Thomas Carlyle - "History of Friedrich II of Prussia V 7"

Arthur M. Winfield - "The Rover Boys in New York"

Howard R. Garis - "Umboo, the Elephant"

William Morris - "Signs of Change"

To Let

J >> John Galsworthy >> To Let




"Remarkably well."

Soames nodded. He had never seen her look prettier, yet he could
not rid himself of the impression that this business was
unnatural--remembering still that crushed figure burrowing into
the corner of the sofa. From that night to this day he had
received from her no confidences. He knew from his chauffeur that
she had made one more attempt on Robin Hill and drawn blank--an
empty house, no one at home. He knew that she had received a
letter, but not what was in it, except that it had made her hide
herself and cry. He had remarked that she looked at him sometimes
when she thought he wasn't noticing, as if she were wondering
still what he had done--forsooth--to make those people hate him
so. Well, there it was! Annette had come back, and things had worn
on through the summer--very miserable, till suddenly Fleur had
said she was going to marry young Mont. She had shown him a little
more affection when she told Soames that. And he had yielded--what
was the good of opposing it? God knew that he had never wished to
thwart her in anything! And the young man seemed quite delirious
about her. No doubt she was in a reckless mood, and she was young,
absurdly young. But if he opposed her, he didn't know what she
would do; for all he could tell she might want to take up a
profession, become a doctor or solicitor, some nonsense. She had
no aptitude for painting, writing, music, in his view the
legitimate occupations of unmarried women, if they must do
something in these days. On the whole, she was safer married, for
he could see too well how feverish and restless she was at home.
Annette, too, had been in favour of it--Annette, from behind the
veil of his refusal to know what she was about, if she was about
anything. Annette had said: "Let her marry this young man. He is a
nice boy--not so highty-flighty as he seems." Where she got her
expressions, he didn't know--but her opinion soothed his doubts.
His wife, whatever her conduct, had clear eyes and an almost
depressing amount of common sense. He had settled fifty thousand
on Fleur, taking care that there was no cross settlement in case
it didn't turn out well. Could it turn out well? She had not got
over that other boy--he knew. They were to go to Spain for the
honeymoon. He would be even lonelier when she was gone. But later,
perhaps, she would forget, and turn to him again!

Winifred's voice broke on his reverie.

"Why! Of all wonders--June!"

There, in a djibbah--what things she wore!--with her hair straying
from under a fillet, Soames saw his cousin, and Fleur going
forward to greet her. The two passed from their view out on to the
stairway.

"Really," said Winifred, "she does the most impossible things!
Fancy HER coming!"

"What made you ask her?" muttered Soames.

"Because I thought she wouldn't accept, of course."

Winifred had forgotten that behind conduct lies the main trend of
character; or, in other words, omitted to remember that Fleur was
now a "lame duck."

On receiving her invitation, June had first thought: 'I wouldn't
go near them for the world!' and then, one morning, had awakened
from a dream of Fleur waving to her from a boat with a wild
unhappy gesture. And she had changed her mind.

When Fleur came forward and said to her:

"Do come up while I'm changing my dress"; she had followed up the
stairs. The girl led the way into Imogen's old bedroom, set ready
for her toilet.

June sat down on the bed, thin and upright, like a little spirit
in the sere and yellow. Fleur locked the door.

The girl stood before her divested of her wedding-dress. What a
pretty thing she was!

"I suppose you think me a fool," she said, with quivering lips,
"when it was to have been Jon. But what does it matter? Michael
wants me, and I don't care. It'll get me away from home." Diving
her hand into the frills on her breast, she brought out a letter.
"Jon wrote me this."

June read: "Lake Okanagen, British Columbia. I'm not coming back
to England. Bless you always. Jon."

"She's made safe, you see," said Fleur.

June handed back the letter.

"That's not fair to Irene; she always told Jon he could do as he
wished."

Fleur smiled bitterly. "Didn't she spoil your life too?"

"Nobody can spoil a life, my dear. That's nonsense. Things happen,
but we bob up."

Then with a sort of terror she saw the girl sink on her knees and
bury her face in the djibbah, with a strangled sob.

"It's all right--all right," June murmured: "Don't! There, there!"

But the point of the girl's chin was pressed ever closer into her
thigh, and the sound was dreadful of her sobbing. Well, well! It
had to come. She would feel better afterwards! June stroked the
short hair of that shapely head and all the scattered mother-sense
in her focussed itself and passed through the tips of her fingers
into the girl's brain.

"Don't sit down under it, my dear," she said at last. "We can't
control life, but we can fight it. Make the best of things. I've
had to. I held on, like you; and I cried, as you're crying now.
And look at me!"

