The Forsyte Saga - Volume 3

Jon stood still. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his limbs

trembled. Fleur too had stopped, and was frowning at the river.

"I must believe in things," said Jon with a sort of agony; "we're all

meant to enjoy life."

Fleur laughed. "Yes; and that's what you won't do, if you don't take

care. But perhaps your idea of enjoyment is to make yourself wretched.

There are lots of people like that, of course."

She was pale, her eyes had darkened, her lips had thinned. Was it Fleur

thus staring at the water? Jon had an unreal feeling as if he were

passing through the scene in a book where the lover has to choose

between love and duty. But just then she looked round at him. Never was

anything so intoxicating as that vivacious look. It acted on him exactly

as the tug of a chain acts on a dog--brought him up to her with his tail

wagging and his tongue out.

"Don't let's be silly," she said, "time's too short. Look, Jon, you can

just see where I've got to cross the river. There, round the bend, where

the woods begin."

Jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through the

trees--and felt his heart sink.

"I mustn't dawdle any more. It's no good going beyond the next hedge, it

gets all open. Let's get on to it and say good-bye."

They went side by side, hand in hand, silently toward the hedge, where

the may-flower, both pink and white, was in full bloom.

"My Club's the 'Talisman,' Stratton Street, Piccadilly. Letters there

will be quite safe, and I'm almost always up once a week."

Jon nodded. His face had become extremely set, his eyes stared straight

before him.

"To-day's the twenty-third of May," said Fleur; "on the ninth of July

I shall be in front of the 'Bacchus and Ariadne' at three o'clock; will

you?"

"I will."

"If you feel as bad as I it's all right. Let those people pass!"

A man and woman airing their children went by strung out in Sunday

fashion.

The last of them passed the wicket gate.

"Domesticity!" said Fleur, and blotted herself against the hawthorn

hedge. The blossom sprayed out above her head, and one pink cluster

brushed her cheek. Jon put up his hand jealously to keep it off.

"Good-bye, Jon." For a second they stood with hands hard clasped. Then

their lips met for the third time, and when they parted Fleur broke away

and fled through the wicket gate. Jon stood where she had left him, with

his forehead against that pink cluster. Gone! For an eternity--for seven

weeks all but two days! And here he was, wasting the last sight of

her! He rushed to the gate. She was walking swiftly on the heels of the

straggling children. She turned her head, he saw her hand make a little

flitting gesture; then she sped on, and the trailing family blotted her

out from his view.