Eat one’s own bacon, cure one’s own hams! After all, there was something in it–clean pigs, properly fed! That book of old Foggart said one must grow more food in England, and be independent if there were another war. He sniffed. Smell of baking–Reading, already! They still grew biscuits in England! Foreign countries growing his food–something unpleasant about living on sufferance like that! After all, English meat and English wheat–as for a potato, you couldn’t get one fit to eat in Italy, or France. And now they wanted to trade with Russia again! Those Bolshevists hated England. Eat their wheat and eggs, use their tallow and skins? Infra dig, he called it! The car swerved and he was jerked against the side cushions. The village church! – that fellow Riggs was always shying at something. Pretty little old affair, too, with its squat spire and its lichen–couldn’t see that out of England–graves, old names, yew-trees. And that reminded him: One would have to be buried, some day. Here, perhaps. Nothing flowery! Just his name, ‘Soames Forsyte,’ standing out on rough stone, like that grave he had sat on at Highgate; no need to put ‘Here lies’–of course he’d lie! As to a cross, he didn’t know. Probably they’d put one, whatever he wished. He’d like to be in a corner, though, away from people–with an apple-tree or something, over him. The less they remembered him, the better. Except Fleur–and she would have other things to think of!
The car turned down the last low hill to the level of the river. He caught a glimpse of it flowing dark between the poplars, like the soul of England, running hidden. The car rolled into the drive, and stopped before the door. He shouldn’t tell Annette yet about this case coming into Court–she wouldn’t feel as he did–she had no nerves!
Chapter IV.
CATECHISM
Marjorie Ferrar’s marriage was fixed for the day of the Easter Recess; her honeymoon to Lugano; her trousseau with Clothilde; her residence in Eaton Square; her pin-money at two thousand a year; and her affections on nobody. When she received a telephone message: Would she come to breakfast at Shropshire House? she was surprised. What could be the matter with the old boy?
At five minutes past nine, however, on the following day she entered the ancestral precincts, having left almost all powder and pigment on her dressing-table. Was he going to disapprove of her marriage? Or to give her some of her grandmother’s lace, which was only fit to be in a museum?
The marquess was reading the paper in front of an electric fire. He bent on her his bright, shrewd glance.
“Well, Marjorie? Shall we sit down, or do you like to breakfast standing? There’s porridge, scrambled eggs, fish–ah! and grapefruit–very considerate of them! Pour out the coffee, will you?”
“What’ll you have, Grandfather?”
“Thank you, I’ll roam about and peck a bit. So you’re going to be married. Is that fortunate?”
“People say so.”
“He’s in Parliament, I see. Do you think you could interest him in this Electricity Bill of Parsham’s?”
“Oh! yes. He’s dead keen on electricity.”
“Sensible man. He’s got Works, I suppose. Are they electrified?”
“I expect so.”
The marquess gave her another glance.
“You know nothing about it,” he said. “But you’re looking very charming. What’s this I hear of a libel?”
She might have known! Grandfather was too frightfully spry! He missed nothing!
“It wouldn’t interest you, dear.”
“I disagree. My father and OLD Sir Lawrence Mont were great friends. Why do you want to wash linen in Court?”
“I don’t.”
“Are you the plaintiff?”
“Yes.”
“What do you complain of?”
“They’ve said things about me.”
“Who?”
“Fleur Mont and her father.”
“Ah! the relation of the tea-man. What have they said?”
“That I haven’t a moral about me.”
“Well, have you?”
“As much as most people.”
“Anything else?”
“That I’m a snake of the first water.”
“I don’t like that. What made them say so?”
“Only that I was heard calling her a snob; and so she is.”
The marquess, who had resigned a finished grapefruit, placed his foot on a chair, his elbow on his knee, his chin on his hand, and said:
“No divinity hedges our Order in these days, Marjorie; but we still stand for something. It’s a mistake to forget that.”
She sat very still. Everybody respected grandfather; even her father, to whom he did not speak. But to be told that she stood for something was really too dull for anything! All very well for grandfather at his age, and with his lack of temptations! Besides, SHE had no handle to her name, owing to the vaunted nature of British institutions. Even if she felt that–by Lord Charles out of Lady Ursula–she ought not to be dictated to, she had never put on frills–had always liked to be thought a mere Bohemian. And, after all, she did stand–for not being stuffy, and not being dull.
