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diff --git a/2594-0.txt b/2594-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a269cb6 --- /dev/null +++ b/2594-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14431 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forsyte Saga, In Chancery, by John Galsworthy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Forsyte Saga, In Chancery + +Author: John Galsworthy + +Release Date: April, 2001 [EBook #2594] +[Most recently updated: May 26, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, IN CHANCERY *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + spines (203K) + + subscription (12K) + + editon (10K) + + + + + FORSYTE SAGA + + IN CHANCERY + + By John Galsworthy + + + + + Contents + + + INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE + + I + + II + + III + + IV + + V + + IN CHANCERY + + PART 1 + + CHAPTER I—AT TIMOTHY’S + + CHAPTER II—EXIT A MAN OF THE WORLD + + CHAPTER III—SOAMES PREPARES TO TAKE STEPS + + CHAPTER IV—SOHO + + CHAPTER V—JAMES SEES VISIONS + + CHAPTER VI—NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME + + CHAPTER VII—THE COLT AND THE FILLY + + CHAPTER VIII—JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP + + CHAPTER IX—VAL HEARS THE NEWS + + CHAPTER X—SOAMES ENTERTAINS THE FUTURE + + CHAPTER XI—AND VISITS THE PAST + + CHAPTER XII—ON FORSYTE ’CHANGE + + CHAPTER XIII—JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS + + CHAPTER XIV—SOAMES DISCOVERS WHAT HE WANTS + + PART II + + CHAPTER I—THE THIRD GENERATION + + CHAPTER II—SOAMES PUTS IT TO THE TOUCH + + CHAPTER III—VISIT TO IRENE + + CHAPTER IV—WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD + + CHAPTER V—JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT + + CHAPTER VI—JOLYON IN TWO MINDS + + CHAPTER VII—DARTIE VERSUS DARTIE + + CHAPTER VIII—THE CHALLENGE + + CHAPTER IX—DINNER AT JAMES’ + + CHAPTER X—DEATH OF THE DOG BALTHASAR + + CHAPTER XI—TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT + + CHAPTER XII—PROGRESS OF THE CHASE + + CHAPTER XIII—“HERE WE ARE AGAIN!” + + CHAPTER XIV—OUTLANDISH NIGHT + + PART III + + CHAPTER I—SOAMES IN PARIS + + CHAPTER II—IN THE WEB + + CHAPTER III—RICHMOND PARK + + CHAPTER IV—OVER THE RIVER + + CHAPTER V—SOAMES ACTS + + CHAPTER VI—A SUMMER DAY + + CHAPTER VII—A SUMMER NIGHT + + CHAPTER VIII—JAMES IN WAITING + + CHAPTER IX—OUT OF THE WEB + + CHAPTER X—PASSING OF AN AGE + + CHAPTER XI—SUSPENDED ANIMATION + + CHAPTER XII—BIRTH OF A FORSYTE + + CHAPTER XIII—JAMES IS TOLD + + CHAPTER XIV—HIS + + + titlpage2 (51K) + + frontis2 (109K) + + + + + + THE FORSYTE SAGA—VOLUME II + + By John Galsworthy + + TO ANDRÉ CHEVRILLON + + + INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE + +“And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” + —Shakespeare + + + + + I + + + In the last day of May in the early ’nineties, about six o’clock + of the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below + the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the + midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. + His thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of + a cigar in its tapering, long-nailed fingers—a pointed polished + nail had survived with him from those earlier Victorian days when + to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so + distinguished. His domed forehead, great white moustache, lean + cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering + sunshine by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in + all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an + old man who every morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk + handkerchief. At his feet lay a woolly brown-and-white dog trying + to be a Pomeranian—the dog Balthasar between whom and old Jolyon + primal aversion had changed into attachment with the years. Close + to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of + Holly’s dolls—called “Duffer Alice”—with her body fallen over her + legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. She was + never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. + Below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the + fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to + the pond, the coppice, and the prospect—“Fine, remarkable”—at + which Swithin Forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five + years ago when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old + Jolyon had heard of his brother’s exploit—that drive which had + become quite celebrated on Forsyte ’Change. Swithin! And the + fellow had gone and died, last November, at the age of only + seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether Forsytes could live for + ever, which had first arisen when Aunt Ann passed away. Died! and + left only Jolyon and James, Roger and Nicholas and Timothy, + Julia, Hester, Susan! And old Jolyon thought: “Eighty-five! I + don’t feel it—except when I get that pain.” + + His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had + bought his nephew Soames’ ill-starred house and settled into it + here at Robin Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been + getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son + and his grandchildren—June, and the little ones of the second + marriage, Jolly and Holly; living down here out of the racket of + London and the cackle of Forsyte ’Change, free of his boards, in + a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of + occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house and its + twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of Holly and Jolly. + All the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart + during that long and tragic business of June, Soames, Irene his + wife, and poor young Bosinney, had been smoothed out. Even June + had thrown off her melancholy at last—witness this travel in + Spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. + Curiously perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, + yet blank, because his son was not there. Jo was never anything + but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadays—an amiable chap; but + women, somehow—even the best—got a little on one’s nerves, unless + of course one admired them. + + Far-off a cuckoo called; a wood-pigeon was cooing from the first + elm-tree in the field, and how the daisies and buttercups had + sprung up after the last mowing! The wind had got into the sou’ + west, too—a delicious air, sappy! He pushed his hat back and let + the sun fall on his chin and cheek. Somehow, to-day, he wanted + company—wanted a pretty face to look at. People treated the old + as if they wanted nothing. And with the un-Forsytean philosophy + which ever intruded on his soul, he thought: “One’s never had + enough. With a foot in the grave one’ll want something, I + shouldn’t be surprised!” Down here—away from the exigencies of + affairs—his grandchildren, and the flowers, trees, birds of his + little domain, to say nothing of sun and moon and stars above + them, said, “Open, sesame,” to him day and night. And sesame had + opened—how much, perhaps, he did not know. He had always been + responsive to what they had begun to call “Nature,” genuinely, + almost religiously responsive, though he had never lost his habit + of calling a sunset a sunset and a view a view, however deeply + they might move him. But nowadays Nature actually made him ache, + he appreciated it so. Every one of these calm, bright, + lengthening days, with Holly’s hand in his, and the dog Balthasar + in front looking studiously for what he never found, he would + stroll, watching the roses open, fruit budding on the walls, + sunlight brightening the oak leaves and saplings in the coppice, + watching the water-lily leaves unfold and glisten, and the + silvery young corn of the one wheat field; listening to the + starlings and skylarks, and the Alderney cows chewing the cud, + flicking slow their tufted tails; and every one of these fine + days he ached a little from sheer love of it all, feeling + perhaps, deep down, that he had not very much longer to enjoy it. + The thought that some day—perhaps not ten years hence, perhaps + not five—all this world would be taken away from him, before he + had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in the + nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. If anything + came after this life, it wouldn’t be what he wanted; not Robin + Hill, and flowers and birds and pretty faces—too few, even now, + of those about him! With the years his dislike of humbug had + increased; the orthodoxy he had worn in the ’sixties, as he had + worn side-whiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off, + leaving him reverent before three things alone—beauty, upright + conduct, and the sense of property; and the greatest of these now + was beauty. He had always had wide interests, and, indeed could + still read _The Times_, but he was liable at any moment to put it + down if he heard a blackbird sing. Upright conduct, + property—somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds and the + sunsets never tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he + could not get enough of them. Staring into the stilly radiance of + the early evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the + lawn, a thought came to him: This weather was like the music of + “Orfeo,” which he had recently heard at Covent Garden. A + beautiful opera, not like Meyerbeer, nor even quite Mozart, but, + in its way, perhaps even more lovely; something classical and of + the Golden Age about it, chaste and mellow, and the Ravogli + “almost worthy of the old days”—highest praise he could bestow. + The yearning of Orpheus for the beauty he was losing, for his + love going down to Hades, as in life love and beauty did go—the + yearning which sang and throbbed through the golden music, + stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world that evening. + And with the tip of his cork-soled, elastic-sided boot he + involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog Balthasar, causing the + animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he was supposed + to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact. When he had + finished he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his + master’s calf, and settled down again with his chin over the + instep of the disturbing boot. And into old Jolyon’s mind came a + sudden recollection—a face he had seen at that opera three weeks + ago—Irene, the wife of his precious nephew Soames, that man of + property! Though he had not met her since the day of the “At + Home” in his old house at Stanhope Gate, which celebrated his + granddaughter June’s ill-starred engagement to young Bosinney, he + had remembered her at once, for he had always admired her—a very + pretty creature. After the death of young Bosinney, whose + mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she + had left Soames at once. Goodness only knew what she had been + doing since. That sight of her face—a side view—in the row in + front, had been literally the only reminder these three years + that she was still alive. No one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo + had told him something once—something which had upset him + completely. The boy had got it from George Forsyte, he believed, + who had seen Bosinney in the fog the day he was run + over—something which explained the young fellow’s distress—an act + of Soames towards his wife—a shocking act. Jo had seen her, too, + that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, + and his description had always lingered in old Jolyon’s + mind—“wild and lost” he had called her. And next day June had + gone there—bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid + had cried and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the + night and vanished. A tragic business altogether! One thing was + certain—Soames had never been able to lay hands on her again. And + he was living at Brighton, and journeying up and down—a fitting + fate, the man of property! For when he once took a dislike to + anyone—as he had to his nephew—old Jolyon never got over it. He + remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the + news of Irene’s disappearance. It had been shocking to think of + her a prisoner in that house to which she must have wandered + back, when Jo saw her, wandered back for a moment—like a wounded + animal to its hole after seeing that news, “Tragic death of an + Architect,” in the street. Her face had struck him very much the + other night—more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a + mask, with something going on beneath it. A young woman + still—twenty-eight perhaps. Ah, well! Very likely she had another + lover by now. But at this subversive thought—for married women + should never love: once, even, had been too much—his instep rose, + and with it the dog Balthasar’s head. The sagacious animal stood + up and looked into old Jolyon’s face. “Walk?” he seemed to say; + and old Jolyon answered: “Come on, old chap!” + + Slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations + of buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery. This feature, + where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below + the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level + of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so + important in horticulture. Its rocks and earth were beloved of + the dog Balthasar, who sometimes found a mole there. Old Jolyon + made a point of passing through it because, though it was not + beautiful, he intended that it should be, some day, and he would + think: “I must get Varr to come down and look at it; he’s better + than Beech.” For plants, like houses and human complaints, + required the best expert consideration. It was inhabited by + snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point + to one and tell them the story of the little boy who said: “Have + plummers got leggers, Mother?” “No, sonny.” “Then darned if I + haven’t been and swallowed a snileybob.” And when they skipped + and clutched his hand, thinking of the snileybob going down the + little boy’s “red lane,” his eyes would twinkle. Emerging from + the fernery, he opened the wicket gate, which just there led into + the first field, a large and park-like area, out of which, within + brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved. Old Jolyon + avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the hill + towards the pond. Balthasar, who knew a water-rat or two, + gambolled in front, at the gait which marks an oldish dog who + takes the same walk every day. Arrived at the edge, old Jolyon + stood, noting another water-lily opened since yesterday; he would + show it to Holly to-morrow, when “his little sweet” had got over + the upset which had followed on her eating a tomato at lunch—her + little arrangements were very delicate. Now that Jolly had gone + to school—his first term—Holly was with him nearly all day long, + and he missed her badly. He felt that pain too, which often + bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side. He looked + back up the hill. Really, poor young Bosinney had made an + uncommonly good job of the house; he would have done very well + for himself if he had lived! And where was he now? Perhaps, still + haunting this, the site of his last work, of his tragic love + affair. Or was Philip Bosinney’s spirit diffused in the general? + Who could say? That dog was getting his legs muddy! And he moved + towards the coppice. There had been the most delightful lot of + bluebells, and he knew where some still lingered like little + patches of sky fallen in between the trees, away out of the sun. + He passed the cow-houses and the hen-houses there installed, and + pursued a path into the thick of the saplings, making for one of + the bluebell plots. Balthasar, preceding him once more, uttered a + low growl. Old Jolyon stirred him with his foot, but the dog + remained motionless, just where there was no room to pass, and + the hair rose slowly along the centre of his woolly back. Whether + from the growl and the look of the dog’s stivered hair, or from + the sensation which a man feels in a wood, old Jolyon also felt + something move along his spine. And then the path turned, and + there was an old mossy log, and on it a woman sitting. Her face + was turned away, and he had just time to think: “She’s + trespassing—I must have a board put up!” before she turned. + Powers above! The face he had seen at the opera—the very woman he + had just been thinking of! In that confused moment he saw things + blurred, as if a spirit—queer effect—the slant of sunlight + perhaps on her violet-grey frock! And then she rose and stood + smiling, her head a little to one side. Old Jolyon thought: “How + pretty she is!” She did not speak, neither did he; and he + realized why with a certain admiration. She was here no doubt + because of some memory, and did not mean to try and get out of it + by vulgar explanation. + + “Don’t let that dog touch your frock,” he said; “he’s got wet + feet. Come here, you!” + + But the dog Balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her + hand down and stroked his head. Old Jolyon said quickly: + + “I saw you at the opera the other night; you didn’t notice me.” + + “Oh, yes! I did.” + + He felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: “Do + you think one could miss seeing you?” + + “They’re all in Spain,” he remarked abruptly. “I’m alone; I drove + up for the opera. The Ravogli’s good. Have you seen the + cow-houses?” + + In a situation so charged with mystery and something very like + emotion he moved instinctively towards that bit of property, and + she moved beside him. Her figure swayed faintly, like the best + kind of French figures; her dress, too, was a sort of French + grey. He noticed two or three silver threads in her + amber-coloured hair, strange hair with those dark eyes of hers, + and that creamy-pale face. A sudden sidelong look from the + velvety brown eyes disturbed him. It seemed to come from deep and + far, from another world almost, or at all events from some one + not living very much in this. And he said mechanically: + + “Where are you living now?” + + “I have a little flat in Chelsea.” + + He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear + anything; but the perverse word came out: + + “Alone?” + + She nodded. It was a relief to know that. And it came into his + mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress + of this coppice, showing these cow-houses to him, a visitor. + + “All Alderneys,” he muttered; “they give the best milk. This + one’s a pretty creature. Woa, Myrtle!” + + The fawn-coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene’s + own, was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. + She looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, + mild, cynical eyes, and from her grey lips a little dribble of + saliva threaded its way towards the straw. The scent of hay and + vanilla and ammonia rose in the dim light of the cool cow-house; + and old Jolyon said: + + “You must come up and have some dinner with me. I’ll send you + home in the carriage.” + + He perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, + with her memories. But he wanted her company; a pretty face, a + charming figure, beauty! He had been alone all the afternoon. + Perhaps his eyes were wistful, for she answered: “Thank you, + Uncle Jolyon. I should like to.” + + He rubbed his hands, and said: + + “Capital! Let’s go up, then!” And, preceded by the dog Balthasar, + they ascended through the field. The sun was almost level in + their faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, + but little lines, just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a + coin-like fineness—the special look of life unshared with others. + “I’ll take her in by the terrace,” he thought: “I won’t make a + common visitor of her.” + + “What do you do all day?” he said. + + “Teach music; I have another interest, too.” + + “Work!” said old Jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, + and smoothing its black petticoat. “Nothing like it, is there? I + don’t do any now. I’m getting on. What interest is that?” + + “Trying to help women who’ve come to grief.” Old Jolyon did not + quite understand. “To grief?” he repeated; then realised with a + shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if + he had used that expression. Assisting the Magdalenes of London! + What a weird and terrifying interest! And, curiosity overcoming + his natural shrinking, he asked: + + “Why? What do you do for them?” + + “Not much. I’ve no money to spare. I can only give sympathy and + food sometimes.” + + Involuntarily old Jolyon’s hand sought his purse. He said + hastily: “How d’you get hold of them?” + + “I go to a hospital.” + + “A hospital! Phew!” + + “What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of + beauty.” + + Old Jolyon straightened the doll. “Beauty!” he ejaculated: “Ha! + Yes! A sad business!” and he moved towards the house. Through a + French window, under sun-blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her + into the room where he was wont to study _The Times_ and the + sheets of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of + mangold wurzels, and the like, which provided Holly with material + for her paint brush. + + “Dinner’s in half an hour. You’d like to wash your hands! I’ll + take you to June’s room.” + + He saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last + visited this house with her husband, or her lover, or both + perhaps—he did not know, could not say! All that was dark, and he + wished to leave it so. But what changes! And in the hall he said: + + “My boy Jo’s a painter, you know. He’s got a lot of taste. It + isn’t mine, of course, but I’ve let him have his way.” + + She was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall + and music room, as it now was—all thrown into one, under the + great skylight. Old Jolyon had an odd impression of her. Was she + trying to conjure somebody from the shades of that space where + the colouring was all pearl-grey and silver? He would have had + gold himself; more lively and solid. But Jo had French tastes, + and it had come out shadowy like that, with an effect as of the + fume of cigarettes the chap was always smoking, broken here and + there by a little blaze of blue or crimson colour. It was not + _his_ dream! Mentally he had hung this space with those + gold-framed masterpieces of still and stiller life which he had + bought in days when quantity was precious. And now where were + they? Sold for a song! That something which made him, alone among + Forsytes, move with the times had warned him against the struggle + to retain them. But in his study he still had “Dutch Fishing + Boats at Sunset.” + + He began to mount the stairs with her, slowly, for he felt his + side. + + “These are the bathrooms,” he said, “and other arrangements. I’ve + had them tiled. The nurseries are along there. And this is Jo’s + and his wife’s. They all communicate. But you remember, I + expect.” + + Irene nodded. They passed on, up the gallery and entered a large + room with a small bed, and several windows. + + “This is mine,” he said. The walls were covered with the + photographs of children and watercolour sketches, and he added + doubtfully: + + “These are Jo’s. The view’s first-rate. You can see the Grand + Stand at Epsom in clear weather.” + + The sun was down now, behind the house, and over the “prospect” a + luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long and prosperous + day. Few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, + away to a loom of downs. + + “The country’s changing,” he said abruptly, “but there it’ll be + when we’re all gone. Look at those thrushes—the birds are sweet + here in the mornings. I’m glad to have washed my hands of + London.” + + Her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its + mournful look. “Wish I could make her look happy!” he thought. “A + pretty face, but sad!” And taking up his can of hot water he went + out into the gallery. + + “This is June’s room,” he said, opening the next door and putting + the can down; “I think you’ll find everything.” And closing the + door behind her he went back to his own room. Brushing his hair + with his great ebony brushes, and dabbing his forehead with eau + de Cologne, he mused. She had come so strangely—a sort of + visitation; mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for + company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which + fulfilled that sort of thing. And before the mirror he + straightened his still upright figure, passed the brushes over + his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with eau de + Cologne, and rang the bell. + + “I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. + Let cook do something extra, and tell Beacon to have the landau + and pair at half-past ten to drive her back to Town to-night. Is + Miss Holly asleep?” + + The maid thought not. And old Jolyon, passing down the gallery, + stole on tiptoe towards the nursery, and opened the door whose + hinges he kept specially oiled that he might slip in and out in + the evenings without being heard. + + But Holly _was_ asleep, and lay like a miniature Madonna, of that + type which the old painters could not tell from Venus, when they + had completed her. Her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks; on + her face was perfect peace—her little arrangements were evidently + all right again. And old Jolyon, in the twilight of the room, + stood adoring her! It was so charming, solemn, and loving—that + little face. He had more than his share of the blessed capacity + of living again in the young. They were to him his future + life—all of a future life that his fundamental pagan sanity + perhaps admitted. There she was with everything before her, and + his blood—some of it—in her tiny veins. There she was, his little + companion, to be made as happy as ever he could make her, so that + she knew nothing but love. His heart swelled, and he went out, + stilling the sound of his patent-leather boots. In the corridor + an eccentric notion attacked him: To think that children should + come to that which Irene had told him she was helping! Women who + were all, once, little things like this one sleeping there! “I + must give her a cheque!” he mused; “Can’t bear to think of them!” + They had never borne reflecting on, those poor outcasts; wounding + too deeply the core of true refinement hidden under layers of + conformity to the sense of property—wounding too grievously the + deepest thing in him—a love of beauty which could give him, even + now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the + society of a pretty woman. And he went downstairs, through the + swinging doors, to the back regions. There, in the wine-cellar, + was a hock worth at least two pounds a bottle, a Steinberg + Cabinet, better than any Johannisberg that ever went down throat; + a wine of perfect bouquet, sweet as a nectarine—nectar indeed! He + got a bottle out, handling it like a baby, and holding it level + to the light, to look. Enshrined in its coat of dust, that mellow + coloured, slender-necked bottle gave him deep pleasure. Three + years to settle down again since the move from Town—ought to be + in prime condition! Thirty-five years ago he had bought it—thank + God he had kept his palate, and earned the right to drink it. She + would appreciate this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. He + wiped the bottle, drew the cork with his own hands, put his nose + down, inhaled its perfume, and went back to the music room. + + Irene was standing by the piano; she had taken off her hat and a + lace scarf she had been wearing, so that her gold-coloured hair + was visible, and the pallor of her neck. In her grey frock she + made a pretty picture for old Jolyon, against the rosewood of the + piano. + + He gave her his arm, and solemnly they went. The room, which had + been designed to enable twenty-four people to dine in comfort, + held now but a little round table. In his present solitude the + big dining-table oppressed old Jolyon; he had caused it to be + removed till his son came back. Here in the company of two really + good copies of Raphael Madonnas he was wont to dine alone. It was + the only disconsolate hour of his day, this summer weather. He + had never been a large eater, like that great chap Swithin, or + Sylvanus Heythorp, or Anthony Thornworthy, those cronies of past + times; and to dine alone, overlooked by the Madonnas, was to him + but a sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he + might come to the more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and + cigar. But this evening was a different matter! His eyes twinkled + at her across the little table and he spoke of Italy and + Switzerland, telling her stories of his travels there, and other + experiences which he could no longer recount to his son and + grand-daughter because they knew them. This fresh audience was + precious to him; he had never become one of those old men who + ramble round and round the fields of reminiscence. Himself + quickly fatigued by the insensitive, he instinctively avoided + fatiguing others, and his natural flirtatiousness towards beauty + guarded him specially in his relations with a woman. He would + have liked to draw her out, but though she murmured and smiled + and seemed to be enjoying what he told her, he remained conscious + of that mysterious remoteness which constituted half her + fascination. He could not bear women who threw their shoulders + and eyes at you, and chattered away; or hard-mouthed women who + laid down the law and knew more than you did. There was only one + quality in a woman that appealed to him—charm; and the quieter it + was, the more he liked it. And this one had charm, shadowy as + afternoon sunlight on those Italian hills and valleys he had + loved. The feeling, too, that she was, as it were, apart, + cloistered, made her seem nearer to himself, a strangely + desirable companion. When a man is very old and quite out of the + running, he loves to feel secure from the rivalries of youth, for + he would still be first in the heart of beauty. And he drank his + hock, and watched her lips, and felt nearly young. But the dog + Balthasar lay watching her lips too, and despising in his heart + the interruptions of their talk, and the tilting of those + greenish glasses full of a golden fluid which was distasteful to + him. + + The light was just failing when they went back into the + music-room. And, cigar in mouth, old Jolyon said: + + “Play me some Chopin.” + + By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall + know the texture of men’s souls. Old Jolyon could not bear a + strong cigar or Wagner’s music. He loved Beethoven and Mozart, + Handel and Gluck, and Schumann, and, for some occult reason, the + operas of Meyerbeer; but of late years he had been seduced by + Chopin, just as in painting he had succumbed to Botticelli. In + yielding to these tastes he had been conscious of divergence from + the standard of the Golden Age. Their poetry was not that of + Milton and Byron and Tennyson; of Raphael and Titian; Mozart and + Beethoven. It was, as it were, behind a veil; their poetry hit no + one in the face, but slipped its fingers under the ribs and + turned and twisted, and melted up the heart. And, never certain + that this was healthy, he did not care a rap so long as he could + see the pictures of the one or hear the music of the other. + + Irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned + with pearl-grey, and old Jolyon, in an armchair, whence he could + see her, crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar. She sat a + few moments with her hands on the keys, evidently searching her + mind for what to give him. Then she began and within old Jolyon + there arose a sorrowful pleasure, not quite like anything else in + the world. He fell slowly into a trance, interrupted only by the + movements of taking the cigar out of his mouth at long intervals, + and replacing it. She was there, and the hock within him, and the + scent of tobacco; but there, too, was a world of sunshine + lingering into moonlight, and pools with storks upon them, and + bluish trees above, glowing with blurs of wine-red roses, and + fields of lavender where milk-white cows were grazing, and a + woman all shadowy, with dark eyes and a white neck, smiled, + holding out her arms; and through air which was like music a star + dropped and was caught on a cow’s horn. He opened his eyes. + Beautiful piece; she played well—the touch of an angel! And he + closed them again. He felt miraculously sad and happy, as one + does, standing under a lime-tree in full honey flower. Not live + one’s own life again, but just stand there and bask in the smile + of a woman’s eyes, and enjoy the bouquet! And he jerked his hand; + the dog Balthasar had reached up and licked it. + + “Beautiful!” He said: “Go on—more Chopin!” + + She began to play again. This time the resemblance between her + and “Chopin” struck him. The swaying he had noticed in her walk + was in her playing too, and the Nocturne she had chosen and the + soft darkness of her eyes, the light on her hair, as of moonlight + from a golden moon. Seductive, yes; but nothing of Delilah in her + or in that music. A long blue spiral from his cigar ascended and + dispersed. “So we go out!” he thought. “No more beauty! Nothing?” + + Again Irene stopped. + + “Would you like some Gluck? He used to write his music in a + sunlit garden, with a bottle of Rhine wine beside him.” + + “Ah! yes. Let’s have ‘Orfeo.’” Round about him now were fields of + gold and silver flowers, white forms swaying in the sunlight, + bright birds flying to and fro. All was summer. Lingering waves + of sweetness and regret flooded his soul. Some cigar ash dropped, + and taking out a silk handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled a + mingled scent as of snuff and eau de Cologne. “Ah!” he thought, + “Indian summer—that’s all!” and he said: “You haven’t played me + ‘Che faro.’” + + She did not answer; did not move. He was conscious of + something—some strange upset. Suddenly he saw her rise and turn + away, and a pang of remorse shot through him. What a clumsy chap! + Like Orpheus, she of course—she too was looking for her lost one + in the hall of memory! And disturbed to the heart, he got up from + his chair. She had gone to the great window at the far end. + Gingerly he followed. Her hands were folded over her breast; he + could just see her cheek, very white. And, quite emotionalized, + he said: + + “There, there, my love!” The words had escaped him mechanically, + for they were those he used to Holly when she had a pain, but + their effect was instantaneously distressing. She raised her + arms, covered her face with them, and wept. + + Old Jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age. The + passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment, so unlike + the control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had + never before broken down in the presence of another being. + + “There, there—there, there!” he murmured, and putting his hand + out reverently, touched her. She turned, and leaned the arms + which covered her face against him. Old Jolyon stood very still, + keeping one thin hand on her shoulder. Let her cry her heart + out—it would do her good. + + And the dog Balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine + them. + + The window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the + last of daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from + the lamp within; there was a scent of new-mown grass. With the + wisdom of a long life old Jolyon did not speak. Even grief sobbed + itself out in time; only Time was good for sorrow—Time who saw + the passing of each mood, each emotion in turn; Time the + layer-to-rest. There came into his mind the words: “As panteth + the hart after cooling streams”—but they were of no use to him. + Then, conscious of a scent of violets, he knew she was drying her + eyes. He put his chin forward, pressed his moustache against her + forehead, and felt her shake with a quivering of her whole body, + as of a tree which shakes itself free of raindrops. She put his + hand to her lips, as if saying: “All over now! Forgive me!” + + The kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to + where she had been so upset. And the dog Balthasar, following, + laid the bone of one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet. + + Anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion, he could think + of nothing better than china; and moving with her slowly from + cabinet to cabinet, he kept taking up bits of Dresden and + Lowestoft and Chelsea, turning them round and round with his + thin, veined hands, whose skin, faintly freckled, had such an + aged look. + + “I bought this at Jobson’s,” he would say; “cost me thirty + pounds. It’s very old. That dog leaves his bones all over the + place. This old ‘ship-bowl’ I picked up at the sale when that + precious rip, the Marquis, came to grief. But you don’t remember. + Here’s a nice piece of Chelsea. Now, what would you say _this_ + was?” And he was comforted, feeling that, with her taste, she was + taking a real interest in these things; for, after all, nothing + better composes the nerves than a doubtful piece of china. + + When the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last, he + said: + + “You must come again; you must come to lunch, then I can show you + these by daylight, and my little sweet—she’s a dear little thing. + This dog seems to have taken a fancy to you.” + + For Balthasar, feeling that she was about to leave, was rubbing + his side against her leg. Going out under the porch with her, he + said: + + “He’ll get you up in an hour and a quarter. Take this for your + _protégées_,” and he slipped a cheque for fifty pounds into her + hand. He saw her brightened eyes, and heard her murmur: “Oh! + Uncle Jolyon!” and a real throb of pleasure went through him. + That meant one or two poor creatures helped a little, and it + meant that she would come again. He put his hand in at the window + and grasped hers once more. The carriage rolled away. He stood + looking at the moon and the shadows of the trees, and thought: “A + sweet night! She...!” + + + + + II + + + Two days of rain, and summer set in bland and sunny. Old Jolyon + walked and talked with Holly. At first he felt taller and full of + a new vigour; then he felt restless. Almost every afternoon they + would enter the coppice, and walk as far as the log. “Well, she’s + not there!” he would think, “of course not!” And he would feel a + little shorter, and drag his feet walking up the hill home, with + his hand clapped to his left side. Now and then the thought would + move in him: “Did she come—or did I dream it?” and he would stare + at space, while the dog Balthasar stared at him. Of course she + would not come again! He opened the letters from Spain with less + excitement. They were not returning till July; he felt, oddly, + that he could bear it. Every day at dinner he screwed up his eyes + and looked at where she had sat. She was not there, so he + unscrewed his eyes again. + + On the seventh afternoon he thought: “I must go up and get some + boots.” He ordered Beacon, and set out. Passing from Putney + towards Hyde Park he reflected: “I might as well go to Chelsea + and see her.” And he called out: “Just drive me to where you took + that lady the other night.” The coachman turned his broad red + face, and his juicy lips answered: “The lady in grey, sir?” + + “Yes, the lady in grey.” What other ladies were there! Stodgy + chap! + + The carriage stopped before a small three-storied block of flats, + standing a little back from the river. With a practised eye old + Jolyon saw that they were cheap. “I should think about sixty + pound a year,” he mused; and entering, he looked at the + name-board. The name “Forsyte” was not on it, but against “First + Floor, Flat C” were the words: “Mrs. Irene Heron.” Ah! She had + taken her maiden name again! And somehow this pleased him. He + went upstairs slowly, feeling his side a little. He stood a + moment, before ringing, to lose the feeling of drag and + fluttering there. She would not be in! And then—Boots! The + thought was black. What did he want with boots at his age? He + could not wear out all those he had. + + “Your mistress at home?” + + “Yes, sir.” + + “Say Mr. Jolyon Forsyte.” + + “Yes, sir, will you come this way?” + + Old Jolyon followed a very little maid—not more than sixteen one + would say—into a very small drawing-room where the sun-blinds + were drawn. It held a cottage piano and little else save a vague + fragrance and good taste. He stood in the middle, with his top + hat in his hand, and thought: “I expect she’s very badly off!” + There was a mirror above the fireplace, and he saw himself + reflected. An old-looking chap! He heard a rustle, and turned + round. She was so close that his moustache almost brushed her + forehead, just under her hair. + + “I was driving up,” he said. “Thought I’d look in on you, and ask + you how you got up the other night.” + + And, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved. She was really + glad to see him, perhaps. + + “Would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the + Park?” + + But while she was gone to put her hat on, he frowned. The Park! + James and Emily! Mrs. Nicholas, or some other member of his + precious family would be there very likely, prancing up and down. + And they would go and wag their tongues about having seen him + with her, afterwards. Better not! He did not wish to revive the + echoes of the past on Forsyte ’Change. He removed a white hair + from the lapel of his closely-buttoned-up frock coat, and passed + his hand over his cheeks, moustache, and square chin. It felt + very hollow there under the cheekbones. He had not been eating + much lately—he had better get that little whippersnapper who + attended Holly to give him a tonic. But she had come back and + when they were in the carriage, he said: + + “Suppose we go and sit in Kensington Gardens instead?” and added + with a twinkle: “No prancing up and down there,” as if she had + been in the secret of his thoughts. + + Leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and + strolled towards the water. + + “You’ve gone back to your maiden name, I see,” he said: “I’m not + sorry.” + + She slipped her hand under his arm: “Has June forgiven me, Uncle + Jolyon?” + + He answered gently: “Yes—yes; of course, why not?” + + “And have you?” + + “I? I forgave you as soon as I saw how the land really lay.” And + perhaps he had; his instinct had always been to forgive the + beautiful. + + She drew a deep breath. “I never regretted—I couldn’t. Did you + ever love very deeply, Uncle Jolyon?” + + At that strange question old Jolyon stared before him. Had he? He + did not seem to remember that he ever had. But he did not like to + say this to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm, + whose life was suspended, as it were, by memory of a tragic love. + And he thought: “If I had met you when I was young I—I might have + made a fool of myself, perhaps.” And a longing to escape in + generalities beset him. + + “Love’s a queer thing,” he said, “fatal thing often. It was the + Greeks—wasn’t it?—made love into a goddess; they were right, I + dare say, but then they lived in the Golden Age.” + + “Phil adored them.” + + Phil! The word jarred him, for suddenly—with his power to see all + round a thing, he perceived why she was putting up with him like + this. She wanted to talk about her lover! Well! If it was any + pleasure to her! And he said: “Ah! There was a bit of the + sculptor in him, I fancy.” + + “Yes. He loved balance and symmetry; he loved the whole-hearted + way the Greeks gave themselves to art.” + + Balance! The chap had no balance at all, if he remembered; as for + symmetry—clean-built enough he was, no doubt; but those queer + eyes of his, and high cheek-bones—Symmetry? + + “You’re of the Golden Age, too, Uncle Jolyon.” + + Old Jolyon looked round at her. Was she chaffing him? No, her + eyes were soft as velvet. Was she flattering him? But if so, why? + There was nothing to be had out of an old chap like him. + + “Phil thought so. He used to say: ‘But I can never tell him that + I admire him.’” + + Ah! There it was again. Her dead lover; her desire to talk of + him! And he pressed her arm, half resentful of those memories, + half grateful, as if he recognised what a link they were between + herself and him. + + “He was a very talented young fellow,” he murmured. “It’s hot; I + feel the heat nowadays. Let’s sit down.” + + They took two chairs beneath a chestnut tree whose broad leaves + covered them from the peaceful glory of the afternoon. A pleasure + to sit there and watch her, and feel that she liked to be with + him. And the wish to increase that liking, if he could, made him + go on: + + “I expect he showed you a side of him I never saw. He’d be at his + best with you. His ideas of art were a little new—to me”—he had + stiffed the word ‘fangled.’ + + “Yes: but he used to say you had a real sense of beauty.” Old + Jolyon thought: “The devil he did!” but answered with a twinkle: + “Well, I have, or I shouldn’t be sitting here with you.” She was + fascinating when she smiled with her eyes, like that! + + “He thought you had one of those hearts that never grow old. Phil + had real insight.” + + He was not taken in by this flattery spoken out of the past, out + of a longing to talk of her dead lover—not a bit; and yet it was + precious to hear, because she pleased his eyes and heart + which—quite true!—had never grown old. Was that because—unlike + her and her dead lover, he had never loved to desperation, had + always kept his balance, his sense of symmetry. Well! It had left + him power, at eighty-four, to admire beauty. And he thought, “If + I were a painter or a sculptor! But I’m an old chap. Make hay + while the sun shines.” + + A couple with arms entwined crossed on the grass before them, at + the edge of the shadow from their tree. The sunlight fell cruelly + on their pale, squashed, unkempt young faces. “We’re an ugly + lot!” said old Jolyon suddenly. “It amazes me to see how—love + triumphs over that.” + + “Love triumphs over everything!” + + “The young think so,” he muttered. + + “Love has no age, no limit, and no death.” + + With that glow in her pale face, her breast heaving, her eyes so + large and dark and soft, she looked like Venus come to life! But + this extravagance brought instant reaction, and, twinkling, he + said: “Well, if it had limits, we shouldn’t be born; for by + George! it’s got a lot to put up with.” + + Then, removing his top hat, he brushed it round with a cuff. The + great clumsy thing heated his forehead; in these days he often + got a rush of blood to the head—his circulation was not what it + had been. + + She still sat gazing straight before her, and suddenly she + murmured: + + “It’s strange enough that _I’m_ alive.” + + Those words of Jo’s “Wild and lost” came back to him. + + “Ah!” he said: “my son saw you for a moment—that day.” + + “Was it your son? I heard a voice in the hall; I thought for a + second it was—Phil.” + + Old Jolyon saw her lips tremble. She put her hand over them, took + it away again, and went on calmly: “That night I went to the + Embankment; a woman caught me by the dress. She told me about + herself. When one knows that others suffer, one’s ashamed.” + + “One of _those?_” + + She nodded, and horror stirred within old Jolyon, the horror of + one who has never known a struggle with desperation. Almost + against his will he muttered: “Tell me, won’t you?” + + “I didn’t care whether I lived or died. When you’re like that, + Fate ceases to want to kill you. She took care of me three + days—she never left me. I had no money. That’s why I do what I + can for them, now.” + + But old Jolyon was thinking: “No money!” What fate could compare + with that? Every other was involved in it. + + “I wish you had come to me,” he said. “Why didn’t you?” But Irene + did not answer. + + “Because my name was Forsyte, I suppose? Or was it June who kept + you away? How are you getting on now?” His eyes involuntarily + swept her body. Perhaps even now she was—! And yet she wasn’t + thin—not really! + + “Oh! with my fifty pounds a year, I make just enough.” The answer + did not reassure him; he had lost confidence. And that fellow + Soames! But his sense of justice stifled condemnation. No, she + would certainly have died rather than take another penny from + _him_. Soft as she looked, there must be strength in her + somewhere—strength and fidelity. But what business had young + Bosinney to have got run over and left her stranded like this! + + “Well, you must come to me now,” he said, “for anything you want, + or I shall be quite cut up.” And putting on his hat, he rose. + “Let’s go and get some tea. I told that lazy chap to put the + horses up for an hour, and come for me at your place. We’ll take + a cab presently; I can’t walk as I used to.” + + He enjoyed that stroll to the Kensington end of the gardens—the + sound of her voice, the glancing of her eyes, the subtle beauty + of a charming form moving beside him. He enjoyed their tea at + Ruffel’s in the High Street, and came out thence with a great box + of chocolates swung on his little finger. He enjoyed the drive + back to Chelsea in a hansom, smoking his cigar. She had promised + to come down next Sunday and play to him again, and already in + thought he was plucking carnations and early roses for her to + carry back to town. It was a pleasure to give her a little + pleasure, if it _were_ pleasure from an old chap like him! The + carriage was already there when they arrived. Just like that + fellow, who was always late when he was wanted! Old Jolyon went + in for a minute to say good-bye. The little dark hall of the flat + was impregnated with a disagreeable odour of patchouli, and on a + bench against the wall—its only furniture—he saw a figure + sitting. He heard Irene say softly: “Just one minute.” In the + little drawing-room when the door was shut, he asked gravely: + “One of your _protégées?