Fleur raised her head; a sob merged suddenly into a little choked
laugh. In truth it was a thin and rather wild and wasted spirit
she was looking at, but it had brave eyes.

"All right!" she said. "I'm sorry. I shall forget him, I suppose,
if I fly fast and far enough."

And, scrambling to her feet, she went over to the washstand.

June watched her removing with cold water the traces of emotion.
Save for a little becoming pinkness there was nothing left when
she stood before the mirror. June got off the bed and took a pin-
cushion in her hand. To put two pins into the wrong places was all
the vent she found for sympathy.

"Give me a kiss," she said when Fleur was ready, and dug her chin
into the girl's warm cheek.

"I want a whiff," said Fleur; "don't wait."

June left her, sitting on the bed with a cigarette between her
lips and her eyes half closed, and went down-stairs. In the
doorway of the drawing-room stood Soames as if unquiet at his
daughter's tardiness. June tossed her head and passed down on to
the half landing. Her cousin Francie was standing there.

"Look!" said June, pointing with her chin at Soames. "That man's
fatal!"

"How do you mean," said Francie, "fatal?"

June did not answer her. "I shan't wait to see them off," she
said. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" And Francie's eyes, of a Celtic grey, goggled. That
old feud! Really, it was quite romantic!

Soames, moving to the well of the staircase, saw June go, and drew
a breath of satisfaction. But why didn't Fleur come? They would
miss their train. That train would bear her away from him, yet he
could not help fidgeting at the thought that they would lose it.
And then she did come, running down in her tan-coloured frock and
black velvet cap, and passed him into the drawing-room. He saw her
kiss her mother, her aunt, Val's wife, Imogen, and then come
forth, quick and pretty as ever. How would she treat him at this
last moment of her girlhood? He couldn't hope for much!

Her lips pressed the middle of his cheek.

"Daddy!" she said, and was past and gone. Daddy! She hadn't called
him that for years. He drew a long breath and followed slowly
down. There was all the folly with that confetti stuff and the
rest of it to go through with, yet. But he would like just to
catch her smile, if she leaned out, though they would hit her in
the eye with the shoe, if they didn't take care. Young Mont's
voice said fervently in his ear:

"Good-bye, sir; and thank you! I'm so fearfully bucked."

"Good-bye," he said; "don't miss your train."

He stood on the bottom step but three, whence he could see above
the heads--the silly hats and heads. They were in the car now; and
there was that stuff, showering, and there went the shoe. A flood
of something welled up in Soames, and--he didn't know--he couldn't
see!





XI

THE LAST OF THE FORSYTES


When they came to prepare that terrific symbol Timothy Forsyte--
the one pure individualist left, the only man who hadn't heard of
the Great War--they found him wonderful--not even death had
undermined his soundness.

To Smither and Cook that preparation came like final evidence of
what they had never believed possible--the end of the old Forsyte
family on earth. Poor Mr. Timothy must now take a harp and sing in
the company of Miss Forsyte, Mrs. Julia, Miss Hester; with Mr.
Jolyon, Mr. Swithin, Mr. James, Mr. Roger, and Mr. Nicholas of the
party. Whether Mrs. Hayman would be there was more doubtful,
seeing that she had been cremated. Secretly Cook thought that Mr.
Timothy would be upset--he had always been so set against barrel
organs. How many times had she not said: "Drat the thing! There it
is again! Smither, you'd better run up and see what you can do."
And in her heart she would so have enjoyed the tunes, if she
hadn't known that Mr. Timothy would ring the bell in a minute and
say: "Here, take him a halfpenny and tell him to move on." Often
they had been obliged to add threepence of their own before the
man would go--Timothy had ever underrated the value of emotion.
Luckily he had taken the organs for blue-bottles in his last
years, which had been a comfort, and they had been able to enjoy
the tunes. But a harp! Cook wondered. It WAS a change! And Mr.
Timothy had never liked change. But she did not speak of this to
Smither, who did so take a line of her own in regard to heaven
that it quite put one about sometimes.

She cried while Timothy was being prepared, and they all had
sherry afterwards out of the yearly Christmas bottle, which would
not be needed now. Ah! dear! She had been there five-and-forty
years and Smither nine-and-thirty! And now they would be going to
a tiny house in Tooting, to live on their savings and what Miss
Hester had so kindly left them--for to take fresh service after
the glorious past--No! But they WOULD like just to see Mr. Soames
again, and Mrs. Dartie, and Miss Francie, and Miss Euphemia. And
even if they had to take their own cab, they felt they must go to
the funeral. For six years Mr. Timothy had been their baby,
getting younger and younger every day, till at last he had been
too young to live.