“Well, Grandfather, I tried to make it up, but she wouldn’t. Coffee?”
“Yes, coffee. But tell me, are you happy about yourself?”
Marjorie Ferrar handed him the cup. “No. Who is?”
“A hit,” said the marquess. “You’re going to be very well off, I hear. That means power. It’s worth using well, Marjorie. He’s a Scotsman, isn’t he? Do you like him?” Again the shrewd bright glance.
“At times.”
“I see. With your hair, you must be careful. Red hair is extraordinarily valuable on occasion. In the Eton and Harrow Match, or for speaking after dinner; but don’t let it run away with you after you’re married. Where are you going to live?”
“In Eaton Square. There’s a Scotch place, too.”
“Have your kitchens electrified. I’ve had it done here. It saves the cook’s temper. I get very equable food. But about this libel. Can’t you all say you’re sorry–why put money into the lawyers’ pockets?”
“She won’t, unless I do, and I won’t, unless she does.”
The marquess drank off his coffee.
“Then what is there in the way? I dislike publicity, Marjorie. Look at that suit the other day. Anything of this nature in Society, nowadays, is a nail in our coffins.”
“I’ll speak to Alec, if you like.”
“Do! Has he red hair?”
“No; black.”
“Ah! What would you like for a wedding-present–lace?”
“Oh! no, please, dear. Nobody’s wearing lace.”
With his head on one side, the marquess looked at her. “I can’t get that lace off,” he seemed to say.
“Perhaps you’d like a Colliery. Electrified, it would pay in no time.”
Marjorie Ferrar laughed. “I know you’re hard up, Grandfather; but I’d rather not have a Colliery, thanks. They’re so expensive. Just give me your blessing.”
“I wonder,” said the marquess, “if I could sell blessings? Your uncle Dangerfield has gone in for farming; he’s ruining me. If only he’d grow wheat by electricity; it’s the only way to make it pay at the present price. Well, if you’ve finished breakfast, good-bye. I must go to work.”
Marjorie Ferrar, who had indeed begun breakfast, stood up and pressed his hand. He was a dear old boy, if somewhat rapid!…
That same evening, in a box at the St. Anthony, she had her opportunity, when MacGown was telling her of Soames’ visit.
“Oh, dear! Why on earth didn’t you settle it, Alec? The whole thing’s a bore. I’ve had my grandfather at me about it.”
“If they’ll apologise,” said MacGown, “I’ll settle it tomorrow. But an apology they must make.”
“And what about me? I don’t want to stand up to be shot at.”
“There are some things one can’t sit down under, Marjorie. Their whole conduct has been infamous.”
Visited by a reckless impulse, she said:
“What d’you suppose I’m realty like, Alec?”
MacGown put his hand on her bare arm.
“I don’t suppose; I know.”
“Well?”
“Defiant.”
Curious summary! Strangely good in a way–only–!
“You mean that I like to irritate people till they think I’m–what I’m not. But suppose”–her eyes confronted his–“I really am.”
MacGown’s grasp tightened.
“You’re not; and I won’t have it said.”
“You think this case will whitewash my–defiance?”
“I know what gossip is; and I know it buzzes about you. People who say things are going to be taught, once for all, that they can’t.”
Marjorie Ferrar turned her gaze towards the still life on the dropped curtain, laughed and said:
“My dear man, you’re dangerously provincial.”
“I know a straight line when I see one.”
“Yes; but there aren’t any in London. You’d better hedge, Alec, or you’ll be taking a toss over me.”
MacGown said, simply: “I believe in you more than you believe in yourself.”
She was glad that the curtain rose just then, for she felt confused and rather touched.
Instead of confirming her desire to drop the case, that little talk gave her a feeling that by the case her marriage stood or fell. Alec would know where he was when it was over, and so would she! There would be precious little secret about her and she would either not be married to him, or at least not married under false pretences. Let it rip! It was, however, a terrible bore; especially the preparatory legal catechism she had now to undergo. What effect, for instance, had been produced among her friends and acquaintances by those letters? From the point of view of winning, the question was obviously not without importance. But how was she to tell? Two hostesses had cancelled week-end invitations: a rather prim Countess, and a Canadian millionairess married to a decaying baronet. It had not occurred to her before that this was the reason, but it might have been. Apart from them she would have to say she didn’t know, people didn’t tell you to your face what they heard or thought of you. They were going to try and make her out a piece of injured innocence! Good Lord! What if she declared her real faith in Court, and left them all in the soup! Her real faith–what was it? Not to let a friend down; not to give a man away; not to funk; to do things differently from other people; to be always on the go; not to be ‘stuffy’; not to be dull! The whole thing was topsy-turvy! Well, she must keep her head!
