Swan Song

A hard handgrip, and he was gone. Fleur turned from the station and drove slowly back along the road.

She put away the car, and entered her “Rest House.” It was full, late holiday time still, and seven young women were resting limbs, tired out in the service of “Petter, Poplin,” and their like.

They were at supper, and a cheery buzz assailed Fleur’s ears. These girls had nothing, and she had everything, except—the one thing that she chiefly wanted. For a moment she felt ashamed, listening to their talk and laughter. No! She would not change with them—and yet without that one thing she felt as if she could not live. And, while she went about the house, sifting the flowers, ordering for tomorrow, inspecting the bedrooms, laughter, cheery and uncontrolled, floated up and seemed to mock her.

Chapter V.

MORE TALK IN A CAR

Jon had too little sense of his own importance to be simultaneously loved with comfort to himself by two pretty and attractive young women. He drove home from Pulborough, where now daily he parked Val’s car, with a sore heart and a mind distraught. He had seen Fleur six times since his return to England, in a sort of painful crescendo. That dance with her had disclosed to him her state of heart, but still he did not suspect her of consciously pursuing him; and no amount of heart-searching seemed to make his own feelings clearer. Ought he to tell A

“Have a snooze Jon, you’re tired.” Jon lay back, but he did not snooze. He thought instead. In this girl, his wife, he knew well that there was what her brother, Francis Wilmot, called ‘sand.’ She knew how to be silent when shoes pinched. He had watched her making up her mind that she was in danger; and now it seemed to him that she was biding her time. A

“Hallo! Was I snoring?”

“No. But you were twitching like a dog, Jon.”

Jon got up and went to the window.

“I was dreaming. It’s a beautiful night. A fine September’s the pick of the year.”

“Yes; I love the ‘fall.’ Is your mother coming over soon?”

“Not until we’re settled in. I believe she thinks we’re better without her.”

“Your mother would always feel she was de trop before she was.”

“That’s on the right side, anyway.”

“Yes, I wonder if I should.”

Jon turned. She was sitting up, staring in front of her, frowning. He went over and kissed her.

“Careful of your chest, darling!” and he pulled up the clothes.

She lay back, gazing up at him; and again he wondered what she saw…

He was met next day by June’s: “So Fleur was here yesterday and gave you a lift! I told her what I thought this morning.”

“What DID you think?” said Jon.

“That it mustn’t begin again. She’s a spoiled child not to be trusted.”

His eyes moved angrily.

“You’d better leave Fleur alone.”

“I always leave people alone,” said June; “but this is my house, and I had to speak my mind.”

“I’d better stop sitting then.”

“Now, don’t be silly, Jon. Of course you can’t stop sitting—neither of you. Harold would be frightfully upset.”

“Damn Harold!”

June took hold of his lapel.

“That’s not what I mean at all. The pictures are going to be splendid. I only meant that you mustn’t meet here.”

“Did you tell Fleur that?”

“Yes.”

Jon laughed, and the sound of the laugh was hard.

“We’re not children, June.”

“Have you told A

“No.”

“There, you see!”

“What?”

His face had become stubborn and angry.

“You’re very like your father and grandfather, Jon—they couldn’t bear to be told anything.”

“Can YOU?”

“Of course, when it’s necessary.”

“Then please don’t interfere.”

Pink rushed into June’s cheeks, tears into her eyes; she winked them away, shook herself, and said coldly:

“I never interfere.”

“No?”

She went more pink, and suddenly stroked his sleeve. That touched Jon, and he smiled.

He “sat” disturbed all that afternoon, while the Rafaelite painted, and June hovered, sometimes with a frown, and sometimes with yearning in her face. He wondered what he should do if Fleur called for him again. But Fleur did not call, and he went home alone. The next day was Sunday, and he did not go up; but on Monday when he came out of “The Poplars,” after “sitting,” he saw Fleur’s car standing by the curb.

“I do want to show you my house today. I suppose June spoke to you, but I’m a reformed character, Jon. Get in!” And Jon got in.

The day was dull, neither lighted nor staged for emotion, and the “reformed character” played her part to perfection. Not a word suggested that they were other than best friends. She talked of America, its language and books. Jon maintained that America was violent in its repressions and in its revolt against repressions.

“In a word,” said Fleur, “young.”

“Yes; but so far as I can make out, it’s getting younger every year.”

“I liked America.”

“Oh! I liked it all right. I made quite a profit, too, on my orchard when I sold.”

“I wonder you came back, Jon. The fact is—you’re old-fashioned.”

“How?”

“Take sex—I couldn’t discuss sex with you.”

“Can you with other people?”

“Oh! with nearly anyone. Don’t frown like that! You’d be awfully out of it, my dear, in London, or New York, for that matter.”

“I hate fluffy talk about sex,” said Jon gruffly. “The French are the only people who understand sex. It isn’t to be talked about as they do here and in America; it’s much too real.”

Fleur stole another look.