Money, and all it bought, did not bring happiness. Love only brought that. The ox-eyed daisies in this orchard, which gave it such a moony look sometimes, grew wild and happy, and had their hour. 'They oughtn't to have called me Fleur,' she mused, 'if they didn't mean me to have my hour, and be happy while it lasts.' Nothing real stood in the way, like poverty, or disease--sentiment only, a ghost from the unhappy past! Jon was right. They wouldn't let you live, these old people! They made mistakes, committed crimes, and wanted their children to go on paying! The breeze died away; midges began to bite. She got up, plucked a piece of honeysuckle, and went in.
It was hot that night. Both she and her mother had put on thin, pale low frocks. The dinner flowers were pale. Fleur was struck with the pale look of everything; her father's face, her mother's shoulders;the pale panelled walls, the pale grey velvety carpet, the lamp-shade, even the soup was pale. There was not one spot of colour in the room, not even wine in the pale glasses, for no one drank it.
What was not pale was black--her father's clothes, the butler's clothes, her retriever stretched out exhausted in the window, the curtains black with a cream pattern. A moth came in, and that was pale. And silent was that half-mourning dinner in the heat.
Her father called her back as she was following her mother out.
She sat down beside him at the table, and, unpinning the pale honeysuckle, put it to her nose.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"Yes, dear?"
"It's extremely painful for me to talk, but there's no help for it.
I don't know if you understand how much you are to me I've never spoken of it, I didn't think it necessary; but--but you're everything. Your mother--" he paused, staring at his finger-bowl of Venetian glass.
"Yes?"'
"I've only you to look to. I've never had--never wanted anything else, since you were born.""I know," Fleur murmured.
Soames moistened his lips.
"You may think this a matter I can smooth over and arrange for you.
You're mistaken. I'm helpless."
Fleur did not speak.
"Quite apart from my own feelings," went on Soames with more resolution, "those two are not amenable to anything I can say. They--they hate me, as people always hate those whom they have injured.""But he--Jon--""He's their flesh and blood, her only child. Probably he means to her what you mean to me. It's a deadlock.""No," cried Fleur, "no, Father!"Soames leaned back, the image of pale patience, as if resolved on the betrayal of no emotion.
"Listen!" he said. "You're putting the feelings of two months--two months--against the feelings of thirty-five years! What chance do you think you have? Two months--your very first love affair, a matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a few kisses--against, against what you can't imagine, what no one could who hasn't been through it. Come, be reasonable, Fleur! It's midsummer madness!"Fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits.
"The madness is in letting the past spoil it all.
What do we care about the past? It's our lives, not yours."Soames raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw moisture shining.
"Whose child are you?" he said. "Whose child is he? The present is linked with the past, the future with both. There's no getting away from that."She had never heard philosophy pass those lips before. Impressed even in her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands.
"But, Father, consider it practically. We want each other. There's ever so much money, and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment.
Let's bury the past, Father."
His answer was a sigh.
"Besides," said Fleur gently, "you can't prevent us.""I don't suppose," said Soames, "that if left to myself I should try to prevent you; I must put up with things, I know, to keep your affection. But it's not I who control this matter. That's what Iwant you to realise before it's too late. If you go on thinking you can get your way and encourage this feeling, the blow will be much heavier when you find you can't.""Oh!" cried Fleur, "help me, Father; you can help me, you know."Soames made a startled movement of negation. "I?" he said bitterly.
"Help? I am the impediment--the just cause and impediment--isn't that the jargon? You have my blood in your veins."He rose.
"Well, the fat's in the fire. If you persist in your wilfulness you'll have yourself to blame. Come! Don't be foolish, my child--my only child!"Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder.
All was in such turmoil within her. But no good to show it! No good at all! She broke away from him, and went out into the twilight, distraught, but unconvinced. All was indeterminate and vague within her, like the shapes and shadows in the garden, except--her will to have. A poplar pierced up into the dark-blue sky and touched a white star there. The dew wetted her shoes, and chilled her bare shoulders. She went down to the river bank, and stood gazing at a moonstreak on the darkening water. Suddenly she smelled tobacco smoke, and a white figure emerged as if created by the moon. It was young Mont in flannels, standing in his boat. She heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the water.
"Fleur," came his voice, "don't be hard on a poor devil! I've been waiting hours.""For what?""Come in my boat!"
"Not I."
"Why not?"
"I'm not a water-nymph."
"Haven't you any romance in you? Don't be modern, Fleur!"He appeared on the path within a yard of her.
"Go away!"
"Fleur, I love you. Fleur!"
Fleur uttered a short laugh.
"Come again," she said, "when I haven't got my wish.""What is your wish?""Ask another."
"Fleur," said Mont, and his voice sounded strange, "don't mock me!
Even vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they're cut up for good."Fleur shook her head; but her lips were trembling.
"Well, you shouldn't make me jump. Give me a cigarette."Mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself.