The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(69)

‘May I ask you something, Fleur? And will you please answer me quite truly?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s this: I know you didn’t love me when you married me. I don’t think you love me now. Do you want me to clear out?’

A long time seemed to pass.

‘No.’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t.’

Michael got up.

‘Will you answer one thing more?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was Wilfrid here tonight?’

‘Yes – no. That is –’

His hands clutched each other; he saw her eyes fix on them, and kept them still.

‘Fleur, don’t!’

‘I’m not. He came to the window there. I saw his face – that’s all. His face – it – Oh! Michael, don’t be unkind tonight!’

Unkind! Unkind! Michael’s heart swelled at that strange word.

‘It’s all right,’ he stammered: ‘So long as you tell me what it is you want.’

Fleur said, without moving:

‘I want to be comforted.’

Ah! She knew exactly what to say, how to say hi And going on his knees, he began to comfort her.





Chapter Twelve



GOING EAST



HE had not been on his knees many minutes before they suffered from reaction. To kneel there comforting Fleur brought him a growing discomfort. He believed her tonight, as he had not believed her for months past. But what was Wilfrid doing? Where wandering? The face at the window – face without voice, without attempt to reach her! Michael ached in that illegitimate organ the heart. Withdrawing his arms, he stood up.

‘Would you like me to have a look for him? If it’s all over – he might – I might –’

Fleur, too, stood up. She was calm enough now.

‘Yes, I’ll go to bed.’ With Ting-a-ling in her arms, she went to the door; her face, between the dog’s chestnut fur and her own, was very pale, very still.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘this is my second no go, Michael; I suppose it means –’

Michael gasped. Currents of emotion, welling, ebbing, swirling, rendered him incapable of speech.

‘The night of the balloon,’ she said: ‘Do you mind?’

‘Mind? Good God! Mind!’

‘That’s all right, then. I don’t. Good night!’

She was gone. Without reason, Michael thought: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ And he stood, as if congealed, overcome by an uncontrollable sense of solidity. A child coming! It was as though the barque of his being, tossed and drifted, suddenly rode tethered – anchor down. He turned and tore at the curtains. Night of stars! Wonderful world! Jolly – jolly! And – Wilfrid!. He flattened his face against the glass. Outside there Wilfrid’s had been flattened. He could see it if he shut his eyes. Not fair! Dog lost – man lost! S.O.S. He went into the hall, and from the mothless marble coffer rived his thickest coat. He took the first taxi that came by.

‘Cork Street! Get along!’ Needle in bundle of hay! Quarter-past eleven by Big Ben! The intense relief of his whole being in that jolting cab seemed to him brutal. Salvation! It was – he had a strange certainty of that as though he saw Fleur suddenly ‘close up’ in a very strong light, concrete beneath her graceful veerings. Family! Continuation! He had been unable to anchor her, for he was not of her! But her child could and would! And, perhaps, he would yet come in with the milk. Why did he love her so – it was not done! Wilfrid and he were donkeys – out of touch, out of tune with the times!’

‘Here you are, sir – what number?’

‘All right! Cool your heels and wait for me! Have a cigarette!’

With one between his own lips which felt so dry, he went down the backwater.

A light in Wilfrid’s rooms! He rang the bell. The door was opened, the face of Wilfrid’s man looked forth.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Mr Desert in?’

‘No, sir. Mr Desert has just started for the East. His ship sails tomorrow.’

‘Oh!’ said Michael blankly. ‘Where from?’

‘Plymouth, sir. His train leaves Paddington at midnight. You might catch him yet.’

‘It’s very sudden,’ said Michael, ‘he never –’

‘No, sir. Mr Desert is a sudden gentleman.’

‘Well, thanks; I’ll try and catch him.’

Back in the cab with the words: ‘Paddington – flick her along!’ he thought: ‘A sudden gentleman!’ Perfect! He remembered the utter suddenness of that little interview beside the bust of Lionel Charwell. Sudden their friendship, sudden its end – sudden even Wilfrid’s poems – offspring of a sudden soul! Staring from window to window in that jolting, rattling cab, Michael suffered from St Vitus’s dance. Was he a fool? Could he not let well alone? Pity was posh! And yet! With Wilfrid would go a bit of his heart, and in spite of all he would like him to know that. Upper Brook Street, Park Lane! Emptying streets, cold night, stark plane trees painted-up by the lamps against a bluish dark. And Michael thought: ‘We wander! What’s the end – the goal? To do one’s bit, and not worry! But what is my bit? What’s Wilfrid’s? Where will he end up, now?’