The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(166)

Your obedient servants,

SETTLE WHITE & STARK.

She dropped it and sat very still, staring at a little hard line on the right side of her mouth and a little hard line on the left.…

Francis Wilmot, flying, thought of steamship lines and state-rooms, of registrars and rings. An hour ago he had despaired; now it seemed he had always known she was ‘too fine not to give up this fellow whom she didn’t love’. He would make her the queen of South Carolina – he surely would! But if she didn’t like it out there, he would sell the ‘old home’, and they would go and live where she wished – in Venice; he had heard her say Venice was wonderful; or New York, or Sicily; with her he wouldn’t care! And London in the cold dry wind seemed beautiful, no longer a grey maze of unreality and shadows, but a city where you could buy rings and steamship passages. The wind cut him like a knife and he did not feel it. That poor devil MacGown! He hated the sight, the thought of him, and yet felt sorry, thinking of him with the cup dashed from his lips. And all the days, weeks, months himself had spent circling round the flame, his wings scorched and drooping, seemed now but the natural progress of the soul towards Paradise. Twenty-four – his age and hers; an eternity of bliss before them! He pictured her on the porch at home. Horses! A better car than the old Ford! The darkies would adore her – kind of grand, and so white! To walk with her among the azaleas in the spring, that he could smell already; no – it was his hands where he had touched her! He shivered, and resumed his flight under the bare trees, well-nigh alone in the east wind; the stars of a bitter night shining.

A card was handed to him as he entered his hotel.

‘Mr Wilmot, a gentleman to see you.’

Sir Alexander was seated in a corner of the lounge, with a crush hat in his hand. He rose and came towards Francis Wilmot, grim and square.

‘I’ve been meaning to call on you for some time, Mr Wilmot.’

‘Yes sir. May I offer you a cocktail, or a glass of sherry?’

‘No, thank you. You are aware of my engagement to Miss Ferrar?’

‘I was, sir.’

This red aggressive face, with its stiff moustache and burning eyes, revived his hatred; so that he no longer felt sorry.

‘You know that I very much object to your constant visits to that young lady. In this country it is not the part of a gentleman to pursue an engaged young woman.’

‘That,’ said Francis Wilmot coolly, ‘is for Miss Ferrar herself to say.’

MacGown’s face grew even redder.

‘If you hadn’t been an American, I should have warned you to keep clear a long time ago.’

Francis Wilmot bowed.

‘Well! Are you going to?’

‘Permit me to decline an answer.’

MacGown thrust forward his face.

‘I’ve told you,’ he said. ‘If you trespass any more, look out for yourself.’

‘Thank you; I will,’ said Francis Wilmot softly.

MacGown stood for a moment swaying slightly. Was he going to hit out? Francis Wilmot put his hands into his trouser pockets.

‘You’ve had your warning,’ said MacGown, and turned on his heel.

‘Good-night!’ said Francis Wilmot to that square receding back. He had been gentle, he had been polite, but he hated the fellow, yes, indeed! Save for the triumphal glow within him, there might have been a fuss!





Chapter Ten



PHOTOGRAPHY



SUMMONED to the annual Christmas covert-shooting at Lippinghall, Michael found there two practical politicians and one member of the Government.

In the mullion-windowed smoking-room, where men retired, and women too sometimes, into chairs old, soft, leathery, the ball of talk was lightly tossed, and naught so devastating as Foggartism mentioned. But in odd minutes and half-hours Michael gained insight into political realities, and respect for practical politicians. Even on this holiday they sat up late, got up early, wrote letters, examined petitions, dipped into Blue Books. They were robust, ate heartily, took their liquor like men, never seemed fatigued. They shaved clean, looked healthy, and shot badly with enjoyment. The member of the Government played golf instead, and Fleur went round with him. Michael learned the lesson: have so much on your mind that you have practically nothing in it; no time to pet your schemes, fancies, feelings. Carry on, and be careful that you don’t know to what end.

As for Foggartism, they didn’t – à la Evening Sun – pooh-pooh it; they merely asked, as Michael had often asked himself: ‘Yes, but how are you going to work it? Your scheme might be very good, if it didn’t hit people’s pockets. Any addition to the price of living is out of the question – the country’s taxed up to the hilt. Your Foggartism’s going to need money in every direction. You may swear till you’re blue in the face that ten or twenty years hence it’ll bring fivefold return; nobody will listen. You may say: “Without it we’re all going to the devil”; but we’re accustomed to that – some people think we’re there already, and they resent its being said. Others, especially manufacturers, believe what they want to. They can’t bear anyone who cries “stinking fish”, whatever his object. Talk about reviving trade, and less taxation, or offer more wages and talk of a capital levy, and, according to Party, we shall believe you’ve done the trick – until we find you haven’t. But you’re talking of less trade and more taxation in the present with a view to a better future. Great Scott! In politics you can shuffle the cards, but you mustn’t add or substract. People only react to immediate benefit, or, as in the war, to imminent danger. You must cut out sensationalism.’