It supplied, however, the reason of Junes coming so late and disappearing again without dancing, without even shaking hands with her lover. She was ill, it was said, and no wonder.
But here they looked at each other guiltily. They had no desire to spread scandal, no desire to be ill-natured. Who would have? And to outsiders no word was breathed, unwritten law keeping them silent.
Then came the news that June had gone to the seaside with old Jolyon.
He had carried her off to Broadstairs, for which place there was just then a feeling, Yarmouth having lost caste, in spite of Nicholas, and no Forsyte going to the sea without intending to have an air for his money such as would render him bilious in a week. That fatally aristocratic tendency of the first Forsyte to drink Madeira had left his descendants undoubtedly accessible.
So June went to the sea. The family awaited developments; there was nothing else to do.
But how far how far had those two gone? How far were they going to go? Could they really be going at all? Nothing could surely come of it, for neither of them had any money. At the most a flirtation, ending, as all such attachments should, at the proper time.
Soames sister, Winifred Dartie, who had imbibed with the breezes of Mayfair she lived in Green Street more fashionable principles in regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current, for instance, in Ladbroke Grove, laughed at the idea of there being anything in it. The little thing Irene was taller than herself, and it was real testimony to the solid worth of a Forsyte that she should always thus be a little thing the little thing was bored. Why shouldnt she amuse herself? Soames was rather tiring; and as to Mr. Bosinney only that buffoon George would have called him the Buccaneer she maintained that he was very chic.
This dictum that Bosinney was chic caused quite a sensation. It failed to convince. That he was good-looking in a way they were prepared to admit, but that anyone could call a man with his pronounced cheekbones, curious eyes, and soft felt hats chic was only another instance of Winifreds extravagant way of running after something new.
It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when the very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with blossom, and flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been before; when roses blew in every garden; and for the swarming stars the nights had hardly space; when every day and all day long the sun, in full armour, swung his brazen shield above the Park, and people did strange things, lunching and dining in the open air. Unprecedented was the tale of cabs and carriages that streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of Bushey, Richmond, Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any pretensions to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year to the horse-chestnuts at Bushey, or took one drive amongst the Spanish chestnuts of Richmond Park. Bowling smoothly, if dustily, along, in a cloud of their own creation, they would stare fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow deer raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers such cover as was never seen before. And now and again, as the amorous perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too near, one would say to the other: My dear! What a peculiar scent!
And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near honey-coloured. At the corners of London squares they gave out, as the sun went down, a perfume sweeter than the honey bees had taken a perfume that stirred a yearning unnamable in the hearts of Forsytes and their peers, taking the cool after dinner in the precincts of those gardens to which they alone had keys.
And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of flower-beds in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, and turn again, as though lovers were waiting for them waiting for the last light to die away under the shadow of the branches.
Some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some sisterly desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating the soundness of her dictum that there was nothing in it; or merely the craving to drive down to Richmond, irresistible that summer, moved the mother of the little Darties (of little Publius, of Imogen, Maud, and Benedict) to write the following note to her sister-in-law:
DEAR IRENE, June 30.
I hear that Soames is going to Henley tomorrow for the night. I thought it would be great fun if we made up a little party and drove down to Richmond. Will you ask Mr. Bosinney, and I will get young Flippard.
Emily (they called their mother Emily it was so chic) will lend us the carriage. I will call for you and your young man at seven oclock.
Your affectionate sister,
WINIFRED DARTIE.
Montague believes the dinner at the Crown and Sceptre to be quite eatable.
Montague was Darties second and better known name his first being Moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world.
Her plan met with more opposition from Providence than so benevolent a scheme deserved. In the first place young Flippard wrote:
DEAR Mrs. DARTIE,
Awfully sorry. Engaged two deep.
Yours,
AUGUSTUS FLIPPARD.
It was late to send into the by-ways and hedges to remedy this misfortune. With the promptitude and conduct of a mother, Winifred fell back on her husband. She had, indeed, the decided but tolerant temperament that goes with a good deal of profile, fair hair, and greenish eyes. She was seldom or never at a loss; or if at a loss, was always able to convert it into a gain.
Dartie, too, was in good feather. Erotic had failed to win the Lancashire Cup. Indeed, that celebrated animal, owned as he was by a pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands against him, had not even started. The forty-eight hours that followed his scratching were among the darkest in Darties life.
Visions of James haunted him day and night. Black thoughts about Soames mingled with the faintest hopes. On the Friday night he got drunk, so greatly was he affected. But on Saturday morning the true Stock Exchange instinct triumphed within him. Owing some hundreds, which by no possibility could he pay, he went into town and put them all on Concertina for the Saltown Borough Handicap.
As he said to Major Scrotton, with whom he lunched at the Iseeum: That little Jew boy, Nathans, had given him the tip. He didnt care a cursh. He wash in a mucker. If it didnt come up well then, damme, the old man would have to pay!
A bottle of Pol Roger to his own cheek had given him a new contempt for James.
It came up. Concertina was squeezed home by her neck a terrible squeak! But, as Dartie said: There was nothing like pluck!
He was by no means averse to the expedition to Richmond. He would stand it himself! He cherished an admiration for Irene, and wished to be on more playful terms with her.
At half-past five the Park Lane footman came round to say: Mrs. Forsyte was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing!
Undaunted by this further blow, Winifred at once despatched little Publius (now aged seven) with the nursery governess to Montpellier Square.
They would go down in hansoms and meet at the Crown and Sceptre at 7.45.
Dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. It was better than going down with your back to the horses! He had no objection to driving down with Irene. He supposed they would pick up the others at Montpellier Square, and swop hansoms there?
Informed that the meet was at the Crown and Sceptre, and that he would have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it was d d slow!
At seven oclock they started, Dartie offering to bet the driver half-a-crown he didnt do it in the three-quarters of an hour.
Twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way.
Dartie said: Itll put Master Soamess nose out of joint to hear his wifes been drivin in a hansom with Master Bosinney!
Winifred replied: Dont talk such nonsense, Monty!
Nonsense! repeated Dartie. You dont know women, my fine lady!
On the other occasion he merely asked: How am I looking? A bit puffy about the gills? That fizz old George is so fond of is a windy wine!
He had been lunching with George Forsyte at the Haversnake.
Bosinney and Irene had arrived before them. They were standing in one of the long French windows overlooking the river.
Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, and day and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the hot scent of parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy dews.
To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear to be making much running, standing there close together, without a word. Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature not much go about him.
He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order the dinner.
A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a Dartie will tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as he does, from hand to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; and he will eat it. His drink, too, will need to be carefully provided; there is much drink in this country not good enough for a Dartie; he will have the best. Paying for things vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint himself. To stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie.
The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a partiality for his grandchildren.
With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James the very first year after little Publiuss arrival (an error); he had profited by his perspicacity. Four little Darties were now a sort of perpetual insurance.
The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then served in ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known to a few men of the world.
Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by Dartie.