Chapter V.
THE DAY
On the day of the case Soames rose, in Green Street, with a sort of sick impatience. Why wasn’t it the day after!
Renewed interviews with very young Nicholas and Sir James Foskisson had confirmed the idea of defence by attack on modern morality. Foskisson was evidently going to put his heart into that–perhaps he’d suffered from it; and if he was anything like old Bobstay, who had just published his reminiscences at the age of eighty-two, that cat would lose her hair and give herself away. Yesterday afternoon Soames had taken an hour’s look at Mr. Justice Brane, and been very favourably impressed; the learned judge, though younger than himself–he had often briefed him in other times–looked old-fashioned enough now for anything.
Having cleaned his teeth, put in his plate, and brushed his hair, Soames went into the adjoining room and told Annette she would be late. She always looked terribly young and well in bed, and this, though a satisfaction to him, he could never quite forgive. When he was gone, fifteen years hence, perhaps, she would still be under sixty, and might live another twenty years.
Having roused her sufficiently to say: “You will have plenty of time to be fussy in that Court, Soames,” he went back and looked out of his window. The air smelled of Spring–aggravating! He bathed and shaved with care–didn’t want to go into the Box with a cut on his chin! – then went back to see that Annette was not putting on anything bright. He found her in pink underclothes.
“I should wear black,” he said. Annette regarded him above her hand-mirror. “Whom do you want me to fascinate, Soames?”
“These people will bring their friends, I shouldn’t wonder; anything conspicuous–”
“Don’t be afraid; I shall not try to be younger than my daughter.”
Soames went out again. The French! Well, she had good taste in dress.
After breakfast he went off to Fleur’s. Winifred and Imogen would look after Annette–they too were going to the Court–as if there were anything to enjoy about this business!
Spruce in his silk hat, he walked across the Green Park, conning over his evidence. No buds on the trees–a late year; and the Royal Family out of town! Passing the Palace, he thought: ‘They’re very popular!’ He supposed they liked this great Empire group in front of them, all muscle and flesh and large animals! The Albert Memorial, and this–everybody ran them down; but, after all, peace and plenty–nothing modern about them! Emerging into Westminster, he cut his way through a smell of fried fish into the Parliamentary backwater of North Street, and, between its pleasant little houses, gazed steadily at the Wren Church. Never going inside any church except St. Paul’s, he derived a sort of strength from their outsides–churches were solid and stood back, and didn’t seem to care what people thought of them! He felt a little better, rounding into South Square. The Dandie met him in the hall. Though he was not over fond of dogs, the breadth and solidity of this one always affected Soames pleasurably–better than that little Chinese abortion they used to have! This dog was a character–masterful and tenacious–you would get very little out of HIM in a witness-box! Looking up from the dog, he saw Michael and Fleur coming down the stairs. After hurriedly inspecting Michael’s brown suit and speckled tie, his eyes came to anchor on his daughter’s face. Pale but creamy, nothing modern–thank goodness! – no rouge, salve, powder, or eye-blacking; perfectly made up for her part! In a blue dress, too, very good taste, which must have taken some finding! The desire that she should not feel nervous stilled Soames’ private qualms.
“Quite a smell of Spring!” he said: “Shall we start?”
While a cab was being summoned, he tried to put her at ease.
“I had a look at Brane yesterday; he’s changed a good deal from when I used to know him. I was one of the first to give him briefs.”
“That’s bad, isn’t it, sir?” said Michael.
“How?”
“He’ll be afraid of being thought grateful.”
Flippant, as usual!
“Our judges,” he said, “are a good lot, take them all round.”
“I’m sure they are. Do you know if he ever reads, sir?”
“How d’you mean–reads?”
“Fiction. We don’t, in Parliament.”
“Nobody reads novels, except women,” said Soames. And he felt Fleur’s dress. “You’ll want a fur; that’s flimsy.”
