The New Collected Short Stories by E.M. Forster Page A

fiancé , Ford’s guardian, my employer: I must speak of him as Mr Worters.
    ‘Let us cherish our dreams!’ he repeated. ‘All day I’ve been fighting, haggling, bargaining. And to come out on to this lawn and see you all learning Latin, so happy, so passionless, so Arcadian——’
    He did not finish the sentence, but sank into the chair next to Miss Beaumont, and possessed himself of her hand. As he did so she sang: ‘Áh yoù sílly àss góds lìve in woóds!’
    ‘What have we here?’ said Mr Worters with a slight frown.
    With the other hand she pointed to me.
    ‘Virgil——’ I stammered. ‘Colloquial translation——’
    ‘Oh, I see; a colloquial translation of poetry.’ Then his smile returned. ‘Perhaps if gods live in woods, that is why woods are so dear. I have just bought Other Kingdom Copse!’
    Loud exclamations of joy. Indeed, the beeches in that copse are as fine as any in Hertfordshire. Moreover, it, and the meadow by which it is approached, have always made an ugly notch in the rounded contours of the Worters estate. So we were all very glad that Mr Worters had purchased Other Kingdom. Only Ford kept silent, stroking his head where the Virgil had hit it, and smiling a little to himself as he did so.
    ‘Judging from the price I paid, I should say there was a god in every tree. But price, this time, was no object.’ He glanced at Miss Beaumont. ‘You admire beeches, Evelyn, do you not?’
    ‘I forget always which they are. Like this?’
    She flung her arms up above her head, close together, so that she looked like a slender column. Then her body swayed and her delicate green dress quivered over it with the suggestion of countless leaves.
    ‘My dear child!’ exclaimed her lover.
    ‘No: that is a silver birch,’ said Ford. ‘Oh, of course. Like this, then.’ And she twitched up her skirts so that for a moment they spread out in great horizontal layers, like the layers of a beech.
    We glanced at the house, but none of the servants were looking. So we laughed, and said she ought to go on the variety stage.
    ‘Ah, this is the kind I like!’ she cried, and practised the beech-tree again.
    ‘I thought so,’ said Mr Worters. ‘I thought so. Other Kingdom Copse is yours.’
    ‘Mine——?’ She had never had such a present in her life. She could not realize it.
    ‘The purchase will be drawn up in your name. You will sign the deed. Receive the wood, with my love. It is a second engagement ring.’
    ‘But is it – is it mine? Can I – do what I like there?’
    ‘You can,’ said Mr Worters, smiling.
    She rushed at him and kissed him. She kissed Mrs Worters. She would have kissed myself and Ford if we had not extruded elbows. The joy of possession had turned her head.
    ‘It’s mine! I can walk there, work there, live there. A wood of my own! Mine for ever.’
    ‘Yours, at all events, for ninety-nine years.’
    ‘Ninety-nine years?’ I regret to say there was a tinge of disappointment in her voice.
    ‘My dear child! Do you expect to live longer?’
    ‘I suppose I can’t,’ she replied, and flushed a little. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Ninety-nine seems long enough to most people. I have got this house, and the very lawn you are standing on, on a lease of ninety-nine years. Yet I call them my own, and I think I am justified. Am I not?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’
    ‘Ninety-nine years is practically for ever. Isn’t it?’
    ‘Oh, yes. It must be.’
    Ford possesses a most inflammatory notebook. Outside it is labelled ‘Private’, inside it is headed ‘Practically a book’. I saw him make an entry in it now, ‘Eternity: practically ninety-nine years.’
    Mr Worters, as if speaking to himself, now observed: ‘My goodness! My goodness! How land has risen! Perfectly astounding.’
    I saw that he was in need of a Boswell, so I said: ‘Has it, indeed?’
    ‘My dear Inskip. Guess what I could have got that wood for ten years ago! But I refused. Guess why.’
    We could not guess