. She could just see the neat ruck above his knees where he had pulled his trousers up, and thought: ‘Val’s forgotten to pull up his!’ Her eyes passed to the pew in front of her, where Winifred’s substantial form was gowned with passion and on again to Soames and Annette kneeling side by side. A little smile came on her lips – Prosper Profond, back from the South Seas of the Channel, would be kneeling too, about six rows behind. Yes! This was a funny ‘small’ business, however it turned out; still it was in a proper church and would be in the proper papers tomorrow morning.