_” + + “Yes. Now thanks to you, I can do something for her.” + + He stood, staring, and stroking that chin whose strength had + frightened so many in its time. The idea of her thus actually in + contact with this outcast grieved and frightened him. What could + she do for them? Nothing. Only soil and make trouble for herself, + perhaps. And he said: “Take care, my dear! The world puts the + worst construction on everything.” + + “I know that.” + + He was abashed by her quiet smile. “Well then—Sunday,” he + murmured: “Good-bye.” + + She put her cheek forward for him to kiss. + + “Good-bye,” he said again; “take care of yourself.” And he went + out, not looking towards the figure on the bench. He drove home + by way of Hammersmith; that he might stop at a place he knew of + and tell them to send her in two dozen of their best Burgundy. + She must want picking-up sometimes! Only in Richmond Park did he + remember that he had gone up to order himself some boots, and was + surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea. + + + + + III + + + The little spirits of the past which throng an old man’s days had + never pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the seventy + hours elapsing before Sunday came. The spirit of the future, with + the charm of the unknown, put up her lips instead. Old Jolyon was + not restless now, and paid no visits to the log, because she was + _coming to lunch_. There is wonderful finality about a meal; it + removes a world of doubts, for no one misses meals except for + reasons beyond control. He played many games with Holly on the + lawn, pitching them up to her who was batting so as to be ready + to bowl to Jolly in the holidays. For she was not a Forsyte, but + Jolly was—and Forsytes always bat, until they have resigned and + reached the age of eighty-five. The dog Balthasar, in attendance, + lay on the ball as often as he could, and the page-boy fielded, + till his face was like the harvest moon. And because the time was + getting shorter, each day was longer and more golden than the + last. On Friday night he took a liver pill, his side hurt him + rather, and though it was not the liver side, there is no remedy + like that. Anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement + in life and that excitement was not good for him, would have been + met by one of those steady and rather defiant looks of his + deep-set iron-grey eyes, which seemed to say: “I know my own + business best.” He always had and always would. + + On Sunday morning, when Holly had gone with her governess to + church, he visited the strawberry beds. There, accompanied by the + dog Balthasar, he examined the plants narrowly and succeeded in + finding at least two dozen berries which were really ripe. + Stooping was not good for him, and he became very dizzy and red + in the forehead. Having placed the strawberries in a dish on the + dining-table, he washed his hands and bathed his forehead with + eau de Cologne. There, before the mirror, it occurred to him that + he was thinner. What a “threadpaper” he had been when he was + young! It was nice to be slim—he could not bear a fat chap; and + yet perhaps his cheeks were _too_ thin! She was to arrive by + train at half-past twelve and walk up, entering from the road + past Drage’s farm at the far end of the coppice. And, having + looked into June’s room to see that there was hot water ready, he + set forth to meet her, leisurely, for his heart was beating. The + air smelled sweet, larks sang, and the Grand Stand at Epsom was + visible. A perfect day! On just such a one, no doubt, six years + ago, Soames had brought young Bosinney down with him to look at + the site before they began to build. It was Bosinney who had + pitched on the exact spot for the house—as June had often told + him. In these days he was thinking much about that young fellow, + as if his spirit were really haunting the field of his last work, + on the chance of seeing—her. Bosinney—the one man who had + possessed her heart, to whom she had given her whole self with + rapture! At his age one could not, of course, imagine such + things, but there stirred in him a queer vague aching—as it were + the ghost of an impersonal jealousy; and a feeling, too, more + generous, of pity for that love so early lost. All over in a few + poor months! Well, well! He looked at his watch before entering + the coppice—only a quarter past, twenty-five minutes to wait! And + then, turning the corner of the path, he saw her exactly where he + had seen her the first time, on the log; and realised that she + must have come by the earlier train to sit there alone for a + couple of hours at least. Two hours of her society missed! What + memory could make that log so dear to her? His face showed what + he was thinking, for she said at once: + + “Forgive me, Uncle Jolyon; it was here that I first knew.” + + “Yes, yes; there it is for you whenever you like. You’re looking + a little Londony; you’re giving too many lessons.” + + That she should have to give lessons worried him. Lessons to a + parcel of young girls thumping out scales with their thick + fingers. + + “Where do you go to give them?” he asked. + + “They’re mostly Jewish families, luckily.” + + Old Jolyon stared; to all Forsytes Jews seem strange and + doubtful. + + “They love music, and they’re very kind.” + + “They had better be, by George!” He took her arm—his side always + hurt him a little going uphill—and said: + + “Did you ever see anything like those buttercups? They came like + that in a night.” + + Her eyes seemed really to fly over the field, like bees after the + flowers and the honey. “I wanted you to see them—wouldn’t let + them turn the cows in yet.” Then, remembering that she had come + to talk about Bosinney, he pointed to the clock-tower over the + stables: + + “I expect _he_ wouldn’t have let me put that there—had no notion + of time, if I remember.” + + But, pressing his arm to her, she talked of flowers instead, and + he knew it was done that he might not feel she came because of + her dead lover. + + “The best flower I can show you,” he said, with a sort of + triumph, “is my little sweet. She’ll be back from Church + directly. There’s something about her which reminds me a little + of you,” and it did not seem to him peculiar that he had put it + thus, instead of saying: “There’s something about you which + reminds me a little of her.” Ah! And here she was! + + Holly, followed closely by her elderly French governess, whose + digestion had been ruined twenty-two years ago in the siege of + Strasbourg, came rushing towards them from under the oak tree. + She stopped about a dozen yards away, to pat Balthasar and + pretend that this was all she had in her mind. Old Jolyon, who + knew better, said: + + “Well, my darling, here’s the lady in grey I promised you.” + + Holly raised herself and looked up. He watched the two of them + with a twinkle, Irene smiling, Holly beginning with grave + inquiry, passing into a shy smile too, and then to something + deeper. She had a sense of beauty, that child—knew what was what! + He enjoyed the sight of the kiss between them. + + “Mrs. Heron, Mam’zelle Beauce. Well, Mam’zelle—good sermon?” + + For, now that he had not much more time before him, the only part + of the service connected with this world absorbed what interest + in church remained to him. Mam’zelle Beauce stretched out a + spidery hand clad in a black kid glove—she had been in the best + families—and the rather sad eyes of her lean yellowish face + seemed to ask: “Are you well-brrred?” Whenever Holly or Jolly did + anything unpleasing to her—a not uncommon occurrence—she would + say to them: “The little Tayleurs never did that—they were such + well-brrred little children.” Jolly hated the little Tayleurs; + Holly wondered dreadfully how it was she fell so short of them. + “A thin rum little soul,” old Jolyon thought her—Mam’zelle + Beauce. + + Luncheon was a successful meal, the mushrooms which he himself + had picked in the mushroom house, his chosen strawberries, and + another bottle of the Steinberg cabinet filled him with a certain + aromatic spirituality, and a conviction that he would have a + touch of eczema to-morrow. + + After lunch they sat under the oak tree drinking Turkish coffee. + It was no matter of grief to him when Mademoiselle Beauce + withdrew to write her Sunday letter to her sister, whose future + had been endangered in the past by swallowing a pin—an event held + up daily in warning to the children to eat slowly and digest what + they had eaten. At the foot of the bank, on a carriage rug, Holly + and the dog Balthasar teased and loved each other, and in the + shade old Jolyon with his legs crossed and his cigar luxuriously + savoured, gazed at Irene sitting in the swing. A light, vaguely + swaying, grey figure with a fleck of sunlight here and there upon + it, lips just opened, eyes dark and soft under lids a little + drooped. She looked content; surely it did her good to come and + see him! The selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on + him, for he could still feel pleasure in the pleasure of others, + realising that what he wanted, though much, was not quite all + that mattered. + + “It’s quiet here,” he said; “you mustn’t come down if you find it + dull. But it’s a pleasure to see you. My little sweet is the only + face which gives me any pleasure, except yours.” + + From her smile he knew that she was not beyond liking to be + appreciated, and this reassured him. “That’s not humbug,” he + said. “I never told a woman I admired her when I didn’t. In fact + I don’t know when I’ve told a woman I admired her, except my wife + in the old days; and wives are funny.” He was silent, but resumed + abruptly: + + “She used to expect me to say it more often than I felt it, and + there we were.” Her face looked mysteriously troubled, and, + afraid that he had said something painful, he hurried on: “When + my little sweet marries, I hope she’ll find someone who knows + what women feel. I shan’t be here to see it, but there’s too much + topsy-turvydom in marriage; I don’t want her to pitch up against + that.” And, aware that he had made bad worse, he added: “That dog + _will_ scratch.” + + A silence followed. Of what was she thinking, this pretty + creature whose life was spoiled; who had done with love, and yet + was made for love? Some day when he was gone, perhaps, she would + find another mate—not so disorderly as that young fellow who had + got himself run over. Ah! but her husband? + + “Does Soames never trouble you?” he asked. + + She shook her head. Her face had closed up suddenly. For all her + softness there was something irreconcilable about her. And a + glimpse of light on the inexorable nature of sex antipathies + strayed into a brain which, belonging to early Victorian + civilisation—so much older than this of his old age—had never + thought about such primitive things. + + “That’s a comfort,” he said. “You can see the Grand Stand to-day. + Shall we take a turn round?” + + Through the flower and fruit garden, against whose high outer + walls peach trees and nectarines were trained to the sun, through + the stables, the vinery, the mushroom house, the asparagus beds, + the rosery, the summer-house, he conducted her—even into the + kitchen garden to see the tiny green peas which Holly loved to + scoop out of their pods with her finger, and lick up from the + palm of her little brown hand. Many delightful things he showed + her, while Holly and the dog Balthasar danced ahead, or came to + them at intervals for attention. It was one of the happiest + afternoons he had ever spent, but it tired him and he was glad to + sit down in the music room and let her give him tea. A special + little friend of Holly’s had come in—a fair child with short hair + like a boy’s. And the two sported in the distance, under the + stairs, on the stairs, and up in the gallery. Old Jolyon begged + for Chopin. She played studies, mazurkas, waltzes, till the two + children, creeping near, stood at the foot of the piano their + dark and golden heads bent forward, listening. Old Jolyon + watched. + + “Let’s see you dance, you two!” + + Shyly, with a false start, they began. Bobbing and circling, + earnest, not very adroit, they went past and past his chair to + the strains of that waltz. He watched them and the face of her + who was playing turned smiling towards those little dancers + thinking: + + “Sweetest picture I’ve seen for ages.” + + A voice said: + + “Hollee! _Mais enfin—qu’est-ce que tu fais la—danser, le + dimanche! Viens, donc!_” + + But the children came close to old Jolyon, knowing that he would + save them, and gazed into a face which was decidedly “caught + out.” + + “Better the day, better the deed, Mam’zelle. It’s all my doing. + Trot along, chicks, and have your tea.” + + And, when they were gone, followed by the dog Balthasar, who took + every meal, he looked at Irene with a twinkle and said: + + “Well, there we are! Aren’t they sweet? Have you any little ones + among your pupils?” + + “Yes, three—two of them darlings.” + + “Pretty?” + + “Lovely!” + + Old Jolyon sighed; he had an insatiable appetite for the very + young. “My little sweet,” he said, “is devoted to music; she’ll + be a musician some day. You wouldn’t give me your opinion of her + playing, I suppose?” + + “Of course I will.” + + “You wouldn’t like—” but he stifled the words “to give her + lessons.” The idea that she gave lessons was unpleasant to him; + yet it would mean that he would see her regularly. She left the + piano and came over to his chair. + + “I would like, very much; but there is—June. When are they coming + back?” + + Old Jolyon frowned. “Not till the middle of next month. What does + that matter?” + + “You said June had forgiven me; but she could never forget, Uncle + Jolyon.” + + Forget! She _must_ forget, if he wanted her to. + + But as if answering, Irene shook her head. “You know she + couldn’t; one doesn’t forget.” + + Always that wretched past! And he said with a sort of vexed + finality: + + “Well, we shall see.” + + He talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred + little things, till the carriage came round to take her home. And + when she had gone he went back to his chair, and sat there + smoothing his face and chin, dreaming over the day. + + That evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet + of paper. He stayed for some minutes without writing, then rose + and stood under the masterpiece “Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset.” + He was not thinking of that picture, but of his life. He was + going to leave her something in his Will; nothing could so have + stirred the stilly deeps of thought and memory. He was going to + leave her a portion of his wealth, of his aspirations, deeds, + qualities, work—all that had made that wealth; going to leave + her, too, a part of all he had missed in life, by his sane and + steady pursuit of wealth. All! What had he missed? “Dutch Fishing + Boats” responded blankly; he crossed to the French window, and + drawing the curtain aside, opened it. A wind had got up, and one + of last year’s oak leaves which had somehow survived the + gardener’s brooms, was dragging itself with a tiny clicking + rustle along the stone terrace in the twilight. Except for that + it was very quiet out there, and he could smell the heliotrope + watered not long since. A bat went by. A bird uttered its last + “cheep.” And right above the oak tree the first star shone. Faust + in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of youth. + Morbid notion! No such bargain was possible, that was _real_ + tragedy! No making oneself new again for love or life or + anything. Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while + you could, and leave it something in your Will. But how much? + And, as if he could not make that calculation looking out into + the mild freedom of the country night, he turned back and went up + to the chimney-piece. There were his pet bronzes—a Cleopatra with + the asp at her breast; a Socrates; a greyhound playing with her + puppy; a strong man reining in some horses. “They last!” he + thought, and a pang went through his heart. They had a thousand + years of life before them! + + “How much?” Well! enough at all events to save her getting old + before her time, to keep the lines out of her face as long as + possible, and grey from soiling that bright hair. He might live + another five years. She would be well over thirty by then. “How + much?” She had none of his blood in her! In loyalty to the tenor + of his life for forty years and more, ever since he married and + founded that mysterious thing, a family, came this warning + thought—None of his blood, no right to anything! It was a luxury + then, this notion. An extravagance, a petting of an old man’s + whim, one of those things done in dotage. His real future was + vested in those who had his blood, in whom he would live on when + he was gone. He turned away from the bronzes and stood looking at + the old leather chair in which he had sat and smoked so many + hundreds of cigars. And suddenly he seemed to see her sitting + there in her grey dress, fragrant, soft, dark-eyed, graceful, + looking up at him. Why! She cared nothing for him, really; all + she cared for was that lost lover of hers. But she was there, + whether she would or no, giving him pleasure with her beauty and + grace. One had no right to inflict an old man’s company, no right + to ask her down to play to him and let him look at her—for no + reward! Pleasure must be paid for in this world. “How much?” + After all, there was plenty; his son and his three grandchildren + would never miss that little lump. He had made it himself, nearly + every penny; he could leave it where he liked, allow himself this + little pleasure. He went back to the bureau. “Well, I’m going + to,” he thought, “let them think what they like. I’m going to!” + And he sat down. + + “How much?” Ten thousand, twenty thousand—how much? If only with + his money he could buy one year, one month of youth. And startled + by that thought, he wrote quickly: + + “DEAR HERRING,—Draw me a codicil to this effect: “I leave to my + niece Irene Forsyte, born Irene Heron, by which name she now + goes, fifteen thousand pounds free of legacy duty.” + + “Yours faithfully, + “JOLYON FORSYTE.” + + When he had sealed and stamped the envelope, he went back to the + window and drew in a long breath. It was dark, but many stars + shone now. + + + + + IV + + + He woke at half-past two, an hour which long experience had + taught him brings panic intensity to all awkward thoughts. + Experience had also taught him that a further waking at the + proper hour of eight showed the folly of such panic. On this + particular morning the thought which gathered rapid momentum was + that if he became ill, at his age not improbable, he would not + see her. From this it was but a step to realisation that he would + be cut off, too, when his son and June returned from Spain. How + could he justify desire for the company of one who had + stolen—early morning does not mince words—June’s lover? That + lover was dead; but June was a stubborn little thing; + warm-hearted, but stubborn as wood, and—quite true—not one who + forgot! By the middle of next month they would be back. He had + barely five weeks left to enjoy the new interest which had come + into what remained of his life. Darkness showed up to him + absurdly clear the nature of his feeling. Admiration for beauty—a + craving to see that which delighted his eyes. + + Preposterous, at his age! And yet—what other reason was there for + asking June to undergo such painful reminder, and how prevent his + son and his son’s wife from thinking him very queer? He would be + reduced to sneaking up to London, which tired him; and the least + indisposition would cut him off even from that. He lay with eyes + open, setting his jaw against the prospect, and calling himself + an old fool, while his heart beat loudly, and then seemed to stop + beating altogether. He had seen the dawn lighting the window + chinks, heard the birds chirp and twitter, and the cocks crow, + before he fell asleep again, and awoke tired but sane. Five weeks + before he need bother, at his age an eternity! But that early + morning panic had left its mark, had slightly fevered the will of + one who had always had his own way. He would see her as often as + he wished! Why not go up to town and make that codicil at his + solicitor’s instead of writing about it; she might like to go to + the opera! But, by train, for he would not have that fat chap + Beacon grinning behind his back. Servants were such fools; and, + as likely as not, they had known all the past history of Irene + and young Bosinney—servants knew everything, and suspected the + rest. He wrote to her that morning: + + “MY DEAR IRENE,—I have to be up in town to-morrow. If you would + like to have a look in at the opera, come and dine with me + quietly ....” + But where? It was decades since he had dined anywhere in + London save at his Club or at a private house. Ah! that + new-fangled place close to Covent Garden.... + “Let me have a line to-morrow morning to the Piedmont Hotel + whether to expect you there at 7 o’clock. + + “Yours affectionately, + “JOLYON FORSYTE.” + + She would understand that he just wanted to give her a little + pleasure; for the idea that she should guess he had this itch to + see her was instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly + that one so old should go out of his way to see beauty, + especially in a woman. + + The journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his + lawyer’s, tired him. It was hot too, and after dressing for + dinner he lay down on the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. + He must have had a sort of fainting fit, for he came to himself + feeling very queer; and with some difficulty rose and rang the + bell. Why! it was past seven! And there he was and she would be + waiting. But suddenly the dizziness came on again, and he was + obliged to relapse on the sofa. He heard the maid’s voice say: + + “Did you ring, sir?” + + “Yes, come here”; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in + front of his eyes. “I’m not well, I want some sal volatile.” + + “Yes, sir.” Her voice sounded frightened. + + Old Jolyon made an effort. + + “Don’t go. Take this message to my niece—a lady waiting in the + hall—a lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not well—the heat. He is + very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait + dinner.” + + When she was gone, he thought feebly: “Why did I say a lady in + grey—she may be in anything. Sal volatile!” He did not go off + again, yet was not conscious of how Irene came to be standing + beside him, holding smelling salts to his nose, and pushing a + pillow up behind his head. He heard her say anxiously: “Dear + Uncle Jolyon, what is it?” was dimly conscious of the soft + pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of + smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and + sneezed. + + “Ha!” he said, “it’s nothing. How did you get here? Go down and + dine—the tickets are on the dressing-table. I shall be all right + in a minute.” + + He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat + divided between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all + right. + + “Why! You _are_ in grey!” he said. “Help me up.” Once on his feet + he gave himself a shake. + + “What business had I to go off like that!” And he moved very + slowly to the glass. What a cadaverous chap! Her voice, behind + him, murmured: + + “You mustn’t come down, Uncle; you must rest.” + + “Fiddlesticks! A glass of champagne’ll soon set me to rights. I + can’t have you missing the opera.” + + But the journey down the corridor was troublesome. What carpets + they had in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up + in them at every step! In the lift he noticed how concerned she + looked, and said with the ghost of a twinkle: + + “I’m a pretty host.” + + When the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to + prevent its slipping under him; but after soup and a glass of + champagne he felt much better, and began to enjoy an infirmity + which had brought such solicitude into her manner towards him. + + “I should have liked you for a daughter,” he said suddenly; and + watching the smile in her eyes, went on: + + “You mustn’t get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; + plenty of that when you get to my age. That’s a nice dress—I like + the style.” + + “I made it myself.” + + Ah! A woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost + her interest in life. + + “Make hay while the sun shines,” he said; “and drink that up. I + want to see some colour in your cheeks. We mustn’t waste life; it + doesn’t do. There’s a new Marguerite to-night; let’s hope she + won’t be fat. And Mephisto—anything more dreadful than a fat chap + playing the Devil I can’t imagine.” + + But they did not go to the opera after all, for in getting up + from dinner the dizziness came over him again, and she insisted + on his staying quiet and going to bed early. When he parted from + her at the door of the hotel, having paid the cabman to drive her + to Chelsea, he sat down again for a moment to enjoy the memory of + her words: “You _are_ such a darling to me, Uncle Jolyon!” Why! + Who wouldn’t be! He would have liked to stay up another day and + take her to the Zoo, but two days running of him would bore her + to death. No, he must wait till next Sunday; she had promised to + come then. They would settle those lessons for Holly, if only for + a month. It would be something. That little Mam’zelle Beauce + wouldn’t like it, but she would have to lump it. And crushing his + old opera hat against his chest he sought the lift. + + He drove to Waterloo next morning, struggling with a desire to + say: “Drive me to Chelsea.” But his sense of proportion was too + strong. Besides, he still felt shaky, and did not want to risk + another aberration like that of last night, away from home. + Holly, too, was expecting him, and what he had in his bag for + her. Not that there was any cupboard love in his little sweet—she + was a bundle of affection. Then, with the rather bitter cynicism + of the old, he wondered for a second whether it was not cupboard + love which made Irene put up with him. No, she was not that sort + either. She had, if anything, too little notion of how to butter + her bread, no sense of property, poor thing! Besides, he had not + breathed a word about that codicil, nor should he—sufficient unto + the day was the good thereof. + + In the victoria which met him at the station Holly was + restraining the dog Balthasar, and their caresses made “jubey” + his drive home. All the rest of that fine hot day and most of the + next he was content and peaceful, reposing in the shade, while + the long lingering sunshine showered gold on the lawns and the + flowers. But on Thursday evening at his lonely dinner he began to + count the hours; sixty-five till he would go down to meet her + again in the little coppice, and walk up through the fields at + her side. He had intended to consult the doctor about his + fainting fit, but the fellow would be sure to insist on quiet, no + excitement and all that; and he did not mean to be tied by the + leg, did not want to be told of an infirmity—if there were one, + could not afford to hear of it at his time of life, now that this + new interest had come. And he carefully avoided making any + mention of it in a letter to his son. It would only bring them + back with a run! How far this silence was due to consideration + for their pleasure, how far to regard for his own, he did not + pause to consider. + + That night in his study he had just finished his cigar and was + dozing off, when he heard the rustle of a gown, and was conscious + of a scent of violets. Opening his eyes he saw her, dressed in + grey, standing by the fireplace, holding out her arms. The odd + thing was that, though those arms seemed to hold nothing, they + were curved as if round someone’s neck, and her own neck was bent + back, her lips open, her eyes closed. She vanished at once, and + there were the mantelpiece and his bronzes. But those bronzes and + the mantelpiece had not been there when she was, only the + fireplace and the wall! Shaken and troubled, he got up. “I must + take medicine,” he thought; “I can’t be well.” His heart beat too + fast, he had an asthmatic feeling in the chest; and going to the + window, he opened it to get some air. A dog was barking far away, + one of the dogs at Gage’s farm no doubt, beyond the coppice. A + beautiful still night, but dark. “I dropped off,” he mused, + “that’s it! And yet I’ll swear my eyes were open!” A sound like a + sigh seemed to answer. + + “What’s that?” he said sharply, “who’s there?” + + Putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, + he stepped out on the terrace. Something soft scurried by in the + dark. “Shoo!” It was that great grey cat. “Young Bosinney was + like a great cat!” he thought. “It was him in there, that + she—that she was—He’s got her still!” He walked to the edge of + the terrace, and looked down into the darkness; he could just see + the powdering of the daisies on the unmown lawn. Here to-day and + gone to-morrow! And there came the moon, who saw all, young and + old, alive and dead, and didn’t care a dump! His own turn soon. + For a single day of youth he would give what was left! And he + turned again towards the house. He could see the windows of the + night nursery up there. His little sweet would be asleep. “Hope + that dog won’t wake her!” he thought. “What is it makes us love, + and makes us die! I must go to bed.” + + And across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he + passed back within. + + + + + V + + + How should an old man live his days if not in dreaming of his + well-spent past? In that, at all events, there is no agitating + warmth, only pale winter sunshine. The shell can withstand the + gentle beating of the dynamos of memory. The present he should + distrust; the future shun. From beneath thick shade he should + watch the sunlight creeping at his toes. If there be sun of + summer, let him not go out into it, mistaking it for the + Indian-summer sun! Thus peradventure he shall decline softly, + slowly, imperceptibly, until impatient Nature clutches his + wind-pipe and he gasps away to death some early morning before + the world is aired, and they put on his tombstone: “In the + fulness of years!” Yea! If he preserve his principles in perfect + order, a Forsyte may live on long after he is dead. + + Old Jolyon was conscious of all this, and yet there was in him + that which transcended Forsyteism. For it is written that a + Forsyte shall not love beauty more than reason; nor his own way + more than his own health. And something beat within him in these + days that with each throb fretted at the thinning shell. His + sagacity knew this, but it knew too that he could not stop that + beating, nor would if he could. And yet, if you had told him he + was living on his capital, he would have stared you down. No, no; + a man did not live on his capital; it was not done! The + shibboleths of the past are ever more real than the actualities + of the present. And he, to whom living on one’s capital had + always been anathema, could not have borne to have applied so + gross a phrase to his own case. Pleasure is healthful; beauty + good to see; to live again in the youth of the young—and what + else on earth was he doing! + + Methodically, as had been the way of his whole life, he now + arranged his time. On Tuesdays he journeyed up to town by train; + Irene came and dined with him. And they went to the opera. On + Thursdays he drove to town, and, putting that fat chap and his + horses up, met her in Kensington Gardens, picking up the carriage + after he had left her, and driving home again in time for dinner. + He threw out the casual formula that he had business in London on + those two days. On Wednesdays and Saturdays she came down to give + Holly music lessons. The greater the pleasure he took in her + society, the more scrupulously fastidious he became, just a + matter-of-fact and friendly uncle. Not even in feeling, really, + was he more—for, after all, there was his age. And yet, if she + were late he fidgeted himself to death. If she missed coming, + which happened twice, his eyes grew sad as an old dog’s, and he + failed to sleep. + + And so a month went by—a month of summer in the fields, and in + his heart, with summer’s heat and the fatigue thereof. Who could + have believed a few weeks back that he would have looked forward + to his son’s and his grand-daughter’s return with something like + dread! There was such a delicious freedom, such recovery of that + independence a man enjoys before he founds a family, about these + weeks of lovely weather, and this new companionship with one who + demanded nothing, and remained always a little unknown, retaining + the fascination of mystery. It was like a draught of wine to him + who has been drinking water for so long that he has almost + forgotten the stir wine brings to his blood, the narcotic to his + brain. The flowers were coloured brighter, scents and music and + the sunlight had a living value—were no longer mere reminders of + past enjoyment. There was something now to live for which stirred + him continually to anticipation. He lived in that, not in + retrospection; the difference is considerable to any so old as + he. The pleasures of the table, never of much consequence to one + naturally abstemious, had lost all value. He ate little, without + knowing what he ate; and every day grew thinner and more worn to + look at. He was again a “threadpaper”. and to this thinned form + his massive forehead, with hollows at the temples, gave more + dignity than ever. He was very well aware that he ought to see + the doctor, but liberty was too sweet. He could not afford to pet + his frequent shortness of breath and the pain in his side at the + expense of liberty. Return to the vegetable existence he had led + among the agricultural journals with the life-size mangold + wurzels, before this new attraction came into his life—no! He + exceeded his allowance of cigars. Two a day had always been his + rule. Now he smoked three and sometimes four—a man will when he + is filled with the creative spirit. But very often he thought: “I + must give up smoking, and coffee; I must give up rattling up to + town.” But he did not; there was no one in any sort of authority + to notice him, and this was a priceless boon. The servants + perhaps wondered, but they were, naturally, dumb. Mam’zelle + Beauce was too concerned with her own digestion, and too + “well-brrred” to make personal allusions. Holly had not as yet an + eye for the relative appearance of him who was her plaything and + her god. It was left for Irene herself to beg him to eat more, to + rest in the hot part of the day, to take a tonic, and so forth. + But she did not tell him that she was the cause of his + thinness—for one cannot see the havoc oneself is working. A man + of eighty-five has no passions, but the Beauty which produces + passion works on in the old way, till death closes the eyes which + crave the sight of Her. + + On the first day of the second week in July he received a letter + from his son in Paris to say that they would all be back on + Friday. This had always been more sure than Fate; but, with the + pathetic improvidence given to the old, that they may endure to + the end, he had never quite admitted it. Now he did, and + something would have to be done. He had ceased to be able to + imagine life without this new interest, but that which is not + imagined sometimes exists, as Forsytes are perpetually finding to + their cost. He sat in his old leather chair, doubling up the + letter, and mumbling with his lips the end of an unlighted cigar. + After to-morrow his Tuesday expeditions to town would have to be + abandoned. He could still drive up, perhaps, once a week, on the + pretext of seeing his man of business. But even that would be + dependent on his health, for now they would begin to fuss about + him. The lessons! The lessons must go on! She must swallow down + her scruples, and June must put her feelings in her pocket. She + had done so once, on the day after the news of Bosinney’s death; + what she had done then, she could surely do again now. Four years + since that injury was inflicted on her—not Christian to keep the + memory of old sores alive. June’s will was strong, but his was + stronger, for his sands were running out. Irene was soft, surely + she would do this for him, subdue her natural shrinking, sooner + than give him pain! The lessons must continue; for if they did, + he was secure. And lighting his cigar at last, he began trying to + shape out how to put it to them all, and explain this strange + intimacy; how to veil and wrap it away from the naked truth—that + he could not bear to be deprived of the sight of beauty. Ah! + Holly! Holly was fond of her, Holly liked her lessons. She would + save him—his little sweet! And with that happy thought he became + serene, and wondered what he had been worrying about so + fearfully. He must not worry, it left him always curiously weak, + and as if but half present in his own body. + + That evening after dinner he had a return of the dizziness, + though he did not faint. He would not ring the bell, because he + knew it would mean a fuss, and make his going up on the morrow + more conspicuous. When one grew old, the whole world was in + conspiracy to limit freedom, and for what reason?—just to keep + the breath in him a little longer. He did not want it at such + cost. Only the dog Balthasar saw his lonely recovery from that + weakness; anxiously watched his master go to the sideboard and + drink some brandy, instead of giving him a biscuit. When at last + old Jolyon felt able to tackle the stairs he went up to bed. And, + though still shaky next morning, the thought of the evening + sustained and strengthened him. It was always such a pleasure to + give her a good dinner—he suspected her of undereating when she + was alone; and, at the opera to watch her eyes glow and brighten, + the unconscious smiling of her lips. She hadn’t much pleasure, + and this was the last time he would be able to give her that + treat. But when he was packing his bag he caught himself wishing + that he had not the fatigue of dressing for dinner before him, + and the exertion, too, of telling her about June’s return. + + The opera that evening was “Carmen,” and he chose the last + _entr’acte_ to break the news, instinctively putting it off till + the latest moment. + + She took it quietly, queerly; in fact, he did not know how she + had taken it before the wayward music lifted up again and silence + became necessary. The mask was down over her face, that mask + behind which so much went on that he could not see. She wanted + time to think it over, no doubt! He would not press her, for she + would be coming to give her lesson to-morrow afternoon, and he + should see her then when she had got used to the idea. In the cab + he talked only of the Carmen; he had seen better in the old days, + but this one was not bad at all. When he took her hand to say + good-night, she bent quickly forward and kissed his forehead. + + “Good-bye, dear Uncle Jolyon, you have been so sweet to me.” + + “To-morrow then,” he said. “Good-night. Sleep well.” She echoed + softly: “Sleep well” and from the cab window, already moving + away, he saw her face screwed round towards him, and her hand put + out in a gesture which seemed to linger. + + He sought his room slowly. They never gave him the same, and he + could not get used to these “spick-and-spandy” bedrooms with new + furniture and grey-green carpets sprinkled all over with pink + roses. He was wakeful and that wretched Habanera kept throbbing + in his head. + + His French had never been equal to its words, but its sense he + knew, if it had any sense, a gipsy thing—wild and unaccountable. + Well, there _was_ in life something which upset all your care and + plans—something which made men and women dance to its pipes. And + he lay staring from deep-sunk eyes into the darkness where the + unaccountable held sway. You thought you had hold of life, but it + slipped away behind you, took you by the scruff of the neck, + forced you here and forced you there, and then, likely as not, + squeezed life out of you! It took the very stars like that, he + shouldn’t wonder, rubbed their noses together and flung them + apart; it had never done playing its pranks. Five million people + in this great blunderbuss of a town, and all of them at the mercy + of that Life-Force, like a lot of little dried peas hopping about + on a board when you struck your fist on it. Ah, well! Himself + would not hop much longer—a good long sleep would do him good! + + How hot it was up here!—how noisy! His forehead burned; she had + kissed it just where he always worried; just there—as if she had + known the very place and wanted to kiss it all away for him. But, + instead, her lips left a patch of grievous uneasiness. She had + never spoken in quite that voice, had never before made that + lingering gesture or looked back at him as she drove away. + + He got out of bed and pulled the curtains aside; his room faced + down over the river. There was little air, but the sight of that + breadth of water flowing by, calm, eternal, soothed him. “The + great thing,” he thought “is not to make myself a nuisance. I’ll + think of my little sweet, and go to sleep.” But it was long + before the heat and throbbing of the London night died out into + the short slumber of the summer morning. And old Jolyon had but + forty winks. + + When he reached home next day he went out to the flower garden, + and with the help of Holly, who was very delicate with flowers, + gathered a great bunch of carnations. They were, he told her, for + “the lady in grey”—a name still bandied between them; and he put + them in a bowl in his study where he meant to tackle Irene the + moment she came, on the subject of June and future lessons. Their + fragrance and colour would help. After lunch he lay down, for he + felt very tired, and the carriage would not bring her from the + station till four o’clock. But as the hour approached he grew + restless, and sought the schoolroom, which overlooked the drive. + The sun-blinds were down, and Holly was there with Mademoiselle + Beauce, sheltered from the heat of a stifling July day, attending + to their silkworms. Old Jolyon had a natural antipathy to these + methodical creatures, whose heads and colour reminded him of + elephants; who nibbled such quantities of holes in nice green + leaves; and smelled, as he thought, horrid. He sat down on a + chintz-covered windowseat whence he could see the drive, and get + what air there was; and the dog Balthasar who appreciated chintz + on hot days, jumped up beside him. Over the cottage piano a + violet dust-sheet, faded almost to grey, was spread, and on it + the first lavender, whose scent filled the room. In spite of the + coolness here, perhaps because of that coolness the beat of life + vehemently impressed his ebbed-down senses. Each sunbeam which + came through the chinks had annoying brilliance; that dog smelled + very strong; the lavender perfume was overpowering; those + silkworms heaving up their grey-green backs seemed horribly + alive; and Holly’s dark head bent over them had a wonderfully + silky sheen. A marvellous cruelly strong thing was life when you + were old and weak; it seemed to mock you with its multitude of + forms and its beating vitality. He had never, till those last few + weeks, had this curious feeling of being with one half of him + eagerly borne along in the stream of life, and with the other + half left on the bank, watching that helpless progress. Only when + Irene was with him did he lose this double consciousness. + + Holly turned her head, pointed with her little brown fist to the + piano—for to point with a finger was not “well-brrred”—and said + slyly: + + “Look at the ‘lady in grey,’ Gran; isn’t she pretty to-day?” + + Old Jolyon’s heart gave a flutter, and for a second the room was + clouded; then it cleared, and he said with a twinkle: + + “Who’s been dressing her up?” + + “Mam’zelle.” + + “Hollee! Don’t be foolish!” + + That prim little Frenchwoman! She hadn’t yet got over the music + lessons being taken away from her. That wouldn’t help. His little + sweet was the only friend they had. Well, they were her lessons. + And he shouldn’t budge shouldn’t budge for anything. He stroked + the warm wool on Balthasar’s head, and heard Holly say: “When + mother’s home, there won’t be any changes, will there? She + doesn’t like strangers, you know.” + + The child’s words seemed to bring the chilly atmosphere of + opposition about old Jolyon, and disclose all the menace to his + new-found freedom. Ah! He would have to resign himself to being + an old man at the mercy of care and love, or fight to keep this + new and prized companionship; and to fight tired him to death. + But his thin, worn face hardened into resolution till it appeared + all Jaw. This was his house, and his affair; he should not budge! + He looked at his watch, old and thin like himself; he had owned + it fifty years. Past four already! And kissing the top of Holly’s + head in passing, he went down to the hall. He wanted to get hold + of her before she went up to give her lesson. At the first sound + of wheels he stepped out into the porch, and saw at once that the + victoria was empty. + + “The train’s in, sir; but the lady ’asn’t come.” + + Old Jolyon gave him a sharp upward look, his eyes seemed to push + away that fat chap’s curiosity, and defy him to see the bitter + disappointment he was feeling. + + “Very well,” he said, and turned back into the house. He went to + his study and sat down, quivering like a leaf. What did this + mean? She might have lost her train, but he knew well enough she + hadn’t. “Good-bye, dear Uncle Jolyon.” Why “Good-bye” and not + “Good-night”. And that hand of hers lingering in the air. And her + kiss. What did it mean? Vehement alarm and irritation took + possession of him. He got up and began to pace the Turkey carpet, + between window and wall. She was going to give him up! He felt it + for certain—and he defenceless. An old man wanting to look on + beauty! It was ridiculous! Age closed his mouth, paralysed his + power to fight. He had no right to what was warm and living, no + right to anything but memories and sorrow. He could not plead + with her; even an old man has his dignity. Defenceless! For an + hour, lost to bodily fatigue, he paced up and down, past the bowl + of carnations he had plucked, which mocked him with its scent. Of + all things hard to bear, the prostration of will-power is + hardest, for one who has always had his way. Nature had got him + in its net, and like an unhappy fish he turned and swam at the + meshes, here and there, found no hole, no breaking point. They + brought him tea at five o’clock, and a letter. For a moment hope + beat up in him. He cut the envelope with the butter knife, and + read: + + “DEAREST UNCLE JOLYON,—I can’t bear to write anything that may + disappoint you, but I was too cowardly to tell you last night. I + feel I can’t come down and give Holly any more lessons, now that + June is coming back. Some things go too deep to be forgotten. It + has been such a joy to see you and Holly. Perhaps I shall still + see you sometimes when you come up, though I’m sure it’s not good + for you; I can see you are tiring yourself too much. I believe + you ought to rest quite quietly all this hot weather, and now you + have your son and June coming back you will be so happy. Thank + you a million times for all your sweetness to me. + + “Lovingly your + IRENE.” + + So, there it was! Not good for him to have pleasure and what he + chiefly cared about; to try and put off feeling the inevitable + end of all things, the approach of death with its stealthy, + rustling footsteps. Not good for him! Not even she could see how + she was his new lease of interest in life, the incarnation of all + the beauty he felt slipping from him. + + His tea grew cold, his cigar remained unlit; and up and down he + paced, torn between his dignity and his hold on life. Intolerable + to be squeezed out slowly, without a say of your own, to live on + when your will was in the hands of others bent on weighing you to + the ground with care and love. Intolerable! He would see what + telling her the truth would do—the truth that he wanted the sight + of her more than just a lingering on. He sat down at his old + bureau and took a pen. But he could not write. There was + something revolting in having to plead like this; plead that she + should warm his eyes with her beauty. It was tantamount to + confessing dotage. He simply could not. And instead, he wrote: + + “I had hoped that the memory of old sores would not be allowed to + stand in the way of what is a pleasure and a profit to me and my + little grand-daughter. But old men learn to forego their whims; + they are obliged to, even the whim to live must be foregone + sooner or later; and perhaps the sooner the better. + + “My love to you, + “JOLYON FORSYTE.” + + “Bitter,” he thought, “but I can’t help it. I’m tired.” He sealed + and dropped it into the box for the evening post, and hearing it + fall to the bottom, thought: “There goes all I’ve looked forward + to!” + + That evening after dinner which he scarcely touched, after his + cigar which he left half-smoked for it made him feel faint, he + went very slowly upstairs and stole into the night-nursery. He + sat down on the window-seat. A night-light was burning, and he + could just see Holly’s face, with one hand underneath the cheek. + An early cockchafer buzzed in the Japanese paper with which they + had filled the grate, and one of the horses in the stable stamped + restlessly. To sleep like that child! He pressed apart two rungs + of the venetian blind and looked out. The moon was rising, + blood-red. He had never seen so red a moon. The woods and fields + out there were dropping to sleep too, in the last glimmer of the + summer light. And beauty, like a spirit, walked. “I’ve had a long + life,” he thought, “the best of nearly everything. I’m an + ungrateful chap; I’ve seen a lot of beauty in my time. Poor young + Bosinney said I had a sense of beauty. There’s a man in the moon + to-night!” A moth went by, another, another. “Ladies in grey!” He + closed his eyes. A feeling that he would never open them again + beset him; he let it grow, let himself sink; then, with a shiver, + dragged the lids up. There was something wrong with him, no + doubt, deeply wrong; he would have to have the doctor after all. + It didn’t much matter now! Into that coppice the moonlight would + have crept; there would be shadows, and those shadows would be + the only things awake. No birds, beasts, flowers, insects; Just + the shadows —moving; “Ladies in grey!” Over that log they would + climb; would whisper together. She and Bosinney! Funny thought! + And the frogs and little things would whisper too! How the clock + ticked, in here! It was all eerie—out there in the light of that + red moon; in here with the little steady night-light and, the + ticking clock and the nurse’s dressing-gown hanging from the edge + of the screen, tall, like a woman’s figure. “Lady in grey!” And a + very odd thought beset him: Did she exist? Had she ever come at + all? Or was she but the emanation of all the beauty he had loved + and must leave so soon? The violet-grey spirit with the dark eyes + and the crown of amber hair, who walks the dawn and the + moonlight, and at blue-bell time? What was she, who was she, did + she exist? He rose and stood a moment clutching the window-sill, + to give him a sense of reality again; then began tiptoeing + towards the door. He stopped at the foot of the bed; and Holly, + as if conscious of his eyes fixed on her, stirred, sighed, and + curled up closer in defence. He tiptoed on and passed out into + the dark passage; reached his room, undressed at once, and stood + before a mirror in his night-shirt. What a scarecrow—with temples + fallen in, and thin legs! His eyes resisted his own image, and a + look of pride came on his face. All was in league to pull him + down, even his reflection in the glass, but he was not down—yet! + He got into bed, and lay a long time without sleeping, trying to + reach resignation, only too well aware that fretting and + disappointment were very bad for him. + + He woke in the morning so unrefreshed and strengthless that he + sent for the doctor. After sounding him, the fellow pulled a face + as long as your arm, and ordered him to stay in bed and give up + smoking. That was no hardship; there was nothing to get up for, + and when he felt ill, tobacco always lost its savour. He spent + the morning languidly with the sun-blinds down, turning and + re-turning _The Times_, not reading much, the dog Balthasar lying + beside his bed. With his lunch they brought him a telegram, + running thus: + + “Your letter received coming down this afternoon will be with you + at four-thirty. Irene.” + + Coming down! After all! Then she did exist—and he was not + deserted. Coming down! A glow ran through his limbs; his cheeks + and forehead felt hot. He drank his soup, and pushed the + tray-table away, lying very quiet until they had removed lunch + and left him alone; but every now and then his eyes twinkled. + Coming down! His heart beat fast, and then did not seem to beat + at all. At three o’clock he got up and dressed deliberately, + noiselessly. Holly and Mam’zelle would be in the schoolroom, and + the servants asleep after their dinner, he shouldn’t wonder. He + opened his door cautiously, and went downstairs. In the hall the + dog Balthasar lay solitary, and, followed by him, old Jolyon + passed into his study and out into the burning afternoon. He + meant to go down and meet her in the coppice, but felt at once he + could not manage that in this heat. He sat down instead under the + oak tree by the swing, and the dog Balthasar, who also felt the + heat, lay down beside him. He sat there smiling. What a revel of + bright minutes! What a hum of insects, and cooing of pigeons! It + was the quintessence of a summer day. Lovely! And he was + happy—happy as a sand-boy, whatever that might be. She was + coming; she had not given him up! He had everything in life he + wanted—except a little more breath, and less weight—just here! He + would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come swaying + just a little, a violet-grey figure passing over the daisies and + dandelions and “soldiers” on the lawn—the soldiers with their + flowery crowns. He would not move, but she would come up to him + and say: “Dear Uncle Jolyon, I am sorry!” and sit in the swing + and let him look at her and tell her that he had not been very + well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her hand. + That dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a good + dog. + + It was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, + only make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the + Grand Stand at Epsom away out there, very far, and the cows + cropping the clover in the field and swishing at the flies with + their tails. He smelled the scent of limes, and lavender. Ah! + that was why there was such a racket of bees. They were + excited—busy, as his heart was busy and excited. Drowsy, too, + drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was + drugged and drowsy. Summer—summer—they seemed saying; great bees + and little bees, and the flies too! + + The stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here. + He would have just one tiny nap, because he had had so little + sleep of late; and then he would be fresh for her, fresh for + youth and beauty, coming towards him across the sunlit lawn—lady + in grey! And settling back in his chair he closed his eyes. Some + thistle-down came on what little air there was, and pitched on + his moustache more white than itself. He did not know; but his + breathing stirred it, caught there. A ray of sunlight struck + through and lodged on his boot. A bumble-bee alighted and + strolled on the crown of his Panama hat. And the delicious surge + of slumber reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head + swayed forward and rested on his breast. Summer—summer! So went + the hum. + + The stable clock struck the quarter past. The dog Balthasar + stretched and looked up at his master. The thistledown no longer + moved. The dog placed his chin over the sunlit foot. It did not + stir. The dog withdrew his chin quickly, rose, and leaped on old + Jolyon’s lap, looked in his face, whined; then, leaping down, sat + on his haunches, gazing up. And suddenly he uttered a long, long + howl. + + But the thistledown was still as death, and the face of his old + master. + + Summer—summer—summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass! 1917 + + + + + IN CHANCERY + + Two households both alike in dignity, + From ancient grudge, break into new mutiny. + —_Romeo and Juliet_ + + TO JESSIE AND JOSEPH CONRAD + + + + + PART 1 + + CHAPTER I AT TIMOTHY’S + + + The possessive instinct never stands still. Through florescence + and feud, frosts and fires, it followed the laws of progression + even in the Forsyte family which had believed it fixed for ever. + Nor can it be dissociated from environment any more than the + quality of potato from the soil. + + The historian of the English eighties and nineties will, in his + good time, depict the somewhat rapid progression from + self-contented and contained provincialism to still more + self-contented if less contained imperialism—in other words, the + “possessive” instinct of the nation on the move. And so, as if in + conformity, was it with the Forsyte family. They were spreading + not merely on the surface, but within. + + When, in 1895, Susan Hayman, the married Forsyte sister, followed + her husband at the ludicrously low age of seventy-four, and was + cremated, it made strangely little stir among the six old + Forsytes left. For this apathy there were three causes. First: + the almost surreptitious burial of old Jolyon in 1892 down at + Robin Hill—first of the Forsytes to desert the family grave at + Highgate. That burial, coming a year after Swithin’s entirely + proper funeral, had occasioned a great deal of talk on Forsyte + ’Change, the abode of Timothy Forsyte on the Bayswater Road, + London, which still collected and radiated family gossip. + Opinions ranged from the lamentation of Aunt Juley to the + outspoken assertion of Francie that it was “a jolly good thing to + stop all that stuffy Highgate business.” Uncle Jolyon in his + later years—indeed, ever since the strange and lamentable affair + between his granddaughter June’s lover, young Bosinney, and + Irene, his nephew Soames Forsyte’s wife—had noticeably rapped the + family’s knuckles; and that way of his own which he had always + taken had begun to seem to them a little wayward. The philosophic + vein in him, of course, had always been too liable to crop out of + the strata of pure Forsyteism, so they were in a way prepared for + his interment in a strange spot. But the whole thing was an odd + business, and when the contents of his Will became current coin + on Forsyte ’Change, a shiver had gone round the clan. Out of his + estate (£145,304 gross, with liabilities £35 7s. 4d.) he had + actually left £15,000 to “whomever do you think, my dear? To + _Irene!