They spent the regulation hours of waiting in polishing and
dusting, in catching the one mouse left, and asphyxiating the last
beetle, so as to leave it nice, discussing with each other what
they would buy at the sale. Miss Ann's work-box; Miss Juley's
(that is Mrs. Julia's) seaweed album; the fire-screen Miss Hester
had crewelled; and Mr. Timothy's hair--little golden curls, glued
into a black frame. Oh! they must have those--only the price of
things had gone up so!

It fell to Soames to issue invitations for the funeral. He had
them drawn up by Gradman in his office--only blood relations, and
no flowers. Six carriages were ordered. The Will would be read
afterwards at the house.

He arrived at eleven o'clock to see that all was ready. At a
quarter past old Gradman came in black gloves and crape on his
hat. He and Soames stood in the drawing-room waiting. At half-past
eleven the carriages drew up in a long row. But no one else
appeared. Gradman said:

"It surprises me, Mr. Soames. I posted them myself."

"I don't know," said Soames; "he'd lost touch with the family."

Soames had often noticed in old days how much more neighbourly his
family were to the dead than to the living. But, now, the way they
had flocked to Fleur's wedding and abstained from Timothy's
funeral, seemed to show some vital change. There might, of course,
be another reason; for Soames felt that if he had not known the
contents of Timothy's Will, he might have stayed away himself
through delicacy. Timothy had left a lot of money, with nobody in
particular to leave it to. They mightn't like to seem to expect
something.

At twelve o'clock the procession left the door; Timothy alone in
the first carriage under glass. Then Soames alone; then Gradman
alone; then Cook and Smither together. They started at a walk, but
were soon trotting under a bright sky. At the entrance to Highgate
Cemetery they were delayed by service in the Chapel. Soames would
have liked to stay outside in the sunshine. He didn't believe a
word of it; on the other hand, it was a form of insurance which
could not safely be neglected, in case there might be something in
it after all.

They walked up two and two--he and Gradman, Cook and Smither--to
the family vault. It was not very distinguished for the funeral of
the last old Forsyte.

He took Gradman into his carriage on the way back to the Bayswater
Road with a certain glow in his heart. He had a surprise in pickle
for the old chap who had served the Forsytes four-and-fifty years
--a treat that was entirely his doing. How well he remembered
saying to Timothy the day after Aunt Hester's funeral: "Well,
Uncle Timothy, there's Gradman. He's taken a lot of trouble for
the family. What do you say to leaving him five thousand?" and his
surprise, seeing the difficulty there had been in getting Timothy
to leave anything, when Timothy had nodded. And now the old chap
would be as pleased as Punch, for Mrs. Gradman, he knew, had a
weak heart, and their son had lost a leg in the war. It was
extraordinarily gratifying to Soames to have left him five
thousand pounds of Timothy's money. They sat down together in the
little drawing-room, whose walls--like a vision of heaven--were
sky-blue and gold, with every picture-frame unnaturally bright,
and every speck of dust removed from every piece of furniture, to
read that little masterpiece,--the Will of Timothy. With his back
to the light in Aunt Hester's chair, Soames faced Gradman with his
face to the light on Aunt Ann's sofa; and, crossing his legs,
began:

"This is the last Will and Testament of me Timothy Forsyte of The
Bower Bayswater Road London I appoint my nephew Soames Forsyte of
The Shelter Mapledurham and Thomas Gradman of 159 Folly Road
Highgate (hereinafter called my Trustees) to be the trustees and
executors of this my Will. To the said Soames Forsyte I leave the
sum of one thousand pounds free of legacy duty and to the said
Thomas Gradman I leave the sum of five thousand pounds free of
legacy duty."

Soames paused. Old Gradman was leaning forward, convulsively
gripping a stout black knee with each of his thick hands; his
mouth had fallen open so that the gold fillings of three teeth
gleamed; his eyes were blinking; two tears rolled slowly out of
them. Soames read hastily on.

"All the rest of my property of whatsoever description I bequeath
to my Trustees upon Trust to convert and hold the same upon the
following trusts namely. To pay thereout all my debts funeral
expenses and outgoings of any kind in connection with my Will and
to hold the residue thereof in trust for that male lineal
descendant of my father Jolyon Forsyte by his marriage with Ann
Pierce who after the decease of all lineal descendants whether
male or female of my said father by his said marriage in being at
the time of my death shall last attain the age of twenty-one years
absolutely it being my desire that my property shall be nursed to
the extreme limit permitted by the laws of England for the benefit
of such male lineal descendant as aforesaid."