While she was getting the fur, he said to Michael: “How did she sleep?”
“Better than I did, sir.”
“That’s a comfort, anyway. Here’s the cab. Keep away from that Scotchman.”
“I see him every day in the House, you know.”
“Ah!” said Soames; “I forgot. You make nothing of that sort of thing there, I believe.” And taking his daughter’s arm, he led her forth.
“I wonder if old Blythe will turn up,” he heard Michael say, when they passed the office of The Outpost. It was the first remark made in the cab, and, calling for no response, it was the last.
The Law Courts had their customary air, and people, in black and blue, were hurrying into them. “Beetletrap!” muttered Michael. Soames rejected the simile with his elbow–for him they were just familiar echoing space, concealed staircases, stuffy corridors, and the square enclosures of one voice at a time.
Too early, they went slowly up the stairs. Really, it was weak-minded! Here they had come–they and the other side–to get–what? He was amazed at himself for not having insisted on Fleur’s apologising. Time and again in the case of others, all this had appeared quite natural–in the case of his own daughter, it now seemed almost incredibly idiotic. He hurried her on, however, past lingering lawyers’ clerks, witnesses, what not. A few low words to an usher, and they were inside, and sitting down. Very young Nicholas was already in his place, and Soames so adjusted himself that there would only be the thickness of Sir James, when he materialised, between them. Turning to confer, he lived for a cosey moment in the past again, as might some retired old cricketer taking block once more. Beyond young Nicholas he quartered the assemblage with his glance. Yes, people had got wind of it! He knew they would–with that cat always in the public eye–quite a lot of furbelows up there at the back, and more coming. He reversed himself abruptly; the Jury were filing in-special, but a common-looking lot! Why were juries always common-looking? He had never been on one himself. He glanced at Fleur. There she sat, and what she was feeling he couldn’t tell. As for young Michael, his ears looked very pointed. And just then he caught sight of Annette. She’d better not come and sit down here, after all–the more there were of them in front, the more conspicuous it would be! So he shook his head at her, and waved towards the back. Ah! She was going! She and Winifred and Imogen would take up room–all rather broad in the beam; but there were still gaps up there. And suddenly he saw the plaintiff and her lawyer and MacGown; very spry they looked, and that insolent cat was smiling! Careful not to glance in their direction, Soames saw them sit down, some six feet off. Ah! and here came Counsel–Foskisson and Bullfry together, thick as thieves. They’d soon be calling each other ‘my friend’ now, and cutting each other’s throats! He wondered if he wouldn’t have done better after all to have let the other side have Foskisson, and briefed Bullfry–an ugly-looking customer, broad, competent and leathery. He and Michael with Fleur between them, and behind–Foskisson and his junior; Settlewhite and the Scotchman with ‘that cat’ between them, and behind–Bullfry and his junior! Only the Judge wanted now to complete the pattern! And here he came! Soames gripped Fleur’s arm and raised her with himself. Bob! Down again! One side of Brane’s face seemed a little fuller than the other; Soames wondered if he had toothache, and how it would affect the proceedings.
And now came the usual ‘shivaree’ about such and such a case, and what would be taken next week, and so on. Well! that was over, and the judge was turning his head this way and that, as if to see where the field was placed. Now Bullfry was up:
“If it please Your Lordship–”
He was making the usual opening, with the usual flowery description of the plaintiff–granddaughter of a marquess, engaged to a future Prime Minister… or so you’d think!… prominent in the most brilliant circles, high-spirited, perhaps a thought too high-spirited… Baggage!… the usual smooth and sub-acid description of the defendant!… Rich and ambitious young married lady… Impudent beggar!… Jury would bear in mind that they were dealing in both cases with members of advanced Society, but they would bear in mind, too, that primary words had primary meanings and consequences, whatever the Society in which they were uttered. H’m! Very sketchy reference to the incident in Fleur’s drawing-room–minimised, of course–ha! an allusion to himself–man of property and standing–thank you for nothing! Reading the libellous letters now! Effect of them… very made-up, all that!… Plaintiff obliged to take action… Bunkum! “I shall now call Mrs. Ralph Ppynrryn.”
“How do you spell that name, Mr. Bullfry?”
“With two p’s, two y’s, two n’s and two r’s, my lord.”