_” that runaway wife of his nephew Soames; Irene, a woman + who had almost disgraced the family, and—still more amazing was + to him no blood relation. Not out and out, of course; only a life + interest—only the income from it! Still, there it was; and old + Jolyon’s claim to be the perfect Forsyte was ended once for all. + That, then, was the first reason why the burial of Susan + Hayman—at Woking—made little stir. + + The second reason was altogether more expansive and imperial. + Besides the house on Campden Hill, Susan had a place (left her by + Hayman when he died) just over the border in Hants, where the + Hayman boys had learned to be such good shots and riders, as it + was believed, which was of course nice for them, and creditable + to everybody; and the fact of owning something really countrified + seemed somehow to excuse the dispersion of her remains—though + what could have put cremation into her head they could not think! + The usual invitations, however, had been issued, and Soames had + gone down and young Nicholas, and the Will had been quite + satisfactory so far as it went, for she had only had a life + interest; and everything had gone quite smoothly to the children + in equal shares. + + The third reason why Susan’s burial made little stir was the most + expansive of all. It was summed up daringly by Euphemia, the + pale, the thin: “Well, _I_ think people have a right to their own + bodies, even when they’re dead.” Coming from a daughter of + Nicholas, a Liberal of the old school and most tyrannical, it was + a startling remark—showing in a flash what a lot of water had run + under bridges since the death of Aunt Ann in ’86, just when the + proprietorship of Soames over his wife’s body was acquiring the + uncertainty which had led to such disaster. Euphemia, of course, + spoke like a child, and had no experience; for though well over + thirty by now, her name was still Forsyte. But, making all + allowances, her remark did undoubtedly show expansion of the + principle of liberty, decentralisation and shift in the central + point of possession from others to oneself. When Nicholas heard + his daughter’s remark from Aunt Hester he had rapped out: “Wives + and daughters! There’s no end to their liberty in these days. I + knew that ‘Jackson’ case would lead to things—lugging in Habeas + Corpus like that!” He had, of course, never really forgiven the + Married Woman’s Property Act, which would so have interfered with + him if he had not mercifully married before it was passed. But, + in truth, there was no denying the revolt among the younger + Forsytes against being owned by others; that, as it were, + Colonial disposition to own oneself, which is the paradoxical + forerunner of Imperialism, was making progress all the time. They + were all now married, except George, confirmed to the Turf and + the Iseeum Club; Francie, pursuing her musical career in a studio + off the King’s Road, Chelsea, and still taking “lovers” to + dances; Euphemia, living at home and complaining of Nicholas; and + those two Dromios, Giles and Jesse Hayman. Of the third + generation there were not very many—young Jolyon had three, + Winifred Dartie four, young Nicholas six already, young Roger had + one, Marian Tweetyman one; St. John Hayman two. But the rest of + the sixteen married—Soames, Rachel and Cicely of James’ family; + Eustace and Thomas of Roger’s; Ernest, Archibald and Florence of + Nicholas’. Augustus and Annabel Spender of the Hayman’s—were + going down the years unreproduced. + + Thus, of the ten old Forsytes twenty-one young Forsytes had been + born; but of the twenty-one young Forsytes there were as yet only + seventeen descendants; and it already seemed unlikely that there + would be more than a further unconsidered trifle or so. A student + of statistics must have noticed that the birth rate had varied in + accordance with the rate of interest for your money. Grandfather + “Superior Dosset” Forsyte in the early nineteenth century had + been getting ten per cent. for his, hence ten children. Those + ten, leaving out the four who had not married, and Juley, whose + husband Septimus Small had, of course, died almost at once, had + averaged from four to five per cent. for theirs, and produced + accordingly. The twenty-one whom they produced were now getting + barely three per cent. in the Consols to which their father had + mostly tied the Settlements they made to avoid death duties, and + the six of them who had been reproduced had seventeen children, + or just the proper two and five-sixths per stem. + + There were other reasons, too, for this mild reproduction. A + distrust of their earning powers, natural where a sufficiency is + guaranteed, together with the knowledge that their fathers did + not die, kept them cautious. If one had children and not much + income, the standard of taste and comfort must of necessity go + down; what was enough for two was not enough for four, and so + on—it would be better to wait and see what Father did. Besides, + it was nice to be able to take holidays unhampered. Sooner in + fact than own children, they preferred to concentrate on the + ownership of themselves, conforming to the growing tendency _fin + de siècle_, as it was called. In this way, little risk was run, + and one would be able to have a motor-car. Indeed, Eustace + already had one, but it had shaken him horribly, and broken one + of his eye teeth; so that it would be better to wait till they + were a little safer. In the meantime, no more children! Even + young Nicholas was drawing in his horns, and had made no addition + to his six for quite three years. + + The corporate decay, however, of the Forsytes, their dispersion + rather, of which all this was symptomatic, had not advanced so + far as to prevent a rally when Roger Forsyte died in 1899. It had + been a glorious summer, and after holidays abroad and at the sea + they were practically all back in London, when Roger with a touch + of his old originality had suddenly breathed his last at his own + house in Princes Gardens. At Timothy’s it was whispered sadly + that poor Roger had always been eccentric about his digestion—had + he not, for instance, preferred German mutton to all the other + brands? + + Be that as it may, his funeral at Highgate had been perfect, and + coming away from it Soames Forsyte made almost mechanically for + his Uncle Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road. The “Old Things”—Aunt + Juley and Aunt Hester—would like to hear about it. His + father—James—at eighty-eight had not felt up to the fatigue of + the funeral; and Timothy himself, of course, had not gone; so + that Nicholas had been the only brother present. Still, there had + been a fair gathering; and it would cheer Aunts Juley and Hester + up to know. The kindly thought was not unmixed with the + inevitable longing to get something out of everything you do, + which is the chief characteristic of Forsytes, and indeed of the + saner elements in every nation. In this practice of taking family + matters to Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road, Soames was but + following in the footsteps of his father, who had been in the + habit of going at least once a week to see his sisters at + Timothy’s, and had only given it up when he lost his nerve at + eighty-six, and could not go out without Emily. To go with Emily + was of no use, for who could really talk to anyone in the + presence of his own wife? Like James in the old days, Soames + found time to go there nearly every Sunday, and sit in the little + drawing-room into which, with his undoubted taste, he had + introduced a good deal of change and china not quite up to his + own fastidious mark, and at least two rather doubtful Barbizon + pictures, at Christmastides. He himself, who had done extremely + well with the Barbizons, had for some years past moved towards + the Marises, Israels, and Mauve, and was hoping to do better. In + the riverside house which he now inhabited near Mapledurham he + had a gallery, beautifully hung and lighted, to which few London + dealers were strangers. It served, too, as a Sunday afternoon + attraction in those week-end parties which his sisters, Winifred + or Rachel, occasionally organised for him. For though he was but + a taciturn showman, his quiet collected determinism seldom failed + to influence his guests, who knew that his reputation was + grounded not on mere aesthetic fancy, but on his power of gauging + the future of market values. When he went to Timothy’s he almost + always had some little tale of triumph over a dealer to unfold, + and dearly he loved that coo of pride with which his aunts would + greet it. This afternoon, however, he was differently animated, + coming from Roger’s funeral in his neat dark clothes—not quite + black, for after all an uncle was but an uncle, and his soul + abhorred excessive display of feeling. Leaning back in a + marqueterie chair and gazing down his uplifted nose at the + sky-blue walls plastered with gold frames, he was noticeably + silent. Whether because he had been to a funeral or not, the + peculiar Forsyte build of his face was seen to the best advantage + this afternoon—a face concave and long, with a jaw which divested + of flesh would have seemed extravagant: altogether a chinny face + though not at all ill-looking. He was feeling more strongly than + ever that Timothy’s was hopelessly “rum-ti-too” and the souls of + his aunts dismally mid-Victorian. The subject on which alone he + wanted to talk—his own undivorced position—was unspeakable. And + yet it occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else. It was + only since the Spring that this had been so and a new feeling + grown up which was egging him on towards what he knew might well + be folly in a Forsyte of forty-five. More and more of late he had + been conscious that he was “getting on.” The fortune already + considerable when he conceived the house at Robin Hill which had + finally wrecked his marriage with Irene, had mounted with + surprising vigour in the twelve lonely years during which he had + devoted himself to little else. He was worth to-day well over a + hundred thousand pounds, and had no one to leave it to—no real + object for going on with what was his religion. Even if he were + to relax his efforts, money made money, and he felt that he would + have a hundred and fifty thousand before he knew where he was. + There had always been a strongly domestic, philoprogenitive side + to Soames; baulked and frustrated, it had hidden itself away, but + now had crept out again in this his “prime of life.” Concreted + and focussed of late by the attraction of a girl’s undoubted + beauty, it had become a veritable prepossession. + + And this girl was French, not likely to lose her head, or accept + any unlegalised position. Moreover, Soames himself disliked the + thought of that. He had tasted of the sordid side of sex during + those long years of forced celibacy, secretively, and always with + disgust, for he was fastidious, and his sense of law and order + innate. He wanted no hole and corner liaison. A marriage at the + Embassy in Paris, a few months’ travel, and he could bring + Annette back quite separated from a past which in truth was not + too distinguished, for she only kept the accounts in her mother’s + Soho Restaurant; he could bring her back as something very new + and chic with her French taste and self-possession, to reign at + “The Shelter” near Mapledurham. On Forsyte ’Change and among his + riverside friends it would be current that he had met a charming + French girl on his travels and married her. There would be the + flavour of romance, and a certain _cachet_ about a French wife. + No! He was not at all afraid of that. It was only this cursed + undivorced condition of his, and—and the question whether Annette + would take him, which he dared not put to the touch until he had + a clear and even dazzling future to offer her. + + In his aunts’ drawing-room he heard with but muffled ears those + usual questions: How was his dear father? Not going out, of + course, now that the weather was turning chilly? Would Soames be + sure to tell him that Hester had found boiled holly leaves most + comforting for that pain in her side; a poultice every three + hours, with red flannel afterwards. And could he relish just a + little pot of their very best prune preserve—it was so delicious + this year, and had such a wonderful effect. Oh! and about the + Darties—_had_ Soames heard that dear Winifred was having a most + distressing time with Montague? Timothy thought she really ought + to have protection It was said—but Soames mustn’t take this for + certain—that he had given some of Winifred’s jewellery to a + dreadful dancer. It was such a bad example for dear Val just as + he was going to college. Soames had not heard? Oh, but he must go + and see his sister and look into it at once! And did he think + these Boers were really going to resist? Timothy was in quite a + stew about it. The price of Consols was so high, and he had such + a lot of money in them. Did Soames think they must go down if + there was a war? Soames nodded. But it would be over very + quickly. It would be so bad for Timothy if it wasn’t. And of + course Soames’ dear father would feel it very much at his age. + Luckily poor dear Roger had been spared this dreadful anxiety. + And Aunt Juley with a little handkerchief wiped away the large + tear trying to climb the permanent pout on her now quite withered + left cheek; she was remembering dear Roger, and all his + originality, and how he used to stick pins into her when they + were little together. Aunt Hester, with her instinct for avoiding + the unpleasant, here chimed in: Did Soames think they would make + Mr. Chamberlain Prime Minister at once? He would settle it all so + quickly. She would like to see that old Kruger sent to St. + Helena. She could remember so well the news of Napoleon’s death, + and what a relief it had been to his grandfather. Of course she + and Juley—“We were in pantalettes then, my dear”—had not felt it + much at the time. + + Soames took a cup of tea from her, drank it quickly, and ate + three of those macaroons for which Timothy’s was famous. His + faint, pale, supercilious smile had deepened just a little. + Really, his family remained hopelessly provincial, however much + of London they might possess between them. In these go-ahead days + their provincialism stared out even more than it used to. Why, + old Nicholas was still a Free Trader, and a member of that + antediluvian home of Liberalism, the Remove Club—though, to be + sure, the members were pretty well all Conservatives now, or he + himself could not have joined; and Timothy, they said, still wore + a nightcap. Aunt Juley spoke again. Dear Soames was looking so + well, hardly a day older than he did when dear Ann died, and they + were all there together, dear Jolyon, and dear Swithin, and dear + Roger. She paused and caught the tear which had climbed the pout + on her right cheek. Did he—did he ever hear anything of Irene + nowadays? Aunt Hester visibly interposed her shoulder. Really, + Juley was always saying something! The smile left Soames’ face, + and he put his cup down. Here was his subject broached for him, + and for all his desire to expand, he could not take advantage. + + Aunt Juley went on rather hastily: + + “They say dear Jolyon first left her that fifteen thousand out + and out; then of course he saw it would not be right, and made it + for her life only.” + + Had Soames heard that? + + Soames nodded. + + “Your cousin Jolyon is a widower now. He is her trustee; you knew + that, of course?” + + Soames shook his head. He did know, but wished to show no + interest. Young Jolyon and he had not met since the day of + Bosinney’s death. + + “He must be quite middle-aged by now,” went on Aunt Juley + dreamily. “Let me see, he was born when your dear uncle lived in + Mount Street; long before they went to Stanhope Gate in December. + Just before that dreadful Commune. Over fifty! Fancy that! Such a + pretty baby, and we were all so proud of him; the very first of + you all.” Aunt Juley sighed, and a lock of not quite her own hair + came loose and straggled, so that Aunt Hester gave a little + shiver. Soames rose, he was experiencing a curious piece of + self-discovery. That old wound to his pride and self-esteem was + not yet closed. He had come thinking he could talk of it, even + wanting to talk of his fettered condition, and—behold! he was + shrinking away from this reminder by Aunt Juley, renowned for her + Malapropisms. + + Oh, Soames was not going already! + + Soames smiled a little vindictively, and said: + + “Yes. Good-bye. Remember me to Uncle Timothy!” And, leaving a + cold kiss on each forehead, whose wrinkles seemed to try and + cling to his lips as if longing to be kissed away, he left them + looking brightly after him—dear Soames, it had been so good of + him to come to-day, when they were not feeling very...! + + With compunction tweaking at his chest Soames descended the + stairs, where was always that rather pleasant smell of camphor + and port wine, and house where draughts are not permitted. The + poor old things—he had not meant to be unkind! And in the street + he instantly forgot them, repossessed by the image of Annette and + the thought of the cursed coil around him. Why had he not pushed + the thing through and obtained divorce when that wretched + Bosinney was run over, and there was evidence galore for the + asking! And he turned towards his sister Winifred Dartie’s + residence in Green Street, Mayfair. + + + + + CHAPTER II EXIT A MAN OF THE WORLD + + + That a man of the world so subject to the vicissitudes of + fortunes as Montague Dartie should still be living in a house he + had inhabited twenty years at least would have been more + noticeable if the rent, rates, taxes, and repairs of that house + had not been defrayed by his father-in-law. By that simple if + wholesale device James Forsyte had secured a certain stability in + the lives of his daughter and his grandchildren. After all, there + is something invaluable about a safe roof over the head of a + sportsman so dashing as Dartie. Until the events of the last few + days he had been almost-supernaturally steady all this year. The + fact was he had acquired a half share in a filly of George + Forsyte’s, who had gone irreparably on the turf, to the horror of + Roger, now stilled by the grave. Sleeve-links, by Martyr, out of + Shirt-on-fire, by Suspender, was a bay filly, three years old, + who for a variety of reasons had never shown her true form. With + half ownership of this hopeful animal, all the idealism latent + somewhere in Dartie, as in every other man, had put up its head, + and kept him quietly ardent for months past. When a man has some + thing good to live for it is astonishing how sober he becomes; + and what Dartie had was really good—a three to one chance for an + autumn handicap, publicly assessed at twenty-five to one. The + old-fashioned heaven was a poor thing beside it, and his shirt + was on the daughter of Shirt-on-fire. But how much more than his + shirt depended on this granddaughter of Suspender! At that roving + age of forty-five, trying to Forsytes—and, though perhaps less + distinguishable from any other age, trying even to + Darties—Montague had fixed his current fancy on a dancer. It was + no mean passion, but without money, and a good deal of it, likely + to remain a love as airy as her skirts; and Dartie never had any + money, subsisting miserably on what he could beg or borrow from + Winifred—a woman of character, who kept him because he was the + father of her children, and from a lingering admiration for those + now-dying Wardour Street good looks which in their youth had + fascinated her. She, together with anyone else who would lend him + anything, and his losses at cards and on the turf (extraordinary + how some men make a good thing out of losses!) were his whole + means of subsistence; for James was now too old and nervous to + approach, and Soames too formidably adamant. It is not too much + to say that Dartie had been living on hope for months. He had + never been fond of money for itself, had always despised the + Forsytes with their investing habits, though careful to make such + use of them as he could. What he liked about money was what it + bought—personal sensation. + + “No real sportsman cares for money,” he would say, borrowing a + “pony” if it was no use trying for a “monkey.” There was + something delicious about Montague Dartie. He was, as George + Forsyte said, a “daisy.” + + The morning of the Handicap dawned clear and bright, the last day + of September, and Dartie who had travelled to Newmarket the night + before, arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an + eminence to see his half of the filly take her final canter: If + she won he would be a cool three thou. in pocket—a poor enough + recompense for the sobriety and patience of these weeks of hope, + while they had been nursing her for this race. But he had not + been able to afford more. Should he “lay it off” at the eight to + one to which she had advanced? This was his single thought while + the larks sang above him, and the grassy downs smelled sweet, and + the pretty filly passed, tossing her head and glowing like satin. + + After all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to “lay it + off” would reduce his winnings to some fifteen hundred—hardly + enough to purchase a dancer out and out. Even more potent was the + itch in the blood of all the Darties for a real flutter. And + turning to George he said: “She’s a clipper. She’ll win hands + down; I shall go the whole hog.” George, who had laid off every + penny, and a few besides, and stood to win, however it came out, + grinned down on him from his bulky height, with the words: “So + ho, my wild one!” for after a chequered apprenticeship weathered + with the money of a deeply complaining Roger, his Forsyte blood + was beginning to stand him in good stead in the profession of + owner. + + There are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from + which the sensitive recorder shrinks. Suffice it to say that the + good thing fell down. Sleeve-links finished in the ruck. Dartie’s + shirt was lost. + + Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames + turned his face towards Green Street, what had not happened! + + When a man with the constitution of Montague Dartie has exercised + self-control for months from religious motives, and remains + unrewarded, he does not curse God and die, he curses God and + lives, to the distress of his family. + + Winifred—a plucky woman, if a little too fashionable—who had + borne the brunt of him for exactly twenty-one years, had never + really believed that he would do what he now did. Like so many + wives, she thought she knew the worst, but she had not yet known + him in his forty-fifth year, when he, like other men, felt that + it was now or never. Paying on the 2nd of October a visit of + inspection to her jewel case, she was horrified to observe that + her woman’s crown and glory was gone—the pearls which Montague + had given her in ’86, when Benedict was born, and which James had + been compelled to pay for in the spring of ’87, to save scandal. + She consulted her husband at once. He “pooh-poohed” the matter. + They would turn up! Nor till she said sharply: “Very well, then, + Monty, I shall go down to Scotland Yard _myself_,” did he consent + to take the matter in hand. Alas! that the steady and resolved + continuity of design necessary to the accomplishment of sweeping + operations should be liable to interruption by drink. That night + Dartie returned home without a care in the world or a particle of + reticence. Under normal conditions Winifred would merely have + locked her door and let him sleep it off, but torturing suspense + about her pearls had caused her to wait up for him. Taking a + small revolver from his pocket and holding on to the dining + table, he told her at once that he did not care a cursh whether + she lived s’long as she was quiet; but he himself wash tired + orsdquo; life. Winifred, holding onto the other side of the + dining table, answered: + + “Don’t be a clown, Monty. Have you been to Scotland Yard?” + + Placing the revolver against his chest, Dartie had pulled the + trigger several times. It was not loaded. Dropping it with an + imprecation, he had muttered: “For shake o’ the children,” and + sank into a chair. Winifred, having picked up the revolver, gave + him some soda water. The liquor had a magical effect. Life had + illused him; Winifred had never “unshtood’m.” If he hadn’t the + right to take the pearls he had given her himself, who had? That + Spanish filly had got’m. If Winifred had any ’jection he w’d + cut—her—throat. What was the matter with that? (Probably the + first use of that celebrated phrase—so obscure are the origins of + even the most classical language!) + + Winifred, who had learned self-containment in a hard school, + looked up at him, and said: “Spanish filly! Do you mean that girl + we saw dancing in the Pandemonium Ballet? Well, you are a thief + and a blackguard.” It had been the last straw on a sorely loaded + consciousness; reaching up from his chair Dartie seized his + wife’s arm, and recalling the achievements of his boyhood, + twisted it. Winifred endured the agony with tears in her eyes, + but no murmur. Watching for a moment of weakness, she wrenched it + free; then placing the dining table between them, said between + her teeth: “You are the limit, Monty.” (Undoubtedly the inception + of that phrase—so is English formed under the stress of + circumstances.) Leaving Dartie with foam on his dark moustache + she went upstairs, and, after locking her door and bathing her + arm in hot water, lay awake all night, thinking of her pearls + adorning the neck of another, and of the consideration her + husband had presumably received therefor. + + The man of the world awoke with a sense of being lost to that + world, and a dim recollection of having been called a “limit.” He + sat for half an hour in the dawn and the armchair where he had + slept—perhaps the unhappiest half-hour he had ever spent, for + even to a Dartie there is something tragic about an end. And he + knew that he had reached it. Never again would he sleep in his + dining-room and wake with the light filtering through those + curtains bought by Winifred at Nickens and Jarveys with the money + of James. Never again eat a devilled kidney at that rose-wood + table, after a roll in the sheets and a hot bath. He took his + note case from his dress coat pocket. Four hundred pounds, in + fives and tens—the remainder of the proceeds of his half of + Sleeve-links, sold last night, cash down, to George Forsyte, who, + having won over the race, had not conceived the sudden dislike to + the animal which he himself now felt. The ballet was going to + Buenos Aires the day after to-morrow, and he was going too. Full + value for the pearls had not yet been received; he was only at + the soup. + + He stole upstairs. Not daring to have a bath, or shave (besides, + the water would be cold), he changed his clothes and packed + stealthily all he could. It was hard to leave so many shining + boots, but one must sacrifice something. Then, carrying a valise + in either hand, he stepped out onto the landing. The house was + very quiet—that house where he had begotten his four children. It + was a curious moment, this, outside the room of his wife, once + admired, if not perhaps loved, who had called him “the limit.” He + steeled himself with that phrase, and tiptoed on; but the next + door was harder to pass. It was the room his daughters slept in. + Maud was at school, but Imogen would be lying there; and moisture + came into Dartie’s early morning eyes. She was the most like him + of the four, with her dark hair, and her luscious brown glance. + Just coming out, a pretty thing! He set down the two valises. + This almost formal abdication of fatherhood hurt him. The morning + light fell on a face which worked with real emotion. Nothing so + false as penitence moved him; but genuine paternal feeling, and + that melancholy of “never again.” He moistened his lips; and + complete irresolution for a moment paralysed his legs in their + check trousers. It was hard—hard to be thus compelled to leave + his home! “D—-nit!” he muttered, “I never thought it would come + to this.” Noises above warned him that the maids were beginning + to get up. And grasping the two valises, he tiptoed on + downstairs. His cheeks were wet, and the knowledge of that was + comforting, as though it guaranteed the genuineness of his + sacrifice. He lingered a little in the rooms below, to pack all + the cigars he had, some papers, a crush hat, a silver cigarette + box, a Ruff’s Guide. Then, mixing himself a stiff whisky and + soda, and lighting a cigarette, he stood hesitating before a + photograph of his two girls, in a silver frame. It belonged to + Winifred. “Never mind,” he thought; “she can get another taken, + and I can’t!” He slipped it into the valise. Then, putting on his + hat and overcoat, he took two others, his best malacca cane, an + umbrella, and opened the front door. Closing it softly behind + him, he walked out, burdened as he had never been in all his + life, and made his way round the corner to wait there for an + early cab to come by. + + Thus had passed Montague Dartie in the forty-fifth year of his + age from the house which he had called his own. + + When Winifred came down, and realised that he was not in the + house, her first feeling was one of dull anger that he should + thus elude the reproaches she had carefully prepared in those + long wakeful hours. He had gone off to Newmarket or Brighton, + with that woman as likely as not. Disgusting! Forced to a + complete reticence before Imogen and the servants, and aware that + her father’s nerves would never stand the disclosure, she had + been unable to refrain from going to Timothy’s that afternoon, + and pouring out the story of the pearls to Aunts Juley and Hester + in utter confidence. It was only on the following morning that + she noticed the disappearance of that photograph. What did it + mean? Careful examination of her husband’s relics prompted the + thought that he had gone for good. As that conclusion hardened + she stood quite still in the middle of his dressing-room, with + all the drawers pulled out, to try and realise what she was + feeling. By no means easy! Though he was “the limit” he was yet + her property, and for the life of her she could not but feel the + poorer. To be widowed yet not widowed at forty-two; with four + children; made conspicuous, an object of commiseration! Gone to + the arms of a Spanish Jade! Memories, feelings, which she had + thought quite dead, revived within her, painful, sullen, + tenacious. Mechanically she closed drawer after drawer, went to + her bed, lay on it, and buried her face in the pillows. She did + not cry. What was the use of that? When she got off her bed to go + down to lunch she felt as if only one thing could do her good, + and that was to have Val home. He—her eldest boy—who was to go to + Oxford next month at James’ expense, was at Littlehampton taking + his final gallops with his trainer for Smalls, as he would have + phrased it following his father’s diction. She caused a telegram + to be sent to him. + + “I must see about his clothes,” she said to Imogen; “I can’t have + him going up to Oxford all anyhow. Those boys are so particular.” + + “Val’s got heaps of things,” Imogen answered. + + “I know; but they want overhauling. I hope he’ll come.” + + “He’ll come like a shot, Mother. But he’ll probably skew his + Exam.” + + “I can’t help that,” said Winifred. “I want him.” + + With an innocent shrewd look at her mother’s face, Imogen kept + silence. It was father, of course! Val did come “like a shot” at + six o’clock. + + Imagine a cross between a pickle and a Forsyte and you have young + Publius Valerius Dartie. A youth so named could hardly turn out + otherwise. When he was born, Winifred, in the heyday of spirits, + and the craving for distinction, had determined that her children + should have names such as no others had ever had. (It was a + mercy—she felt now—that she had just not named Imogen Thisbe.) + But it was to George Forsyte, always a wag, that Val’s + christening was due. It so happened that Dartie, dining with him + a week after the birth of his son and heir, had mentioned this + aspiration of Winifred’s. + + “Call him Cato,” said George, “it’ll be damned piquant!” He had + just won a tenner on a horse of that name. + + “Cato!” Dartie had replied—they were a little ‘on’ as the phrase + was even in those days—“it’s not a Christian name.” + + “Halo you!” George called to a waiter in knee breeches. “Bring me + the _Encyc’pedia Brit_. from the Library, letter C.” + + The waiter brought it. + + “Here you are!” said George, pointing with his cigar: “Cato + Publius Valerius by Virgil out of Lydia. That’s what you want. + Publius Valerius is Christian enough.” + + Dartie, on arriving home, had informed Winifred. She had been + charmed. It was so “chic.” And Publius Valerius became the baby’s + name, though it afterwards transpired that they had got hold of + the inferior Cato. In 1890, however, when little Publius was + nearly ten, the word “chic” went out of fashion, and sobriety + came in; Winifred began to have doubts. They were confirmed by + little Publius himself who returned from his first term at school + complaining that life was a burden to him—they called him Pubby. + Winifred—a woman of real decision—promptly changed his school and + his name to Val, the Publius being dropped even as an initial. + + At nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, + light eyes, long dark lashes; a rather charming smile, + considerable knowledge of what he should not know, and no + experience of what he ought to do. Few boys had more narrowly + escaped being expelled—the engaging rascal. After kissing his + mother and pinching Imogen, he ran upstairs three at a time, and + came down four, dressed for dinner. He was awfully sorry, but his + “trainer,” who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the + Oxford and Cambridge; it wouldn’t do to miss—the old chap would + be hurt. Winifred let him go with an unhappy pride. She had + wanted him at home, but it was very nice to know that his tutor + was so fond of him. He went out with a wink at Imogen, saying: “I + say, Mother, could I have two plover’s eggs when I come + in?—cook’s got some. They top up so jolly well. Oh! and look + here—have you any money?—I had to borrow a fiver from old + Snobby.” + + Winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered: + + “My dear, you _are_ naughty about money. But you shouldn’t pay + him to-night, anyway; you’re his guest. How nice and slim he + looked in his white waistcoat, and his dark thick lashes!” + + “Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I + ought to stand the tickets; he’s always hard up, you know.” + + Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying: + + “Well, perhaps you’d better pay him, but you mustn’t stand the + tickets too.” + + Val pocketed the fiver. + + “If I do, I can’t,” he said. “Good-night, Mum!” + + He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, + sniffing the air of Piccadilly like a young hound loosed into + covert. Jolly good biz! After that mouldy old slow hole down + there! + + He found his “tutor,” not indeed at the Oxford and Cambridge, but + at the Goat’s Club. This “tutor” was a year older than himself, a + good-looking youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a + small mouth, an oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, + one of those young men who without effort establish moral + ascendancy over their companions. He had missed being expelled + from school a year before Val, had spent that year at Oxford, and + Val could almost see a halo round his head. His name was Crum, + and no one could get through money quicker. It seemed to be his + only aim in life—dazzling to young Val, in whom, however, the + Forsyte would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the + value for that money was. + + They dined quietly, in style and taste; left the Club smoking + cigars, with just two bottles inside them, and dropped into + stalls at the Liberty. For Val the sound of comic songs, the + sight of lovely legs were fogged and interrupted by haunting + fears that he would never equal Crum’s quiet dandyism. His + idealism was roused; and when that is so, one is never quite at + ease. Surely he had too wide a mouth, not the best cut of + waistcoat, no braid on his trousers, and his lavender gloves had + no thin black stitchings down the back. Besides, he laughed too + much—Crum never laughed, he only smiled, with his regular dark + brows raised a little so that they formed a gable over his just + drooped lids. No! he would never be Crum’s equal. All the same it + was a jolly good show, and Cynthia Dark simply ripping. Between + the acts Crum regaled him with particulars of Cynthia’s private + life, and the awful knowledge became Val’s that, if he liked, + Crum could go behind. He simply longed to say: “I say, take me!” + but dared not, because of his deficiencies; and this made the + last act or two almost miserable. On coming out Crum said: “It’s + half an hour before they close; let’s go on to the Pandemonium.” + They took a hansom to travel the hundred yards, and seats costing + seven-and-six apiece because they were going to stand, and walked + into the Promenade. It was in these little things, this utter + negligence of money that Crum had such engaging polish. The + ballet was on its last legs and night, and the traffic of the + Promenade was suffering for the moment. Men and women were + crowded in three rows against the barrier. The whirl and dazzle + on the stage, the half dark, the mingled tobacco fumes and + women’s scent, all that curious lure to promiscuity which belongs + to Promenades, began to free young Val from his idealism. He + looked admiringly in a young woman’s face, saw she was not young, + and quickly looked away. Shades of Cynthia Dark! The young + woman’s arm touched his unconsciously; there was a scent of musk + and mignonette. Val looked round the corner of his lashes. + Perhaps she _was_ young, after all. Her foot trod on his; she + begged his pardon. He said: + + “Not at all; jolly good ballet, isn’t it?” + + “Oh, I’m tired of it; aren’t you?” + + Young Val smiled—his wide, rather charming smile. Beyond that he + did not go—not yet convinced. The Forsyte in him stood out for + greater certainty. And on the stage the ballet whirled its + kaleidoscope of snow-white, salmon-pink, and emerald-green and + violet and seemed suddenly to freeze into a stilly spangled + pyramid. Applause broke out, and it was over! Maroon curtains had + cut it off. The semi-circle of men and women round the barrier + broke up, the young woman’s arm pressed his. A little way off + disturbance seemed centring round a man with a pink carnation; + Val stole another glance at the young woman, who was looking + towards it. Three men, unsteady, emerged, walking arm in arm. The + one in the centre wore the pink carnation, a white waistcoat, a + dark moustache; he reeled a little as he walked. Crum’s voice + said slow and level: “Look at that bounder, he’s screwed!” Val + turned to look. The “bounder” had disengaged his arm, and was + pointing straight at them. Crum’s voice, level as ever, said: + + “He seems to know you!” The “bounder” spoke: + + “H’llo!” he said. “You f’llows, look! There’s my young rascal of + a son!” + + Val saw. It was his father! He could have sunk into the crimson + carpet. It was not the meeting in this place, not even that his + father was “screwed”. it was Crum’s word “bounder,” which, as by + heavenly revelation, he perceived at that moment to be true. Yes, + his father looked a bounder with his dark good looks, and his + pink carnation, and his square, self-assertive walk. And without + a word he ducked behind the young woman and slipped out of the + Promenade. He heard the word, “Val!” behind him, and ran down + deep-carpeted steps past the “chuckersout,” into the Square. + + To be ashamed of his own father is perhaps the bitterest + experience a young man can go through. It seemed to Val, hurrying + away, that his career had ended before it had begun. How could he + go up to Oxford now amongst all those chaps, those splendid + friends of Crum’s, who would know that his father was a + “bounder”. And suddenly he hated Crum. Who the devil was Crum, to + say that? If Crum had been beside him at that moment, he would + certainly have been jostled off the pavement. His own father—his + own! A choke came up in his throat, and he dashed his hands down + deep into his overcoat pockets. Damn Crum! He conceived the wild + idea of running back and fending his father, taking him by the + arm and walking about with him in front of Crum; but gave it up + at once and pursued his way down Piccadilly. A young woman + planted herself before him. “Not so angry, darling!” He shied, + dodged her, and suddenly became quite cool. If Crum ever said a + word, he would jolly well punch his head, and there would be an + end of it. He walked a hundred yards or more, contented with that + thought, then lost its comfort utterly. It wasn’t simple like + that! He remembered how, at school, when some parent came down + who did not pass the standard, it just clung to the fellow + afterwards. It was one of those things nothing could remove. Why + had his mother married his father, if he was a “bounder”. It was + bitterly unfair—jolly low-down on a fellow to give him a + “bounder” for father. The worst of it was that now Crum had + spoken the word, he realised that he had long known + subconsciously that his father was not “the clean potato.” It was + the beastliest thing that had ever happened to him—beastliest + thing that had ever happened to any fellow! And, down-hearted as + he had never yet been, he came to Green Street, and let himself + in with a smuggled latch-key. In the dining-room his plover’s + eggs were set invitingly, with some cut bread and butter, and a + little whisky at the bottom of a decanter—just enough, as + Winifred had thought, for him to feel himself a man. It made him + sick to look at them, and he went upstairs. + + Winifred heard him pass, and thought: “The dear boy’s in. Thank + goodness! If he takes after his father I don’t know what I shall + do! But he won’t he’s like me. Dear Val!” + + + + + CHAPTER III SOAMES PREPARES TO TAKE STEPS + + + When Soames entered his sister’s little Louis Quinze + drawing-room, with its small balcony, always flowered with + hanging geraniums in the summer, and now with pots of Lilium + Auratum, he was struck by the immutability of human affairs. It + looked just the same as on his first visit to the newly married + Darties twenty-one years ago. He had chosen the furniture + himself, and so completely that no subsequent purchase had ever + been able to change the room’s atmosphere. Yes, he had founded + his sister well, and she had wanted it. Indeed, it said a great + deal for Winifred that after all this time with Dartie she + remained well-founded. From the first Soames had nosed out + Dartie’s nature from underneath the plausibility, _savoir faire_, + and good looks which had dazzled Winifred, her mother, and even + James, to the extent of permitting the fellow to marry his + daughter without bringing anything but shares of no value into + settlement. + + Winifred, whom he noticed next to the furniture, was sitting at + her Buhl bureau with a letter in her hand. She rose and came + towards him. Tall as himself, strong in the cheekbones, well + tailored, something in her face disturbed Soames. She crumpled + the letter in her hand, but seemed to change her mind and held it + out to him. He was her lawyer as well as her brother. + + Soames read, on Iseeum Club paper, these words: + + ‘You will not get chance to insult in my own again. I am leaving + country to-morrow. It’s played out. I’m tired of being insulted + by you. You’ve brought on yourself. No self-respecting man can + stand it. I shall not ask you for anything again. Good-bye. I + took the photograph of the two girls. Give them my love. I don’t + care what your family say. It’s all their doing. I’m going to + live new life. + + ‘M.D.’ + + This after-dinner note had a splotch on it not yet quite dry. He + looked at Winifred—the splotch had clearly come from her; and he + checked the words: “Good riddance!” Then it occurred to him that + with this letter she was entering that very state which he + himself so earnestly desired to quit—the state of a Forsyte who + was not divorced. + + Winifred had turned away, and was taking a long sniff from a + little gold-topped bottle. A dull commiseration, together with a + vague sense of injury, crept about Soames’ heart. He had come to + her to talk of his own position, and get sympathy, and here was + she in the same position, wanting of course to talk of it, and + get sympathy from him. It was always like that! Nobody ever + seemed to think that he had troubles and interests of his own. He + folded up the letter with the splotch inside, and said: + + “What’s it all about, now?” + + Winifred recited the story of the pearls calmly. + + “Do you think he’s really gone, Soames? You see the state he was + in when he wrote that.” + + Soames who, when he desired a thing, placated Providence by + pretending that he did not think it likely to happen, answered: + + “I shouldn’t think so. I might find out at his Club.” + + “If George is there,” said Winifred, “he would know.” + + “George?” said Soames; “I saw him at his father’s funeral.” + + “Then he’s sure to be there.” + + Soames, whose good sense applauded his sister’s acumen, said + grudgingly: “Well, I’ll go round. Have you said anything in Park + Lane?” + + “I’ve told Emily,” returned Winifred, who retained that “chic” + way of describing her mother. “Father would have a fit.” + + Indeed, anything untoward was now sedulously kept from James. + With another look round at the furniture, as if to gauge his + sister’s exact position, Soames went out towards Piccadilly. The + evening was drawing in—a touch of chill in the October haze. He + walked quickly, with his close and concentrated air. He must get + through, for he wished to dine in Soho. On hearing from the hall + porter at the Iseeum that Mr. Dartie had not been in to-day, he + looked at the trusty fellow and decided only to ask if Mr. George + Forsyte was in the Club. He was. Soames, who always looked + askance at his cousin George, as one inclined to jest at his + expense, followed the pageboy, slightly reassured by the thought + that George had just lost his father. He must have come in for + about thirty thousand, besides what he had under that settlement + of Roger’s, which had avoided death duty. He found George in a + bow-window, staring out across a half-eaten plate of muffins. His + tall, bulky, black-clothed figure loomed almost threatening, + though preserving still the supernatural neatness of the racing + man. With a faint grin on his fleshy face, he said: + + “Hallo, Soames! Have a muffin?” + + “No, thanks,” murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the + desire to say something suitable and sympathetic, added: + + “How’s your mother?” + + “Thanks,” said George; “so-so. Haven’t seen you for ages. You + never go racing. How’s the City?” + + Soames, scenting the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered: + + “I wanted to ask you about Dartie. I hear he’s....” + + “Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola. Good + for Winifred and the little Darties. He’s a treat.” + + Soames nodded. Naturally inimical as these cousins were, Dartie + made them kin. + + “Uncle James’ll sleep in his bed now,” resumed George; “I suppose + he’s had a lot off you, too.” + + Soames smiled. + + “Ah! You saw him further,” said George amicably. “He’s a real + rouser. Young Val will want a bit of looking after. I was always + sorry for Winifred. She’s a plucky woman.” + + Again Soames nodded. “I must be getting back to her,” he said; + “she just wanted to know for certain. We may have to take steps. + I suppose there’s no mistake?” + + “It’s quite O.K.,” said George—it was he who invented so many of + those quaint sayings which have been assigned to other sources. + “He was drunk as a lord last night; but he went off all right + this morning. His ship’s the _Tuscarora;_” and, fishing out a + card, he read mockingly: + + “‘Mr. Montague Dartie, Poste Restante, Buenos Aires.’ I should + hurry up with the steps, if I were you. He fairly fed me up last + night.” + + “Yes,” said Soames; “but it’s not always easy.” Then, conscious + from George’s eyes that he had roused reminiscence of his own + affair, he got up, and held out his hand. George rose too. + + “Remember me to Winifred.... You’ll enter her for the Divorce + Stakes straight off if you ask me.” + + Soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway. George + had seated himself again and was staring before him; he looked + big and lonely in those black clothes. Soames had never known him + so subdued. “I suppose he feels it in a way,” he thought. “They + must have about fifty thousand each, all told. They ought to keep + the estate together. If there’s a war, house property will go + down. Uncle Roger was a good judge, though.” And the face of + Annette rose before him in the darkening street; her brown hair + and her blue eyes with their dark lashes, her fresh lips and + cheeks, dewy and blooming in spite of London, her perfect French + figure. “Take steps!” he thought. Re-entering Winifred’s house he + encountered Val, and they went in together. An idea had occurred + to Soames. His cousin Jolyon was Irene’s trustee, the first step + would be to go down and see him at Robin Hill. Robin Hill! The + odd—the very odd feeling those words brought back! Robin Hill—the + house Bosinney had built for him and Irene—the house they had + never lived in—the fatal house! And Jolyon lived there now! H’m! + And suddenly he thought: “They say he’s got a boy at Oxford! Why + not take young Val down and introduce them! It’s an excuse! Less + bald—very much less bald!” So, as they went upstairs, he said to + Val: + + “You’ve got a cousin at Oxford; you’ve never met him. I should + like to take you down with me to-morrow to where he lives and + introduce you. You’ll find it useful.” + + Val, receiving the idea with but moderate transports, Soames + clinched it. + + “I’ll call for you after lunch. It’s in the country—not far; + you’ll enjoy it.” + + On the threshold of the drawing-room he recalled with an effort + that the steps he contemplated concerned Winifred at the moment, + not himself. + + Winifred was still sitting at her Buhl bureau. + + “It’s quite true,” he said; “he’s gone to Buenos Aires, started + this morning—we’d better have him shadowed when he lands. I’ll + cable at once. Otherwise we may have a lot of expense. The sooner + these things are done the better. I’m always regretting that I + didn’t...” he stopped, and looked sidelong at the silent + Winifred. “By the way,” he went on, “can you prove cruelty?” + + Winifred said in a dull voice: + + “I don’t know. What is cruelty?” + + “Well, has he struck you, or anything?” + + Winifred shook herself, and her jaw grew square. + + “He twisted my arm. Or would pointing a pistol count? Or being + too drunk to undress himself, or—No—I can’t bring in the + children.” + + “No,” said Soames; “no! I wonder! Of course, there’s legal + separation—we can get that. But separation! Um!” + + “What does it mean?” asked Winifred desolately. + + “That he can’t touch you, or you him; you’re both of you married + and unmarried.” And again he grunted. What was it, in fact, but + his own accursed position, legalised! No, he would not put her + into that! + + “It must be divorce,” he said decisively; “failing cruelty, + there’s desertion. There’s a way of shortening the two years, + now. We get the Court to give us restitution of conjugal rights. + Then if he doesn’t obey, we can bring a suit for divorce in six + months’ time. Of course you don’t want him back. But they won’t + know that. Still, there’s the risk that he might come. I’d rather + try cruelty.” + + Winifred shook her head. “It’s so beastly.” + + “Well,” Soames murmured, “perhaps there isn’t much risk so long + as he’s infatuated and got money. Don’t say anything to anybody, + and don’t pay any of his debts.” + + Winifred sighed. In spite of all she had been through, the sense + of loss was heavy on her. And this idea of not paying his debts + any more brought it home to her as nothing else yet had. Some + richness seemed to have gone out of life. Without her husband, + without her pearls, without that intimate sense that she made a + brave show above the domestic whirlpool, she would now have to + face the world. She felt bereaved indeed. + + And into the chilly kiss he placed on her forehead, Soames put + more than his usual warmth. + + “I have to go down to Robin Hill to-morrow,” he said, “to see + young Jolyon on business. He’s got a boy at Oxford. I’d like to + take Val with me and introduce him. Come down to ‘The Shelter’ + for the week-end and bring the children. Oh! by the way, no, that + won’t do; I’ve got some other people coming.” So saying, he left + her and turned towards Soho. + + + + + CHAPTER IV SOHO + + + Of all quarters in the queer adventurous amalgam called London, + Soho is perhaps least suited to the Forsyte spirit. “So-ho, my + wild one!” George would have said if he had seen his cousin going + there. Untidy, full of Greeks, Ishmaelites, cats, Italians, + tomatoes, restaurants, organs, coloured stuffs, queer names, + people looking out of upper windows, it dwells remote from the + British Body Politic. Yet has it haphazard proprietary instincts + of its own, and a certain possessive prosperity which keeps its + rents up when those of other quarters go down. For long years + Soames’ acquaintanceship with Soho had been confined to its + Western bastion, Wardour Street. Many bargains had he picked up + there. Even during those seven years at Brighton after Bosinney’s + death and Irene’s flight, he had bought treasures there + sometimes, though he had no place to put them; for when the + conviction that his wife had gone for good at last became firm + within him, he had caused a board to be put up in Montpellier + Square: + + FOR SALE + THE LEASE OF THIS DESIRABLE RESIDENCE + Enquire of Messrs. Lesson and Tukes, Court Street, Belgravia. + + It had sold within a week—that desirable residence, in the shadow + of whose perfection a man and a woman had eaten their hearts out. + + Of a misty January evening, just before the board was taken down, + Soames had gone there once more, and stood against the Square + railings, looking at its unlighted windows, chewing the cud of + possessive memories which had turned so bitter in the mouth. Why + had she never loved him? Why? She had been given all she had + wanted, and in return had given him, for three long years, all he + had wanted—except, indeed, her heart. He had uttered a little + involuntary groan, and a passing policeman had glanced + suspiciously at him who no longer possessed the right to enter + that green door with the carved brass knocker beneath the board + “For Sale!” A choking sensation had attacked his throat, and he + had hurried away into the mist. That evening he had gone to + Brighton to live.... + + Approaching Malta Street, Soho, and the Restaurant Bretagne, + where Annette would be drooping her pretty shoulders over her + accounts, Soames thought with wonder of those seven years at + Brighton. How had he managed to go on so long in that town devoid + of the scent of sweetpeas, where he had not even space to put his + treasures? True, those had been years with no time at all for + looking at them—years of almost passionate money-making, during + which Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte had become solicitors to more + limited Companies than they could properly attend to. Up to the + City of a morning in a Pullman car, down from the City of an + evening in a Pullman car. Law papers again after dinner, then the + sleep of the tired, and up again next morning. Saturday to Monday + was spent at his Club in town—curious reversal of customary + procedure, based on the deep and careful instinct that while + working so hard he needed sea air to and from the station twice a + day, and while resting must indulge his domestic affections. The + Sunday visit to his family in Park Lane, to Timothy’s, and to + Green Street; the occasional visits elsewhere had seemed to him + as necessary to health as sea air on weekdays. Even since his + migration to Mapledurham he had maintained those habits until—he + had known Annette. + + Whether Annette had produced the revolution in his outlook, or + that outlook had produced Annette, he knew no more than we know + where a circle begins. It was intricate and deeply involved with + the growing consciousness that property without anyone to leave + it to is the negation of true Forsyteism. To have an heir, some + continuance of self, who would begin where he left off—ensure, in + fact, that he would not leave off—had quite obsessed him for the + last year and more. After buying a bit of Wedgwood one evening in + April, he had dropped into Malta Street to look at a house of his + father’s which had been turned into a restaurant—a risky + proceeding, and one not quite in accordance with the terms of the + lease. He had stared for a little at the outside painted a good + cream colour, with two peacock-blue tubs containing little + bay-trees in a recessed doorway—and at the words “Restaurant + Bretagne” above them in gold letters, rather favourably + impressed. Entering, he had noticed that several people were + already seated at little round green tables with little pots of + fresh flowers on them and Brittany-ware plates, and had asked of + a trim waitress to see the proprietor. They had shown him into a + back room, where a girl was sitting at a simple bureau covered + with papers, and a small round, table was laid for two. The + impression of cleanliness, order, and good taste was confirmed + when the girl got up, saying, “You wish to see _Maman, + Monsieur?_” in a broken accent. + + “Yes,” Soames had answered, “I represent your landlord; in fact, + I’m his son.” + + “Won’t you sit down, sir, please? Tell _Maman_ to come to this + gentleman.” + + He was pleased that the girl seemed impressed, because it showed + business instinct; and suddenly he noticed that she was + remarkably pretty—so remarkably pretty that his eyes found a + difficulty in leaving her face. When she moved to put a chair for + him, she swayed in a curious subtle way, as if she had been put + together by someone with a special secret skill; and her face and + neck, which was a little bared, looked as fresh as if they had + been sprayed with dew. Probably at this moment Soames decided + that the lease had not been violated; though to himself and his + father he based the decision on the efficiency of those illicit + adaptations in the building, on the signs of prosperity, and the + obvious business capacity of Madame Lamotte. He did not, however, + neglect to leave certain matters to future consideration, which + had necessitated further visits, so that the little back room had + become quite accustomed to his spare, not unsolid, but + unobtrusive figure, and his pale, chinny face with clipped + moustache and dark hair not yet grizzling at the sides. + + “_Un Monsieur très distingué_,” Madame Lamotte found him; and + presently, “_Très amical, très gentil_,” watching his eyes upon + her daughter. + + She was one of those generously built, fine-faced, dark-haired + Frenchwomen, whose every action and tone of voice inspire perfect + confidence in the thoroughness of their domestic tastes, their + knowledge of cooking, and the careful increase of their bank + balances. + + After those visits to the Restaurant Bretagne began, other visits + ceased—without, indeed, any definite decision, for Soames, like + all Forsytes, and the great majority of their countrymen, was a + born empiricist. But it was this change in his mode of life which + had gradually made him so definitely conscious that he desired to + alter his condition from that of the unmarried married man to + that of the married man remarried. + + Turning into Malta Street on this evening of early October, 1899, + he bought a paper to see if there were any after-development of + the Dreyfus case—a question which he had always found useful in + making closer acquaintanceship with Madame Lamotte and her + daughter, who were Catholic and anti-Dreyfusard. + + Scanning those columns, Soames found nothing French, but noticed + a general fall on the Stock Exchange and an ominous leader about + the Transvaal. He entered, thinking: “War’s a certainty. I shall + sell my consols.” Not that he had many, personally, the rate of + interest was too wretched; but he should advise his + Companies—consols would assuredly go down. A look, as he passed + the doorways of the restaurant, assured him that business was + good as ever, and this, which in April would have pleased him, + now gave him a certain uneasiness. If the steps which he had to + take ended in his marrying Annette, he would rather see her + mother safely back in France, a move to which the prosperity of + the Restaurant Bretagne might become an obstacle. He would have + to buy them out, of course, for French people only came to + England to make money; and it would mean a higher price. And then + that peculiar sweet sensation at the back of his throat, and a + slight thumping about the heart, which he always experienced at + the door of the little room, prevented his thinking how much it + would cost. + + Going in, he was conscious of an abundant black skirt vanishing + through the door into the restaurant, and of Annette with her + hands up to her hair. It was the attitude in which of all others + he admired her—so beautifully straight and rounded and supple. + And he said: + + “I just came in to talk to your mother about pulling down that + partition. No, don’t call her.” + + “_Monsieur_ will have supper with us? It will be ready in ten + minutes.” Soames, who still held her hand, was overcome by an + impulse which surprised him. + + “You look so pretty to-night,” he said, “so very pretty. Do you + know how pretty you look, Annette?” + + Annette withdrew her hand, and blushed. “Monsieur is very good.” + + “Not a bit good,” said Soames, and sat down gloomily. + + Annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands; a smile + was crinkling her red lips untouched by salve. + + And, looking at those lips, Soames said: + + “Are you happy over here, or do you want to go back to France?” + + “Oh, I like London. Paris, of course. But London is better than + Orleans, and the English country is so beautiful. I have been to + Richmond last Sunday.” + + Soames went through a moment of calculating struggle. + Mapledurham! Dared he? After all, dared he go so far as that, and + show her what there was to look forward to! Still! Down there one + could say things. In this room it was impossible. + + “I want you and your mother,” he said suddenly, “to come for the + afternoon next Sunday. My house is on the river, it’s not too + late in this weather; and I can show you some good pictures. What + do you say?” + + Annette clasped her hands. + + “It will be lovelee. The river is so beautiful” + + “That’s understood, then. I’ll ask Madame.” + + He need say no more to her this evening, and risk giving himself + away. But had he not already said too much? Did one ask + restaurant proprietors with pretty daughters down to one’s + country house without design? Madame Lamotte would see, if + Annette didn’t. Well! there was not much that Madame did not see. + Besides, this was the second time he had stayed to supper with + them; he owed them hospitality. + + Walking home towards Park Lane—for he was staying at his + father’s—with the impression of Annette’s soft clever hand within + his own, his thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather + puzzled. Take steps! What steps? How? Dirty linen washed in + public? Pah! With his reputation for sagacity, for + far-sightedness and the clever extrication of others, he, who + stood for proprietary interests, to become the plaything of that + Law of which he was a pillar! There was something revolting in + the thought! Winifred’s affair was bad enough! To have a double + dose of publicity in the family! Would not a liaison be better + than that—a liaison, and a son he could adopt? But dark, solid, + watchful, Madame Lamotte blocked the avenue of that vision. No! + that would not work. It was not as if Annette could have a real + passion for him; one could not expect that at his age. If her + mother wished, if the worldly advantage were manifestly + great—perhaps! If not, refusal would be certain. Besides, he + thought: “I’m not a villain. I don’t want to hurt her; and I + don’t want anything underhand. But I do want her, and I want a + son! There’s nothing for it but divorce—somehow—anyhow—divorce!” + Under the shadow of the plane-trees, in the lamplight, he passed + slowly along the railings of the Green Park. Mist clung there + among the bluish tree shapes, beyond range of the lamps. How many + hundred times he had walked past those trees from his father’s + house in Park Lane, when he was quite a young man; or from his + own house in Montpellier Square in those four years of married + life! And, to-night, making up his mind to free himself if he + could of that long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk + on, in at Hyde Park Corner, out at Knightsbridge Gate, just as he + used to when going home to Irene in the old days. What could she + be like now?—how had she passed the years since he last saw her, + twelve years in all, seven already since Uncle Jolyon left her + that money? Was she still beautiful? Would he know her if he saw + her? “I’ve not changed much,” he thought; “I expect she has. She + made me suffer.” He remembered suddenly one night, the first on + which he went out to dinner alone—an old Malburian dinner—the + first year of their marriage. With what eagerness he had hurried + back; and, entering softly as a cat, had heard her playing. + Opening the drawing-room door noiselessly, he had stood watching + the expression on her face, different from any he knew, so much + more open, so confiding, as though to her music she was giving a + heart he had never seen. And he remembered how she stopped and + looked round, how her face changed back to that which he did + know, and what an icy shiver had gone through him, for all that + the next moment he was fondling her shoulders. Yes, she had made + him suffer! Divorce! It seemed ridiculous, after all these years + of utter separation! But it would have to be. No other way! “The + question,” he thought with sudden realism, “is—which of us? She + or me? She deserted me. She ought to pay for it. There’ll be + someone, I suppose.” Involuntarily he uttered a little snarling + sound, and, turning, made his way back to Park Lane. + + + + + CHAPTER V JAMES SEES VISIONS + + + The butler himself opened the door, and closing it softly, + detained Soames on the inner mat. + + “The master’s poorly, sir,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t go to bed + till you came in. He’s still in the diningroom.” + + Soames responded in the hushed tone to which the house was now + accustomed. + + “What’s the matter with him, Warmson?” + + “Nervous, sir, I think. Might be the funeral; might be Mrs. + Dartie’s comin’ round this afternoon. I think he overheard + something. I’ve took him in a negus. The mistress has just gone + up.” + + Soames hung his hat on a mahogany stag’s-horn. + + “All right, Warmson, you can go to bed; I’ll take him up myself.” + And he passed into the dining-room. + + James was sitting before the fire, in a big armchair, with a + camel-hair shawl, very light and warm, over his frock-coated + shoulders, on to which his long white whiskers drooped. His white + hair, still fairly thick, glistened in the lamplight; a little + moisture from his fixed, light-grey eyes stained the cheeks, + still quite well coloured, and the long deep furrows running to + the corners of the clean-shaven lips, which moved as if mumbling + thoughts. His long legs, thin as a crow’s, in shepherd’s plaid + trousers, were bent at less than a right angle, and on one knee a + spindly hand moved continually, with fingers wide apart and + glistening tapered nails. Beside him, on a low stool, stood a + half-finished glass of negus, bedewed with beads of heat. There + he had been sitting, with intervals for meals, all day. At + eighty-eight he was still organically sound, but suffering + terribly from the thought that no one ever told him anything. It + is, indeed, doubtful how he had become aware that Roger was being + buried that day, for Emily had kept it from him. She was always + keeping things from him. Emily was only seventy! James had a + grudge against his wife’s youth. He felt sometimes that he would + never have married her if he had known that she would have so + many years before her, when he had so few. It was not natural. + She would live fifteen or twenty years after he was gone, and + might spend a lot of money; she had always had extravagant + tastes. For all he knew she might want to buy one of these + motor-cars. Cicely and Rachel and Imogen and all the young + people—they all rode those bicycles now and went off Goodness + knew where. And now Roger was gone. He didn’t know—couldn’t tell! + The family was breaking up. Soames would know how much his uncle + had left. Curiously he thought of Roger as Soames’ uncle not as + his own brother. Soames! It was more and more the one solid spot + in a vanishing world. Soames was careful; he was a warm man; but + he had no one to leave his money to. There it was! He didn’t + know! And there was that fellow Chamberlain! For James’ political + principles had been fixed between ’70 and ’85 when “that rascally + Radical” had been the chief thorn in the side of property and he + distrusted him to this day in spite of his conversion; he would + get the country into a mess and make money go down before he had + done with it. A stormy petrel of a chap! Where was Soames? He had + gone to the funeral of course which they had tried to keep from + him. He knew that perfectly well; he had seen his son’s trousers. + Roger! Roger in his coffin! He remembered how, when they came up + from school together from the West, on the box seat of the old + Slowflyer in 1824, Roger had got into the “boot” and gone to + sleep. James uttered a thin cackle. A funny fellow—Roger—an + original! He didn’t know! Younger than himself, and in his + coffin! The family was breaking up. There was Val going to the + university; he never came to see him now. He would cost a pretty + penny up there. It was an extravagant age. And all the pretty + pennies that his four grandchildren would cost him danced before + James’ eyes. He did not grudge them the money, but he grudged + terribly the risk which the spending of that money might bring on + them; _he grudged the diminution of security_. And now that + Cicely had married, she might be having children too. He didn’t + know—couldn’t tell! Nobody thought of anything but spending money + in these days, and racing about, and having what they called “a + good time.” A motor-car went past the window. Ugly great + lumbering thing, making all that racket! But there it was, the + country rattling to the dogs! People in such a hurry that they + couldn’t even care for style—a neat turnout like his barouche and + bays was worth all those new-fangled things. And consols at 116! + There must be a lot of money in the country. And now there was + this old Kruger! They had tried to keep old Kruger from him. But + he knew better; there would be a pretty kettle of fish out there! + He had known how it would be when that fellow Gladstone—dead now, + thank God! made such a mess of it after that dreadful business at + Majuba. He shouldn’t wonder if the Empire split up and went to + pot. And this vision of the Empire going to pot filled a full + quarter of an hour with qualms of the most serious character. He + had eaten a poor lunch because of them. But it was after lunch + that the real disaster to his nerves occurred. He had been dozing + when he became aware of voices—low voices. Ah! they never told + him anything! Winifred’s and her mother’s. “Monty!” That fellow + Dartie—always that fellow Dartie! The voices had receded; and + James had been left alone, with his ears standing up like a + hare’s, and fear creeping about his inwards. Why did they leave + him alone? Why didn’t they come and tell him? And an awful + thought, which through long years had haunted him, concreted + again swiftly in his brain. Dartie had gone bankrupt—fraudulently + bankrupt, and to save Winifred and the children, he—James—would + have to pay! Could he—could Soames turn him into a limited + company? No, he couldn’t! There it was! With every minute before + Emily came back the spectre fiercened. Why, it might be forgery! + With eyes fixed on the doubted Turner in the centre of the wall, + James suffered tortures. He saw Dartie in the dock, his + grandchildren in the gutter, and himself in bed. He saw the + doubted Turner being sold at Jobson’s, and all the majestic + edifice of property in rags. He saw in fancy Winifred + unfashionably dressed, and heard in fancy Emily’s voice saying: + “Now, don’t fuss, James!” She was always saying: “Don’t fuss!” + She had no nerves; he ought never to have married a woman + eighteen years younger than himself. Then Emily’s real voice + said: + + “Have you had a nice nap, James?” + + Nap! He was in torment, and she asked him that! + + “What’s this about Dartie?” he said, and his eyes glared at her. + + Emily’s self-possession never deserted her. + + “What have you been hearing?” she asked blandly. + + “What’s this about Dartie?” repeated James. “He’s gone bankrupt.” + + “Fiddle!” + + James made a great effort, and rose to the full height of his + stork-like figure. + + “You never tell me anything,” he said; “he’s gone bankrupt.” + + The destruction of that fixed idea seemed to Emily all that + mattered at the moment. + + “He has not,” she answered firmly. “He’s gone to Buenos Aires.” + + If she had said “He’s gone to Mars” she could not have dealt + James a more stunning blow; his imagination, invested entirely in + British securities, could as little grasp one place as the other. + + “What’s he gone there for?” he said. “He’s got no money. What did + he take?” + + Agitated within by Winifred’s news, and goaded by the constant + reiteration of this jeremiad, Emily said calmly: + + “He took Winifred’s pearls and a dancer.” + + “What!” said James, and sat down. + + His sudden collapse alarmed her, and smoothing his forehead, she + said: + + “Now, don’t fuss, James!” + + A dusky red had spread over James’ cheeks and forehead. + + “I paid for them,” he said tremblingly; “he’s a thief! I—I knew + how it would be. He’ll be the death of me; he ....” Words failed + him and he sat quite still. Emily, who thought she knew him so + well, was alarmed, and went towards the sideboard where she kept + some sal volatile. She could not see the tenacious Forsyte spirit + working in that thin, tremulous shape against the extravagance of + the emotion called up by this outrage on Forsyte principles—the + Forsyte spirit deep in there, saying: “You mustn’t get into a + fantod, it’ll never do. You won’t digest your lunch. You’ll have + a fit!” All unseen by her, it was doing better work in James than + sal volatile. + + “Drink this,” she said. + + James waved it aside. + + “What was Winifred about,” he said, “to let him take her pearls?” + Emily perceived the crisis past. + + “She can have mine,” she said comfortably. “I never wear them. + She’d better get a divorce.” + + “There you go!” said James. “Divorce! We’ve never had a divorce + in the family. Where’s Soames?” + + “He’ll be in directly.” + + “No, he won’t,” said James, almost fiercely; “he’s at the + funeral. You think I know nothing.” + + “Well,” said Emily with calm, “you shouldn’t get into such fusses + when we tell you things.” And plumping up his cushions, and + putting the sal volatile beside him, she left the room. + + But James sat there seeing visions—of Winifred in the Divorce + Court, and the family name in the papers; of the earth falling on + Roger’s coffin; of Val taking after his father; of the pearls he + had paid for and would never see again; of money back at four per + cent., and the country going to the dogs; and, as the afternoon + wore into evening, and tea-time passed, and dinnertime, those + visions became more and more mixed and menacing—of being told + nothing, till he had nothing left of all his wealth, and they + told him nothing of it. Where was Soames? Why didn’t he come + in?... His hand grasped the glass of negus, he raised it to + drink, and saw his son standing there looking at him. A little + sigh of relief escaped his lips, and putting the glass down, he + said: + + “There you are! Dartie’s gone to Buenos Aires.” + + Soames nodded. “That’s all right,” he said; “good riddance.” + + A wave of assuagement passed over James’ brain. Soames knew. + Soames was the only one of them all who had sense. Why couldn’t + he come and live at home? He had no son of his own. And he said + plaintively: + + “At my age I get nervous. I wish you were more at home, my boy.” + + Again Soames nodded; the mask of his countenance betrayed no + understanding, but he went closer, and as if by accident touched + his father’s shoulder. + + “They sent their love to you at Timothy’s,” he said. “It went off + all right. I’ve been to see Winifred. I’m going to take steps.” + And he thought: “Yes, and you mustn’t hear of them.” + + James looked up; his long white whiskers quivered, his thin + throat between the points of his collar looked very gristly and + naked. + + “I’ve been very poorly all day,” he said; “they never tell me + anything.” + + Soames’ heart twitched. + + “Well, it’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about. Will you + come up now?” and he put his hand under his father’s arm. + + James obediently and tremulously raised himself, and together + they went slowly across the room, which had a rich look in the + firelight, and out to the stairs. Very slowly they ascended. + + “Good-night, my boy,” said James at his bedroom door. + + “Good-night, father,” answered Soames. His hand stroked down the + sleeve beneath the shawl; it seemed to have almost nothing in it, + so thin was the arm. And, turning away from the light in the + opening doorway, he went up the extra flight to his own bedroom. + + “I want a son,” he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed; “_I + want a son_.” + + + + + CHAPTER VI NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME + + + Trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper + lawn at Robin Hill looked no day older than when Bosinney + sprawled under it and said to Soames: “Forsyte, I’ve found the + very place for your house.” Since then Swithin had dreamed, and + old Jolyon died, beneath its branches. And now, close to the + swing, no-longer-young Jolyon often painted there. Of all spots + in the world it was perhaps the most sacred to him, for he had + loved his father. + + Contemplating its great girth—crinkled and a little mossed, but + not yet hollow—he would speculate on the passage of time. That + tree had seen, perhaps, all real English history; it dated, he + shouldn’t wonder, from the days of Elizabeth at least. His own + fifty years were as nothing to its wood. When the house behind + it, which he now owned, was three hundred years of age instead of + twelve, that tree might still be standing there, vast and + hollow—for who would commit such sacrilege as to cut it down? A + Forsyte might perhaps still be living in that house, to guard it + jealously. And Jolyon would wonder what the house would look like + coated with such age. Wistaria was already about its walls—the + new look had gone. Would it hold its own and keep the dignity + Bosinney had bestowed on it, or would the giant London have + lapped it round and made it into an asylum in the midst of a + jerry-built wilderness? Often, within and without of it, he was + persuaded that Bosinney had been moved by the spirit when he + built. He had put his heart into that house, indeed! It might + even become one of the “homes of England”—a rare achievement for + a house in these degenerate days of building. And the aesthetic + spirit, moving hand in hand with his Forsyte sense of possessive + continuity, dwelt with pride and pleasure on his ownership + thereof. There was the smack of reverence and ancestor-worship + (if only for one ancestor) in his desire to hand this house down + to his son and his son’s son. His father had loved the house, had + loved the view, the grounds, that tree; his last years had been + happy there, and no one had lived there before him. These last + eleven years at Robin Hill had formed in Jolyon’s life as a + painter, the important period of success. He was now in the very + van of water-colour art, hanging on the line everywhere. His + drawings fetched high prices. Specialising in that one medium + with the tenacity of his breed, he had “arrived”—rather late, but + not too late for a member of the family which made a point of + living for ever. His art had really deepened and improved. In + conformity with his position he had grown a short fair beard, + which was just beginning to grizzle, and hid his Forsyte chin; + his brown face had lost the warped expression of his ostracised + period—he looked, if anything, younger. The loss of his wife in + 1894 had been one of those domestic tragedies which turn out in + the end for the good of all. He had, indeed, loved her to the + last, for his was an affectionate spirit, but she had become + increasingly difficult: jealous of her step-daughter June, + jealous even of her own little daughter Holly, and making + ceaseless plaint that he could not love her, ill as she was, and + “useless to everyone, and better dead.” He had mourned her + sincerely, but his face had looked younger since she died. If she + could only have believed that she made him happy, how much + happier would the twenty years of their companionship have been! + + June had never really got on well with her who had reprehensibly + taken her own mother’s place; and ever since old Jolyon died she + had been established in a sort of studio in London. But she had + come back to Robin Hill on her stepmother’s death, and gathered + the reins there into her small decided hands. Jolly was then at + Harrow; Holly still learning from Mademoiselle Beauce. There had + been nothing to keep Jolyon at home, and he had removed his grief + and his paint-box abroad. There he had wandered, for the most + part in Brittany, and at last had fetched up in Paris. He had + stayed there several months, and come back with the younger face + and the short fair beard. Essentially a man who merely lodged in + any house, it had suited him perfectly that June should reign at + Robin Hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where + and when he liked. She was inclined, it is true, to regard the + house rather as an asylum for her _protégés;_ but his own outcast + days had filled Jolyon for ever with sympathy towards an outcast, + and June’s “lame ducks” about the place did not annoy him. By all + means let her have them down—and feed them up; and though his + slightly cynical humour perceived that they ministered to his + daughter’s love of domination as well as moved her warm heart, he + never ceased to admire her for having so many ducks. He fell, + indeed, year by year into a more and more detached and brotherly + attitude towards his own son and daughters, treating them with a + sort of whimsical equality. When he went down to Harrow to see + Jolly, he never quite knew which of them was the elder, and would + sit eating cherries with him out of one paper bag, with an + affectionate and ironical smile twisting up an eyebrow and + curling his lips a little. And he was always careful to have + money in his pocket, and to be modish in his dress, so that his + son need not blush for him. They were perfect friends, but never + seemed to have occasion for verbal confidences, both having the + competitive self-consciousness of Forsytes. They knew they would + stand by each other in scrapes, but there was no need to talk + about it. Jolyon had a striking horror—partly original sin, but + partly the result of his early immorality—of the moral attitude. + The most he could ever have said to his son would have been: + + “Look here, old man; don’t forget you’re a gentleman,” and then + have wondered whimsically whether that was not a snobbish + sentiment. The great cricket match was perhaps the most searching + and awkward time they annually went through together, for Jolyon + had been at Eton. They would be particularly careful during that + match, continually saying: “Hooray! Oh! hard luck, old man!” or + “Hooray! Oh! bad luck, Dad!” to each other, when some disaster at + which their hearts bounded happened to the opposing school. And + Jolyon would wear a grey top hat, instead of his usual soft one, + to save his son’s feelings, for a black top hat he could not + stomach. When Jolly went up to Oxford, Jolyon went up with him, + amused, humble, and a little anxious not to discredit his boy + amongst all these youths who seemed so much more assured and old + than himself. He often thought, “Glad I’m a painter” for he had + long dropped under-writing at Lloyds—“it’s so innocuous. You + can’t look down on a painter—you can’t take him seriously + enough.” For Jolly, who had a sort of natural lordliness, had + passed at once into a very small set, who secretly amused his + father. The boy had fair hair which curled a little, and his + grandfather’s deepset iron-grey eyes. He was well-built and very + upright, and always pleased Jolyon’s aesthetic sense, so that he + was a tiny bit afraid of him, as artists ever are of those of + their own sex whom they admire physically. On that occasion, + however, he actually did screw up his courage to give his son + advice, and this was it: + + “Look here, old man, you’re bound to get into debt; mind you come + to me at once. Of course, I’ll always pay them. But you might + remember that one respects oneself more afterwards if one pays + one’s own way. And don’t ever borrow, except from me, will you?” + + And Jolly had said: + + “All right, Dad, I won’t,” and he never had. + + “And there’s just one other thing. I don’t know much about + morality and that, but there is this: It’s always worth while + before you do anything to consider whether it’s going to hurt + another person more than is absolutely necessary.” + + Jolly had looked thoughtful, and nodded, and presently had + squeezed his father’s hand. And Jolyon had thought: “I wonder if + I had the right to say that?” He always had a sort of dread of + losing the dumb confidence they had in each other; remembering + how for long years he had lost his own father’s, so that there + had been nothing between them but love at a great distance. He + under-estimated, no doubt, the change in the spirit of the age + since he himself went up to Cambridge in ’65; and perhaps he + underestimated, too, his boy’s power of understanding that he was + tolerant to the very bone. It was that tolerance of his, and + possibly his scepticism, which ever made his relations towards + June so queerly defensive. She was such a decided mortal; knew + her own mind so terribly well; wanted things so inexorably until + she got them—and then, indeed, often dropped them like a hot + potato. Her mother had been like that, whence had come all those + tears. Not that his incompatibility with his daughter was + anything like what it had been with the first Mrs. Young Jolyon. + One could be amused where a daughter was concerned; in a wife’s + case one could not be amused. To see June set her heart and jaw + on a thing until she got it was all right, because it was never + anything which interfered fundamentally with Jolyon’s liberty—the + one thing on which his jaw was also absolutely rigid, a + considerable jaw, under that short grizzling beard. Nor was there + ever any necessity for real heart-to-heart encounters. One could + break away into irony—as indeed he often had to. But the real + trouble with June was that she had never appealed to his + aesthetic sense, though she might well have, with her red-gold + hair and her viking-coloured eyes, and that touch of the + Berserker in her spirit. It was very different with Holly, soft + and quiet, shy and affectionate, with a playful imp in her + somewhere. He watched this younger daughter of his through the + duckling stage with extraordinary interest. Would she come out a + swan? With her sallow oval face and her grey wistful eyes and + those long dark lashes, she might, or she might not. Only this + last year had he been able to guess. Yes, she would be a + swan—rather a dark one, always a shy one, but an authentic swan. + She was eighteen now, and Mademoiselle Beauce was gone—the + excellent lady had removed, after eleven years haunted by her + continuous reminiscences of the “well-brrred little Tayleurs,” to + another family whose bosom would now be agitated by her + reminiscences of the “well-brrred little Forsytes.” She had + taught Holly to speak French like herself. + + Portraiture was not Jolyon’s forte, but he had already drawn his + younger daughter three times, and was drawing her a fourth, on + the afternoon of October 4th, 1899, when a card was brought to + him which caused his eyebrows to go up: + MR. SOAMES FORSYTE + THE SHELTER, CONNOISSEURS CLUB, MAPLEDURHAM. + ST. JAMES’S. + But here the Forsyte Saga must digress again.... + + To return from a long travel in Spain to a darkened house, to a + little daughter bewildered with tears, to the sight of a loved + father lying peaceful in his last sleep, had never been, was + never likely to be, forgotten by so impressionable and + warm-hearted a man as Jolyon. A sense as of mystery, too, clung + to that sad day, and about the end of one whose life had been so + well-ordered, balanced, and above-board. It seemed incredible + that his father could thus have vanished without, as it were, + announcing his intention, without last words to his son, and due + farewells. And those incoherent allusions of little Holly to “the + lady in grey,” of Mademoiselle Beauce to a Madame Errant (as it + sounded) involved all things in a mist, lifted a little when he + read his father’s will and the codicil thereto. It had been his + duty as executor of that will and codicil to inform Irene, wife + of his cousin Soames, of her life interest in fifteen thousand + pounds. He had called on her to explain that the existing + investment in India Stock, ear-marked to meet the charge, would + produce for her the interesting net sum of £430 odd a year, clear + of income tax. This was but the third time he had seen his cousin + Soames’ wife—if indeed she was still his wife, of which he was + not quite sure. He remembered having seen her sitting in the + Botanical Gardens waiting for Bosinney—a passive, fascinating + figure, reminding him of Titian’s “Heavenly Love,” and again, + when, charged by his father, he had gone to Montpellier Square on + the afternoon when Bosinney’s death was known. He still recalled + vividly her sudden appearance in the drawing-room doorway on that + occasion—her beautiful face, passing from wild eagerness of hope + to stony despair; remembered the compassion he had felt, Soames’ + snarling smile, his words, “We are not at home!” and the slam of + the front door. + + This third time he saw a face and form more beautiful—freed from + that warp of wild hope and despair. Looking at her, he thought: + “Yes, you are just what the Dad would have admired!” And the + strange story of his father’s Indian summer became slowly clear + to him. She spoke of old Jolyon with reverence and tears in her + eyes. “He was so wonderfully kind to me; I don’t know why. He + looked so beautiful and peaceful sitting in that chair under the + tree; it was I who first came on him sitting there, you know. + Such a lovely day. I don’t think an end could have been happier. + We should all like to go out like that.” + + “Quite right!” he had thought. “We should all like to go out in + full summer with beauty stepping towards us across a lawn.” + + And looking round the little, almost empty drawing-room, he had + asked her what she was going to do now. “I am going to live again + a little, Cousin Jolyon. It’s wonderful to have money of one’s + own. I’ve never had any. I shall keep this flat, I think; I’m + used to it; but I shall be able to go to Italy.” + + “Exactly!” Jolyon had murmured, looking at her faintly smiling + lips; and he had gone away thinking: “A fascinating woman! What a + waste! I’m glad the Dad left her that money.” He had not seen her + again, but every quarter he had signed her cheque, forwarding it + to her bank, with a note to the Chelsea flat to say that he had + done so; and always he had received a note in acknowledgment, + generally from the flat, but sometimes from Italy; so that her + personality had become embodied in slightly scented grey paper, + an upright fine handwriting, and the words, “Dear Cousin Jolyon.” + Man of property that he now was, the slender cheque he signed + often gave rise to the thought: “Well, I suppose she just + manages”; sliding into a vague wonder how she was faring + otherwise in a world of men not wont to let beauty go + unpossessed. At first Holly had spoken of her sometimes, but + “ladies in grey” soon fade from children’s memories; and the + tightening of June’s lips in those first weeks after her + grandfather’s death whenever her former friend’s name was + mentioned, had discouraged allusion. Only once, indeed, had June + spoken definitely: “I’ve forgiven her. I’m frightfully glad she’s + independent now....” + + On receiving Soames’ card, Jolyon said to the maid—for he could + not abide butlers—“Show him into the study, please, and say I’ll + be there in a minute”; and then he looked at Holly and asked: + + “Do you remember ‘the lady in grey,’ who used to give you + music-lessons?” + + “Oh yes, why? Has she come?” + + Jolyon shook his head, and, changing his holland blouse for a + coat, was silent, perceiving suddenly that such history was not + for those young ears. His face, in fact, became whimsical + perplexity incarnate while he journeyed towards the study. + + Standing by the french-window, looking out across the terrace at + the oak tree, were two figures, middle-aged and young, and he + thought: “Who’s that boy? Surely they never had a child.” + + The elder figure turned. The meeting of those two Forsytes of the + second generation, so much more sophisticated than the first, in + the house built for the one and owned and occupied by the other, + was marked by subtle defensiveness beneath distinct attempt at + cordiality. “Has he come about his wife?” Jolyon was thinking; + and Soames, “How shall I begin?” while Val, brought to break the + ice, stood negligently scrutinising this “bearded pard” from + under his dark, thick eyelashes. + + “This is Val Dartie,” said Soames, “my sister’s son. He’s just + going up to Oxford. I thought I’d like him to know your boy.” + + “Ah! I’m sorry Jolly’s away. What college?” + + “B.N.C.,” replied Val. + + “Jolly’s at the ‘House,’ but he’ll be delighted to look you up.” + + “Thanks awfully.” + + “Holly’s in—if you could put up with a female relation, she’d + show you round. You’ll find her in the hall if you go through the + curtains. I was just painting her.” + + With another “Thanks, awfully!” Val vanished, leaving the two + cousins with the ice unbroken. + + “I see you’ve some drawings at the ‘Water Colours,’” said Soames. + + Jolyon winced. He had been out of touch with the Forsyte family + at large for twenty-six years, but they were connected in his + mind with Frith’s “Derby Day” and Landseer prints. He had heard + from June that Soames was a connoisseur, which made it worse. He + had become aware, too, of a curious sensation of repugnance. + + “I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. + + “No,” answered Soames between close lips, “not since—as a matter + of fact, it’s about that I’ve come. You’re her trustee, I’m + told.” + + Jolyon nodded. + + “Twelve years is a long time,” said Soames rapidly: “I—I’m tired + of it.” + + Jolyon found no more appropriate answer than: + + “Won’t you smoke?” + + “No, thanks.” + + Jolyon himself lit a cigarette. + + “I wish to be free,” said Soames abruptly. + + “I don’t see her,” murmured Jolyon through the fume of his + cigarette. + + “But you know where she lives, I suppose?” + + Jolyon nodded. He did not mean to give her address without + permission. Soames seemed to divine his thought. + + “I don’t want her address,” he said; “I know it.” + + “What exactly do you want?” + + “She deserted me. I want a divorce.” + + “Rather late in the day, isn’t it?” + + “Yes,” said Soames. And there was a silence. + + “I don’t know much about these things—at least, I’ve forgotten,” + said Jolyon with a wry smile. He himself had had to wait for + death to grant him a divorce from the first Mrs. Jolyon. “Do you + wish me to see her about it?” + + Soames raised his eyes to his cousin’s face. “I suppose there’s + someone,” he said. + + A shrug moved Jolyon’s shoulders. + + “I don’t know at all. I imagine you may have both lived as if the + other were dead. It’s usual in these cases.” + + Soames turned to the window. A few early fallen oak-leaves + strewed the terrace already, and were rolling round in the wind. + Jolyon saw the figures of Holly and Val Dartie moving across the + lawn towards the stables. “I’m not going to run with the hare and + hunt with the hounds,” he thought. “I must act for her. The Dad + would have wished that.” And for a swift moment he seemed to see + his father’s figure in the old armchair, just beyond Soames, + sitting with knees crossed, _The Times_ in his hand. It vanished. + + “My father was fond of her,” he said quietly. + + “Why he should have been I don’t know,” Soames answered without + looking round. “She brought trouble to your daughter June; she + brought trouble to everyone. I gave her all she wanted. I would + have given her even—forgiveness—but she chose to leave me.” + + In Jolyon compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. + What was there in the fellow that made it so difficult to be + sorry for him? + + “I can go and see her, if you like,” he said. “I suppose she + might be glad of a divorce, but I know nothing.” + + Soames nodded. + + “Yes, please go. As I say, I know her address; but I’ve no wish + to see her.” His tongue was busy with his lips, as if they were + very dry. + + “You’ll have some tea?” said Jolyon, stifling the words: “And see + the house.” And he led the way into the hall. When he had rung + the bell and ordered tea, he went to his easel to turn his + drawing to the wall. He could not bear, somehow, that his work + should be seen by Soames, who was standing there in the middle of + the great room which had been designed expressly to afford wall + space for his own pictures. In his cousin’s face, with its + unseizable family likeness to himself, and its chinny, narrow, + concentrated look, Jolyon saw that which moved him to the + thought: “That chap could never forget anything—nor ever give + himself away. He’s pathetic!” + + + + + CHAPTER VII THE COLT AND THE FILLY + + + When young Val left the presence of the last generation he was + thinking: “This is jolly dull! Uncle Soames does take the bun. I + wonder what this filly’s like?” He anticipated no pleasure from + her society; and suddenly he saw her standing there looking at + him. Why, she was pretty! What luck! + + “I’m afraid you don’t know me,” he said. “My name’s Val + Dartie—I’m once removed, second cousin, something like that, you + know. My mother’s name was Forsyte.” + + Holly, whose slim brown hand remained in his because she was too + shy to withdraw it, said: + + “I don’t know any of my relations. Are there many?” + + “Tons. They’re awful—most of them. At least, I don’t know—some of + them. One’s relations always are, aren’t they?” + + “I expect they think one awful too,” said Holly. + + “I don’t know why they should. No one could think you awful, of + course.” + + Holly looked at him—the wistful candour in those grey eyes gave + young Val a sudden feeling that he must protect her. + + “I mean there are people and people,” he added astutely. “Your + dad looks awfully decent, for instance.” + + “Oh yes!” said Holly fervently; “he is.” + + A flush mounted in Val’s cheeks—that scene in the Pandemonium + promenade—the dark man with the pink carnation developing into + his own father! “But you know what the Forsytes are,” he said + almost viciously. “Oh! I forgot; you don’t.” + + “What are they?” + + “Oh! fearfully careful; not sportsmen a bit. Look at Uncle + Soames!” + + “I’d like to,” said Holly. + + Val resisted a desire to run his arm through hers. “Oh! no,” he + said, “let’s