Soames read the investment and attestation clauses, and, ceasing,
looked at Gradman. The old fellow was wiping his brow with a large
handkerchief, whose brilliant colour supplied a sudden festive
tinge to the proceedings.

"My word, Mr. Soames!" he said, and it was clear that the lawyer
in him had utterly wiped out the man: "My word! Why, there are two
babies now, and some quite young children--if one of them lives to
be eighty--it's not a great age--and add twenty-one--that's a
hundred years; and Mr. Timothy worth a hundred and fifty thousand
pound if he's worth a penny. Compound interest at five per cent
doubles you in fourteen years. In fourteen years three hundred
thousand--six hundred thousand in twenty-eight--twelve hundred
thousand in forty-two--twenty-four hundred thousand in fifty-six--
four million eight hundred thousand in seventy--nine million six
hundred thousand in eighty-four--Why, in a hundred years it'll be
twenty million! And we shan't live to see it! It IS a Will!"

Soames said dryly: "Anything may happen. The State might take the
lot; they're capable of anything in these days."

"And carry five," said Gradman to himself. "I forgot--Mr.
Timothy's in Consols; we shan't get more than two per cent with
this income tax. To be on the safe side, say seven million. Still,
that's a pretty penny."

Soames rose and handed him the Will. "You're going into the City.
Take care of that, and do what's necessary. Advertise; but there
are no debts. When's the sale?"

"Tuesday week," said Gradman. "Life or lives in bein' and twenty-
one years afterwards--it's a long way off. But I'm glad he's left
it in the family." ...

The sale--not at Jobson's, in view of the Victorian nature of the
effects--was far more freely attended than the funeral, though not
by Cook and Smither, for Soames had taken it on himself to give
them their hearts' desires. Winifred was present, Euphemia, and
Francie, and Eustace had come in his car. The miniatures,
Barbizons, and J. R. drawings had been bought in by Soames; and
relics of no marketable value were set aside in an off-room for
members of the family who cared to have mementos. These were the
only restrictions upon bidding characterised by an almost tragic
langour. Not one piece of furniture, no picture or porcelain
figure appealed to modern taste. The humming-birds had fallen like
autumn leaves when taken from where they had not hummed for sixty
years. It was painful to Soames to see the chairs his aunts had
sat on, the little grand piano they had practically never played,
the books whose outsides they had gazed at, the china they had
dusted, the curtains they had drawn, the hearth-rug which had
warmed their feet; above all, the beds they had lain and died in--
sold to little dealers, and the housewives of Fulham. And yet--
what could one do? Buy them and stick them in a lumber-room? No;
they had to go the way of all flesh and furniture, and be worn
out. But when they put up Aunt Ann's sofa and were going to knock
it down for thirty shillings, he cried out, suddenly: "Five
pounds!" The sensation was considerable, and the sofa his.

When that little sale was over in the fusty saleroom, and those
Victorian ashes scattered, he went out into the misty October
sunshine feeling as if cosiness had died out of the world, and the
board "To Let" was up, indeed. Revolutions on the horizon; Fleur
in Spain; no comfort in Annette; no Timothy's on the Bayswater
Road. In the irritable desolation of his soul he went into the
Goupenor Gallery. That chap Jolyon's water-colours were on view
there. He went in to look down his nose at them--it might give him
some faint satisfaction. The news had trickled through from June
to Val's wife, from her to Val, from Val to his mother, from her
to Soames, that the house--the fatal house at Robin Hill--was for
sale, and Irene going to join her boy out in British Columbia, or
some such place. For one wild moment the thought had come to
Soames: 'Why shouldn't I buy it back? I meant it for my--!' No
sooner come than gone. Too lugubrious a triumph; with two many
humiliating memories for himself and Fleur. She would never live
there after what had happened. No, the place must go its way to
some peer or profiteer. It had been a bone of contention from the
first, the shell of the feud and with the woman gone, it was an
empty shell. "For Sale or To Let." With his mind's eye he could
see that board raised high above the ivied wall which he had
built.

He passed through the first of the two rooms in the Gallery. There
was certainly a body of work! And now that the fellow was dead it
did not seem so trivial. The drawings were pleasing enough, with
quite a sense of atmosphere, and something individual in the brush
work. 'His father and my father; he and I; his child and mine!'
thought Soames. So it had gone on! And all about that woman!
Softened by the events of the past week, affected by the
melancholy beauty of the autumn day, Soames came nearer than he
had ever been to realisation of that truth--passing the
understanding of a Forsyte pure--that the body of Beauty has a
spiritual essence, uncapturable save by a devotion which thinks
not of self. After all, he was near that truth in his devotion to
his daughter; perhaps that made him understand a little how he had
missed the prize. And there, among the drawings of his kinsman,
who had attained to that which he had found beyond his reach, he
thought of him and her with a tolerance which surprised him. But
he did not buy a drawing.