“I see.”
Soames looked at the owner of the name. Good-looking woman of the flibberty-gibbet type! He listened to her evidence with close attention. Her account of the incident in Fleur’s drawing-room seemed substantially correct. She had received the libellous letter two days later; had thought it her duty, as a friend, to inform Miss Ferrar. Should say, as a woman in Society, that this incident and these letters had done Miss Ferrar harm. Had talked it over with a good many people. A public incident. Much feeling excited. Had shown her letter to Mrs. Maltese, and been shown one that she had received. Whole matter had become current gossip. H’m!
Bullfry down, and Foskisson up!
Soames adjusted himself. Now to see how the fellow shaped–the manner of a cross-examiner was so important! Well, he had seen worse–the eye, like frozen light, fixed on unoccupied space while the question was being asked, and coming round on to the witness for the answer; the mouth a little open, as if to swallow it; the tongue visible at times on the lower lip, the unoccupied hand clasping something under the gown behind.
“Now, Mrs. – er–Ppynrryn. This incident, as my friend has called it, happened at the house of Mrs. Mont, did it not? And how did you come there? As a friend. Quite so! And you have nothing against Mrs. Mont? No. And you thought it advisable and kind, madam, to show this letter to the plaintiff and to other people–in fact, to foment this little incident to the best of your ability?” Eyes round!
“If a friend of mine received such a letter about me, I should expect her to tell me that the writer was going about abusing me.”
“Even if your friend knew of the provocation and was also a friend of the letter-writer?”
“Yes.”
“Now, madam, wasn’t it simply that the sensation of this little quarrel was too precious to be burked? It would have been so easy, wouldn’t it, to have torn the letter up and said nothing about it? You don’t mean to suggest that it made you think any the worse of Miss Ferrar–you knew her too well, didn’t you?”
“Ye-es.”
“Exactly. As a friend of both parties you knew that these expressions were just spleen and not to be taken seriously.”
“I can’t say that.”
“Oh! You regarded them as serious? Am I to take it that you thought they touched the ham-bone? In other words, that they were true?”
“Certainly not.”
“Could they do Miss Ferrar any harm if they were palpably untrue?”
“I think they could.”
“Not with you–you were a friend?”
“Not with me.”
“But with other people, who would never have heard of them but for you. In fact, madam, you enjoyed the whole thing. Did you?”
“Enjoyed? No.”
“You regarded it as your duty to spread this letter? Don’t you enjoy doing your duty?”
The dry cackle within Soames stopped at his lips.
Foskisson down, and Bullfry up!
“It is, in fact, your experience, Mrs. Ppynrryn, as well as that of most of us not so well constituted, perhaps, as my learned friend, that duty is sometimes painful.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Edward Maltese.”
During the examination of this other young woman, who seemed to be dark and solid, Soames tried to estimate the comparative effect produced by Fleur and ‘that cat’ on the four jurymen whose eyes seemed to stray towards beauty. He had come to no definite conclusion, when Sir James Foskisson rose to cross-examine.
“Tell me, Mrs. Maltese, which do you consider the most serious allegation among those complained of?”
“The word ‘treacherous’ in my letter, and the expression ‘a snake of the first water’ in the letter to Mrs. Ppynrryn.”
“More serious than the others?”
“Yes.”
“That is where you can help me, madam. The circle you move in is not exactly the plaintiff’s, perhaps?”
“Not exactly.”
“Intersecting, um?”
“Yes.”
“Now, in which section, yours or the plaintiff’s, would you say the expression ‘she hasn’t a moral about her’ would be the more, or shall we say the less, damning?”
“I can’t say.”
“I only want your opinion. Do you think your section of Society as advanced as Miss Ferrar’s?”
“Perhaps not.”
“It’s well known, isn’t it, that her circle is very free and easy?”
“I suppose so.”
“Still, YOUR section is pretty advanced–I mean, you’re not ‘stuffy’?”
“Not what, Sir James?”
“Stuffy, my lord; it’s an expression a good deal used in modern Society.”
“What does it mean?”
“Strait-laced, my lord.”
“I see. Well, he’s asking you if you’re stuffy?”
“No, my lord. I hope not.”
“You hope not. Go on, Sir James.”
“Not being stuffy, you wouldn’t be exactly worried if somebody said to you:
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