The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(94)

Queer question of ‘Old Forsyte’s’ about sentiment; odd that he should ask it! ‘Up to a point! But don’t we all get past that point?’ he thought. Look at Wilfrid, and himself – after the war they had deemed it blasphemous to admit that anything mattered except eating and drinking, for tomorrow they died; even fellows like Nazing, and Master, who were never in the war, had felt like that ever since. Well, Wilfrid had got it in the neck; and he himself had got it in the wind; and he would bet that – barring one here and there whose blood was made of ink – they would all get it in the neck or wind soon or late. Why, he would cheerfully bear Fleur’s pain and risk, instead of her! But if nothing mattered, why should he feel like that?

Turning from the window, he leaned against the lacquered back of the jade-green settee, and stared at the wall space between the Chinese tea-chests. Jolly thoughtful of the ‘old man’ to have that white monkey down! The brute was potent – symbolic of the world’s mood: beliefs cancelled, faiths withdrawn! And, dash it! not only the young – but the old – were in that temper! ‘Old Forsyte’, or he would never have been scared by that monkey’s eyes; yes, and his own governor, and Elderson, and all the rest. Young and old – no real belief in anything! And yet – revolt sprang up in Michael, with a whirr, like a covey of partridges. It did matter that some person or some principle outside oneself should be more precious than oneself – it dashed well did! Sentiment, then, wasn’t dead – nor faith, nor belief, which were the same things. They were only shedding shells, working through chrysalis, into – butterflies, perhaps. Faith, sentiment, belief, had gone underground, possibly, but they were there, even in ‘Old Forsyte’ and himself. He had a good mind to put the monkey up again. No use exaggerating his importance!… By George! Some flare! A jagged streak of vivid light had stripped darkness off the night. Michael crossed, to close the windows. A shattering peal of thunder blundered overhead; and down came the rain, slashing and sluicing. He saw a man running, black, like a shadow across a dark-blue screen; saw him by the light of another flash, suddenly made lurid and full of small meaning, with face of cheerful anxiety, as if he were saying: ‘Hang it, I’m getting wet!’ Another frantic crash!

‘Fleur!’ thought Michael; and clanging the last window down, he ran upstairs.

She was sitting up in bed, with a face all round, and young, and startled.

‘Brutes!’ he thought – guns and the heavens confounded in his mind: ‘They’ve waked her up!’

‘It’s all right, darling! Just another little summer kick-up! Were you asleep?’

‘I was dreaming!’ He felt her hand clutching within his own, saw a sudden pinched look on her face, with a sort of rage. What infernal luck!

‘Where’s Ting?’

No dog was in the corner.

‘Under the bed – you bet! Would you like him up?’

‘No. Let him stay; he hates it.’

She put her head against his arm, and Michael curled his hand round her other ear.

‘I never liked thunder much!’ said Fleur, ‘and now it – it hurts!’

High above her hair Michael’s face underwent the contortions of an overwhelming tenderness. One of those crashes which seem just overhead sent her face burrowing against his chest, and, sitting on the bed, he gathered her in, close.

‘I wish it were over,’ came, smothered, from her lips.

‘It will be directly, darling; it came on so suddenly!’ But he knew she didn’t mean the storm.

‘If I come through, I’m going to be quite different to you, Michael.’

Anxiety was the natural accompaniment of such events, but the words: ‘If I come through’ turned Michael’s heart right over. Incredible that one so young and pretty should be in even the remotest danger of extinction; incredibly painful that she should be in fear of it! He hadn’t realized. She had been so calm, so matter-of-fact about it all.

‘Don’t!’ he mumbled; ‘of course you’ll come through.’

‘I’m afraid.’

The sound was small and smothered, but the words hurt horribly. Nature, with the small ‘n’, forcing fear into this girl he loved so awfully! Nature kicking up this godless din above her poor little head!

‘Ducky, you’ll have twilight sleep and know nothing about it; and be as right as rain in no time.’

Fleur freed her hand.

‘Not if it’s not good for him. Is it?’

‘I expect so, sweetheart; I’ll find out. What makes you think – ?’