Just as he passed the seat of custom on his return to the outer
air he met with a contingency which had not been entirely absent
from his mind when he went into the Gallery--Irene, herself,
coming in. So she had not gone yet, and was still paying farewell
visits to that fellow's remains! He subdued the little involuntary
leap of his subconsciousness, the mechanical reaction of his
senses to the charm of this once-owned woman, and passed her with
averted eyes. But when he had gone by he could not for the life of
him help looking back. This, then, was finality--the heat and
stress of his life, the madness and the longing thereof, the long,
the only defeat he had known, would be over when she faded from
his view this time; even such memories had their own queer aching
value. She, too, was looking back. Suddenly she lifted her gloved
hand, her lips smiled faintly, her dark eyes seemed to speak. It
was the turn of Soames to make no answer to that smile and that
little farewell wave; he went out into the fashionable street
quivering from head to foot. He knew what she had meant to say:
"Now that I am going for ever out of the reach of you and yours--
forgive me; I wish you well." That was the meaning; last sign of
that terrible reality--passing morality, duty, common sense--her
aversion from him who had owned her body but had never touched her
spirit or her heart. It hurt; yes--more than if she had kept her
mask unmoved, her hand unlifted.

Three days later, in that fast-yellowing October, Soames took a
taxi-cab to Highgate Cemetery and mounted through its white forest
to the Forsyte vault. Close to the cedar, above catacombs and
columbaria, tall, ugly, and individual, it looked like an apex of
the competitive system. He could remember a discussion wherein
Swithin had advocated the addition to its face of the pheasant
proper. The proposal had been rejected in favour of a wreath in
stone, above the stark words: "The family vault of Jolyon Forsyte:
1850." It was in good order. All trace of the recent interment had
been removed, and its sober grey gloomed reposefully in the
sunshine. The whole family lay there now, except old Jolyon's
wife, who had gone back under a contract to her own family vault
in Suffolk; old Jolyon himself lying at Robin Hill; and Susan
Hayman, cremated so that none knew where she might be. Soames
gazed at it with satisfaction--massive, needing little attention;
and this was important, for he was well aware that no one would
attend to it when he himself was gone, and he would have to be
looking out for lodgings soon. He might have twenty years before
him, but one never knew. Twenty years without an aunt or uncle,
with a wife of whom one had better not know anything, with a
daughter gone from home. His mood inclined to melancholy and
retrospection. This cemetery was quite full now--of people with
extraordinary names, buried in extraordinary taste. Still, they
had a fine view up here, right over London. Annette had once given
him a story to read by that Frenchman, Maupassant--a most
lugubrious concern, where all the skeletons emerged from their
graves one night, and all the pious inscriptions on the stones
were altered to descriptions of their sins. Not a true story at
all. He didn't know about the French, but there was not much real
harm in English people except their teeth and their taste, which
were certainly deplorable. "The family vault of Jolyon Forsyte,
1850." A lot of people had been buried here since then--a lot of
English life crumbled to mould and dust! The boom of an airplane
passing under the gold-tinted clouds caused him to lift his eyes.
The deuce of a lot of expansion had gone on. But it all came back
to a cemetery--to a name and a date on a tomb. And he thought with
a curious pride that he and his family had done little or nothing
to help this feverish expansion. Good solid middlemen, they had
gone to work with dignity to manage and possess. "Superior
Dosset," indeed, had built, in a dreadful, and Jolyon painted, in
a doubtful period, but so far as he remembered not another of them
all had soiled his hands by creating anything--unless you counted
Val Dartie and his horse-breeding. Collectors, solicitors,
barristers, merchants, publishers, accountants, directors, land
agents, even soldiers--there they had been! The country had
expanded, as it were, in spite of them. They had checked,
controlled, defended, and taken advantage of the process--and when
you considered how "Superior Dosset" had begun life with next to
nothing, and his lineal descendants already owned what old Gradman
estimated at between a million and a million and a half, it was
not so bad! And yet he sometimes felt as if the family bolt was
shot, their possessive instinct dying out. They seemed unable to
make money--this fourth generation; they were going into art,
literature, farming, or the army; or just living on what was left
them--they had no push and no tenacity. They would die out if they
didn't take care.

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