go out. You’ll see him quite soon enough. What’s + your brother like?” + + Holly led the way on to the terrace and down to the lawn without + answering. How describe Jolly, who, ever since she remembered + anything, had been her lord, master, and ideal? + + “Does he sit on you?” said Val shrewdly. “I shall be knowing him + at Oxford. Have you got any horses?” + + Holly nodded. “Would you like to see the stables?” + + “Rather!” + + They passed under the oak tree, through a thin shrubbery, into + the stable-yard. There under a clock-tower lay a fluffy + brown-and-white dog, so old that he did not get up, but faintly + waved the tail curled over his back. + + “That’s Balthasar,” said Holly; “he’s so old—awfully old, nearly + as old as I am. Poor old boy! He’s devoted to Dad.” + + “Balthasar! That’s a rum name. He isn’t purebred you know.” + + “No! but he’s a darling,” and she bent down to stroke the dog. + Gentle and supple, with dark covered head and slim browned neck + and hands, she seemed to Val strange and sweet, like a thing + slipped between him and all previous knowledge. + + “When grandfather died,” she said, “he wouldn’t eat for two days. + He saw him die, you know.” + + “Was that old Uncle Jolyon? Mother always says he was a topper.” + + “He was,” said Holly simply, and opened the stable door. + + In a loose-box stood a silver roan of about fifteen hands, with a + long black tail and mane. “This is mine—Fairy.” + + “Ah!” said Val, “she’s a jolly palfrey. But you ought to bang her + tail. She’d look much smarter.” Then catching her wondering look, + he thought suddenly: “I don’t know—anything she likes!” And he + took a long sniff of the stable air. “Horses are ripping, aren’t + they? My Dad...” he stopped. + + “Yes?” said Holly. + + An impulse to unbosom himself almost overcame him—but not quite. + “Oh! I don’t know he’s often gone a mucker over them. I’m jolly + keen on them too—riding and hunting. I like racing awfully, as + well; I should like to be a gentleman rider.” And oblivious of + the fact that he had but one more day in town, with two + engagements, he plumped out: + + “I say, if I hire a gee to-morrow, will you come a ride in + Richmond Park?” + + Holly clasped her hands. + + “Oh yes! I simply love riding. But there’s Jolly’s horse; why + don’t you ride him? Here he is. We could go after tea.” + + Val looked doubtfully at his trousered legs. + + He had imagined them immaculate before her eyes in high brown + boots and Bedford cords. + + “I don’t much like riding his horse,” he said. “He mightn’t like + it. Besides, Uncle Soames wants to get back, I expect. Not that I + believe in buckling under to him, you know. You haven’t got an + uncle, have you? This is rather a good beast,” he added, + scrutinising Jolly’s horse, a dark brown, which was showing the + whites of its eyes. “You haven’t got any hunting here, I + suppose?” + + “No; I don’t know that I want to hunt. It must be awfully + exciting, of course; but it’s cruel, isn’t it? June says so.” + + “Cruel?” ejaculated Val. “Oh! that’s all rot. Who’s June?” + + “My sister—my half-sister, you know—much older than me.” She had + put her hands up to both cheeks of Jolly’s horse, and was rubbing + her nose against its nose with a gentle snuffling noise which + seemed to have an hypnotic effect on the animal. Val contemplated + her cheek resting against the horse’s nose, and her eyes gleaming + round at him. “She’s really a duck,” he thought. + + They returned to the house less talkative, followed this time by + the dog Balthasar, walking more slowly than anything on earth, + and clearly expecting them not to exceed his speed limit. + + “This is a ripping place,” said Val from under the oak tree, + where they had paused to allow the dog Balthasar to come up. + + “Yes,” said Holly, and sighed. “Of course I want to go + everywhere. I wish I were a gipsy.” + + “Yes, gipsies are jolly,” replied Val, with a conviction which + had just come to him; “you’re rather like one, you know.” + + Holly’s face shone suddenly and deeply, like dark leaves gilded + by the sun. + + “To go mad-rabbiting everywhere and see everything, and live in + the open—oh! wouldn’t it be fun?” + + “Let’s do it!” said Val. + + “Oh yes, let’s!” + + “It’d be grand sport, just you and I.” + + Then Holly perceived the quaintness and gushed. + + “Well, we’ve got to do it,” said Val obstinately, but reddening + too. + + “I believe in doing things you want to do. What’s down there?” + + “The kitchen-garden, and the pond and the coppice, and the farm.” + + “Let’s go down!” + + Holly glanced back at the house. + + “It’s tea-time, I expect; there’s Dad beckoning.” + + Val, uttering a growly sound, followed her towards the house. + + When they re-entered the hall gallery the sight of two + middle-aged Forsytes drinking tea together had its magical + effect, and they became quite silent. It was, indeed, an + impressive spectacle. The two were seated side by side on an + arrangement in marqueterie which looked like three silvery pink + chairs made one, with a low tea-table in front of them. They + seemed to have taken up that position, as far apart as the seat + would permit, so that they need not look at each other too much; + and they were eating and drinking rather than talking—Soames with + his air of despising the tea-cake as it disappeared, Jolyon of + finding himself slightly amusing. To the casual eye neither would + have seemed greedy, but both were getting through a good deal of + sustenance. The two young ones having been supplied with food, + the process went on silent and absorbative, till, with the advent + of cigarettes, Jolyon said to Soames: + + “And how’s Uncle James?” + + “Thanks, very shaky.” + + “We’re a wonderful family, aren’t we? The other day I was + calculating the average age of the ten old Forsytes from my + father’s family Bible. I make it eighty-four already, and five + still living. They ought to beat the record;” and looking + whimsically at Soames, he added: + + “We aren’t the men they were, you know.” + + Soames smiled. “Do you really think I shall admit that I’m not + their equal”. he seemed to be saying, “or that I’ve got to give + up anything, especially life?” + + “We may live to their age, perhaps,” pursued Jolyon, “but + self-consciousness is a handicap, you know, and that’s the + difference between us. We’ve lost conviction. How and when + self-consciousness was born I never can make out. My father had a + little, but I don’t believe any other of the old Forsytes ever + had a scrap. Never to see yourself as others see you, it’s a + wonderful preservative. The whole history of the last century is + in the difference between us. And between us and you,” he added, + gazing through a ring of smoke at Val and Holly, uncomfortable + under his quizzical regard, “there’ll be—another difference. I + wonder what.” + + Soames took out his watch. + + “We must go,” he said, “if we’re to catch our train.” + + “Uncle Soames never misses a train,” muttered Val, with his mouth + full. + + “Why should I?” Soames answered simply. + + “Oh! I don’t know,” grumbled Val, “other people do.” + + At the front door he gave Holly’s slim brown hand a long and + surreptitious squeeze. + + “Look out for me to-morrow,” he whispered; “three o’clock. I’ll + wait for you in the road; it’ll save time. We’ll have a ripping + ride.” He gazed back at her from the lodge gate, and, but for the + principles of a man about town, would have waved his hand. He + felt in no mood to tolerate his uncle’s conversation. But he was + not in danger. Soames preserved a perfect muteness, busy with + far-away thoughts. + + The yellow leaves came down about those two walking the mile and + a half which Soames had traversed so often in those long-ago days + when he came down to watch with secret pride the building of the + house—that house which was to have been the home of him and her + from whom he was now going to seek release. He looked back once, + up that endless vista of autumn lane between the yellowing + hedges. What an age ago! “I don’t want to see her,” he had said + to Jolyon. Was that true? “I may have to,” he thought; and he + shivered, seized by one of those queer shudderings that they say + mean footsteps on one’s grave. A chilly world! A queer world! And + glancing sidelong at his nephew, he thought: “Wish I were his + age! I wonder what she’s like now!” + + + + + CHAPTER VIII JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP + + + When those two were gone Jolyon did not return to his painting, + for daylight was failing, but went to the study, craving + unconsciously a revival of that momentary vision of his father + sitting in the old leather chair with his knees crossed and his + straight eyes gazing up from under the dome of his massive brow. + Often in this little room, cosiest in the house, Jolyon would + catch a moment of communion with his father. Not, indeed, that he + had definitely any faith in the persistence of the human + spirit—the feeling was not so logical—it was, rather, an + atmospheric impact, like a scent, or one of those strong + animistic impressions from forms, or effects of light, to which + those with the artist’s eye are especially prone. Here only—in + this little unchanged room where his father had spent the most of + his waking hours—could be retrieved the feeling that he was not + quite gone, that the steady counsel of that old spirit and the + warmth of his masterful lovability endured. + + What would his father be advising now, in this sudden + recrudescence of an old tragedy—what would he say to this menace + against her to whom he had taken such a fancy in the last weeks + of his life? “I must do my best for her,” thought Jolyon; “he + left her to me in his will. But what _is_ the best?” + + And as if seeking to regain the sapience, the balance and shrewd + common sense of that old Forsyte, he sat down in the ancient + chair and crossed his knees. But he felt a mere shadow sitting + there; nor did any inspiration come, while the fingers of the + wind tapped on the darkening panes of the french-window. + + “Go and see her?” he thought, “or ask her to come down here? + What’s her life been? What is it now, I wonder? Beastly to rake + up things at this time of day.” Again the figure of his cousin + standing with a hand on a front door of a fine olive-green leaped + out, vivid, like one of those figures from old-fashioned clocks + when the hour strikes; and his words sounded in Jolyon’s ears + clearer than any chime: “I manage my own affairs. I’ve told you + once, I tell you again: We are not at home.” The repugnance he + had then felt for Soames—for his flat-cheeked, shaven face full + of spiritual bull-doggedness; for his spare, square, sleek figure + slightly crouched as it were over the bone he could not + digest—came now again, fresh as ever, nay, with an odd increase. + “I dislike him,” he thought, “I dislike him to the very roots of + me. And that’s lucky; it’ll make it easier for me to back his + wife.” Half-artist, and half-Forsyte, Jolyon was constitutionally + averse from what he termed “ructions”; unless angered, he + conformed deeply to that classic description of the she-dog, + “Er’d ruther run than fight.” A little smile became settled in + his beard. Ironical that Soames should come down here—to this + house, built for himself! How he had gazed and gaped at this ruin + of his past intention; furtively nosing at the walls and + stairway, appraising everything! And intuitively Jolyon thought: + “I believe the fellow even now would like to be living here. He + could never leave off longing for what he once owned! Well, I + must act, somehow or other; but it’s a bore—a great bore.” + + Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat, asking if Irene + would see him. + + The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower + so wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms. + Rumours of war added to the briskness of a London turbulent at + the close of the summer holidays. And the streets to Jolyon, who + was not often up in town, had a feverish look, due to these new + motorcars and cabs, of which he disapproved aesthetically. He + counted these vehicles from his hansom, and made the proportion + of them one in twenty. “They were one in thirty about a year + ago,” he thought; “they’ve come to stay. Just so much more + rattling round of wheels and general stink”—for he was one of + those rather rare Liberals who object to anything new when it + takes a material form; and he instructed his driver to get down + to the river quickly, out of the traffic, desiring to look at the + water through the mellowing screen of plane-trees. At the little + block of flats which stood back some fifty yards from the + Embankment, he told the cabman to wait, and went up to the first + floor. + + Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home! + + The effect of a settled if very modest income was at once + apparent to him remembering the threadbare refinement in that + tiny flat eight years ago when he announced her good fortune. + Everything was now fresh, dainty, and smelled of flowers. The + general effect was silvery with touches of black, hydrangea + colour, and gold. “A woman of great taste,” he thought. Time had + dealt gently with Jolyon, for he was a Forsyte. But with Irene + Time hardly seemed to deal at all, or such was his impression. + She appeared to him not a day older, standing there in + mole-coloured velvet corduroy, with soft dark eyes and dark gold + hair, with outstretched hand and a little smile. + + “Won’t you sit down?” + + He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of + embarrassment. + + “You look absolutely unchanged,” he said. + + “And you look younger, Cousin Jolyon.” + + Jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still + a comfort to him. + + “I’m ancient, but I don’t feel it. That’s one thing about + painting, it keeps you young. Titian lived to ninety-nine, and + had to have plague to kill him off. Do you know, the first time I + ever saw you I thought of a picture by him?” + + “When did you see me for the first time?” + + “In the Botanical Gardens.” + + “How did you know me, if you’d never seen me before?” + + “By someone who came up to you.” He was looking at her hardily, + but her face did not change; and she said quietly: + + “Yes; many lives ago.” + + “What is _your_ recipe for youth, Irene?” + + “People who don’t _live_ are wonderfully preserved.” + + H’m! a bitter little saying! People who don’t live! But an + opening, and he took it. “You remember my Cousin Soames?” + + He saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality, and at once went + on: + + “He came to see me the day before yesterday! He wants a divorce. + Do you?” + + “I?” The word seemed startled out of her. “After twelve years? + It’s rather late. Won’t it be difficult?” + + Jolyon looked hard into her face. “Unless....” he said. + + “Unless I have a lover now. But I have never had one since.” + + What did he feel at the simplicity and candour of those words? + Relief, surprise, pity! Venus for twelve years without a lover! + + “And yet,” he said, “I suppose you would give a good deal to be + free, too?” + + “I don’t know. What does it matter, now?” + + “But if you were to love again?” + + “I should love.” In that simple answer she seemed to sum up the + whole philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back. + + “Well! Is there anything you would like me to say to him?” + + “Only that I’m sorry he’s not free. He had his chance once. I + don’t know why he didn’t take it.” + + “Because he was a Forsyte; we never part with things, you know, + unless we want something in their place; and not always then.” + + Irene smiled. “Don’t you, Cousin Jolyon?—I think you do.” + + “Of course, I’m a bit of a mongrel—not quite a pure Forsyte. I + never take the halfpennies off my cheques, I put them on,” said + Jolyon uneasily. + + “Well, what does Soames want in place of me now?” + + “I don’t know; perhaps children.” + + She was silent for a little, looking down. + + “Yes,” she murmured; “it’s hard. I would help him to be free if I + could.” + + Jolyon gazed into his hat, his embarrassment was increasing fast; + so was his admiration, his wonder, and his pity. She was so + lovely, and so lonely; and altogether it was such a coil! + + “Well,” he said, “I shall have to see Soames. If there’s anything + I can do for you I’m always at your service. You must think of me + as a wretched substitute for my father. At all events I’ll let + you know what happens when I speak to Soames. He may supply the + material himself.” + + She shook her head. + + “You see, he has a lot to lose; and I have nothing. I should like + him to be free; but I don’t see what I can do.” + + “Nor I at the moment,” said Jolyon, and soon after took his + leave. He went down to his hansom. Half-past three! Soames would + be at his office still. + + “To the Poultry,” he called through the trap. In front of the + Houses of Parliament and in Whitehall, newsvendors were calling, + “Grave situation in the Transvaal!” but the cries hardly roused + him, absorbed in recollection of that very beautiful figure, of + her soft dark glance, and the words: “I have never had one + since.” What on earth did such a woman do with her life, + back-watered like this? Solitary, unprotected, with every man’s + hand against her or rather—reaching out to grasp her at the least + sign. And year after year she went on like that! + + The word “Poultry” above the passing citizens brought him back to + reality. + + “Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte,” in black letters on a ground the + colour of peasoup, spurred him to a sort of vigour, and he went + up the stone stairs muttering: “Fusty musty ownerships! Well, we + couldn’t do without them!” + + “I want Mr. Soames Forsyte,” he said to the boy who opened the + door. + + “What name?” + + “Mr. Jolyon Forsyte.” + + The youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a Forsyte + with a beard, and vanished. + + The offices of “Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte” had slowly absorbed + the offices of “Tooting and Bowles,” and occupied the whole of + the first floor. + + The firm consisted now of nothing but Soames and a number of + managing and articled clerks. The complete retirement of James + some six years ago had accelerated business, to which the final + touch of speed had been imparted when Bustard dropped off, worn + out, as many believed, by the suit of “Fryer _versus_ Forsyte,” + more in Chancery than ever and less likely to benefit its + beneficiaries. Soames, with his saner grasp of actualities, had + never permitted it to worry him; on the contrary, he had long + perceived that Providence had presented him therein with £200 a + year net in perpetuity, and—why not? + + When Jolyon entered, his cousin was drawing out a list of + holdings in Consols, which in view of the rumours of war he was + going to advise his companies to put on the market at once, + before other companies did the same. He looked round, sidelong, + and said: + + “How are you? Just one minute. Sit down, won’t you?” And having + entered three amounts, and set a ruler to keep his place, he + turned towards Jolyon, biting the side of his flat forefinger.... + + “Yes?” he said. + + “I have seen her.” + + Soames frowned. + + “Well?” + + “She has remained faithful to memory.” + + Having said that, Jolyon was ashamed. His cousin had flushed a + dusky yellowish red. What had made him tease the poor brute! + + “I was to tell you she is sorry you are not free. Twelve years is + a long time. You know your law, and what chance it gives you.” + Soames uttered a curious little grunt, and the two remained a + full minute without speaking. “Like wax!” thought Jolyon, + watching that close face, where the flush was fast subsiding. + “He’ll never give me a sign of what he’s thinking, or going to + do. Like wax!” And he transferred his gaze to a plan of that + flourishing town, “By-Street on Sea,” the future existence of + which lay exposed on the wall to the possessive instincts of the + firm’s clients. The whimsical thought flashed through him: “I + wonder if I shall get a bill of costs for this—‘To attending Mr. + Jolyon Forsyte in the matter of my divorce, to receiving his + account of his visit to my wife, and to advising him to go and + see her again, sixteen and eightpence.’” + + Suddenly Soames said: “I can’t go on like this. I tell you, I + can’t go on like this.” His eyes were shifting from side to side, + like an animal’s when it looks for way of escape. “He really + suffers,” thought Jolyon; “I’ve no business to forget that, just + because I don’t like him.” + + “Surely,” he said gently, “it lies with yourself. A man can + always put these things through if he’ll take it on himself.” + + Soames turned square to him, with a sound which seemed to come + from somewhere very deep. + + “Why should I suffer more than I’ve suffered already? Why should + I?” + + Jolyon could only shrug his shoulders. His reason agreed, his + instinct rebelled; he could not have said why. + + “Your father,” went on Soames, “took an interest in her—why, + goodness knows! And I suppose you do too?” he gave Jolyon a sharp + look. “It seems to me that one only has to do another person a + wrong to get all the sympathy. I don’t know in what way I was to + blame—I’ve never known. I always treated her well. I gave her + everything she could wish for. I wanted her.” + + Again Jolyon’s reason nodded; again his instinct shook its head. + “What is it?” he thought; “there must be something wrong in me. + Yet if there is, I’d rather be wrong than right.” + + “After all,” said Soames with a sort of glum fierceness, “she was + my wife.” + + In a flash the thought went through his listener: “There it is! + Ownerships! Well, we all own things. But—human beings! Pah!” + + “You have to look at facts,” he said drily, “or rather the want + of them.” + + Soames gave him another quick suspicious look. + + “The want of them?” he said. “Yes, but I am not so sure.” + + “I beg your pardon,” replied Jolyon; “I’ve told you what she + said. It was explicit.” + + “My experience has not been one to promote blind confidence in + her word. We shall see.” + + Jolyon got up. + + “Good-bye,” he said curtly. + + “Good-bye,” returned Soames; and Jolyon went out trying to + understand the look, half-startled, half-menacing, on his + cousin’s face. He sought Waterloo Station in a disturbed frame of + mind, as though the skin of his moral being had been scraped; and + all the way down in the train he thought of Irene in her lonely + flat, and of Soames in his lonely office, and of the strange + paralysis of life that lay on them both. “In chancery!” he + thought. “Both their necks in chancery—and her’s so pretty!” + + + + + CHAPTER IX VAL HEARS THE NEWS + + + The keeping of engagements had not as yet been a conspicuous + feature in the life of young Val Dartie, so that when he broke + two and kept one, it was the latter event which caused him, if + anything, the greater surprise, while jogging back to town from + Robin Hill after his ride with Holly. She had been even prettier + than he had thought her yesterday, on her silver-roan, + long-tailed “palfrey”. and it seemed to him, self-critical in the + brumous October gloaming and the outskirts of London, that only + his boots had shone throughout their two-hour companionship. He + took out his new gold “hunter”—present from James—and looked not + at the time, but at sections of his face in the glittering back + of its opened case. He had a temporary spot over one eyebrow, and + it displeased him, for it must have displeased her. Crum never + had any spots. Together with Crum rose the scene in the promenade + of the Pandemonium. To-day he had not had the faintest desire to + unbosom himself to Holly about his father. His father lacked + poetry, the stirrings of which he was feeling for the first time + in his nineteen years. The Liberty, with Cynthia Dark, that + almost mythical embodiment of rapture; the Pandemonium, with the + woman of uncertain age—both seemed to Val completely “off,” fresh + from communion with this new, shy, dark-haired young cousin of + his. She rode “Jolly well,” too, so that it had been all the more + flattering that she had let him lead her where he would in the + long gallops of Richmond Park, though she knew them so much + better than he did. Looking back on it all, he was mystified by + the barrenness of his speech; he felt that he could say “an awful + lot of fetching things” if he had but the chance again, and the + thought that he must go back to Littlehampton on the morrow, and + to Oxford on the twelfth—“to that beastly exam,” too—without the + faintest chance of first seeing her again, caused darkness to + settle on his spirit even more quickly than on the evening. He + should write to her, however, and she had promised to answer. + Perhaps, too, she would come up to Oxford to see her brother. + That thought was like the first star, which came out as he rode + into Padwick’s livery stables in the purlieus of Sloane Square. + He got off and stretched himself luxuriously, for he had ridden + some twenty-five good miles. The Dartie within him made him + chaffer for five minutes with young Padwick concerning the + favourite for the Cambridgeshire; then with the words, “Put the + gee down to my account,” he walked away, a little wide at the + knees, and flipping his boots with his knotty little cane. “I + don’t feel a bit inclined to go out,” he thought. “I wonder if + mother will stand fizz for my last night!” With “fizz” and + recollection, he could well pass a domestic evening. + + When he came down, speckless after his bath, he found his mother + scrupulous in a low evening dress, and, to his annoyance, his + Uncle Soames. They stopped talking when he came in; then his + uncle said: + + “He’d better be told.” + + At those words, which meant something about his father, of + course, Val’s first thought was of Holly. Was it anything + beastly? His mother began speaking. + + “Your father,” she said in her fashionably appointed voice, while + her fingers plucked rather pitifully at sea-green brocade, “your + father, my dear boy, has—is not at Newmarket; he’s on his way to + South America. He—he’s left us.” + + Val looked from her to Soames. Left them! Was he sorry? Was he + fond of his father? It seemed to him that he did not know. Then, + suddenly—as at a whiff of gardenias and cigars—his heart twitched + within him, and he _was_ sorry. One’s father belonged to one, + could not go off in this fashion—it was not done! Nor had he + always been the “bounder” of the Pandemonium promenade. There + were precious memories of tailors’ shops and horses, tips at + school, and general lavish kindness, when in luck. + + “But why?” he said. Then, as a sportsman himself, was sorry he + had asked. The mask of his mother’s face was all disturbed; and + he burst out: + + “All right, Mother, don’t tell me! Only, what does it mean?” + + “A divorce, Val, I’m afraid.” + + Val uttered a queer little grunt, and looked quickly at his + uncle—that uncle whom he had been taught to look on as a + guarantee against the consequences of having a father, even + against the Dartie blood in his own veins. The flat-checked + visage seemed to wince, and this upset him. + + “It won’t be public, will it?” + + So vividly before him had come recollection of his own eyes glued + to the unsavoury details of many a divorce suit in the Public + Press. + + “Can’t it be done quietly somehow? It’s so disgusting for—for + mother, and—and everybody.” + + “Everything will be done as quietly as it can, you may be sure.” + + “Yes—but, why is it necessary at all? Mother doesn’t want to + marry again.” + + Himself, the girls, their name tarnished in the sight of his + schoolfellows and of Crum, of the men at Oxford, of—Holly! + Unbearable! What was to be gained by it? + + “Do you, Mother?” he said sharply. + + Thus brought face to face with so much of her own feeling by the + one she loved best in the world, Winifred rose from the Empire + chair in which she had been sitting. She saw that her son would + be against her unless he was told everything; and, yet, how could + she tell him? Thus, still plucking at the green brocade, she + stared at Soames. Val, too, stared at Soames. Surely this + embodiment of respectability and the sense of property could not + wish to bring such a slur on his own sister! + + Soames slowly passed a little inlaid paperknife over the smooth + surface of a marqueterie table; then, without looking at his + nephew, he began: + + “You don’t understand what your mother has had to put up with + these twenty years. This is only the last straw, Val.” And + glancing up sideways at Winifred, he added: + + “Shall I tell him?” + + Winifred was silent. If he were not told, he would be against + her! Yet, how dreadful to be told such things of his own father! + Clenching her lips, she nodded. + + Soames spoke in a rapid, even voice: + + “He has always been a burden round your mother’s neck. She has + paid his debts over and over again; he has often been drunk, + abused and threatened her; and now he is gone to Buenos Aires + with a dancer.” And, as if distrusting the efficacy of those + words on the boy, he went on quickly: + + “He took your mother’s pearls to give to her.” + + Val jerked up his hand, then. At that signal of distress Winifred + cried out: + + “That’ll do, Soames—stop!” + + In the boy, the Dartie and the Forsyte were struggling. For + debts, drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy; but the + pearls—no! That was too much! And suddenly he found his mother’s + hand squeezing his. + + “You see,” he heard Soames say, “we can’t have it all begin over + again. There’s a limit; we must strike while the iron’s hot.” + + Val freed his hand. + + “But—you’re—never going to bring out that about the pearls! I + couldn’t stand that—I simply couldn’t!” + + Winifred cried out: + + “No, no, Val—oh no! That’s only to show you how impossible your + father is!” And his uncle nodded. Somewhat assuaged, Val took out + a cigarette. His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh! + it was unbearable—just as he was going up to Oxford! + + “Can’t mother be protected without?” he said. “I could look after + her. It could always be done later if it was really necessary.” + + A smile played for a moment round Soames’ lips, and became + bitter. + + “You don’t know what you’re talking of; nothing’s so fatal as + delay in such matters.” + + “Why?” + + “I tell you, boy, nothing’s so fatal. I know from experience.” + + His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val regarded him + round-eyed, never having known his uncle express any sort of + feeling. Oh! Yes—he remembered now—there had been an Aunt Irene, + and something had happened—something which people kept dark; he + had heard his father once use an unmentionable word of her. + + “I don’t want to speak ill of your father,” Soames went on + doggedly, “but I know him well enough to be sure that he’ll be + back on your mother’s hands before a year’s over. You can imagine + what that will mean to her and to all of you after this. The only + thing is to cut the knot for good.” + + In spite of himself, Val was impressed; and, happening to look at + his mother’s face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight + into the fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered + most. + + “All right, mother,” he said; “we’ll back you up. Only I’d like + to know when it’ll be. It’s my first term, you know. I don’t want + to be up there when it comes off.” + + “Oh! my dear boy,” murmured Winifred, “it _is_ a bore for you.” + So, by habit, she phrased what, from the expression of her face, + was the most poignant regret. “When will it be, Soames?” + + “Can’t tell—not for months. We must get restitution first.” + + “What the deuce is that?” thought Val. “What silly brutes lawyers + are! Not for months! I know one thing: I’m not going to dine in!” + And he said: + + “Awfully sorry, mother, I’ve got to go out to dinner now.” + + Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully; + they both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the + expression of feeling. + + Val sought the misty freedom of Green Street, reckless and + depressed. And not till he reached Piccadilly did he discover + that he had only eighteen-pence. One couldn’t dine off + eighteen-pence, and he was very hungry. He looked longingly at + the windows of the Iseeum Club, where he had often eaten of the + best with his father! Those pearls! There was no getting over + them! But the more he brooded and the further he walked the + hungrier he naturally became. Short of trailing home, there were + only two places where he could go—his grandfather’s in Park Lane, + and Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road. Which was the less + deplorable? At his grandfather’s he would probably get a better + dinner on the spur of the moment. At Timothy’s they gave you a + jolly good feed when they expected you, not otherwise. He decided + on Park Lane, not unmoved by the thought that to go up to Oxford + without affording his grandfather a chance to tip him was hardly + fair to either of them. His mother would hear he had been there, + of course, and might think it funny; but he couldn’t help that. + He rang the bell. + + “Hullo, Warmson, any dinner for me, d’you think?” + + “They’re just going in, Master Val. Mr. Forsyte will be very glad + to see you. He was saying at lunch that he never saw you + nowadays.” + + Val grinned. + + “Well, here I am. Kill the fatted calf, Warmson, let’s have + fizz.” + + Warmson smiled faintly—in his opinion Val was a young limb. + + “I will ask Mrs. Forsyte, Master Val.” + + “I say,” Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, “I’m not at + school any more, you know.” + + Warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond + the stag’s-horn coat stand, with the words: + + “Mr. Valerus, ma’am.” + + “Confound him!” thought Val, entering. + + A warm embrace, a “Well, Val!” from Emily, and a rather quavery + “So there you are at last!” from James, restored his sense of + dignity. + + “Why didn’t you let us know? There’s only saddle of mutton. + Champagne, Warmson,” said Emily. And they went in. + + At the great dining-table, shortened to its utmost, under which + so many fashionable legs had rested, James sat at one end, Emily + at the other, Val half-way between them; and something of the + loneliness of his grandparents, now that all their four children + were flown, reached the boy’s spirit. “I hope I shall kick the + bucket long before I’m as old as grandfather,” he thought. “Poor + old chap, he’s as thin as a rail!” And lowering his voice while + his grandfather and Warmson were in discussion about sugar in the + soup, he said to Emily: + + “It’s pretty brutal at home, Granny. I suppose you know.” + + “Yes, dear boy.” + + “Uncle Soames was there when I left. I say, isn’t there anything + to be done to prevent a divorce? Why is he so beastly keen on + it?” + + “Hush, my dear!” murmured Emily; “we’re keeping it from your + grandfather.” + + James’ voice sounded from the other end. + + “What’s that? What are you talking about?” + + “About Val’s college,” returned Emily. “Young Pariser was there, + James; you remember—he nearly broke the Bank at Monte Carlo + afterwards.” + + James muttered that he did not know—Val must look after himself + up there, or he’d get into bad ways. And he looked at his + grandson with gloom, out of which affection distrustfully + glimmered. + + “What I’m afraid of,” said Val to his plate, “is of being hard + up, you know.” + + By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear + of insecurity for his grandchildren. + + “Well,” said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, + “you’ll have a good allowance; but you must keep within it.” + + “Of course,” murmured Val; “if it is good. How much will it be, + Grandfather?” + + “Three hundred and fifty; it’s too much. I had next to nothing at + your age.” + + Val sighed. He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. “I + don’t know what your young cousin has,” said James; “he’s up + there. His father’s a rich man.” + + “Aren’t you?” asked Val hardily. + + “I?” replied James, flustered. “I’ve got so many expenses. Your + father....” and he was silent. + + “Cousin Jolyon’s got an awfully jolly place. I went down there + with Uncle Soames—ripping stables.” + + “Ah!” murmured James profoundly. “That house—I knew how it would + be!” And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish-bones. + His son’s tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the + Forsyte family, had still the power to draw him down into a + whirlpool of doubts and misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of + Robin Hill, because Robin Hill meant Holly, turned to Emily and + said: + + “Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?” And, receiving her + nod, went on: “I wish you’d tell me about him, Granny. What + became of Aunt Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully + worked-up about something to-night.” + + Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught + James’ ear. + + “What’s that?” he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his + lips. “Who’s been seeing her? I knew we hadn’t heard the last of + that.” + + “Now, James,” said Emily, “eat your dinner. Nobody’s been seeing + anybody.” + + James put down his fork. + + “There you go,” he said. “I might die before you’d tell me of it. + Is Soames getting a divorce?” + + “Nonsense,” said Emily with incomparable aplomb; “Soames is much + too sensible.” + + James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white + whiskers together on the skin and bone of it. + + “She—she was always....” he said, and with that enigmatic remark + the conversation lapsed, for Warmson had returned. But later, + when the saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, + and dessert, and Val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and + his grandfather’s kiss—like no other kiss in the world, from lips + pushed out with a sort of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to + weakness—he returned to the charge in the hall. + + “Tell us about Uncle Soames, Granny. Why is he so keen on + mother’s getting a divorce?” + + “Your Uncle Soames,” said Emily, and her voice had in it an + exaggerated assurance, “is a lawyer, my dear boy. He’s sure to + know best.” + + “Is he?” muttered Val. “But what did become of Aunt Irene? I + remember she was jolly good-looking.” + + “She—er....” said Emily, “behaved very badly. We don’t talk about + it.” + + “Well, I don’t want everybody at Oxford to know about our + affairs,” ejaculated Val; “it’s a brutal idea. Why couldn’t + father be prevented without its being made public?” + + Emily sighed. She had always lived rather in an atmosphere of + divorce, owing to her fashionable proclivities—so many of those + whose legs had been under her table having gained a certain + notoriety. When, however, it touched her own family, she liked it + no better than other people. But she was eminently practical, and + a woman of courage, who never pursued a shadow in preference to + its substance. + + “Your mother,” she said, “will be happier if she’s quite free, + Val. Good-night, my dear boy; and don’t wear loud waistcoats up + at Oxford, they’re not the thing just now. Here’s a little + present.” + + With another five pounds in his hand, and a little warmth in his + heart, for he was fond of his grandmother, he went out into Park + Lane. A wind had cleared the mist, the autumn leaves were + rustling, and the stars were shining. With all that money in his + pocket an impulse to “see life” beset him; but he had not gone + forty yards in the direction of Piccadilly when Holly’s shy face, + and her eyes with an imp dancing in their gravity, came up before + him, and his hand seemed to be tingling again from the pressure + of her warm gloved hand. “No, dash it!” he thought, “I’m going + home!” + + + + + CHAPTER X SOAMES ENTERTAINS THE FUTURE + + + It was full late for the river, but the weather was lovely, and + summer lingered below the yellowing leaves. Soames took many + looks at the day from his riverside garden near Mapledurham that + Sunday morning. + + With his own hands he put flowers about his little house-boat, + and equipped the punt, in which, after lunch, he proposed to take + them on the river. Placing those Chinese-looking cushions, he + could not tell whether or no he wished to take Annette alone. She + was so very pretty—could he trust himself not to say irrevocable + words, passing beyond the limits of discretion? Roses on the + veranda were still in bloom, and the hedges ever-green, so that + there was almost nothing of middle-aged autumn to chill the mood; + yet was he nervous, fidgety, strangely distrustful of his powers + to steer just the right course. This visit had been planned to + produce in Annette and her mother a due sense of his possessions, + so that they should be ready to receive with respect any overture + he might later be disposed to make. He dressed with great care, + making himself neither too young nor too old, very thankful that + his hair was still thick and smooth and had no grey in it. Three + times he went up to his picture-gallery. If they had any + knowledge at all, they must see at once that his collection alone + was worth at least thirty thousand pounds. He minutely inspected, + too, the pretty bedroom overlooking the river where they would + take off their hats. It would be her bedroom if—if the matter + went through, and she became his wife. Going up to the + dressing-table he passed his hand over the lilac-coloured + pincushion, into which were stuck all kinds of pins; a bowl of + pot-pourri exhaled a scent that made his head turn just a little. + His wife! If only the whole thing could be settled out of hand, + and there was not the nightmare of this divorce to be gone + through first; and with gloom puckered on his forehead, he looked + out at the river shining beyond the roses and the lawn. Madame + Lamotte would never resist this prospect for her child; Annette + would never resist her mother. If only he were free! He drove to + the station to meet them. What taste Frenchwomen had! Madame + Lamotte was in black with touches of lilac colour, Annette in + greyish lilac linen, with cream coloured gloves and hat. Rather + pale she looked and Londony; and her blue eyes were demure. + Waiting for them to come down to lunch, Soames stood in the open + french-window of the diningroom moved by that sensuous delight in + sunshine and flowers and trees which only came to the full when + youth and beauty were there to share it with one. He had ordered + the lunch with intense consideration; the wine was a very special + Sauterne, the whole appointments of the meal perfect, the coffee + served on the veranda super-excellent. Madame Lamotte accepted + creme de menthe; Annette refused. Her manners were charming, with + just a suspicion of “the conscious beauty” creeping into them. + “Yes,” thought Soames, “another year of London and that sort of + life, and she’ll be spoiled.” + + Madame was in sedate French raptures. “_Adorable! Le soleil est + si bon!_ How everything is _chic_, is it not, Annette? Monsieur + is a real Monte Cristo.” Annette murmured assent, with a look up + at Soames which he could not read. He proposed a turn on the + river. But to punt two persons when one of them looked so + ravishing on those Chinese cushions was merely to suffer from a + sense of lost opportunity; so they went but a short way towards + Pangbourne, drifting slowly back, with every now and then an + autumn leaf dropping on Annette or on her mother’s black + amplitude. And Soames was not happy, worried by the thought: + “How—when—where—can I say—what?” They did not yet even know that + he was married. To tell them he was married might jeopardise his + every chance; yet, if he did not definitely make them understand + that he wished for Annette’s hand, it would be dropping into some + other clutch before he was free to claim it. + + At tea, which they both took with lemon, Soames spoke of the + Transvaal. + + “There’ll be war,” he said. + + Madame Lamotte lamented. + + “_Ces pauvres gens bergers!_” Could they not be left to + themselves? + + Soames smiled—the question seemed to him absurd. + + Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British + could not abandon their legitimate commercial interests. + + “Ah! that!” But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a + little hypocrite. They were talking of justice and the + Uitlanders, not of business. Monsieur was the first who had + spoken to her of that. + + “The Boers are only half-civilised,” remarked Soames; “they stand + in the way of progress. It will never do to let our suzerainty + go.” + + “What does that mean to say? Suzerainty!” + + “What a strange word!” Soames became eloquent, roused by these + threats to the principle of possession, and stimulated by + Annette’s eyes fixed on him. He was delighted when presently she + said: + + “I think Monsieur is right. They should be taught a lesson.” She + was sensible! + + “Of course,” he said, “we must act with moderation. I’m no jingo. + We must be firm without bullying. Will you come up and see my + pictures?” Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon + perceived that they knew nothing. They passed his last Mauve, + that remarkable study of a “Hay-cart going Home,” as if it were a + lithograph. He waited almost with awe to see how they would view + the jewel of his collection—an Israels whose price he had watched + ascending till he was now almost certain it had reached top + value, and would be better on the market again. They did not view + it at all. This was a shock; and yet to have in Annette a virgin + taste to form would be better than to have the silly, half-baked + predilections of the English middle-class to deal with. At the + end of the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather + ashamed—Meissonier was so steadily going down. Madame Lamotte + stopped before it. + + “Meissonier! Ah! What a jewel!” Soames took advantage of that + moment. Very gently touching Annette’s arm, he said: + + “How do you like my place, Annette?” + + She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, + looked down, and murmured: + + “Who would not like it? It is so beautiful!” + + “Perhaps some day—” Soames said, and stopped. + + So pretty she was, so self-possessed—she frightened him. Those + cornflower-blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate + curves—she was a standing temptation to indiscretion! No! No! One + must be sure of one’s ground—much surer! “If I hold off,” he + thought, “it will tantalise her.” And he crossed over to Madame + Lamotte, who was still in front of the Meissonier. + + “Yes, that’s quite a good example of his later work. You must + come again, Madame, and see them lighted up. You must both come + and spend a night.” + + Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By + moonlight too, the river must be ravishing! + + Annette murmured: + + “Thou art sentimental, _Maman!_” + + Sentimental! That black-robed, comely, substantial Frenchwoman of + the world! And suddenly he was certain as he could be that there + was no sentiment in either of them. All the better. Of what use + sentiment? And yet...! + + He drove to the station with them, and saw them into the train. + To the tightened pressure of his hand it seemed that Annette’s + fingers responded just a little; her face smiled at him through + the dark. + + He went back to the carriage, brooding. “Go on home, Jordan,” he + said to the coachman; “I’ll walk.” And he strode out into the + darkening lanes, caution and the desire of possession playing + see-saw within him. “_Bon soir, monsieur!_” How softly she had + said it. To know what was in her mind! The French—they were like + cats—one could tell nothing! But—how pretty! What a perfect young + thing to hold in one’s arms! What a mother for his heir! And he + thought, with a smile, of his family and their surprise at a + French wife, and their curiosity, and of the way he would play + with it and buffet it confound them! + + The poplars sighed in the darkness; an owl hooted. Shadows + deepened in the water. “I will and must be free,” he thought. “I + won’t hang about any longer. I’ll go and see Irene. If you want + things done, do them yourself. I must live again—live and move + and have my being.” And in echo to that queer biblicality + church-bells chimed the call to evening prayer. + + + + + CHAPTER XI AND VISITS THE PAST + + + On a Tuesday evening after dining at his club Soames set out to + do what required more courage and perhaps less delicacy than + anything he had yet undertaken in his life—save perhaps his + birth, and one other action. He chose the evening, indeed, partly + because Irene was more likely to be in, but mainly because he had + failed to find sufficient resolution by daylight, had needed wine + to give him extra daring. + + He left his hansom on the Embankment, and walked up to the Old + Church, uncertain of the block of flats where he knew she lived. + He found it hiding behind a much larger mansion; and having read + the name, “Mrs. Irene Heron”—Heron, forsooth! Her maiden name: so + she used that again, did she?