The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(319)

The ‘Vendimia’ copy stood on an easel. Soames staggered up to it. Half carrying and half dragging, he bore that Spanish effigy of Fleur towards the window.

‘Now lift!’ They lifted till it balanced on the sill.

‘Come away there!’ called a voice from the doorway.

‘Tip!’ gasped Soames, but arms seized him, he was carried to the door, down the stairs, into the air half-conscious. He came to himself in a chair on the verandah. He could see the helmets of firemen and heard a hissing sound. His lungs hurt him, his eyes smarted terribly, and his hands were scorched, but he felt drugged and drowsy and triumphant in spite of his aches and smarting.

The grass, the trees, the cool river under the moon! What a nightmare it had been up there among his pictures – his poor pictures! But he had saved them! The cigarette ash! The waste-paper-basket! Fleur! No doubt about the cause! What on earth had induced him to put his pictures into her head that evening of all others, when she didn’t know what she was doing? What awful luck! Mustn’t let her know – unless – unless she did know? The shock – however! The shock might do her good! His Degas! The Harpignies! He closed his eyes to listen to the hissing of the water. Good! A good noise! They’d save the rest! It might have been worse! Something cold was thrust against his drooped hand. A dog’s nose. They shouldn’t have let him out. And, suddenly, it seemed to Soames that he must see to things again. They’d go the wrong way to work with all that water! He staggered to his feet. He could see better now. Fleur? Ah! There she was, standing by herself – too near the house! And what a mess on the lawn – firemen – engines – maids, that fellow Riggs – the hose laid to the river – plenty of water, anyway! They mustn’t hurt the pictures with that water! Fools! He knew it! Why! They were squirting the untouched wall. Squirting though both windows. There was no need of that! The right-hand window only – only! He stumbled up to the fireman.

‘Not that wall! Not that! That wall’s all right. You’ll spoil my pictures! Shoot at the centre!’ The fireman shifted the angle of his arm, and Soames saw the jet strike the right-hand corner of the sill. The Vendimia! There went its precious –! Dislodged by the stream of water, it was tilting forward! And Fleur! Good God! Standing right under, looking up. She must see it, and she wasn’t moving! It flashed through Soames that she wanted to be killed.

‘It’s falling!’ he cried. ‘Look out! Look out!’ And, just as if he had seen her about to throw herself under a car, he darted forward, pushed her with his outstretched arms, and fell.

The thing had struck him to the earth.





Chapter Fourteen



HUSH



OLD Gradman, off the Poultry, eating his daily chop, took up the early edition of the evening paper, brought to him with that collation:

FIRE IN A PICTURE GALLERY

WELL-KNOWN CONNOISSEUR SEVERELY INJURED

A fire, the cause of which is unknown, broke out last night in the picture gallery of Mr Soames Forsyte’s house at Mapledurham. It was extinguished by fire-engines from Reading, and most of the valuable pictures were saved. Mr Forsyte, who was in residence, fought the fire before the firemen were on the spot, and, single-handed, rescued many of the pictures, throwing them out of the window of the gallery into a blanket which was held stretched out on the lawn below. Unfortunately, after the engines had arrived, he was struck on the head by the frame of a picture falling from the window of the gallery, which is on the second floor, and rendered unconscious. In view of his age and his exertions during the fire, very little hope is entertained of his recovery. Nobody else was injured, and no other part of the mansion was reached by the flames.

Laying down his fork, old Gradman took his napkin, and passed it over a brow which had grown damp. Replacing it on the table, he pushed away his chop, and took up the paper again. You never knew what to believe, nowadays, but the paragraph was uncommonly sober; and he dropped it with a gesture singularly like the wringing of hands.

‘Mr Soames,’ he thought. ‘Mr Soames!’ His two wives, his daughter, his grandson, the Forsyte family, himself! He stood up, grasping the table. An accidental thing like that! Mr Soames! Why – he was a young man, comparatively! But perhaps they’d got hold of the wrong stick! Mechanically he went to the telephone. He found the number with difficulty, his eyes being misty.

‘Is that Mrs Dartie’s – Gradman speaking. Is it true, ma-am?… Not ‘opeless, I do trust? Aow! Saving Miss Fleur’s life? You don’t say! You’re goin’ down? I think I’d better, too. Everything’s in order, but he might want something, if he comes to… . Dear, dear!… Ah! I’m sure… . Dreadful shock – dreadful!’ He hung up the receiver, and stood quite still. Who would look after things now? There wasn’t one of the family with any sense of business, compared with Mr Soames, not one who remembered the old days, and could handle house property as they used to, then. No, he couldn’t relish any more chop – that was flat! Miss Fleur! Saving her life? Well, what a thing. She’d always been first with him. What must she be feelin’! He remembered her as a little girl; yes, and at her wedding. To think of it. She’d be a rich woman now. He took his hat. Must go home first and get some things – might have to wait there days! But for a full three minutes he still stood, as if stunned – a thick-set figure with a puggy face, in a round grey beard – confirming his uneasy grief. If the Bank of England had gone he couldn’t have felt it more. That he couldn’t.