The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(148)
‘No, thanks,’ said MacGown.
Crumpling his tie into his pocket, Francis Wilmot bowed and moved towards the door.
‘Won’t you stay for tea, Mr Wilmot?’
‘I believe not, thank you.’
When he was gone Marjorie Ferrar fixed her eyes on the nose of her betrothed. Strong and hard, it was, as yet, little differentiated from the normal.
‘Now,’ said MacGown, ‘why did you lie about that young blighter? You said he was in Paris. Are you playing fast and loose with, Marjorie?’
‘Of course! Why not?’
MacGown advanced to within reach of her.
‘Put down that brush.’
Marjorie Ferrar raised it; and suddenly it hit the wall opposite.
‘You’ll stop that picture, and you’ll not see that fellow again; he’s in love with you.’
He had taken her wrists.
Her face, quite as angry as his own, was reined back.
‘Let go! I don’t know if you call yourself a gentleman?’
‘No, a plain man.’
‘Strong and silent – out of a dull novel. Sit down, and don’t be unpleasant.’
The duel of their eyes, brown and burning, blue and icy, endured for quite a minute. Then he did let go.
‘Pick up that brush and give it to me.’
‘I’m damned if I will!’
‘Then our engagement is off. If you’re old-fashioned, I’m not. You want a young woman who’ll give you a whip for a wedding present.’
MacGown put his hands up to his head.
‘I want you too badly to be sane.’
‘Then pick up the brush.’
MacGown picked it up.
‘What have you done to your nose?’
MacGown put his hand to it.
‘Ran it against a door.’
Marjorie Ferrar laughed. ‘Poor door!’
MacGown gazed at her in genuine astonishment.
‘You’re the hardest woman I ever came across; and why I love you, I don’t know.’
‘It hasn’t improved your looks or your temper, my dear. You were rash to come here today.’
MacGown uttered a sort of groan. ‘I can’t keep away, and you know it.’
Marjorie Ferrar turned the canvas face to the wall, and leaned there beside it.
‘I don’t know what you think of the prospects of our happiness, Alec; but I think they’re pretty poor. Will you have a whisky and soda? It’s in that cupboard. Tea, then? Nothing? We’d better understand each other. If I marry you, which is very doubtful, I’m not going into purdah, I shall have what friends I choose. And until I marry you, I shall even see them. If you don’t like it, you can leave it.’
She watched his clenched hands, and her wrists tingled. To be perfect wife to him would ‘take a bit of doing!’ If only she knew of a real ‘good thing’ instead, and had a ‘shirt to put on it!’ If only Francis Wilmot had money and did not live where the cotton came from and darkies crooned in the fields; where rivers ran red, Florida moss festooned the swamps and the sun shone; where grapefruit grew – or didn’t? – and mocking-birds sang sweeter than the nightingale. South Carolina, described to her with such enthusiasm by Francis Wilmot! A world that was not her world stared straight into the eyes of Marjorie Ferrar. South Carolina! Impossible! It was like being asked to be ancient!
MacGown came up to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Marjorie.’
On her shrugging shoulders he put his hands, kissed her lips, and went away.
And she sat down in her favourite chair, listless, swinging her foot. The sand had run out of her dolly – life was a bore! It was like driving tandem, when the leader would keep turning round, or the croquet party in Alice in Wonderland, read in the buttercup-fields at High Marshes not twenty years ago that felt like twenty centuries!
What did she want? Just a rest from men and bills? Or that fluffy something called ‘real love’? Whatever it was, she hadn’t got it! And so! Dress, and go out, and dance; and later dress again, and go out and dine; and the dresses not paid for!
Well, nothing like an egg-nog for ‘the hump’!
Ringing for the ingredients, she made one with plenty of brandy, capped it with nutmeg, and drank it down.
Chapter Four
‘FONS ET ORIGO’
TWO mornings later Michael received two letters. The first, which bore an Australian post-mark, ran thus:
DEAR SIR,
I hope you are well and the lady. I thought perhaps you’d like to know how we are. Well, Sir, we’re not much to speak of out here after a year and a half. I consider there’s too much gilt on the gingerbread as regards Australia. The climate’s all right when it isn’t too dry or too wet – it suits my wife fine, but Sir when they talk about making your fortune all I can say is tell it to the marines. The people here are a funny lot they don’t seem to have any use for us and I don’t seem to have any use for them. They call us Pommies and treat us as if we’d took a liberty in coming to their blooming country. You’d say they wanted a few more out here, but they don’t seem to think so. I often wish I was back in the old Country. My wife says we’re better off here, but I don’t know. Anyway they tell a lot of lies as regards emigration.