—he stepped back into the road to + look up at the windows of the first floor. Light was coming + through in the corner flat, and he could hear a piano being + played. He had never had a love of music, had secretly borne it a + grudge in the old days when so often she had turned to her piano, + making of it a refuge place into which she knew he could not + enter. Repulse! The long repulse, at first restrained and secret, + at last open! Bitter memory came with that sound. It must be she + playing, and thus almost assured of seeing her, he stood more + undecided than ever. Shivers of anticipation ran through him; his + tongue felt dry, his heart beat fast. “_I_ have no cause to be + afraid,” he thought. And then the lawyer stirred within him. Was + he doing a foolish thing? Ought he not to have arranged a formal + meeting in the presence of her trustee? No! Not before that + fellow Jolyon, who sympathised with her! Never! He crossed back + into the doorway, and, slowly, to keep down the beating of his + heart, mounted the single flight of stairs and rang the bell. + When the door was opened to him his sensations were regulated by + the scent which came—that perfume—from away back in the past, + bringing muffled remembrance: fragrance of a drawing-room he used + to enter, of a house he used to own—perfume of dried rose-leaves + and honey! + + “Say, Mr. Forsyte,” he said, “your mistress will see me, I know.” + He had thought this out; she would think it was Jolyon! + + When the maid was gone and he was alone in the tiny hall, where + the light was dim from one pearly-shaded sconce, and walls, + carpet, everything was silvery, making the walled-in space all + ghostly, he could only think ridiculously: “Shall I go in with my + overcoat on, or take it off?” The music ceased; the maid said + from the doorway: + + “Will you walk in, sir?” + + Soames walked in. He noted mechanically that all was still + silvery, and that the upright piano was of satinwood. She had + risen and stood recoiled against it; her hand, placed on the keys + as if groping for support, had struck a sudden discord, held for + a moment, and released. The light from the shaded piano-candle + fell on her neck, leaving her face rather in shadow. She was in a + black evening dress, with a sort of mantilla over her + shoulders—he did not remember ever having seen her in black, and + the thought passed through him: “She dresses even when she’s + alone.” + + “You!” he heard her whisper. + + Many times Soames had rehearsed this scene in fancy. Rehearsal + served him not at all. He simply could not speak. He had never + thought that the sight of this woman whom he had once so + passionately desired, so completely owned, and whom he had not + seen for twelve years, could affect him in this way. He had + imagined himself speaking and acting, half as man of business, + half as judge. And now it was as if he were in the presence not + of a mere woman and erring wife, but of some force, subtle and + elusive as atmosphere itself within him and outside. A kind of + defensive irony welled up in him. + + “Yes, it’s a queer visit! I hope you’re well.” + + “Thank you. Will you sit down?” + + She had moved away from the piano, and gone over to a + window-seat, sinking on to it, with her hands clasped in her lap. + Light fell on her there, so that Soames could see her face, eyes, + hair, strangely as he remembered them, strangely beautiful. + + He sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with + silver-coloured stuff, close to where he was standing. + + “You have not changed,” he said. + + “No? What have you come for?” + + “To discuss things.” + + “I have heard what you want from your cousin.” + + “Well?” + + “I am willing. I have always been.” + + The sound of her voice, reserved and close, the sight of her + figure watchfully poised, defensive, was helping him now. A + thousand memories of her, ever on the watch against him, stirred, + and.... + + “Perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on + which I can act. The law must be complied with.” + + “I have none to give you that you don’t know of.” + + “Twelve years! Do you suppose I can believe that?” + + “I don’t suppose you will believe anything I say; but it’s the + truth.” + + Soames looked at her hard. He had said that she had not changed; + now he perceived that she had. Not in face, except that it was + more beautiful; not in form, except that it was a little + fuller—no! She had changed spiritually. There was more of her, as + it were, something of activity and daring, where there had been + sheer passive resistance. “Ah!” he thought, “that’s her + independent income! Confound Uncle Jolyon!” + + “I suppose you’re comfortably off now?” he said. + + “Thank you, yes.” + + “Why didn’t you let me provide for you? I would have, in spite of + everything.” + + A faint smile came on her lips; but she did not answer. + + “You are still my wife,” said Soames. Why he said that, what he + meant by it, he knew neither when he spoke nor after. It was a + truism almost preposterous, but its effect was startling. She + rose from the window-seat, and stood for a moment perfectly + still, looking at him. He could see her bosom heaving. Then she + turned to the window and threw it open. + + “Why do that?” he said sharply. “You’ll catch cold in that dress. + I’m not dangerous.” And he uttered a little sad laugh. + + She echoed it—faintly, bitterly. + + “It was—habit.” + + “Rather odd habit,” said Soames as bitterly. “Shut the window!” + + She shut it and sat down again. She had developed power, this + woman—this—wife of his! He felt it issuing from her as she sat + there, in a sort of armour. And almost unconsciously he rose and + moved nearer; he wanted to see the expression on her face. Her + eyes met his unflinching. Heavens! how clear they were, and what + a dark brown against that white skin, and that burnt-amber hair! + And how white her shoulders. + + Funny sensation this! He ought to hate her. + + “You had better tell me,” he said; “it’s to your advantage to be + free as well as to mine. That old matter is too old.” + + “I _have_ told you.” + + “Do you mean to tell me there has been nothing—nobody?” + + “Nobody. You must go to your own life.” + + Stung by that retort, Soames moved towards the piano and back to + the hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont in the old days in + their drawing-room when his feelings were too much for him. + + “That won’t do,” he said. “You deserted me. In common justice + it’s for you....” + + He saw her shrug those white shoulders, heard her murmur: + + “Yes. Why didn’t you divorce me then? Should I have cared?” + + He stopped, and looked at her intently with a sort of curiosity. + What on earth did she do with herself, if she really lived quite + alone? And why had he not divorced her? The old feeling that she + had never understood him, never done him justice, bit him while + he stared at her. + + “Why couldn’t you have made me a good wife?” he said. + + “Yes; it was a crime to marry you. I have paid for it. You will + find some way perhaps. You needn’t mind my name, I have none to + lose. Now I think you had better go.” + + A sense of defeat—of being defrauded of his self-justification, + and of something else beyond power of explanation to himself, + beset Soames like the breath of a cold fog. Mechanically he + reached up, took from the mantel-shelf a little china bowl, + reversed it, and said: + + “Lowestoft. Where did you get this? I bought its fellow at + Jobson’s.” And, visited by the sudden memory of how, those many + years ago, he and she had bought china together, he remained + staring at the little bowl, as if it contained all the past. Her + voice roused him. + + “Take it. I don’t want it.” + + Soames put it back on the shelf. + + “Will you shake hands?” he said. + + A faint smile curved her lips. She held out her hand. It was cold + to his rather feverish touch. “She’s made of ice,” he + thought—“she was always made of ice!” But even as that thought + darted through him, his senses were assailed by the perfume of + her dress and body, as though the warmth within her, which had + never been for him, were struggling to show its presence. And he + turned on his heel. He walked out and away, as if someone with a + whip were after him, not even looking for a cab, glad of the + empty Embankment and the cold river, and the thick-strewn shadows + of the plane-tree leaves—confused, flurried, sore at heart, and + vaguely disturbed, as though he had made some deep mistake whose + consequences he could not foresee. And the fantastic thought + suddenly assailed him if instead of, “I think you had better go,” + she had said, “I think you had better stay!” What should he have + felt, what would he have done? That cursed attraction of her was + there for him even now, after all these years of estrangement and + bitter thoughts. It was there, ready to mount to his head at a + sign, a touch. “I was a fool to go!” he muttered. “I’ve advanced + nothing. Who could imagine? I never thought!” Memory, flown back + to the first years of his marriage, played him torturing tricks. + She had not deserved to keep her beauty—the beauty he had owned + and known so well. And a kind of bitterness at the tenacity of + his own admiration welled up in him. Most men would have hated + the sight of her, as she had deserved. She had spoiled his life, + wounded his pride to death, defrauded him of a son. And yet the + mere sight of her, cold and resisting as ever, had this power to + upset him utterly! It was some damned magnetism she had! And no + wonder if, as she asserted; she had lived untouched these last + twelve years. So Bosinney—cursed be his memory!—had lived on all + this time with her! Soames could not tell whether he was glad of + that knowledge or no. + + Nearing his Club at last he stopped to buy a paper. A headline + ran: “Boers reported to repudiate suzerainty!” Suzerainty! “Just + like her!” he thought: “she always did. Suzerainty! I still have + it by rights. She must be awfully lonely in that wretched little + flat!” + + + + + CHAPTER XII ON FORSYTE ’CHANGE + + + Soames belonged to two clubs, “The Connoisseurs,” which he put on + his cards and seldom visited, and “The Remove,” which he did not + put on his cards and frequented. He had joined this Liberal + institution five years ago, having made sure that its members + were now nearly all sound Conservatives in heart and pocket, if + not in principle. Uncle Nicholas had put him up. The fine + reading-room was decorated in the Adam style. + + On entering that evening he glanced at the tape for any news + about the Transvaal, and noted that Consols were down + seven-sixteenths since the morning. He was turning away to seek + the reading-room when a voice behind him said: + + “Well, Soames, that went off all right.” + + It was Uncle Nicholas, in a frock-coat and his special cut-away + collar, with a black tie passed through a ring. Heavens! How + young and dapper he looked at eighty-two! + + “I think Roger’d have been pleased,” his uncle went on. “The + thing was very well done. Blackley’s? I’ll make a note of them. + Buxton’s done me no good. These Boers are upsetting me—that + fellow Chamberlain’s driving the country into war. What do you + think?” + + “Bound to come,” murmured Soames. + + Nicholas passed his hand over his thin, clean-shaven cheeks, very + rosy after his summer cure; a slight pout had gathered on his + lips. This business had revived all his Liberal principles. + + “I mistrust that chap; he’s a stormy petrel. House-property will + go down if there’s war. You’ll have trouble with Roger’s estate. + I often told him he ought to get out of some of his houses. He + was an opinionated beggar.” + + “There was a pair of you!” thought Soames. But he never argued + with an uncle, in that way preserving their opinion of him as “a + long-headed chap,” and the legal care of their property. + + “They tell me at Timothy’s,” said Nicholas, lowering his voice, + “that Dartie has gone off at last. That’ll be a relief to your + father. He was a rotten egg.” + + Again Soames nodded. If there was a subject on which the Forsytes + really agreed, it was the character of Montague Dartie. + + “You take care,” said Nicholas, “or he’ll turn up again. Winifred + had better have the tooth out, I should say. No use preserving + what’s gone bad.” + + Soames looked at him sideways. His nerves, exacerbated by the + interview he had just come through, disposed him to see a + personal allusion in those words. + + “I’m advising her,” he said shortly. + + “Well,” said Nicholas, “the brougham’s waiting; I must get home. + I’m very poorly. Remember me to your father.” + + And having thus reconsecrated the ties of blood, he passed down + the steps at his youthful gait and was wrapped into his fur coat + by the junior porter. + + “I’ve never known Uncle Nicholas other than ‘very poorly,’” mused + Soames, “or seen him look other than everlasting. What a family! + Judging by him, I’ve got thirty-eight years of health before me. + Well, I’m not going to waste them.” And going over to a mirror he + stood looking at his face. Except for a line or two, and three or + four grey hairs in his little dark moustache, had he aged any + more than Irene? The prime of life—he and she in the very prime + of life! And a fantastic thought shot into his mind. Absurd! + Idiotic! But again it came. And genuinely alarmed by the + recurrence, as one is by the second fit of shivering which + presages a feverish cold, he sat down on the weighing machine. + Eleven stone! He had not varied two pounds in twenty years. What + age was she? Nearly thirty-seven—not too old to have a child—not + at all! Thirty-seven on the ninth of next month. He remembered + her birthday well—he had always observed it religiously, even + that last birthday so soon before she left him, when he was + almost certain she was faithless. Four birthdays in his house. He + had looked forward to them, because his gifts had meant a + semblance of gratitude, a certain attempt at warmth. Except, + indeed, that last birthday—which had tempted him to be too + religious! And he shied away in thought. Memory heaps dead leaves + on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend + the sense. And then he thought suddenly: “I could send her a + present for her birthday. After all, we’re Christians! + Couldn’t!—couldn’t we join up again!” And he uttered a deep sigh + sitting there. Annette! Ah! but between him and Annette was the + need for that wretched divorce suit! And how? + + “A man can always work these things, if he’ll take it on + himself,” Jolyon had said. + + But why should he take the scandal on himself with his whole + career as a pillar of the law at stake? It was not fair! It was + quixotic! Twelve years’ separation in which he had taken no steps + to free himself put out of court the possibility of using her + conduct with Bosinney as a ground for divorcing her. By doing + nothing to secure relief he had acquiesced, even if the evidence + could now be gathered, which was more than doubtful. Besides, his + own pride would never let him use that old incident, he had + suffered from it too much. No! Nothing but fresh misconduct on + her part—but she had denied it; and—almost—he had believed her. + Hung up! Utterly hung up! + + He rose from the scooped-out red velvet seat with a feeling of + constriction about his vitals. He would never sleep with this + going on in him! And, taking coat and hat again, he went out, + moving eastward. In Trafalgar Square he became aware of some + special commotion travelling towards him out of the mouth of the + Strand. It materialised in newspaper men calling out so loudly + that no words whatever could be heard. He stopped to listen, and + one came by. + + “Payper! Special! Ultimatium by Krooger! Declaration of war!” + Soames bought the paper. There it was in the stop press...! His + first thought was: “The Boers are committing suicide.” His + second: “Is there anything still I ought to sell?” If so he had + missed the chance—there would certainly be a slump in the city + to-morrow. He swallowed this thought with a nod of defiance. That + ultimatum was insolent—sooner than let it pass he was prepared to + lose money. They wanted a lesson, and they would get it; but it + would take three months at least to bring them to heel. There + weren’t the troops out there; always behind time, the Government! + Confound those newspaper rats! What was the use of waking + everybody up? Breakfast to-morrow was quite soon enough. And he + thought with alarm of his father. They would cry it down Park + Lane. Hailing a hansom, he got in and told the man to drive + there. + + James and Emily had just gone up to bed, and after communicating + the news to Warmson, Soames prepared to follow. He paused by + after-thought to say: + + “What do you think of it, Warmson?” + + The butler ceased passing a hat brush over the silk hat Soames + had taken off, and, inclining his face a little forward, said in + a low voice: “Well, sir, they ’aven’t a chance, of course; but + I’m told they’re very good shots. I’ve got a son in the + Inniskillings.” + + “You, Warmson? Why, I didn’t know you were married.” + + “No, sir. I don’t talk of it. I expect he’ll be going out.” + + The slighter shock Soames had felt on discovering that he knew so + little of one whom he thought he knew so well was lost in the + slight shock of discovering that the war might touch one + personally. Born in the year of the Crimean War, he had only come + to consciousness by the time the Indian Mutiny was over; since + then the many little wars of the British Empire had been entirely + professional, quite unconnected with the Forsytes and all they + stood for in the body politic. This war would surely be no + exception. But his mind ran hastily over his family. Two of the + Haymans, he had heard, were in some Yeomanry or other—it had + always been a pleasant thought, there was a certain distinction + about the Yeomanry; they wore, or used to wear, a blue uniform + with silver about it, and rode horses. And Archibald, he + remembered, had once on a time joined the Militia, but had given + it up because his father, Nicholas, had made such a fuss about + his “wasting his time peacocking about in a uniform.” Recently he + had heard somewhere that young Nicholas’ eldest, very young + Nicholas, had become a Volunteer. “No,” thought Soames, mounting + the stairs slowly, “there’s nothing in that!” + + He stood on the landing outside his parents’ bed and dressing + rooms, debating whether or not to put his nose in and say a + reassuring word. Opening the landing window, he listened. The + rumble from Piccadilly was all the sound he heard, and with the + thought, “If these motor-cars increase, it’ll affect house + property,” he was about to pass on up to the room always kept + ready for him when he heard, distant as yet, the hoarse rushing + call of a newsvendor. There it was, and coming past the house! He + knocked on his mother’s door and went in. + + His father was sitting up in bed, with his ears pricked under the + white hair which Emily kept so beautifully cut. He looked pink, + and extraordinarily clean, in his setting of white sheet and + pillow, out of which the points of his high, thin, nightgowned + shoulders emerged in small peaks. His eyes alone, grey and + distrustful under their withered lids, were moving from the + window to Emily, who in a wrapper was walking up and down, + squeezing a rubber ball attached to a scent bottle. The room + reeked faintly of the eau-de-Cologne she was spraying. + + “All right!” said Soames, “it’s not a fire. The Boers have + declared war—that’s all.” + + Emily stopped her spraying. + + “Oh!” was all she said, and looked at James. + + Soames, too, looked at his father. He was taking it differently + from their expectation, as if some thought, strange to them, were + working in him. + + “H’m!” he muttered suddenly, “I shan’t live to see the end of + this.” + + “Nonsense, James! It’ll be over by Christmas.” + + “What do you know about it?” James answered her with asperity. + “It’s a pretty mess at this time of night, too!” He lapsed into + silence, and his wife and son, as if hypnotised, waited for him + to say: “I can’t tell—I don’t know; I knew how it would be!” But + he did not. The grey eyes shifted, evidently seeing nothing in + the room; then movement occurred under the bedclothes, and the + knees were drawn up suddenly to a great height. + + “They ought to send out Roberts. It all comes from that fellow + Gladstone and his Majuba.” + + The two listeners noted something beyond the usual in his voice, + something of real anxiety. It was as if he had said: “I shall + never see the old country peaceful and safe again. I shall have + to die before I know she’s won.” And in spite of the feeling that + James must not be encouraged to be fussy, they were touched. + Soames went up to the bedside and stroked his father’s hand which + had emerged from under the bedclothes, long and wrinkled with + veins. + + “Mark my words!” said James, “consols will go to par. For all I + know, Val may go and enlist.” + + “Oh, come, James!” cried Emily, “you talk as if there were + danger.” + + Her comfortable voice seemed to soothe James for once. + + “Well,” he muttered, “I told you how it would be. I don’t know, + I’m sure—nobody tells me anything. Are you sleeping here, my + boy?” + + The crisis was past, he would now compose himself to his normal + degree of anxiety; and, assuring his father that he was sleeping + in the house, Soames pressed his hand, and went up to his room. + + The following afternoon witnessed the greatest crowd Timothy’s + had known for many a year. On national occasions, such as this, + it was, indeed, almost impossible to avoid going there. Not that + there was any danger or rather only just enough to make it + necessary to assure each other that there was none. + + Nicholas was there early. He had seen Soames the night + before—Soames had said it was bound to come. This old Kruger was + in his dotage—why, he must be seventy-five if he was a day! + + (Nicholas was eighty-two.) What had Timothy said? He had had a + fit after Majuba. These Boers were a grasping lot! The + dark-haired Francie, who had arrived on his heels, with the + contradictious touch which became the free spirit of a daughter + of Roger, chimed in: + + “Kettle and pot, Uncle Nicholas. What price the Uitlanders?” What + price, indeed! A new expression, and believed to be due to her + brother George. + + Aunt Juley thought Francie ought not to say such a thing. Dear + Mrs. MacAnder’s boy, Charlie MacAnder, was one, and no one could + call him grasping. At this Francie uttered one of her _mots_, + scandalising, and so frequently repeated: + + “Well, his father’s a Scotchman, and his mother’s a cat.” + + Aunt Juley covered her ears, too late, but Aunt Hester smiled; as + for Nicholas, he pouted—witticism of which he was not the author + was hardly to his taste. Just then Marian Tweetyman arrived, + followed almost immediately by young Nicholas. On seeing his son, + Nicholas rose. + + “Well, I must be going,” he said, “Nick here will tell you + what’ll win the race.” And with this hit at his eldest, who, as a + pillar of accountancy, and director of an insurance company, was + no more addicted to sport than his father had ever been, he + departed. Dear Nicholas! What race was that? Or was it only one + of his jokes? He was a wonderful man for his age! How many lumps + would dear Marian take? And how were Giles and Jesse? Aunt Juley + supposed their Yeomanry would be very busy now, guarding the + coast, though of course the Boers had no ships. But one never + knew what the French might do if they had the chance, especially + since that dreadful Fashoda scare, which had upset Timothy so + terribly that he had made no investments for months afterwards. + It was the ingratitude of the Boers that was so dreadful, after + everything had been done for them—Dr. Jameson imprisoned, and he + was so nice, Mrs. MacAnder had always said. And Sir Alfred Milner + sent out to talk to them—such a clever man! She didn’t know what + they wanted. + + But at this moment occurred one of those sensations—so precious + at Timothy’s—which great occasions sometimes bring forth: + + “Miss June Forsyte.” + + Aunts Juley and Hester were on their feet at once, trembling from + smothered resentment, and old affection bubbling up, and pride at + the return of a prodigal June! Well, this _was_ a surprise! Dear + June—after all these years! And how well she was looking! Not + changed at all! It was almost on their lips to add, “And how is + your dear grandfather?” forgetting in that giddy moment that poor + dear Jolyon had been in his grave for seven years now. + + Ever the most courageous and downright of all the Forsytes, June, + with her decided chin and her spirited eyes and her hair like + flame, sat down, slight and short, on a gilt chair with a + bead-worked seat, for all the world as if ten years had not + elapsed since she had been to see them—ten years of travel and + independence and devotion to lame ducks. Those ducks of late had + been all definitely painters, etchers, or sculptors, so that her + impatience with the Forsytes and their hopelessly inartistic + outlook had become intense. Indeed, she had almost ceased to + believe that her family existed, and looked round her now with a + sort of challenging directness which brought exquisite discomfort + to the roomful. She had not expected to meet any of them but “the + poor old things”; and why she had come to see _them_ she hardly + knew, except that, while on her way from Oxford Street to a + studio in Latimer Road, she had suddenly remembered them with + compunction as two long-neglected old lame ducks. + + Aunt Juley broke the hush again. “We’ve just been saying, dear, + how dreadful it is about these Boers! And what an impudent thing + of that old Kruger!” + + “Impudent!” said June. “I think he’s quite right. What business + have we to meddle with them? If he turned out all those wretched + Uitlanders it would serve them right. They’re only after money.” + + The silence of sensation was broken by Francie saying: + + “What? Are you a pro-Boer?” (undoubtedly the first use of that + expression). + + “Well! Why can’t we leave them alone?” said June, just as, in the + open doorway, the maid said “Mr. Soames Forsyte.” Sensation on + sensation! Greeting was almost held up by curiosity to see how + June and he would take this encounter, for it was shrewdly + suspected, if not quite known, that they had not met since that + old and lamentable affair of her fiance Bosinney with Soames’ + wife. They were seen to just touch each other’s hands, and look + each at the other’s left eye only. Aunt Juley came at once to the + rescue: + + “Dear June is so original. Fancy, Soames, she thinks the Boers + are not to blame.” + + “They only want their independence,” said June; “and why + shouldn’t they have it?” + + “Because,” answered Soames, with his smile a little on one side, + “they happen to have agreed to our suzerainty.” + + “Suzerainty!” repeated June scornfully; “we shouldn’t like + anyone’s suzerainty over us.” + + “They got advantages in payment,” replied Soames; “a contract is + a contract.” + + “Contracts are not always just,” fumed out June, “and when + they’re not, they ought to be broken. The Boers are much the + weaker. We could afford to be generous.” + + Soames sniffed. “That’s mere sentiment,” he said. + + Aunt Hester, to whom nothing was more awful than any kind of + disagreement, here leaned forward and remarked decisively: + + “What lovely weather it has been for the time of year?” + + But June was not to be diverted. + + “I don’t know why sentiment should be sneered at. It’s the best + thing in the world.” She looked defiantly round, and Aunt Juley + had to intervene again: + + “Have you bought any pictures lately, Soames?” + + Her incomparable instinct for the wrong subject had not failed + her. Soames flushed. To disclose the name of his latest purchases + would be like walking into the jaws of disdain. For somehow they + all knew of June’s predilection for “genius” not yet on its legs, + and her contempt for “success” unless she had had a finger in + securing it. + + “One or two,” he muttered. + + But June’s face had changed; the Forsyte within her was seeing + its chance. Why should not Soames buy some of the pictures of + Eric Cobbley—her last lame duck? And she promptly opened her + attack: Did Soames know his work? It was so wonderful. He was the + coming man. + + Oh, yes, Soames knew his work. It was in his view “splashy,” and + would never get hold of the public. + + June blazed up. + + “Of course it won’t; that’s the last thing one would wish for. I + thought you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer.” + + “Of course Soames is a connoisseur,” Aunt Juley said hastily; “he + has wonderful taste—he can always tell beforehand what’s going to + be successful.” + + “Oh!” gasped June, and sprang up from the bead-covered chair, “I + hate that standard of success. Why can’t people buy things + because they like them?” + + “You mean,” said Francie, “because _you_ like them.” + + And in the slight pause young Nicholas was heard saying gently + that Violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in pastel, he didn’t + know if they were any use. + + “Well, good-bye, Auntie,” said June; “I must get on,” and kissing + her aunts, she looked defiantly round the room, said “Good-bye” + again, and went. A breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if + everyone had sighed. + + The third sensation came before anyone had time to speak: + + “Mr. James Forsyte.” + + James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat + which gave him a fictitious bulk. + + Everyone stood up. James was so old; and he had not been at + Timothy’s for nearly two years. + + “It’s hot in here,” he said. + + Soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help + admiring the glossy way his father was turned out. James sat + down, all knees, elbows, frock-coat, and long white whiskers. + + “What’s the meaning of that?” he said. + + Though there was no apparent sense in his words, they all knew + that he was referring to June. His eyes searched his son’s face. + + “I thought I’d come and see for myself. What have they answered + Kruger?” + + Soames took out an evening paper, and read the headline. + + “‘Instant action by our Government—state of war existing!’” + + “Ah!” said James, and sighed. “I was afraid they’d cut and run + like old Gladstone. We shall finish with them this time.” + + All stared at him. James! Always fussy, nervous, anxious! James + with his continual, “I told you how it would be!” and his + pessimism, and his cautious investments. There was something + uncanny about such resolution in this the oldest living Forsyte. + + “Where’s Timothy?” said James. “He ought to pay attention to + this.” + + Aunt Juley said she didn’t know; Timothy had not said much at + lunch to-day. Aunt Hester rose and threaded her way out of the + room, and Francie said rather maliciously: + + “The Boers are a hard nut to crack, Uncle James.” + + “H’m!” muttered James. “Where do you get your information? Nobody + tells me.” + + Young Nicholas remarked in his mild voice that Nick (his eldest) + was now going to drill regularly. + + “Ah!” muttered James, and stared before him—his thoughts were on + Val. “He’s got to look after his mother,” he said, “he’s got no + time for drilling and that, with that father of his.” This + cryptic saying produced silence, until he spoke again. + + “What did June want here?” And his eyes rested with suspicion on + all of them in turn. “Her father’s a rich man now.” The + conversation turned on Jolyon, and when he had been seen last. It + was supposed that he went abroad and saw all sorts of people now + that his wife was dead; his water-colours were on the line, and + he was a successful man. Francie went so far as to say: + + “I should like to see him again; he was rather a dear.” + + Aunt Juley recalled how he had gone to sleep on the sofa one day, + where James was sitting. He had always been very amiable; what + did Soames think? + + Knowing that Jolyon was Irene’s trustee, all felt the delicacy of + this question, and looked at Soames with interest. A faint pink + had come up in his cheeks. + + “He’s going grey,” he said. + + Indeed! Had Soames seen him? Soames nodded, and the pink + vanished. + + James said suddenly: “Well—I don’t know, I can’t tell.” + + It so exactly expressed the sentiment of everybody present that + there was something behind everything, that nobody responded. But + at this moment Aunt Hester returned. + + “Timothy,” she said in a low voice, “Timothy has bought a map, + and he’s put in—he’s put in three flags.” + + Timothy had...! A sigh went round the company. + + If Timothy had indeed put in three flags already, well!—it showed + what the nation could do when it was roused. The war was as good + as over. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS + + + Jolyon stood at the window in Holly’s old night nursery, + converted into a studio, not because it had a north light, but + for its view over the prospect away to the Grand Stand at Epsom. + He shifted to the side window which overlooked the stableyard, + and whistled down to the dog Balthasar who lay for ever under the + clock tower. The old dog looked up and wagged his tail. “Poor old + boy!” thought Jolyon, shifting back to the other window. + + He had been restless all this week, since his attempt to + prosecute trusteeship, uneasy in his conscience which was ever + acute, disturbed in his sense of compassion which was easily + excited, and with a queer sensation as if his feeling for beauty + had received some definite embodiment. Autumn was getting hold of + the old oak-tree, its leaves were browning. Sunshine had been + plentiful and hot this summer. As with trees, so with men’s + lives! “_I_ ought to live long,” thought Jolyon; “I’m getting + mildewed for want of heat. If I can’t work, I shall be off to + Paris.” But memory of Paris gave him no pleasure. Besides, how + could he go? He must stay and see what Soames was going to do. + “I’m her trustee. I can’t leave her unprotected,” he thought. It + had been striking him as curious how very clearly he could still + see Irene in her little drawing-room which he had only twice + entered. Her beauty must have a sort of poignant harmony! No + literal portrait would ever do her justice; the essence of her + was—ah I what?... The noise of hoofs called him back to the other + window. Holly was riding into the yard on her long-tailed + “palfrey.” She looked up and he waved to her. She had been rather + silent lately; getting old, he supposed, beginning to want her + future, as they all did—youngsters! + + Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste + this swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took + up his brush. But it was no use; he could not concentrate his + eye—besides, the light was going. “I’ll go up to town,” he + thought. In the hall a servant met him. + + “A lady to see you, sir; Mrs. Heron.” + + Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picture-gallery, as + it was still called, he saw Irene standing over by the window. + + She came towards him saying: + + “I’ve been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and garden. + I always used to come that way to see Uncle Jolyon.” + + “You couldn’t trespass here,” replied Jolyon; “history makes that + impossible. I was just thinking of you.” + + Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere + spirituality—serener, completer, more alluring. + + “History!” she answered; “I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was + for ever. Well, it isn’t. Only aversion lasts.” + + Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last? + + “Yes!” he said, “aversion’s deeper than love or hate because it’s + a natural product of the nerves, and we don’t change them.” + + “I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a + thing that frightened me. He said: ‘You are still my wife!’” + + “What!” ejaculated Jolyon. “You ought not to live alone.” And he + continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where + Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was + why so many people looked on it as immoral. + + “What more?” + + “He asked me to shake hands.” + + “Did you?” + + “Yes. When he came in I’m sure he didn’t want to; he changed + while he was there.” + + “Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone.” + + “I know no woman I could ask; and I can’t take a lover to order, + Cousin Jolyon.” + + “Heaven forbid!” said Jolyon. “What a damnable position! Will you + stay to dinner? No? Well, let me see you back to town; I wanted + to go up this evening.” + + “Truly?” + + “Truly. I’ll be ready in five minutes.” + + On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music, + contrasting the English and French characters and the difference + in their attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges + of the long straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept + pace with them, the perfume of weeds being already burned, the + turn of her neck, the fascination of those dark eyes bent on him + now and then, the lure of her whole figure, made a deeper + impression than the remarks they exchanged. Unconsciously he held + himself straighter, walked with a more elastic step. + + In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what + she did with her days. + + Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano, + translated from the French. + + She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which + supplemented her income a little. She seldom went out in the + evening. “I’ve been living alone so long, you see, that I don’t + mind it a bit. I believe I’m naturally solitary.” + + “I don’t believe that,” said Jolyon. “Do you know many people?” + + “Very few.” + + At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door + of her mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said: + + “You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must + let me know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene.” + + “Good-bye,” she answered softly. + + Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked + her to dine and go to the theatre with him. Solitary, starved, + hung-up life that she had! “Hotch Potch Club,” he said through + the trap-door. As his hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a + man in top-hat and overcoat passed, walking quickly, so close to + the wall that he seemed to be scraping it. + + “By Jove!” thought Jolyon; “Soames himself! What’s _he_ up to + now?” And, stopping the cab round the corner, he got out and + retraced his steps to where he could see the entrance to the + mansions. Soames had halted in front of them, and was looking up + at the light in her windows. “If he goes in,” thought Jolyon, + “what shall I do? What have I the right to do?” What the fellow + had said was true. She was still his wife, absolutely without + protection from annoyance! “Well, if he goes in,” he thought, “I + follow.” And he began moving towards the mansions. Again Soames + advanced; he was in the very entrance now. But suddenly he + stopped, spun round on his heel, and came back towards the river. + “What now?” thought Jolyon. “In a dozen steps he’ll recognise + me.” And he turned tail. His cousin’s footsteps kept pace with + his own. But he reached his cab, and got in before Soames had + turned the corner. “Go on!” he said through the trap. Soames’ + figure ranged up alongside. + + “Hansom!” he said. “Engaged? Hallo!” + + “Hallo!” answered Jolyon. “You?” + + The quick suspicion on his cousin’s face, white in the lamplight, + decided him. + + “I can give you a lift,” he said, “if you’re going West.” + + “Thanks,” answered Soames, and got in. + + “I’ve been seeing Irene,” said Jolyon when the cab had started. + + “Indeed!” + + “You went to see her yesterday yourself, I understand.” + + “I did,” said Soames; “she’s my wife, you know.” + + The tone, the half-lifted sneering lip, roused sudden anger in + Jolyon; but he subdued it. + + “You ought to know best,” he said, “but if you want a divorce + it’s not very wise to go seeing her, is it? One can’t run with + the hare and hunt with the hounds?” + + “You’re very good to warn me,” said Soames, “but I have not made + up my mind.” + + “_She_ has,” said Jolyon, looking straight before him; “you can’t + take things up, you know, as they were twelve years ago.” + + “That remains to be seen.” + + “Look here!” said Jolyon, “she’s in a damnable position, and I am + the only person with any legal say in her affairs.” + + “Except myself,” retorted Soames, “who am also in a damnable + position. Hers is what she made for herself; mine what she made + for me. I am not at all sure that in her own interests I shan’t + require her to return to me.” + + “What!” exclaimed Jolyon; and a shiver went through his whole + body. + + “I don’t know what you may mean by ‘what,’” answered Soames + coldly; “your say in her affairs is confined to paying out her + income; please bear that in mind. In choosing not to disgrace her + by a divorce, I retained my rights, and, as I say, I am not at + all sure that I shan’t require to exercise them.” + + “My God!” ejaculated Jolyon, and he uttered a short laugh. + + “Yes,” said Soames, and there was a deadly quality in his voice. + “I’ve not forgotten the nickname your father gave me, ‘The man of + property’. I’m not called names for nothing.” + + “This is fantastic,” murmured Jolyon. Well, the fellow couldn’t + force his wife to live with him. Those days were past, anyway! + And he looked around at Soames with the thought: “Is he real, + this man?” But Soames looked very real, sitting square yet almost + elegant with the clipped moustache on his pale face, and a tooth + showing where a lip was lifted in a fixed smile. There was a long + silence, while Jolyon thought: “Instead of helping her, I’ve made + things worse.” Suddenly Soames said: + + “It would be the best thing that could happen to her in many + ways.” + + At those words such a turmoil began taking place in Jolyon that + he could barely sit still in the cab. It was as if he were boxed + up with hundreds of thousands of his countrymen, boxed up with + that something in the national character which had always been to + him revolting, something which he knew to be extremely natural + and yet which seemed to him inexplicable—their intense belief in + contracts and vested rights, their complacent sense of virtue in + the exaction of those rights. Here beside him in the cab was the + very embodiment, the corporeal sum as it were, of the possessive + instinct—his own kinsman, too! It was uncanny and intolerable! + “But there’s something more in it than that!” he thought with a + sick feeling. “The dog, they say, returns to his vomit! The sight + of her has reawakened something. Beauty! The devil’s in it!” + + “As I say,” said Soames, “I have not made up my mind. I shall be + obliged if you will kindly leave her quite alone.” + + Jolyon bit his lips; he who had always hated rows almost welcomed + the thought of one now. + + “I can give you no such promise,” he said shortly. + + “Very well,” said Soames, “then we know where we are. I’ll get + down here.” And stopping the cab he got out without word or sign + of farewell. Jolyon travelled on to his Club. + + The first news of the war was being called in the streets, but he + paid no attention. What could he do to help her? If only his + father were alive! _He_ could have done so much! But why could he + not do all that his father could have done? Was he not old + enough?—turned fifty and twice married, with grown-up daughters + and a son. “Queer,” he thought. “If she were plain I shouldn’t be + thinking twice about it. Beauty is the devil, when you’re + sensitive to it!” And into the Club reading-room he went with a + disturbed heart. In that very room he and Bosinney had talked one + summer afternoon; he well remembered even now the disguised and + secret lecture he had given that young man in the interests of + June, the diagnosis of the Forsytes he had hazarded; and how he + had wondered what sort of woman it was he was warning him + against. And now! He was almost in want of a warning himself. + “It’s deuced funny!” he thought, “really deuced funny!” + + CHAPTER XIV SOAMES DISCOVERS WHAT HE WANTS + + It is so much easier to say, “Then we know where we are,” than to + mean anything particular by the words. And in saying them Soames + did but vent the jealous rankling of his instincts. He got out of + the cab in a state of wary anger—with himself for not having seen + Irene, with Jolyon for having seen her; and now with his + inability to tell exactly what he wanted. + + He had abandoned the cab because he could not bear to remain + seated beside his cousin, and walking briskly eastwards he + thought: “I wouldn’t trust that fellow Jolyon a yard. Once + outcast, always outcast!” The chap had a natural sympathy + with—with—laxity (he had shied at the word sin, because it was + too melodramatic for use by a Forsyte). + + Indecision in desire was to him a new feeling. He was like a + child between a promised toy and an old one which had been taken + away from him; and he was astonished at himself. Only last Sunday + desire had seemed simple—just his freedom and Annette. “I’ll go + and dine there,” he thought. To see her might bring back his + singleness of intention, calm his exasperation, clear his mind. + + The restaurant was fairly full—a good many foreigners and folk + whom, from their appearance, he took to be literary or artistic. + Scraps of conversation came his way through the clatter of plates + and glasses. He distinctly heard the Boers sympathised with, the + British Government blamed. “Don’t think much of their clientèle,” + he thought. He went stolidly through his dinner and special + coffee without making his presence known, and when at last he had + finished, was careful not to be seen going towards the sanctum of + Madame Lamotte. They were, as he entered, having supper—such a + much nicer-looking supper than the dinner he had eaten that he + felt a kind of grief—and they greeted him with a surprise so + seemingly genuine that he thought with sudden suspicion: “I + believe they knew I was here all the time.” He gave Annette a + look furtive and searching. So pretty, seemingly so candid; could + she be angling for him? He turned to Madame Lamotte and said: + + “I’ve been dining here.” + + Really! If she had only known! There were dishes she could have + recommended; what a pity! Soames was confirmed in his suspicion. + “I must look out what I’m doing!” he thought sharply. + + “Another little cup of very special coffee, _monsieur;_ a + liqueur, Grand Marnier?” and Madame Lamotte rose to order these + delicacies. + + Alone with Annette Soames said, “Well, Annette?” with a defensive + little smile about his lips. + + The girl blushed. This, which last Sunday would have set his + nerves tingling, now gave him much the same feeling a man has + when a dog that he owns wriggles and looks at him. He had a + curious sense of power, as if he could have said to her, “Come + and kiss me,” and she would have come. And yet—it was strange—but + there seemed another face and form in the room too; and the itch + in his nerves, was it for that—or for this? He jerked his head + towards the restaurant and said: “You have some queer customers. + Do you like this life?” + + Annette looked up at him for a moment, looked down, and played + with her fork. + + “No,” she said, “I do not like it.” + + “I’ve got her,” thought Soames, “if I want her. But do I want + her?” She was graceful, she was pretty—very pretty; she was + fresh, she had taste of a kind. His eyes travelled round the + little room; but the eyes of his mind went another journey—a + half-light, and silvery walls, a satinwood piano, a woman + standing against it, reined back as it were from him—a woman with + white shoulders that he knew, and dark eyes that he had sought to + know, and hair like dull dark amber. And as in an artist who + strives for the unrealisable and is ever thirsty, so there rose + in him at that moment the thirst of the old passion he had never + satisfied. + + “Well,” he said calmly, “you’re young. There’s everything before + _you_.” + + Annette shook her head. + + “I think sometimes there is nothing before me but hard work. I am + not so in love with work as mother.” + + “Your mother is a wonder,” said Soames, faintly mocking; “she + will never let failure lodge in her house.” + + Annette sighed. “It must be wonderful to be rich.” + + “Oh! You’ll be rich some day,” answered Soames, still with that + faint mockery; “don’t be afraid.” + + Annette shrugged her shoulders. “_Monsieur_ is very kind.” And + between her pouting lips she put a chocolate. + + “Yes, my dear,” thought Soames, “they’re very pretty.” + + Madame Lamotte, with coffee and liqueur, put an end to that + colloquy. Soames did not stay long. + + Outside in the streets of Soho, which always gave him such a + feeling of property improperly owned, he mused. If only Irene had + given him a son, he wouldn’t now be squirming after women! The + thought had jumped out of its little dark sentry-box in his inner + consciousness. A son—something to look forward to, something to + make the rest of life worth while, something to leave himself to, + some perpetuity of self. “If I had a son,” he thought bitterly, + “a proper legal son, I could make shift to go on as I used. One + woman’s much the same as another, after all.” But as he walked he + shook his head. No! One woman was not the same as another. Many a + time had he tried to think that in the old days of his thwarted + married life; and he had always failed. He was failing now. He + was trying to think Annette the same as that other. But she was + not, she had not the lure of that old passion. “And Irene’s my + wife,” he thought, “my legal wife. I have done nothing to put her + away from me. Why shouldn’t she come back to me? It’s the right + thing, the lawful thing. It makes no scandal, no disturbance. If + it’s disagreeable to her—but why _should_ it be? I’m not a leper, + and she—she’s no longer in love!” Why should he be put to the + shifts and the sordid disgraces and the lurking defeats of the + Divorce Court, when there she was like an empty house only + waiting to be retaken into use and possession by him who legally + owned her? To one so secretive as Soames the thought of reentry + into quiet possession of his own property with nothing given away + to the world was intensely alluring. “No,” he mused, “I’m glad I + went to see that girl. I know now what I want most. If only Irene + will come back I’ll be as considerate as she wishes; she could + live her own life; but perhaps—perhaps she would come round to + me.” There was a lump in his throat. And doggedly along by the + railings of the Green Park, towards his father’s house, he went, + trying to tread on his shadow walking before him in the brilliant + moonlight. + + + + + PART II + + CHAPTER I THE THIRD GENERATION + + + Jolly Forsyte was strolling down High Street, Oxford, on a + November afternoon; Val Dartie was strolling up. Jolly had just + changed out of boating flannels and was on his way to the + “Frying-pan,” to which he had recently been elected. Val had just + changed out of riding clothes and was on his way to the fire—a + bookmaker’s in Cornmarket. + + “Hallo!” said Jolly. + + “Hallo!” replied Val. + + The cousins had met but twice, Jolly, the second-year man, having + invited the freshman to breakfast; and last evening they had seen + each other again under somewhat exotic circumstances. + + Over a tailor’s in the Cornmarket resided one of those privileged + young beings called minors, whose inheritances are large, whose + parents are dead, whose guardians are remote, and whose instincts + are vicious. At nineteen he had commenced one of those careers + attractive and inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom a single + bankruptcy is good as a feast. Already famous for having the only + roulette table then to be found in Oxford, he was anticipating + his expectations at a dazzling rate. He out-crummed Crum, though + of a sanguine and rather beefy type which lacked the latter’s + fascinating languor. For Val it had been in the nature of baptism + to be taken there to play roulette; in the nature of confirmation + to get back into college, after hours, through a window whose + bars were deceptive. Once, during that evening of delight, + glancing up from the seductive green before him, he had caught + sight, through a cloud of smoke, of his cousin standing opposite. + “_Rouge gagne, impair, et manque!_” He had not seen him again. + + “Come in to the Frying-pan and have tea,” said Jolly, and they + went in. + + A stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an + unseizable resemblance between these second cousins of the third + generations of Forsytes; the same bone formation in face, though + Jolly’s eyes were darker grey, his hair lighter and more wavy. + + “Tea and buttered buns, waiter, please,” said Jolly. + + “Have one of my cigarettes?” said Val. “I saw you last night. How + did you do?” + + “I didn’t play.” + + “I won fifteen quid.” + + Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he + had once heard his father make—“When you’re fleeced you’re sick, + and when you fleece you’re sorry”—Jolly contented himself with: + + “Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap. He’s an + awful fool.” + + “Oh! I don’t know,” said Val, as one might speak in defence of a + disparaged god; “he’s a pretty good sport.” + + They exchanged whiffs in silence. + + “You met my people, didn’t you?” said Jolly. “They’re coming up + to-morrow.” + + Val grew a little red. + + “Really! I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester + November handicap.” + + “Thanks, I only take interest in the classic races.” + + “You can’t make any money over them,” said Val. + + “I hate the ring,” said Jolly; “there’s such a row and stink. I + like the paddock.” + + “I like to back my judgment,” answered Val. + + Jolly smiled; his smile was like his father’s. + + “I haven’t got any. I always lose money if I bet.” + + “You have to buy experience, of course.” + + “Yes, but it’s all messed-up with doing people in the eye.” + + “Of course, or they’ll do you—that’s the excitement.” + + Jolly looked a little scornful. + + “What do you do with yourself? Row?” + + “No—ride, and drive about. I’m going to play polo next term, if I + can get my granddad to stump up.” + + “That’s old Uncle James, isn’t it? What’s he like?” + + “Older than forty hills,” said Val, “and always thinking he’s + going to be ruined.” + + “I suppose my granddad and he were brothers.” + + “I don’t believe any of that old lot were sportsmen,” said Val; + “they must have worshipped money.” + + “Mine didn’t!” said Jolly warmly. + + Val flipped the ash off his cigarette. + + “Money’s only fit to spend,” he said; “I wish the deuce I had + more.” + + Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had + inherited from old Jolyon: One didn’t talk about money! And again + there was silence, while they drank tea and ate the buttered + buns. + + “Where are your people going to stay?” asked Val, elaborately + casual. + + “‘Rainbow.’ What do you think of the war?” + + “Rotten, so far. The Boers aren’t sports a bit. Why don’t they + come out into the open?” + + “Why should they? They’ve got everything against them except + their way of fighting. I rather admire them.” + + “They can ride and shoot,” admitted Val, “but they’re a lousy + lot. Do you know Crum?” + + “Of Merton? Only by sight. He’s in that fast set too, isn’t he? + Rather La-di-da and Brummagem.” + + Val said fixedly: “He’s a friend of mine.” + + “Oh! Sorry!” And they sat awkwardly staring past each other, + having pitched on their pet points of snobbery. For Jolly was + forming himself unconsciously on a set whose motto was: + + “We defy you to bore us. Life isn’t half long enough, and we’re + going to talk faster and more crisply, do more and know more, and + dwell less on any subject than you can possibly imagine. We are + ‘the best’—made of wire and whipcord.” And Val was unconsciously + forming himself on a set whose motto was: “We defy you to + interest or excite us. We have had every sensation, or if we + haven’t, we pretend we have. We are so exhausted with living that + no hours are too small for us. We will lose our shirts with + equanimity. We have flown fast and are past everything. All is + cigarette smoke. Bismillah!” Competitive spirit, bone-deep in the + English, was obliging those two young Forsytes to have ideals; + and at the close of a century ideals are mixed. The aristocracy + had already in the main adopted the “jumping-Jesus” principle; + though here and there one like Crum—who was an “honourable”—stood + starkly languid for that gambler’s Nirvana which had been the + _summum bonum_ of the old “dandies” and of “the mashers” in the + eighties. And round Crum were still gathered a forlorn hope of + blue-bloods with a plutocratic following. + + But there was between the cousins another far less obvious + antipathy—coming from the unseizable family resemblance, which + each perhaps resented; or from some half-consciousness of that + old feud persisting still between their branches of the clan, + formed within them by odd words or half-hints dropped by their + elders. And Jolly, tinkling his teaspoon, was musing: “His + tie-pin and his waistcoat and his drawl and his betting—good + Lord!” + + And Val, finishing his bun, was thinking: “He’s rather a young + beast!” + + “I suppose you’ll be meeting your people?” he said, getting up. + “I wish you’d tell them I should like to show them over + B.N.C.—not that there’s anything much there—if they’d care to + come.” + + “Thanks, I’ll ask them.” + + “Would they lunch? I’ve got rather a decent scout.” + + Jolly doubted if they would have time. + + “You’ll ask them, though?” + + “Very good of you,” said Jolly, fully meaning that they should + not go; but, instinctively polite, he added: “You’d better come + and have dinner with us to-morrow.” + + “Rather. What time?” + + “Seven-thirty.” + + “Dress?” + + “No.” And they parted, a subtle antagonism alive within them. + + Holly and her father arrived by a midday train. It was her first + visit to the city of spires and dreams, and she was very silent, + looking almost shyly at the brother who was part of this + wonderful place. After lunch she wandered, examining his + household gods with intense curiosity. Jolly’s sitting-room was + panelled, and Art represented by a set of Bartolozzi prints which + had belonged to old Jolyon, and by college photographs—of young + men, live young men, a little heroic, and to be compared with her + memories of Val. Jolyon also scrutinised with care that evidence + of his boy’s character and tastes. + + Jolly was anxious that they should see him rowing, so they set + forth to the river. Holly, between her brother and her father, + felt elated when heads were turned and eyes rested on her. That + they might see him to the best advantage they left him at the + Barge and crossed the river to the towing-path. Slight in + build—for of all the Forsytes only old Swithin and George were + beefy—Jolly was rowing “Two” in a trial eight. He looked very + earnest and strenuous. With pride Jolyon thought him the + best-looking boy of the lot; Holly, as became a sister, was more + struck by one or two of the others, but would not have said so + for the world. The river was bright that afternoon, the meadows + lush, the trees still beautiful with colour. Distinguished peace + clung around the old city; Jolyon promised himself a day’s + sketching if the weather held. The Eight passed a second time, + spurting home along the Barges—Jolly’s face was very set, so as + not to show that he was blown. They returned across the river and + waited for him. + + “Oh!” said Jolly in the Christ Church meadows, “I had to ask that + chap Val Dartie to dine with us to-night. He wanted to give you + lunch and show you B.N.C., so I thought I’d better; then you + needn’t go. I don’t like him much.” + + Holly’s rather sallow face had become suffused with pink. + + “Why not?” + + “Oh! I don’t know. He seems to me rather showy and bad form. What + are his people like, Dad? He’s only a second cousin, isn’t he?” + + Jolyon took refuge in a smile. + + “Ask Holly,” he said; “she saw his uncle.” + + “I _liked_ Val,” Holly answered, staring at the ground before + her; “his uncle looked—awfully different.” She stole a glance at + Jolly from under her lashes. + + “Did you ever,” said Jolyon with whimsical intention, “hear our + family history, my dears? It’s quite a fairy tale. The first + Jolyon Forsyte—at all events the first we know anything of, and + that would be your great-great-grandfather—dwelt in the land of + Dorset on the edge of the sea, being by profession an + ‘agriculturalist,’ as your great-aunt put it, and the son of an + agriculturist—farmers, in fact; your grandfather used to call + them, ‘Very small beer.’” He looked at Jolly to see how his + lordliness was standing it, and with the other eye noted Holly’s + malicious pleasure in the slight drop of her brother’s face. + + “We may suppose him thick and sturdy, standing for England as it + was before the Industrial Era began. The second Jolyon + Forsyte—your great-grandfather, Jolly; better known as Superior + Dosset Forsyte—built houses, so the chronicle runs, begat ten + children, and migrated to London town. It is known that he drank + sherry. We may suppose him representing the England of Napoleon’s + wars, and general unrest. The eldest of his six sons was the + third Jolyon, your grandfather, my dears—tea merchant and + chairman of companies, one of the soundest Englishmen who ever + lived—and to me the dearest.” Jolyon’s voice had lost its irony, + and his son and daughter gazed at him solemnly, “He was just and + tenacious, tender and young at heart. You remember him, and I + remember him. Pass to the others! Your great-uncle James, that’s + young Val’s grandfather, had a son called Soames—whereby hangs a + tale of no love lost, and I don’t think I’ll tell it you. James + and the other eight children of ‘Superior Dosset,’ of whom there + are still five alive, may be said to have represented Victorian + England, with its principles of trade and individualism at five + per cent. and your money back—if you know what that means. At all + events they’ve turned thirty thousand pounds into a cool million + between them in the course of their long lives. They never did a + wild thing—unless it was your great-uncle Swithin, who I believe + was once swindled at thimble-rig, and was called ‘Four-in-hand + Forsyte’ because he drove a pair. Their day is passing, and their + type, not altogether for the advantage of the country. They were + pedestrian, but they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon + Forsyte—a poor holder of the name—” + + “No, Dad,” said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand. + + “Yes,” repeated Jolyon, “a poor specimen, representing, I’m + afraid, nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, + amateurism, and individual liberty—a different thing from + individualism, Jolly. You are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, + and you open the ball of the new century.” + + As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly + said: “It’s fascinating, Dad.” + + None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave. + + The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for + lack of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private + sitting-room, in which Holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, + and alone, when the only guest arrived. Rather as one would touch + a moth, Val took her hand. And wouldn’t she wear this “measly + flower”. It would look ripping in her hair. He removed a gardenia + from his coat. + + “Oh! No, thank you—I couldn’t!” But she took it and pinned it at + her neck, having suddenly remembered that word “showy”. Val’s + buttonhole would give offence; and she so much wanted Jolly to + like him. Did she realise that Val was at his best and quietest + in her presence, and was that, perhaps, half the secret of his + attraction for her? + + “I never said anything about our ride, Val.” + + “Rather not! It’s just between us.” + + By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he + was giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling + too—the wish to make him happy. + + “Do tell me about Oxford. It must be ever so lovely.” + + Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked; + the lectures were nothing; and there were some very good chaps. + “Only,” he added, “of course I wish I was in town, and could come + down and see you.” + + Holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance dropped. + + “You haven’t forgotten,” he said, suddenly gathering courage, + “that we’re going mad-rabbiting together?” + + Holly smiled. + + “Oh! That was only make-believe. One can’t do that sort of thing + after one’s grown up, you know.” + + “Dash it! cousins can,” said Val. “Next Long Vac.—it begins in + June, you know, and goes on for ever—we’ll watch our chance.” + + But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, Holly + shook her head. “It won’t come off,” she murmured. + + “Won’t it!” said Val fervently; “who’s going to stop it? Not your + father or your brother.” + + At this moment Jolyon and Jolly came in; and romance fled into + Val’s patent leather and Holly’s white satin toes, where it + itched and tingled during an evening not conspicuous for + open-heartedness. + + Sensitive to atmosphere, Jolyon soon felt the latent antagonism + between the boys, and was puzzled by Holly; so he became + unconsciously ironical, which is fatal to the expansiveness of + youth. A letter, handed to him after dinner, reduced him to a + silence hardly broken till Jolly and Val rose to go. He went out + with them, smoking his cigar, and walked with his son to the + gates of Christ Church. Turning back, he took out the letter and + read it again beneath a lamp. + + “DEAR JOLYON, + “Soames came again to-night—my thirty-seventh birthday. You + were right, I mustn’t stay here. I’m going to-morrow to the + Piedmont Hotel, but I won’t go abroad without seeing you. I + feel lonely and down-hearted. + + “Yours affectionately, + “IRENE.” + + He folded the letter back into his pocket and walked on, + astonished at the violence of his feelings. What had the fellow + said or done? + + He turned into High Street, down the Turf, and on among a maze of + spires and domes and long college fronts and walls, bright or + dark-shadowed in the strong moonlight. In this very heart of + England’s gentility it was difficult to realise that a lonely + woman could be importuned or hunted, but what else could her + letter mean? Soames must have been pressing her to go back to him + again, with public opinion and the Law on his side, too! + “Eighteen-ninety-nine!,” he thought, gazing at the broken glass + shining on the top of a villa garden wall; “but when it comes to + property we’re still a heathen people! I’ll go up to-morrow + morning. I dare say it’ll be best for her to go abroad.” Yet the + thought displeased him. Why should Soames hunt her out of + England! Besides, he might follow, and out there she would be + still more helpless against the attentions of her own husband! “I + must tread warily,” he thought; “that fellow could make himself + very nasty. I didn’t like his manner in the cab the other night.” + His thoughts turned to his daughter June. Could she help? Once on + a time Irene had been her greatest friend, and now she was a + “lame duck,” such as must appeal to June’s nature! He determined + to wire to his daughter to meet him at Paddington Station. + Retracing his steps towards the Rainbow he questioned his own + sensations. Would he be upsetting himself over every woman in + like case? No! he would not. The candour of this conclusion + discomfited him; and, finding that Holly had gone up to bed, he + sought his own room. But he could not sleep, and sat for a long + time at his window, huddled in an overcoat, watching the + moonlight on the roofs. + + Next door Holly too was awake, thinking of the lashes above and + below Val’s eyes, especially below; and of what she could do to + make Jolly like him better. The scent of the gardenia was strong + in her little bedroom, and pleasant to her. + + And Val, leaning out of his first-floor window in B.N.C., was + gazing at a moonlit quadrangle without seeing it at all, seeing + instead Holly, slim and white-frocked, as she sat beside the fire + when he first went in. + + But Jolly, in his bedroom narrow as a ghost, lay with a hand + beneath his cheek and dreamed he was with Val in one boat, rowing + a race against him, while his father was calling from the + towpath: “Two! Get your hands away there, bless you!” + + + + + CHAPTER II SOAMES PUTS IT TO THE TOUCH + + + Of all those radiant firms which emblazon with their windows the + West End of London, Gaves and Cortegal were considered by Soames + the most “attractive” word just coming into fashion. He had never + had his Uncle Swithin’s taste in precious stones, and the + abandonment by Irene when she left his house in 1887 of all the + glittering things he had given her had disgusted him with this + form of investment. But he still knew a diamond when he saw one, + and during the week before her birthday he had taken occasion, on + his way into the Poultry or his way out therefrom, to dally a + little before the greater jewellers where one got, if not one’s + money’s worth, at least a certain cachet with the goods. + + Constant cogitation since his drive with Jolyon had convinced him + more and more of the supreme importance of this moment in his + life, the supreme need for taking steps and those not wrong. And, + alongside the dry and reasoned sense that it was now or never + with his self-preservation, now or never if he were to range + himself and found a family, went the secret urge of his senses + roused by the sight of her who had once been a passionately + desired wife, and the conviction that it was a sin against common + sense and the decent secrecy of Forsytes to waste the wife he + had. + + In an opinion on Winifred’s case, Dreamer, Q.C.—he would much + have preferred Waterbuck, but they had made him a judge (so late + in the day as to rouse the usual suspicion of a political + job)—had advised that they should go forward and obtain + restitution of conjugal rights, a point which to Soames had never + been in doubt. When they had obtained a decree to that effect + they must wait to see if it was obeyed. If not, it would + constitute legal desertion, and they should obtain evidence of + misconduct and file their petition for divorce. All of which + Soames knew perfectly well. They had marked him ten and one. This + simplicity in his sister’s case only made him the more desperate + about the difficulty in his own. Everything, in fact, was driving + him towards the simple solution of Irene’s return. If it were + still against the grain with her, had _he_ not feelings to + subdue, injury to forgive, pain to forget? He at least had never + injured her, and this was a world of compromise! He could offer + her so much more than she had now. He would be prepared to make a + liberal settlement on her which could not be upset. He often + scrutinised his image in these days. He had never been a peacock + like that fellow Dartie, or fancied himself a woman’s man, but he + had a certain belief in his own appearance—not unjustly, for it + was well-coupled and preserved, neat, healthy, pale, unblemished + by drink or excess of any kind. The Forsyte jaw and the + concentration of his face were, in his eyes, virtues. So far as + he could tell there was no feature of him which need inspire + dislike. + + Thoughts and yearnings, with which one lives daily, become + natural, even if far-fetched in their inception. If he could only + give tangible proof enough of his determination to let bygones be + bygones, and to do all in his power to please her, why should she + not come back to him? + + He entered Gaves and Cortegal’s therefore, on the morning of + November the 9th, to buy a certain diamond brooch. “Four + twenty-five and dirt cheap, sir, at the money. It’s a lady’s + brooch.” There was that in his mood which made him accept without + demur. And he went on into the Poultry with the flat green + morocco case in his breast pocket. Several times that day he + opened it to look at the seven soft shining stones in their + velvet oval nest. + + “If the lady doesn’t like it, sir, happy to exchange it any time. + But there’s no fear of that.” If only there were not! He got + through a vast amount of work, only soother of the nerves he + knew. A cablegram came while he was in the office with details + from the agent in Buenos Aires, and the name and address of a + stewardess who would be prepared to swear to what was necessary. + It was a timely spur to Soames, with his rooted distaste for the + washing of dirty linen in public. And when he set forth by + Underground to Victoria Station he received a fresh impetus + towards the renewal of his married life from the account in his + evening paper of a fashionable divorce suit. The homing instinct + of all true Forsytes in anxiety and trouble, the corporate + tendency which kept them strong and solid, made him choose to + dine at Park Lane. He neither could nor would breathe a word to + his people of his intention—too reticent and proud—but the + thought that at least they would be glad if they knew, and wish + him luck, was heartening. + + James was in lugubrious mood, for the fire which the impudence of + Kruger’s ultimatum had lit in him had been cold-watered by the + poor success of the last month, and the exhortations to effort in + _The Times_. He didn’t know where it would end. Soames sought to + cheer him by the continual use of the word Buller. But James + couldn’t tell! There was Colley—and he got stuck on that hill, + and this Ladysmith was down in a hollow, and altogether it looked + to him a “pretty kettle of fish”; he thought they ought to be + sending the sailors—they were the chaps, they did a lot of good + in the Crimea. Soames shifted the ground of consolation. Winifred + had heard from Val that there had been a “rag” and a bonfire on + Guy Fawkes Day at Oxford, and that he had escaped detection by + blacking his face. + + “Ah!” James muttered, “he’s a clever little chap.” But he shook + his head shortly afterwards and remarked that he didn’t know what + would become of him, and looking wistfully at his son, murmured + on that Soames had never had a boy. He would have liked a + grandson of his own name. And now—well, there it was! + + Soames flinched. He had not expected such a challenge to disclose + the secret in his heart. And Emily, who saw him wince, said: + + “Nonsense, James; don’t talk like that!” + + But James, not looking anyone in the face, muttered on. There + were Roger and Nicholas and Jolyon; they all had grandsons. And + Swithin and Timothy had never married. He had done his best; but + he would soon be gone now. And, as though he had uttered words of + profound consolation, he was silent, eating brains with a fork + and a piece of bread, and swallowing the bread. + + Soames excused himself directly after dinner. It was not really + cold, but he put on his fur coat, which served to fortify him + against the fits of nervous shivering to which he had been + subject all day. Subconsciously, he knew that he looked better + thus than in an ordinary black overcoat. Then, feeling the + morocco case flat against his heart, he sallied forth. He was no + smoker, but he lit a cigarette, and smoked it gingerly as he + walked along. He moved slowly down the Row towards Knightsbridge, + timing himself to get to Chelsea at nine-fifteen. What did she do + with herself evening after evening in that little hole? How + mysterious women were! One lived alongside and knew nothing of + them. What could she have seen in that fellow Bosinney to send + her mad? For there was madness after all in what she had + done—crazy moonstruck madness, in which all sense of values had + been lost, and her life and his life ruined! And for a moment he + was filled with a sort of exaltation, as though he were a man + read of in a story who, possessed by the Christian spirit, would + restore to her all the prizes of existence, forgiving and + forgetting, and becoming the godfather of her future. Under a + tree opposite Knightsbridge Barracks, where the moonlight struck + down clear and white, he took out once more the morocco case, and + let the beams draw colour from those stones. Yes, they were of + the first water! But, at the hard closing snap of the case, + another cold shiver ran through his nerves; and he walked on + faster, clenching his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat, + almost hoping she would not be in. The thought of how mysterious + she was again beset him. Dining alone there night after night—in + an evening dress, too, as if she were making believe to be in + society! Playing the piano—to herself! Not even a dog or cat, so + far as he had seen. And that reminded him suddenly of the mare he + kept for station work at Mapledurham. If ever he went to the + stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her + home journeys going more freely than on her way out, as if + longing to be back and lonely in her stable! “I would treat her + well,” he thought incoherently. “I would be very careful.” And + all that capacity for home life of which a mocking Fate seemed + for ever to have deprived him swelled suddenly in Soames, so that + he dreamed dreams opposite South Kensington Station. In the + King’s Road a man came slithering out of a public house playing a + concertina. Soames watched him for a moment dance crazily on the + pavement to his own drawling jagged sounds, then crossed over to + avoid contact with this piece of drunken foolery. A night in the + lock-up! What asses people were! But the man had noticed his + movement of avoidance, and streams of genial blasphemy followed + him across the street. “I hope they’ll run him in,” thought + Soames viciously. “To have ruffians like that about, with women + out alone!” A woman’s figure in front had induced this thought. + Her walk seemed oddly familiar, and when she turned the corner + for which he was bound, his heart began to beat. He hastened on + to the corner to make certain. Yes! It was Irene; he could not + mistake her walk in that little drab street. She threaded two + more turnings, and from the last corner he saw her enter her + block of flats. To make sure of her now, he ran those few paces, + hurried up the stairs, and caught her standing at her door. He + heard the latchkey in the lock, and reached her side just as she + turned round, startled, in the open doorway. + + “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, breathless. “I happened to see you. + Let me come in a minute.” + + She had put her hand up to her breast, her face was colourless, + her eyes widened by alarm. Then seeming to master herself, she + inclined her head, and said: “Very well.” + + Soames closed the door. He, too, had need to recover, and when + she had passed into the sitting-room, waited a full minute, + taking deep breaths to still the beating of his heart. At this + moment, so fraught with the future, to take out that morocco case + seemed crude. Yet, not to take it out left him there before her + with no preliminary excuse for coming. And in this dilemma he was + seized with impatience at all this paraphernalia of excuse and + justification. This was a scene—it could be nothing else, and he + must face it. He heard her voice, uncomfortably, pathetically + soft: + + “Why have you come again? Didn’t you understand that I would + rather you did not?” + + He noticed her clothes—a dark brown velvet corduroy, a sable boa, + a small round toque of the same. They suited her admirably. She + had money to spare for dress, evidently! He said abruptly: + + “It’s your birthday. I brought you this,” and he held out to her + the green morocco case. + + “Oh! No-no!” + + Soames pressed the clasp; the seven stones gleamed out on the + pale grey velvet. + + “Why not?” he said. “Just as a sign that you don’t bear me + ill-feeling any longer.” + + “I couldn’t.” + + Soames took it out of the case. + + “Let me just see how it looks.” + + She shrank back. + + He followed, thrusting his hand with the brooch in it against the + front of her dress. She shrank again. + + Soames dropped his hand. + + “Irene,” he said, “let bygones be bygones. If _I_ can, surely you + might. Let’s begin again, as if nothing had been. Won’t you?” His + voice was wistful, and his eyes, resting on her face, had in them + a sort of supplication. + + She, who was standing literally with her back against the wall, + gave a little gulp, and that was all her answer. Soames went on: + + “Can you really want to live all your days half-dead in this + little hole? Come back to me, and I’ll give you all you want. You + shall live your own life; I swear it.” + + He saw her face quiver ironically. + + “Yes,” he repeated, “but I mean it this time. I’ll only ask one + thing. I just want—I just want a son. Don’t look like that! I + want one. It’s hard.” His voice had grown hurried, so that he + hardly knew it for his own, and twice he jerked his head back as + if struggling for breath. It was the sight of her eyes fixed on + him, dark with a sort of fascinated fright, which pulled him + together and changed that painful incoherence to anger. + + “Is it so very unnatural?” he said between his teeth, “Is it + unnatural to want a child from one’s own wife? You wrecked our + life and put this blight on everything. We go on only half alive, + and without any future. Is it so very unflattering to you that in + spite of everything I—I still want you for my wife? Speak, for + Goodness’ sake! do speak.” + + Irene seemed to try, but did not succeed. + + “I don’t want to frighten you,” said Soames more gently. “Heaven + knows. I only want you to see that I can’t go on like this. I + want you back. I want you.” + + Irene raised one hand and covered the lower part of her face, but + her eyes never moved from his, as though she trusted in them to + keep him at bay. And all those years, barren and bitter, + since—ah! when?—almost since he had first known her, surged up in + one great wave of recollection in Soames; and a spasm that for + his life he could not control constricted his face. + + “It’s not too late,” he said; “it’s not—if you’ll only believe + it.” + + Irene uncovered her lips, and both her hands made a writhing + gesture in front of her breast. Soames seized them. + + “Don’t!” she said under her breath. But he stood holding on to + them, trying to stare into her eyes which did not waver. Then she + said quietly: + + “I am alone here. You won’t behave again as you once behaved.” + + Dropping her hands as though they had been hot irons, he turned + away. Was it possible that there could be such relentless + unforgiveness! Could that one act of violent possession be still + alive within her? Did it bar him thus utterly? And doggedly he + said, without looking up: + + “I am not going till you’ve answered me. I am offering what few + men would bring themselves to offer, I want a—a reasonable + answer.” + + And almost with surprise he heard her say: + + “You can’t have a reasonable answer. Reason has nothing to do + with it. You can only have the brutal truth: I would rather die.” + + Soames stared at her. + + “Oh!” he said. And there intervened in him a sort of paralysis of + speech and movement, the kind of quivering which comes when a man + has received a deadly insult, and does not yet know how he is + going to take it, or rather what it is going to do with him. + + “Oh!” he said again, “as bad as that? Indeed! You would rather + die. That’s pretty!” + + “I am sorry. You wanted me to answer. I can’t help the truth, can + I?” + + At that queer spiritual appeal Soames turned for relief to + actuality. He snapped the brooch back into its case and put it in + his pocket. + + “The truth!” he said; “there’s no such thing with women. It’s + nerves—nerves.” + + He heard the whisper: + + “Yes; nerves don’t lie. Haven’t you discovered that?” He was + silent, obsessed by the thought: “I _will_ hate this woman. I + _will_ hate her.” That was the trouble! If only he could! He shot + a glance at her who stood unmoving against the wall with her head + up and her hands clasped, for all the world as if she were going + to be shot. And he said quickly: + + “I don’t believe a word of it. You have a lover. If you hadn’t, + you wouldn’t be such a—such a little idiot.” He was conscious, + before the expression in her eyes, that he had uttered something + of a non-sequitur, and dropped back too abruptly into the verbal + freedom of his connubial days. He turned away to the door. But he + could not go out. Something within him—that most deep and secret + Forsyte quality, the impossibility of letting go, the + impossibility of seeing the fantastic and forlorn nature of his + own tenacity—prevented him. He turned about again, and there + stood, with his back against the door, as hers was against the + wall opposite, quite unconscious of anything ridiculous in this + separation by the whole width of the room. + + “Do you ever think of anybody but yourself?” he said. + + Irene’s lips quivered; then she answered slowly: + + “Do you ever think that I found out my mistake—my hopeless, + terrible mistake—the very first week of our marriage; that I went + on trying three years—you know I went on trying? Was it for + myself?” + + Soames gritted his teeth. “God knows what it was. I’ve never + understood you; I shall never understand you. You had everything + you wanted; and you can have it again, and more. What’s the + matter with me? I ask you a plain question: What is it?” + Unconscious of the pathos in that enquiry, he went on + passionately: “I’m not lame, I’m not loathsome, I’m not a boor, + I’m not a fool. What is it? What’s the mystery about me?” + + Her answer was a long sigh. + + He clasped his hands with a gesture that for him was strangely + full of expression. “When I came here to-night I was—I hoped—I + meant everything that I could to do away with the past, and start + fair again. And you meet me with ‘nerves,’ and silence, and + sighs. There’s nothing tangible. It’s like—it’s like a spider’s + web.” + + “Yes.” + + That whisper from across the room maddened Soames afresh. + + “Well, I don’t choose to be in a spider’s web. I’ll cut it.” He + walked straight up to her. “Now!” What he had gone up to her to + do he really did not know. But when he was close, the old + familiar scent of her clothes suddenly affected him. He put his + hands on her shoulders and bent forward to kiss her. He kissed + not her lips, but a little hard line where the lips had been + drawn in; then his face was pressed away by her hands; he heard + her say: “Oh! No!” Shame, compunction, sense of futility flooded + his whole being, he turned on his heel and went straight out. + + + + + CHAPTER III VISIT TO IRENE + + + Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington. She had + received his telegram while at breakfast. Her abode—a studio and + two bedrooms in a St. John’s Wood garden—had been selected by her + for the complete independence which it guaranteed. Unwatched by + Mrs. Grundy, unhindered by permanent domestics, she could receive + lame ducks at any hour of day or night, and not seldom had a duck + without studio of its own made use of June’s. She enjoyed her + freedom, and possessed herself with a sort of virginal passion; + the warmth which she would have lavished on Bosinney, and of + which—given her Forsyte tenacity—he must surely have tired, she + now expended in championship of the underdogs and budding + “geniuses” of the artistic world. She lived, in fact, to turn + ducks into the swans she believed they were. The very fervour of + her protection warped her judgments. But she was loyal and + liberal; her small eager hand was ever against the oppressions of + academic and commercial opinion, and though her income was + considerable, her bank balance was often a minus quantity. + + She had come to Paddington Station heated in her soul by a visit + to Eric Cobbley. A miserable Gallery had refused to let that + straight-haired genius have his one-man show after all. Its + impudent manager, after visiting his studio, had expressed the + opinion that it would only be a “one-horse show from the selling + point of view.” This crowning example of commercial cowardice + towards her favourite lame duck—and he so hard up, with a wife + and two children, that he had caused her account to be + overdrawn—was still making the blood glow in her small, resolute + face, and her red-gold hair to shine more than ever. She gave her + father a hug, and got into a cab with him, having as many fish to + fry with him as he with her. It became at once a question which + would fry them first. + + Jolyon had reached the words: “My dear, I want you to come with + me,” when, glancing at her face, he perceived by her blue eyes + moving from side to side—like the tail of a preoccupied cat—that + she was not attending. “Dad, is it true that I absolutely can’t + get at any of my money?” + + “Only the income, fortunately, my love.” + + “How perfectly beastly! Can’t it be done somehow? There must be a + way. I know I could buy a small Gallery for ten thousand pounds.” + + “A small Gallery,” murmured Jolyon, “seems a modest desire. But + your grandfather foresaw it.” + + “I think,” cried June vigorously, “that all this care about money + is awful, when there’s so much genius in the world simply crushed + out for want of a little. I shall never marry and have children; + why shouldn’t I be able to do some good instead of having it all + tied up in case of things which will never come off?” + + “Our name is Forsyte, my dear,” replied Jolyon in the ironical + voice to which his impetuous daughter had never quite grown + accustomed; “and Forsytes, you know, are people who so settle + their property that their grandchildren, in case they should die + before their parents, have to make wills leaving the property + that will only come to themselves when their parents die. Do you + follow that? Nor do I, but it’s a fact, anyway; we live by the + principle that so long as there is a possibility of keeping + wealth in the family it must not go out; if you die unmarried, + your money goes to Jolly and Holly and their children if they + marry. Isn’t it pleasant to know that whatever you do you can + none of you be destitute?” + + “But can’t I borrow the money?” + + Jolyon shook his head. “You could rent a Gallery, no doubt, if + you could manage it out of your income.” + + June uttered a contemptuous sound. + + “Yes; and have no income left to help anybody with.” + + “My dear child,” murmured Jolyon, “wouldn’t it come to the same + thing?” + + “No,” said June shrewdly, “I could buy for ten thousand; that + would only be four hundred a year. But I should have to pay a + thousand a year rent, and that would only leave me five hundred. + If I had the Gallery, Dad, think what I could do. I could make + Eric Cobbley’s name in no time, and ever so many others.” + + “Names worth making make themselves in time.” + + “When they’re dead.” + + “Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having + his name made?” + + “Yes, you,” said June, pressing his arm. + + Jolyon started. “I?” he thought. “Oh! Ah! Now she’s going to ask + me to do something. We take it out, we Forsytes, each in our + different ways.” + + June came closer to him in the cab. + + “Darling,” she said, “you buy the Gallery, and I’ll pay you four + hundred a year for it. Then neither of us will be any the worse + off. Besides, it’s a splendid investment.” + + Jolyon wriggled. “Don’t you think,” he said, “that for an artist + to buy a Gallery is a bit dubious? Besides, ten thousand pounds + is a lump, and I’m not a commercial character.” + + June looked at him with admiring appraisement. + + “Of course you’re not, but you’re awfully businesslike. And I’m + sure we could make it pay. It’ll be a perfect way of scoring off + those wretched dealers and people.” And again she squeezed her + father’s arm. + + Jolyon’s face expressed quizzical despair. + + “Where is this desirable Gallery? Splendidly situated, I + suppose?” + + “Just off Cork Street.” + + “Ah!” thought Jolyon, “I knew it was just off somewhere. Now for + what I want out of _her!_” + + “Well, I’ll think of it, but not just now. You remember Irene? I + want you to come with me and see her. Soames is after her again. + She might be safer if we could give her asylum somewhere.” + + The word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most + calculated to rouse June’s interest. + + “Irene! I haven’t seen her since! Of course! I’d love to help + her.” + + It was Jolyon’s turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration for + this spirited, generous-hearted little creature of his begetting. + + “Irene is proud,” he said, with a sidelong glance, in sudden + doubt of June’s discretion; “she’s difficult to help. We must + tread gently. This is the place. I wired her to expect us. Let’s + send up our cards.” + + “I can’t bear Soames,” said June as she got out; “he sneers at + everything that isn’t successful.” + + Irene was in what was called the “Ladies’ drawing-room” of the + Piedmont Hotel. + + Nothing if not morally courageous, June walked straight up to her + former friend, kissed her cheek, and the two settled down on a + sofa never sat on since the hotel’s foundation. Jolyon could see + that Irene was deeply affected by this simple forgiveness. + + “So Soames has been worrying you?” he said. + + “I had a visit from him last night; he wants me to go back to + him.” + + “You’re not going, of course?” cried June. + + Irene smiled faintly and shook her head. “But his position is + horrible,” she murmured. + + “It’s his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he + could.” + + Jolyon remembered how fervently in the old days June had hoped + that no divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover’s name. + + “Let us hear what Irene _is_ going to do,” he said. + + Irene’s lips quivered, but she spoke calmly. + + “I’d better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me.” + + “How horrible!” cried June. + + “What else can I do?” + + “Out of the question,” said Jolyon very quietly, “_sans amour_.” + + He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she + half turned her back on them, and stood regaining control of + herself. + + June said suddenly: + + “Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone. + What does he want at his age?” + + “A child. It’s not unnatural” + + “A child!” cried June scornfully. “Of course! To leave his money + to. If he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have + one; then you can divorce him, and he can marry her.” + + Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring + June—her violent partizanship was fighting Soames’ battle. + + “It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill, + and see how things shape.” + + “Of course,” said June; “only....” + + Irene looked full at Jolyon—in all his many attempts afterwards + to analyze that glance he never could succeed. + + “No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad.” + + He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant + thought flashed through him: “Well, I could see her there.” But + he said: + + “Don’t you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he + followed?” + + “I don’t know. I can but try.” + + June sprang up and paced the room. “It’s all horrible,” she said. + “Why should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless + year after year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?” But + someone had come into the room, and June came to a standstill. + Jolyon went up to Irene: + + “Do you want money?” + + “No.” + + “And would you like me to let your flat?” + + “Yes, Jolyon, please.” + + “When shall you be going?” + + “To-morrow.” + + “You won’t go back there in the meantime, will you?” This he said + with an anxiety strange to himself. + + “No; I’ve got all I want here.” + + “You’ll send me your address?” + + She put out her hand to him. “I feel you’re a rock.” + + “Built on sand,” answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; “but + it’s a pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And + if you change your mind...! Come along, June; say good-bye.” + + June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene. + + “Don’t think of him,” she said under her breath; “enjoy yourself, + and bless you!” + + With a memory of tears in Irene’s eyes, and of a smile on her + lips, they went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had + interrupted the interview and was turning over the papers on the + table. + + Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed: + + “Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!” + + But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father’s + balance, and could see things impartially even when his emotions + were roused. Irene was right; Soames’ position was as bad or + worse than her own. As for the law—it catered for a human nature + of which it took a naturally low view. And, feeling that if he + stayed in his daughter’s company he would in one way or another + commit an indiscretion, he told her he must catch his train back + to Oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner’s water-colours, + with the promise that he would think over that Gallery. + + But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to + love! If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he + pitied her profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so + handicapped and lonely! “I hope to goodness she’ll keep her + head!” he thought; “she might easily grow desperate.” In fact, + now that she had cut loose from her poor threads of occupation, + he couldn’t imagine how she would go on—so beautiful a creature, + hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his exasperation was more + than a little fear and jealousy. Women did strange things when + they were driven into corners. “I wonder what Soames will do + now!” he thought. “A rotten, idiotic state of things! And I + suppose they would say it was her own fault.” Very preoccupied + and sore at heart, he got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and + on the platform at Oxford took his hat off to a lady whose face + he seemed to remember without being able to put a name to her, + not even when he saw her having tea at the Rainbow. + + + + + CHAPTER IV WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD + + + Quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco + case still flat against his heart, Soames revolved thoughts + bitter as death. A spider’s web! Walking fast, and noting nothing + in the moonlight, he brooded over the scene he had been through, + over the memory of her figure rigid in his grasp. And the more he + brooded, the more certain he became that she had a lover—her + words, “I would sooner die!” were ridiculous if she had not. Even + if she had never loved him, she had made no fuss until Bosinney + came on the scene. No; she was in love again, or she would not + have made that melodramatic answer to his proposal, which in all + the circumstances was reasonable! Very well! That simplified + matters. + + “I’ll take steps to know where I am,” he thought; “I’ll go to + Polteed’s the first thing tomorrow morning.” + + But even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble + with himself. He had employed Polteed’s agency several times in + the routine of his profession, even quite lately over Dartie’s + case, but he had never thought it possible to employ them to + watch his own wife. + + It was too insulting to himself! + + He slept over that project and his wounded pride—or rather, kept + vigil. Only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she + called herself by her maiden name of Heron. Polteed would not + know, at first at all events, whose wife she was, would not look + at him obsequiously and leer behind his back. She would just be + the wife of one of his clients. And that would be true—for was he + not his own solicitor? + + He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at + the first possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail + himself. And making Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he + stole out of the house before the hour of breakfast. He walked + rapidly to one of those small West End streets where Polteed’s + and other firms ministered to the virtues of the wealthier + classes. Hitherto he had always had Polteed to see him in the + Poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it at the + opening hour. In the outer office, a room furnished so cosily + that it might have been a money-lender’s, he was attended by a + lady who might have been a schoolmistress. + + “I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed. He knows me—never mind my + name.” + + To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was + reduced to having his wife spied on, was the overpowering + consideration. + + Mr. Claud Polteed—so different from Mr. Lewis Polteed—was one of + those men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown + eyes, who might be taken for Jews but are really Phœnicians; he + received Soames in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and + curtains. It was, in fact, confidentially furnished, without + trace of document anywhere to be seen. + + Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door + with a certain ostentation. + + “If a client sends for me,” he was in the habit of saying, “he + takes what precaution he likes. If he comes here, we convince him + that we have no leakages. I may safely say we lead in security, + if in nothing else....Now, sir, what can I do for you?” + + Soames’ gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. It was + absolutely necessary to hide from this man that he had any but + professional interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face + assumed its sideway smile. + + “I’ve come to you early like this because there’s not an hour to + lose”—if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet! “Have you a + really trustworthy woman free?” + + Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his + eyes over it, and locked the drawer up again. + + “Yes,” he said; “the very woman.” + + Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs—nothing but a + faint flush, which might have been his normal complexion, + betrayed him. + + “Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat + C, Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice.” + + “Precisely,” said Mr. Polteed; “divorce, I presume?” and he blew + into a speaking-tube. “Mrs. Blanch in? I shall want to speak to + her in ten minutes.” + + “Deal with any reports yourself,” resumed Soames, “and send them + to me personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. My + client exacts the utmost secrecy.” + + Mr. Polteed smiled, as though saying, “You are teaching your + grandmother, my dear sir;” and his eyes slid over Soames’ face + for one unprofessional instant. + + “Make his mind perfectly easy,” he said. “Do you smoke?” + + “No,” said Soames. “Understand me: Nothing may come of this. If a + name gets out, or the watching is suspected, it may have very + serious consequences.” + + Mr. Polteed nodded. “I can put it into the cipher category. Under + that system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers.” + + He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote + on them, and handed one to Soames. + + “Keep that, sir; it’s your key. I retain this duplicate. The case + we’ll call 7x. The party watched will be 17; the watcher 19; the + Mansions 25; yourself—I should say, your firm—31; my firm 32, + myself 2. In case you should have to mention your client in + writing I have called him 43; any person we suspect will be 47; a + second person 51. Any special hint or instruction while we’re + about it?” + + “No,” said Soames; “that is—every consideration compatible.” + + Again Mr. Polteed nodded. “Expense?” + + Soames shrugged. “In reason,” he answered curtly, and got up. + “Keep it entirely in your own hands.” + + “Entirely,” said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and + the door. “I shall be seeing you in that other case before long. + Good morning, sir.” His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames + once more, and he unlocked the door. + + “Good morning,” said Soames, looking neither to right nor left. + + Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A + spider’s web, and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret, + unclean method, so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his + private life as his most sacred piece of property. But the die + was cast, he could not go back. And he went on into the Poultry, + and locked away the green morocco case and the key to that cipher + destined to make crystal-clear his domestic bankruptcy. + + Odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye + all the private coils of property, the domestic disagreements of + others, should dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own; + and yet not odd, for who should know so well as he the whole + unfeeling process of legal regulation. + + He worked hard all day. Winifred was due at four o’clock; he was + to take her down to a conference in the Temple with Dreamer Q.C., + and waiting for her he re-read the letter he had caused her to + write the day of Dartie’s departure, requiring him to return. + + “DEAR MONTAGUE, + “I have received your letter with the news that you have left + me for ever and are on your way to Buenos Aires. It has + naturally been a great shock. I am taking this earliest + opportunity of writing to tell you that I am prepared to let + bygones be bygones if you will return to me at once. I beg + you to do so. I am very much upset, and will not say any more + now. I am sending this letter registered to the address you + left at your Club. Please cable to me. + + “Your still affectionate wife, + “WINIFRED DARTIE.” + + Ugh! What bitter humbug! He remembered leaning over Winifred + while she copied what he had pencilled, and how she had said, + laying down her pen, “Suppose he comes, Soames!” in such a + strange tone of voice, as if she did not know her own mind. “He + won’t come,” he had answered, “till he’s spent his money. That’s + why we must act at once.” Annexed to the copy of that letter was + the original of Dartie’s drunken scrawl from the Iseeum Club. + Soames could have wished it had not been so manifestly penned in + liquor. Just the sort of thing the Court would pitch on. He + seemed to hear the Judge’s voice say: “You took this seriously! + Seriously enough to write him as you did? Do you think he meant + it?” Never mind! The fact was clear that Dartie had sailed and + had not returned. Annexed also was his cabled answer: “Impossible + return. Dartie.” Soames shook his head. If the whole thing were + not disposed of within the next few months the fellow would turn + up again like a bad penny. It saved a thousand a year at least to + get rid of him, besides all the worry to Winifred and his father. + “I must stiffen Dreamer’s back,” he thought; “we must push it + on.” + + Winifred, who had adopted a kind of half-mourning which became + her fair hair and tall figure very well, arrived in James’ + barouche drawn by James’ pair. Soames had not seen it in the City + since his father retired from business five years ago, and its + incongruity gave him a shock. “Times are changing,” he thought; + “one doesn’t know what’ll go next!” Top hats even were scarcer. + He enquired after Val. Val, said Winifred, wrote that he was + going to play polo next term. She thought he was in a very good + set. She added with fashionably disguised anxiety: “Will there be + much publicity about my affair, Soames? _Must_ it be in the + papers? It’s so bad for him, and the girls.” + + With his own calamity all raw within him, Soames answered: + + “The papers are a pushing lot; it’s very difficult to keep things + out. They pretend to be guarding the public’s morals, and they + corrupt them with their beastly reports. But we haven’t got to + that yet. We’re only seeing Dreamer to-day on the restitution + question. Of course he understands that it’s to lead to a + divorce; but you must seem genuinely anxious to get Dartie + back—you might practise that attitude to-day.” + + Winifred sighed. + + “Oh! What a clown Monty’s been!” she said. + + Soames gave her a sharp look. It was clear to him that she could + not take her Dartie seriously, and would go back on the whole + thing if given half a chance. His own instinct had been firm in + this matter from the first. To save a little scandal now would + only bring on his sister and her children real disgrace and + perhaps ruin later on if Dartie were allowed to hang on to them, + going down-hill and spending the money James would leave his + daughter. Though it _was_ all tied up, that fellow would milk the + settlements somehow, and make his family pay through the nose to + keep him out of bankruptcy or even perhaps gaol! They left the + shining carriage, with the shining horses and the shining-hatted + servants on the Embankment, and walked up to Dreamer Q.C.’s + Chambers in Crown Office Row. + + “Mr. Bellby is here, sir,” said the clerk; “Mr. Dreamer will be + ten minutes.” + + Mr. Bellby, the junior—not as junior as he might have been, for + Soames only employed barristers of established reputation; it + was, indeed, something of a mystery to him how barristers ever + managed to establish that which made him employ them—Mr. Bellby + was seated, taking a final glance through his papers. He had come + from Court, and was in wig and gown, which suited a nose jutting + out like the handle of a tiny pump, his small shrewd blue eyes, + and rather protruding lower lip—no better man to supplement and + stiffen Dreamer. + + The introduction to Winifred accomplished, they leaped the + weather and spoke of the war. Soames interrupted suddenly: + + “If he doesn’t comply we can’t bring proceedings for six months. + I want to get on with the matter, Bellby.” + + Mr. Bellby, who had the ghost of an Irish brogue, smiled at + Winifred and murmured: “The Law’s delays, Mrs. Dartie.” + + “Six months!” repeated Soames; “it’ll drive it up to June! We + shan’t get the suit on till after the long vacation. We must put + the screw on, Bellby”—he would have all his work cut out to keep + Winifred up to the scratch. + + “Mr. Dreamer will see you now, sir.” + + They filed in, Mr. Bellby going first, and Soames escorting + Winifred after an interval of one minute by his watch. + + Dreamer Q.C., in a gown but divested of wig, was standing before + the fire, as if this conference were in the nature of a treat; he + had the leathery, rather oily complexion which goes with great + learning, a considerable nose with glasses perched on it, and + little greyish whiskers; he luxuriated in the perpetual cocking + of one eye, and the concealment of his lower with his upper lip, + which gave a smothered turn to his speech. He had a way, too, of + coming suddenly round the corner on the person he was talking to; + this, with a disconcerting tone of voice, and a habit of growling + before he began to speak—had secured a reputation second in + Probate and Divorce to very few. Having listened, eye cocked, to + Mr. Bellby’s breezy recapitulation of the facts, he growled, and + said: + + “I know all that;” and coming round the corner at Winifred, + smothered the words: + + “We want to get him back, don’t we, Mrs. Dartie?” + + Soames interposed sharply: + + “My sister’s position, of course, is intolerable.” + + Dreamer growled. “Exactly. Now, can we rely on the cabled + refusal, or must we wait till after Christmas to give him a + chance to have written—that’s the point, isn’t it?” + + “The sooner....” Soames began. + + “What do you say, Bellby?” said Dreamer, coming round his corner. + + Mr. Bellby seemed to sniff the air like a hound. + + “We won’t be on till the middle of December. We’ve no need to + give um more rope than that.” + + “No,” said Soames, “why should my sister be incommoded by his + choosing to go...” + + “To Jericho!” said Dreamer, again coming round his corner; “quite + so. People oughtn’t to go to Jericho, ought they, Mrs. Dartie?” + And he raised his gown into a sort of fantail. “I agree. We can + go forward. Is there anything more?” + + “Nothing at present,” said Soames meaningly; “I wanted you to see + my sister.” + + Dreamer growled softly: “Delighted. Good evening!” And let fall + the protection of his gown. + + They filed out. Winifred went down the stairs. Soames lingered. + In spite of himself he was impressed by Dreamer. + + “The evidence is all right, I think,” he said to Bellby. “Between + ourselves, if we don’t get the thing through quick, we never may. + D’you think _he_ understands that?” + + “I’ll make um,” said Bellby. “Good man though—good man.” + + Soames nodded and hastened after his sister. He found her in a + draught, biting her lips behind her veil, and at once said: + + “The evidence of the stewardess will be very complete.” + + Winifred’s face hardened; she drew herself up, and they walked to + the carriage. And, all through that silent drive back to Green + Street, the souls of both of them revolved a single thought: + “Why, oh! why should I have to expose my misfortune to the public + like this? Why have to employ spies to peer into my private + troubles? They were not of my making.” + + + + + CHAPTER V JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT + + + The possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was + animating two members of the Forsyte family towards riddance of + what they could no longer possess, was hardening daily in the + British body politic. Nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning + a war which must affect property, had been heard to say that + these Boers were a pig-headed lot; they were causing a lot of + expense, and the sooner they had their lesson the better. _He_ + would send out Wolseley! Seeing always a little further than + other people—whence the most considerable fortune of all the + Forsytes—he had perceived already that Buller was not the man—“a + bull of a chap, who just went butting, and if they didn’t look + out Ladysmith would fall.” This was early in December, so that + when Black Week came, he was enabled to say to everybody: “I told + you so.” During that week of gloom such as no Forsyte could + remember, very young Nicholas attended so many drills in his + corps, “The Devil’s Own,” that young Nicholas consulted the + family physician about his son’s health and was alarmed to find + that he was perfectly sound. The boy had only just eaten his + dinners and been called to the bar, at some expense, and it was + in a way a nightmare to his father and mother that he should be + playing with military efficiency at a time when military + efficiency in the civilian population might conceivably be + wanted. His grandfather, of course, pooh-poohed the notion, too + thoroughly educated in the feeling that no British war could be + other than little and professional, and profoundly distrustful of + Imperial commitments, by which, moreover, he stood to lose, for + he owned De Beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient + sacrifice on the part of his grandson. + + At Oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. The + inherent effervescence of conglomerate youth had, during the two + months of the term before Black Week, been gradually + crystallising out into vivid oppositions. Normal adolescence, + ever in England of a conservative tendency though not taking + things too seriously, was vehement for a fight to a finish and a + good licking for the Boers. Of this larger faction Val Dartie was + naturally a member. Radical youth, on the other hand, a small but + perhaps more vocal body, was for stopping the war and giving the + Boers autonomy. Until Black Week, however, the groups were + amorphous, without sharp edges, and argument remained but + academic. Jolly was one of those who knew not where he stood. A + streak of his grandfather old Jolyon’s love of justice prevented, + him from seeing one side only. Moreover, in his set of “the best” + there was a “jumping-Jesus” of extremely advanced opinions and + some personal magnetism. Jolly wavered. His father, too, seemed + doubtful in his views. And though, as was proper at the age of + twenty, he kept a sharp eye on his father, watchful for defects + which might still be remedied, still that father had an “air” + which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of ironic tolerance. + Artists, of course, were notoriously Hamlet-like, and to this + extent one must discount for one’s father, even if one loved him. + But Jolyon’s original view, that to “put your nose in where you + aren’t wanted” (as the Uitlanders had done) “and then work the + oracle till you get on top is not being quite the clean potato,” + had, whether founded in fact or no, a certain attraction for his + son, who thought a deal about gentility. On the other hand Jolly + could not abide such as his set called “cranks,” and Val’s set + called “smugs,” so that he was still balancing when the clock of + Black Week struck. One—two—three, came those ominous repulses at + Stormberg, Magersfontein, Colenso. The sturdy English soul + reacting after the first cried, “Ah! but Methuen!” after the + second: “Ah! but Buller!” then, in inspissated gloom, hardened. + And Jolly said to himself: “No, damn it! We’ve got to lick the + beggars now; I don’t care whether we’re right or wrong.” And, if + he had known it, his father was thinking the same thought. + + That next Sunday, last of the term, Jolly was bidden to wine with + “one of the best.” After the second toast, “Buller and damnation + to the Boers,” drunk—no heel taps—in the college Burgundy, he + noticed that Val Dartie, also a guest, was looking at him with a + grin and saying something to his neighbour. He was sure it was + disparaging. The last boy in the world to make himself + conspicuous or cause public disturbance, Jolly grew rather red + and shut his lips. The queer hostility he had always felt towards + his second-cousin was strongly and suddenly reinforced. “All + right!” he thought, “you wait, my friend!” More wine than was + good for him, as the custom was, helped him to remember, when + they all trooped forth to a secluded spot, to touch Val on the + arm. + + “What did you say about me in there?” + + “Mayn’t I say what I like?” + + “No.” + + “Well, I said you were a pro-Boer—and so you are!” + + “You’re a liar!” + + “D’you want a row?” + + “Of course, but not here; in the garden.” + + “All right. Come on.” + + They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching; + they climbed the garden railings. The spikes on the top slightly + ripped Val’s sleeve, and occupied his mind. Jolly’s mind was + occupied by the thought that they were going to fight in the + precincts of a college foreign to them both. It was not the + thing, but never mind—the young beast! + + They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took + off their coats. + + “You’re not screwed, are you?” said Jolly suddenly. “I can’t + fight you if you’re screwed.” + + “No more than you.” + + “All right then.” + + Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures + of defence. They had drunk too much for science, and so were + especially careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote + Val almost accidentally on the nose. After that it was all a dark + and ugly scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no + one to call “time,” till, battered and blown, they unclinched and + staggered back from each other, as a voice said: + + “Your names, young gentlemen?” + + At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden + gate, like some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and + snatching up their coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up + them, and made for the secluded spot whence they had issued to + the fight. Here, in dim light, they mopped their faces, and + without a word walked, ten paces apart, to the college gate. They + went out silently, Val going towards the Broad along the Brewery, + Jolly down the lane towards the High. His head, still fumed, was + busy with regret that he had not displayed more science, passing + in review the counters and knockout blows which he had not + delivered. His mind strayed on to an imagined combat, infinitely + unlike that which he had just been through, infinitely gallant, + with sash and sword, with thrust and parry, as if he were in the + pages of his beloved Dumas. He fancied himself La Mole, and + Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and D’Artagnan rolled into one, but he + quite failed to envisage Val as Coconnas, Brissac, or Rochefort. + The fellow was just a confounded cousin who didn’t come up to + Cocker. Never mind! He had given him one or two. “Pro-Boer!” The + word still rankled, and thoughts of enlisting jostled his aching + head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the Boers + rolled over like rabbits. And, turning up his smarting eyes, he + saw the stars shining between the housetops of the High, and + himself lying out on the Karoo (whatever that was) rolled in a + blanket, with his rifle ready and his gaze fixed on a glittering + heaven. + + He had a fearful “head” next morning, which he doctored, as + became one of “the best,” by soaking it in cold water, brewing + strong coffee which he could not drink, and only sipping a little + Hock at lunch. The legend that “some fool” had run into him round + a corner accounted for a bruise on his cheek. He would on no + account have mentioned the fight, for, on second thoughts, it + fell far short of his standards. + + The next day he went “down,” and travelled through to Robin Hill. + Nobody was there but June and Holly, for his father had gone to + Paris. He spent a restless and unsettled Vacation, quite out of + touch with either of his sisters. June, indeed, was occupied with + lame ducks, whom, as a rule, Jolly could not stand, especially + that Eric Cobbley and his family, “hopeless outsiders,” who were + always littering up the house in the Vacation. And between Holly + and himself there was a strange division, as if she were + beginning to have opinions of her own, which was so—unnecessary. + He punched viciously at a ball, rode furiously but alone in + Richmond Park, making a point of jumping the stiff, high hurdles + put up to close certain worn avenues of grass—keeping his nerve + in, he called it. Jolly was more afraid of being afraid than most + boys are. He bought a rifle, too, and put a range up in the home + field, shooting across the pond into the kitchen-garden wall, to + the peril of gardeners, with the thought that some day, perhaps, + he would enlist and save South Africa for his country. In fact, + now that they were appealing for Yeomanry recruits the boy was + thoroughly upset. Ought he to go? None of “the best,” so far as + he knew—and he was in correspondence with several—were thinking + of joining. If they _had_ been making a move he would have gone + at once—very competitive, and with a strong sense of form, he + could not bear to be left behind in anything—but to do it off his + own bat might look like “swagger”. because of course it wasn’t + really necessary. Besides, he did not want to go, for the other + side of this young Forsyte recoiled from leaping before he + looked. It was altogether mixed pickles within him, hot and + sickly pickles, and he became quite unlike his serene and rather + lordly self. + + And then one day he saw that which moved him to uneasy wrath—two + riders, in a glade of the Park close to the Ham Gate, of whom she + on the left-hand was most assuredly Holly on her silver roan, and + he on the right-hand as assuredly that “squirt” Val Dartie. His + first impulse was to urge on his own horse and demand the meaning + of this portent, tell the fellow to “bunk,” and take Holly home. + His second—to feel that he would look a fool if they refused. He + reined his horse in behind a tree, then perceived that it was + equally impossible to spy on them. Nothing for it but to go home + and await her coming! Sneaking out with that young bounder! He + could not consult with June, because she had gone up that morning + in the train of Eric Cobbley and his lot. And his father was + still in “that rotten Paris.” He felt that this was emphatically + one of those moments for which he had trained himself, + assiduously, at school, where he and a boy called Brent had + frequently set fire to newspapers and placed them in the centre + of their studies to accustom them to coolness in moments of + danger. He did not feel at all cool waiting in the stable-yard, + idly stroking the dog Balthasar, who queasy as an old fat monk, + and sad in the absence of his master, turned up his face, panting + with gratitude for this attention. It was half an hour before + Holly came, flushed and ever so much prettier than she had any + right to look. He saw her look at him quickly—guiltily of + course—then followed her in, and, taking her arm, conducted her + into what had been their grandfather’s study. The room, not much + used now, was still vaguely haunted for them both by a presence + with which they associated tenderness, large drooping white + moustaches, the scent of cigar smoke, and laughter. Here Jolly, + in the prime of his youth, before he went to school at all, had + been wont to wrestle with his grandfather, who even at eighty had + an irresistible habit of crooking his leg. Here Holly, perched on + the arm of the great leather chair, had stroked hair curving + silvery over an ear into which she would whisper secrets. Through + that window they had all three sallied times without number to + cricket on the lawn, and a mysterious game called “Wopsy-doozle,” + not to be understood by outsiders, which made old Jolyon very + hot. Here once on a warm night Holly had appeared in her + “nighty,” having had a bad dream, to have the clutch of it + released. And here Jolly, having begun the day badly by + introducing fizzy magnesia into Mademoiselle Beauce’s new-laid + egg, and gone on to worse, had been sent down (in the absence of + his father) to the ensuing dialogue: + + “Now, my boy, you mustn’t go on like this.” + + “Well, she boxed my ears, Gran, so I only boxed hers, and then + she boxed mine again.” + + “Strike a lady? That’ll never do! Have you begged her pardon?” + + “Not yet.” + + “Then you must go and do it at once. Come along.” + + “But she began it, Gran; and she had two to my one.” + + “My dear, it was an outrageous thing to do.” + + “Well, she lost her temper; and I didn’t lose mine.” + + “Come along.” + + “You come too, then, Gran.” + + “Well—this time only.” + + And they had gone hand in hand. + + Here—where the Waverley novels and Byron’s works and Gibbon’s + _Roman Empire_ and Humboldt’s _Cosmos_, and the bronzes on the + mantelpiece, and that masterpiece of the oily school, “Dutch + Fishing-Boats at Sunset,” were fixed as fate, and for all sign of + change old Jolyon might have been sitting there still, with legs + crossed, in the arm chair, and domed forehead and deep eyes grave + above _The Times_—here they came, those two grandchildren. And + Jolly said: + + “I saw you and that fellow in the Park.” + + The sight of blood rushing into her cheeks gave him some + satisfaction; she _ought_ to be ashamed! + + “Well?” she said. + + Jolly was surprised; he had expected more, or less. + + “Do you know,” he said weightily, “that he called me a pro-Boer + last term? And I had to fight him.” + + “Who won?” + + Jolly wished to answer: “I should have,” but it seemed beneath + him. + + “Look here!” he said, “what’s the meaning of it? Without telling + anybody!” + + “Why should I? Dad isn’t here; why shouldn’t I ride with him?” + + “You’ve got me to ride with. I think he’s an awful young rotter.” + + Holly went pale with anger. + + “He isn’t. It’s your own fault for not liking him.” + + And slipping past her brother she went out, leaving him staring + at the bronze Venus sitting on a tortoise, which had been + shielded from him so far by his sister’s dark head under her soft + felt riding hat. He felt queerly disturbed, shaken to his young + foundations. A lifelong domination lay shattered round his feet. + He went up to the Venus and mechanically inspected the tortoise. + + Why didn’t he like Val Dartie? He could not tell. Ignorant of + family history, barely aware of that vague feud which had started + thirteen years before with Bosinney’s defection from June in + favour of Soames’ wife, knowing really almost nothing about Val + he was at sea. He just _did_ dislike him. The question, however, + was: What should he do? Val Dartie, it was true, was a + second-cousin, but it was not the thing for Holly to go about + with him. And yet to “tell” of what he had chanced on was against + his creed. In this dilemma he went and sat in the old leather + chair and crossed his legs. It grew dark while he sat there + staring out through the long window at the old oak-tree, ample + yet bare of leaves, becoming slowly just a shape of deeper dark + printed on the dusk. + + “Grandfather!” he thought without sequence, and took out his + watch. He could not see the hands, but he set the repeater going. + “Five o’clock!” His grandfather’s first gold hunter watch, + butter-smooth with age—all the milling worn from it, and dented + with the mark of many a fall. The chime was like a little voice + from out of that golden age, when they first came from St. John’s + Wood, London, to this house—came driving with grandfather in his + carriage, and almost instantly took to the trees. Trees to climb, + and grandfather watering the geranium-beds below! What was to be + done? Tell Dad he must come home? Confide in June?—only she was + so—so sudden! Do nothing and trust to luck? After all, the Vac. + would soon be over. Go up and see Val and warn him off? But how + get his address? Holly wouldn’t give it him! A maze of paths, a + cloud of possibilities! He lit a cigarette. When he had smoked it + halfway through his brow relaxed, almost as if some thin old hand + had been passed gently over it; and in his ear something seemed + to whisper: “Do nothing; be nice to Holly, be nice to her, my + dear!” And Jolly heaved a sigh of contentment, blowing smoke + through his nostrils.... + + But up in her room, divested of her habit, Holly was still + frowning. “He is _not_—he is _not!_” were the words which kept + forming on her lips. + + + + + CHAPTER VI JOLYON IN TWO MINDS + + + A little private hotel over a well-known restaurant near the Gare + St. Lazare was Jolyon’s haunt in Paris. He hated his fellow + Forsytes abroad—vapid as fish out of water in their well-trodden + runs, the Opera, Rue de Rivoli, and Moulin Rouge. Their air of + having come because they wanted to be somewhere else as soon as + possible annoyed him. But no other Forsyte came near this haunt, + where he had a wood fire in his bedroom and the coffee was + excellent. Paris was always to him more attractive in winter. The + acrid savour from woodsmoke and chestnut-roasting braziers, the + sharpness of the wintry sunshine on bright rays, the open cafés + defying keen-aired winter, the self-contained brisk boulevard + crowds, all informed him that in winter Paris possessed a soul + which, like a migrant bird, in high summer flew away. + + He spoke French well, had some friends, knew little places where + pleasant dishes could be met with, queer types observed. He felt + philosophic in Paris, the edge of irony sharpened; life took on a + subtle, purposeless meaning, became a bunch of flavours tasted, a + darkness shot with shifting gleams of light. + + When in the first week of December he decided to go to Paris, he + was far from admitting that Irene’s presence was influencing him. + He had not been there two days before he owned that the wish to + see her had been more than half the reason. In England one did + not admit what was natural. He had thought it might be well to + speak to her about the letting of her flat and other matters, but + in Paris he at once knew better. There was a glamour over the + city. On the third day he wrote to her, and received an answer + which procured him a pleasurable shiver of the nerves: + + “MY DEAR JOLYON, + “It will be a happiness for me to see you. + + “IRENE.” + + He took his way to her hotel on a bright day with a feeling such + as he had often had going to visit an adored picture. No woman, + so far as he remembered, had ever inspired in him this special + sensuous and yet impersonal sensation. He was going to sit and + feast his eyes, and come away knowing her no better, but ready to + go and feast his eyes again to-morrow. Such was his feeling, when + in the tarnished and ornate little lounge of a quiet hotel near + the river she came to him preceded by a small page-boy who + uttered the word, “_Madame_,” and vanished. Her face, her smile, + the poise of her figure, were just as he had pictured, and the + expression of her face said plainly: “A friend!” + + “Well,” he said, “what news, poor exile?” + + “None.” + + “Nothing from Soames?” + + “Nothing.” + + “I have let the flat for you, and like a good steward I bring you + some money. How do you like Paris?” + + While he put her through this catechism, it seemed to him that he + had never seen lips so fine and sensitive, the lower lip curving + just a little upwards, the upper touched at one corner by the + least conceivable dimple. It was like discovering a woman in what + had hitherto been a sort of soft and breathed-on statue, almost + impersonally admired. She owned that to be alone in Paris was a + little difficult; and yet, Paris was so full of its own life that + it was often, she confessed, as innocuous as a desert. Besides, + the English were not liked just now! + + “That will hardly be your case,” said Jolyon; “you should appeal + to the French.” + + “It has its disadvantages.” + + Jolyon nodded. + + “Well, you must let _me_ take you about while I’m here. We’ll + start to-morrow. Come and dine at my pet restaurant; and we’ll go + to the Opéra-Comique.” + + It was the beginning of daily meetings. + + Jolyon soon found that for those who desired a static condition + of the affections, Paris was at once the first and last place in + which to be friendly with a pretty woman. Revelation was + alighting like a bird in his heart, singing: “_Elle est ton rêve! + Elle est ton rêve!_” Sometimes this seemed natural, sometimes + ludicrous—a bad case of elderly rapture. Having once been + ostracised by Society, he had never since had any real regard for + conventional morality; but the idea of a love which she could + never return—and how could she at his age?—hardly mounted beyond + his subconscious mind. He was full, too, of resentment, at the + waste and loneliness of her life. Aware of being some comfort to + her, and of the pleasure she clearly took in their many little + outings, he was amiably desirous of doing and saying nothing to + destroy that pleasure. It was like watching a starved plant draw + up water, to see her drink in his companionship. So far as they + could tell, no one knew her address except himself; she was + unknown in Paris, and he but little known, so that discretion + seemed unnecessary in those walks, talks, visits to concerts, + picture-galleries, theatres, little dinners, expeditions to + Versailles, St. Cloud, even Fontainebleau. And time fled—one of + those full months without past to it or future. What in his youth + would certainly have been headlong passion, was now perhaps as + deep a feeling, but far gentler, tempered to protective + companionship by admiration, hopelessness, and a sense of + chivalry—arrested in his veins at least so long as she was there, + smiling and happy in their friendship, and always to him more + beautiful and spiritually responsive: for her philosophy of life + seemed to march in admirable step with his own, conditioned by + emotion more than by reason, ironically mistrustful, susceptible + to beauty, almost passionately humane and tolerant, yet subject + to instinctive rigidities of which as a mere man he was less + capable. And during all this companionable month he never quite + lost that feeling with which he had set out on the first day as + if to visit an adored work of art, a well-nigh impersonal desire. + The future—inexorable pendant to the present he took care not to + face, for fear of breaking up his untroubled manner; but he made + plans to renew this time in places still more delightful, where + the sun was hot and there were strange things to see and paint. + The end came swiftly on the 20th of January with a telegram: + + “Have enlisted in Imperial Yeomanry.—JOLLY.” + + Jolyon received it just as he was setting out to meet her at the + Louvre. It brought him up with a round turn. While he was + lotus-eating here, his boy, whose philosopher and guide he ought + to be, had taken this great step towards danger, hardship, + perhaps even death. He felt disturbed to the soul, realising + suddenly how Irene had twined herself round the roots of his + being. Thus threatened with severance, the tie between them—for + it had become a kind of tie—no longer had impersonal quality. The + tranquil enjoyment of things in common, Jolyon perceived, was + gone for ever. He saw his feeling as it was, in the nature of an + infatuation. Ridiculous, perhaps, but so real that sooner or + later it must disclose itself. And now, as it seemed to him, he + could not, must not, make any such disclosure. The news of Jolly + stood inexorably in the way. He was proud of this enlistment; + proud of his boy for going off to fight for the country; for on + Jolyon’s pro-Boerism, too, Black Week had left its mark. And so + the end was reached before the beginning! Well, luckily he had + never made a sign! + + When he came into the Gallery she was standing before the “Virgin + of the Rocks,” graceful, absorbed, smiling and unconscious. “Have + I to give up seeing _that?_” he thought. “It’s unnatural, so long + as she’s willing that I should see her.” He stood, unnoticed, + watching her, storing up the image of her figure, envying the + picture on which she was bending that long scrutiny. Twice she + turned her head towards the entrance, and he thought: “That’s for + me!” At last he went forward. + + “Look!” he said. + + She read the telegram, and he heard her sigh. + + That sigh, too, was for him! His position was really cruel! To be + loyal to his son he must just shake her hand and go. To be loyal + to the feeling in his heart he must at least tell her what that + feeling was. Could she, would she understand the silence in which + he was gazing at that picture? + + “I’m afraid I must go home at once,” he said at last. “I shall + miss all this awfully.” + + “So shall I; but, of course, you must go.” + + “Well!” said Jolyon holding out his hand. + + Meeting her eyes, a flood of feeling nearly mastered him. + + “Such is life!” he said. “Take care of yourself, my dear!” + + He had a stumbling sensation in his legs and feet, as if his + brain refused to steer him away from her. From the doorway, he + saw her lift her hand and touch its fingers with her lips. He + raised his hat solemnly, and did not look back again. + + + + + CHAPTER VII DARTIE VERSUS DARTIE + + + The suit—Dartie _versus_ Dartie—for restitution of those conjugal + rights concerning which Winifred was at heart so deeply + undecided, followed the laws of subtraction towards day of + judgment. This was not reached before the Courts rose for + Christmas, but the case was third on the list when they sat + again. Winifred spent the Christmas holidays a thought more + fashionably than usual, with the matter locked up in her low-cut + bosom. James was particularly liberal to her that Christmas, + expressing thereby his sympathy, and relief, at the approaching + dissolution of her marriage with that “precious rascal,” which + his old heart felt but his old lips could not utter. + + The disappearance of Dartie made the fall in Consols a + comparatively small matter; and as to the scandal—the real animus + he felt against that fellow, and the increasing lead which + property was attaining over reputation in a true Forsyte about to + leave this world, served to drug a mind from which all allusions + to the matter (except his own) were studiously kept. What worried + him as a lawyer and a parent was the fear that Dartie might + suddenly turn up and obey the Order of the Court when made. That + would be a pretty how-de-do! The fear preyed on him in fact so + much that, in presenting Winifred with a large Christmas cheque, + he said: “It’s chiefly for that chap out there; to keep him from + coming back.” It was, of course, to pitch away good money, but + all in the nature of insurance against that bankruptcy which + would no longer hang over him if only the divorce went through; + and he questioned Winifred rigorously until she could assure him + that the money had been sent. Poor woman!—it cost her many a pang + to send what must find its way into the vanity-bag of “that + creature!” Soames, hearing of it, shook his head. They were not + dealing with a Forsyte, reasonably tenacious of his purpose. It + was very risky without knowing how the land lay out there. Still, + it would look well with the Court; and he would see that Dreamer + brought it out. “I wonder,” he said suddenly, “where that ballet + goes after the Argentine”; never omitting a chance of reminder; + for he knew that Winifred still had a weakness, if not for + Dartie, at least for not laundering him in public. Though not + good at showing admiration, he admitted that she was behaving + extremely well, with all her children at home gaping like young + birds for news of their father—Imogen just on the point of coming + out, and Val very restive about the whole thing. He felt that Val + was the real heart of the matter to Winifred, who certainly loved + him beyond her other children. The boy could spoke the wheel of + this divorce yet if he set his mind to it. And Soames was very + careful to keep the proximity of the preliminary proceedings from + his nephew’s ears. He did more. He asked him to dine at the + Remove, and over Val’s cigar introduced the subject which he knew + to be nearest to his heart. + + “I hear,” he said, “that you want to play polo up at Oxford.” + + Val became less recumbent in his chair. + + “Rather!” he said. + + “Well,” continued Soames, “that’s a very expensive business. Your + grandfather isn’t likely to consent to it unless he can make sure + that he’s not got any other drain on him.” And he paused to see + whether the boy understood his meaning. + + Val’s thick dark lashes concealed his eyes, but a slight grimace + appeared on his wide mouth, and he muttered: + + “I suppose you mean my Dad!” + + “Yes,” said Soames; “I’m afraid it depends on whether he + continues to be a drag or not;” and said no more, letting the boy + dream it over. + + But Val was also dreaming in those days of a silver-roan palfrey + and a girl riding it. Though Crum was in town and an introduction + to Cynthia Dark to be had for the asking, Val did not ask; + indeed, he shunned Crum and lived a life strange even to himself, + except in so far as accounts with tailor and livery stable were + concerned. To his mother, his sisters, his young brother, he + seemed to spend this Vacation in “seeing fellows,” and his + evenings sleepily at home. They could not propose anything in + daylight that did not meet with the one response: “Sorry; I’ve + got to see a fellow”; and he was put to extraordinary shifts to + get in and out of the house unobserved in riding clothes; until, + being made a member of the Goat’s Club, he was able to transport + them there, where he could change unregarded and slip off on his + hack to Richmond Park. He kept his growing sentiment religiously + to himself. Not for a world would he breathe to the “fellows,” + whom he was not “seeing,” anything so ridiculous from the point + of view of their creed and his. But he could not help its + destroying his other appetites. It was coming between him and the + legitimate pleasures of youth at last on its own in a way which + must, he knew, make him a milksop in the eyes of Crum. All he + cared for was to dress in his last-created riding togs, and steal + away to the Robin Hill Gate, where presently the silver roan + would come demurely sidling with its slim and dark-haired rider, + and in the glades bare of leaves they would go off side by side, + not talking very much, riding races sometimes, and sometimes + holding hands. More than once of an evening, in a moment of + expansion, he had been tempted to tell his mother how this shy + sweet cousin had stolen in upon him and wrecked his “life.” But + bitter experience, that all persons above thirty-five were + spoil-sports, prevented him. After all, he supposed he would have + to go through with College, and she would have to “come out,” + before they could be married; so why complicate things, so long + as he could see her? Sisters were teasing and unsympathetic + beings, a brother worse, so there was no one to confide in. Ah! + And this beastly divorce business! What a misfortune to have a + name which other people hadn’t! If only he had been called Gordon + or Scott or Howard or something fairly common! But Dartie—there + wasn’t another in the directory! One might as well have been + named Morkin for all the covert it afforded! So matters went on, + till one day in the middle of January the silver-roan palfrey and + its rider were missing at the tryst. Lingering in the cold, he + debated whether he should ride on to the house: But Jolly might + be there, and the memory of their dark encounter was still fresh + within him. One could not be always fighting with her brother! So + he returned dismally to town and spent an evening plunged in + gloom. At breakfast next day he noticed that his mother had on an + unfamiliar dress and was wearing her hat. The dress was black + with a glimpse of peacock blue, the hat black and large—she + looked exceptionally well. But when after breakfast she said to + him, “Come in here, Val,” and led the way to the drawing-room, he + was at once beset by qualms. Winifred carefully shut the door and + passed her handkerchief over her lips; inhaling the violette de + Parme with which it had been soaked, Val thought: “Has she found + out about Holly?” + + Her voice interrupted + + “Are you going to be nice to me, dear boy?” + + Val grinned doubtfully. + + “Will you come with me this morning....” + + “I’ve got to see....” began Val, but something in her face + stopped him. “I say,” he said, “you don’t mean....” + + “Yes, I have to go to the Court this morning.” Already!—that d—-d + business which he had almost succeeded in forgetting, since + nobody ever mentioned it. In self-commiseration he stood picking + little bits of skin off his fingers. Then noticing that his + mother’s lips were all awry, he said impulsively: “All right, + mother; I’ll come. The brutes!” What brutes he did not know, but + the expression exactly summed up their joint feeling, and + restored a measure of equanimity. + + “I suppose I’d better change into a ‘shooter,’” he muttered, + escaping to his room. He put on the “shooter,” a higher collar, a + pearl pin, and his neatest grey spats, to a somewhat blasphemous + accompaniment. Looking at himself in the glass, he said, “Well, + I’m damned if I’m going to show anything!” and went down. He + found his grandfather’s carriage at the door, and his mother in + furs, with the appearance of one going to a Mansion House + Assembly. They seated themselves side by side in the closed + barouche, and all the way to the Courts of Justice Val made but + one allusion to the business in hand. “There’ll be nothing about + those pearls, will there?” + + The little tufted white tails of Winifred’s muff began to shiver. + + “Oh, no,” she said, “it’ll be quite harmless to-day. Your + grandmother wanted to come too, but I wouldn’t let her. I thought + you could take care of me. You look so nice, Val. Just pull your + coat collar up a little more at the back—that’s right.” + + “If they bully you....” began Val. + + “Oh! they won’t. I shall be very cool. It’s the only way.” + + “They won’t want me to give evidence or anything?” + + “No, dear; it’s all arranged.” And she patted his hand. The + determined front she was putting on it stayed the turmoil in + Val’s chest, and he busied himself in drawing his gloves off and + on. He had taken what he now saw was the wrong pair to go with + his spats; they should have been grey, but were deerskin of a + dark tan; whether to keep them on or not he could not decide. + They arrived soon after ten. It was his first visit to the Law + Courts, and the building struck him at once. + + “By Jove!” he said as they passed into the hall, “this’d make + four or five jolly good racket courts.” + + Soames was awaiting them at the foot of some stairs. + + “Here you are!” he said, without shaking hands, as if the event + had made them too familiar for such formalities. “It’s Happerly + Browne, Court I. We shall be on first.” + + A sensation such as he had known when going in to bat was playing + now in the top of Val’s chest, but he followed his mother and + uncle doggedly, looking at no more than he could help, and + thinking that the place smelled “fuggy.” People seemed to be + lurking everywhere, and he plucked Soames by the sleeve. + + “I say, Uncle, you’re not going to let those beastly papers in, + are you?” + + Soames gave him the sideway look which had reduced many to + silence in its time. + + “In here,” he said. “You needn’t take off your furs, Winifred.” + + Val entered behind them, nettled and with his head up. In this + confounded hole everybody—and there were a good many of + them—seemed sitting on everybody else’s knee, though really + divided from each other by pews; and Val had a feeling that they + might all slip down together into the well. This, however, was + but a momentary vision—of mahogany, and black gowns, and white + blobs of wigs and faces and papers, all rather secret and + whispery—before he was sitting next his mother in the front row, + with his back to it all, glad of her violette de Parme, and + taking off his gloves for the last time. His mother was looking + at him; he was suddenly conscious that she had really wanted him + there next to her, and that he counted for something in this + business. + + All right! He would show them! Squaring his shoulders, he crossed + his legs and gazed inscrutably at his spats. But just then an + “old Johnny” in a gown and long wig, looking awfully like a funny + raddled woman, came through a door into the high pew opposite, + and he had to uncross his legs hastily, and stand up with + everybody else. + + “Dartie _versus_ Dartie!” + + It seemed to Val unspeakably disgusting to have one’s name called + out like this in public! And, suddenly conscious that someone + nearly behind him had begun talking about his family, he screwed + his face round to see an old be-wigged buffer, who spoke as if he + were eating his own words—queer-looking old cuss, the sort of man + he had seen once or twice dining at Park Lane and punishing the + port; he knew now where they “dug them up.” All the same he found + the old buffer quite fascinating, and would have continued to + stare if his mother had not touched his arm. Reduced to gazing + before him, he fixed his eyes on the Judge’s face instead. Why + should that old “sportsman” with his sarcastic mouth and his + quick-moving eyes have the power to meddle with their private + affairs—hadn’t he affairs of his own, just as many, and probably + just as nasty? And there moved in Val, like an illness, all the + deep-seated individualism of his breed. The voice behind him + droned along: “Differences about money matters—extravagance of + the respondent” (What a word! Was that his father?)—“strained + situation—frequent absences on the part of Mr. Dartie. My client, + very rightly, your Ludship will agree, was anxious to check a + course—but lead to ruin—remonstrated—gambling at cards and on the + racecourse—” (“That’s right!” thought Val, “pile it on!”) “Crisis + early in October, when the respondent wrote her this letter from + his Club.” Val sat up and his ears burned. “I propose to read it + with the emendations necessary to the epistle of a gentleman who + has been—shall we say dining, me Lud?” + + “Old brute!” thought Val, flushing deeper; “you’re not paid to + make jokes!” + + “‘You will not get the chance to insult me again in my own house. + I am leaving the country to-morrow. It’s played out’—an + expression, your Ludship, not unknown in the mouths of those who + have not met with conspicuous success.” + + “Sniggering owls!” thought Val, and his flush deepened. + + “‘I am tired of being insulted by you.’ My client will tell your + Ludship that these so-called insults consisted in her calling him + ‘the limit’,—a very mild expression, I venture to suggest, in all + the circumstances.” + + Val glanced sideways at his mother’s impassive face, it had a + hunted look in the eyes. “Poor mother,” he thought, and touched + her arm with his own. The voice behind droned on. + + “‘I am going to live a new life. M. D.’” + + “And next day, me Lud, the respondent left by the steamship + _Tuscarora_ for Buenos Aires. Since then we have nothing from him + but a cabled refusal in answer to the letter which my client + wrote the following day in great distress, begging him to return + to her. With your Ludship’s permission. I shall now put Mrs. + Dartie in the box.” + + When his mother rose, Val had a tremendous impulse to rise too + and say: “Look here! I’m going to see you jolly well treat her + decently.” He subdued it, however; heard her saying, “the truth, + the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” and looked up. She + made a rich figure of it, in her furs and large hat, with a + slight flush on her cheek-bones, calm, matter-of-fact; and he + felt proud of her thus confronting all these “confounded + lawyers.” The examination began. Knowing that this was only the + preliminary to divorce, Val followed with a certain glee the + questions framed so as to give the impression that she really + wanted his father back. It seemed to him that they were “foxing + Old Bagwigs finely.” + + And he received a most unpleasant jar when the Judge said + suddenly: + + “Now, why did your husband leave you—not because you called him + ‘the limit,’ you know?” + + Val saw his uncle lift his eyes to the witness box, without + moving his face; heard a shuffle of papers behind him; and + instinct told him that the issue was in peril. Had Uncle Soames + and the old buffer behind made a mess of it? His mother was + speaking with a slight drawl. + + “No, my Lord, but it had gone on a long time.” + + “What had gone on?” + + “Our differences about money.” + + “But you supplied the money. Do you suggest that he left you to + better his position?” + + “The brute! The old brute, and nothing but the brute!” thought + Val suddenly. “He smells a rat he’s trying to get at the pastry!” + And his heart stood still. If—if he did, then, of course, he + would know that his mother didn’t really want his father back. + His mother spoke again, a thought more fashionably. + + “No, my Lord, but you see I had refused to give him any more + money. It took him a long time to believe that, but he did at + last—and when he did....” + + “I see, you had refused. But you’ve sent him some since.” + + “My Lord, I wanted him back.” + + “And you thought that would bring him?” + + “I don’t know, my Lord, I acted on my father’s advice.” + + Something in the Judge’s face, in the sound of the papers behind + him, in the sudden crossing of his uncle’s legs, told Val that + she had made just the right answer. “Crafty!” he thought; “by + Jove, what humbug it all is!” + + The Judge was speaking: + + “Just one more question, Mrs. Dartie. Are you still fond of your + husband?” + + Val’s hands, slack behind him, became fists. What business had + that Judge to make things human suddenly? To make his mother + speak out of her heart, and say what, perhaps, she didn’t know + herself, before all these people! It wasn’t decent. His mother + answered, rather low: “Yes, my Lord.” Val saw the Judge nod. + “Wish I could take a cock-shy at your head!” he thought + irreverently, as his mother came back to her seat beside him. + Witnesses to his father’s departure and continued absence + followed—one of their own maids even, which struck Val as + particularly beastly; there was more talking, all humbug; and + then the Judge pronounced the decree for restitution, and they + got up to go. Val walked out behind his mother, chin squared, + eyelids drooped, doing his level best to despise everybody. His + mother’s voice in the corridor roused him from an angry trance. + + “You behaved beautifully, dear. It was such a comfort to have + you. Your uncle and I are going to lunch.” + + “All right,” said Val; “I shall have time to go and see that + fellow.” And, parting from them abruptly, he ran down the stairs + and out into the air. He bolted into a hansom, and drove to the + Goat’s Club. His thoughts were on Holly and what he must do + before her brother showed her this thing in to-morrow’s paper. + + When Val had left them Soames and Winifred made their way to the + Cheshire Cheese. He had suggested it as a meeting place with Mr. + Bellby. At that early hour of noon they would have it to + themselves, and Winifred had thought it would be “amusing” to see + this far-famed hostelry. Having ordered a light repast, to the + consternation of the waiter, they awaited its arrival together + with that of Mr. Bellby, in silent reaction after the hour and a + half’s suspense on the tenterhooks of publicity. Mr. Bellby + entered presently, preceded by his nose, as cheerful as they were + glum. Well! they had got the decree of restitution, and what was + the matter with that! + + “Quite,” said Soames in a suitably low voice, “but we shall have + to begin again to get evidence. He’ll probably try the divorce—it + will look fishy if it comes out that we knew of misconduct from + the start. His questions showed well enough that he doesn’t like + this restitution dodge.” + + “Pho!” said Mr. Bellby cheerily, “he’ll forget! Why, man, he’ll + have tried a hundred cases between now and then. Besides, he’s + bound by precedent to give ye your divorce, if the evidence is + satisfactory. We won’t let um know that Mrs. Dartie had knowledge + of the facts. Dreamer did it very nicely—he’s got a fatherly + touch about um!” + + Soames nodded. + + “And I compliment ye, Mrs. Dartie,” went on Mr. Bellby; “ye’ve a + natural gift for giving evidence. Steady as a rock.” + + Here the waiter arrived with three plates balanced on one arm, + and the remark: “I ’urried up the pudden, sir. You’ll find plenty + o’ lark in it to-day.” + + Mr. Bellby applauded his forethought with a dip of his nose. But + Soames and Winifred looked with dismay at their light lunch of + gravified brown masses, touching them gingerly with their forks + in the hope of distinguishing the bodies of the tasty little + song-givers. Having begun, however, they found they were hungrier + than they thought, and finished the lot, with a glass of port + apiece. Conversation turned on the war. Soames thought Ladysmith + would fall, and it might last a year. Bellby thought it would be + over by the summer. Both agreed that they wanted more men. There + was nothing for it but complete victory, since it was now a + question of prestige. Winifred brought things back to more solid + ground by saying that she did not want the divorce suit to come + on till after the summer holidays had begun at Oxford, then the + boys would have forgotten about it before Val had to go up again; + the London season too would be over. The lawyers reassured her, + an interval of six months was necessary—after that the earlier + the better. People were now beginning to come in, and they + parted—Soames to the city, Bellby to his chambers, Winifred in a + hansom to Park Lane to let her mother know how she had fared. The + issue had been so satisfactory on the whole that it was + considered advisable to tell James, who never failed to say day + after day that he didn’t know about Winifred’s affair, he + couldn’t tell. As his sands ran out; the importance of mundane + matters became increasingly grave to him, as if he were feeling: + “I must make the most of it, and worry well; I shall soon have + nothing to worry about.” + + He received the report grudgingly. It was a new-fangled way of + going about things, and he didn’t know! But he gave Winifred a + cheque, saying: + + “I expect you’ll have a lot of expense. That’s a new hat you’ve + got on. Why doesn’t Val come and see us?” + + Winifred promised to bring him to dinner soon. And, going home, + she sought her bedroom where she could be alone. Now that her + husband had been ordered back into her custody with a view to + putting him away from her for ever, she would try once more to + find out from her sore and lonely heart what she really wanted. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII THE CHALLENGE + + + The morning had been misty, verging on frost, but the sun came + out while Val was jogging towards the Roehampton Gate, whence he + would canter on to the usual tryst. His spirits were rising + rapidly. There had been nothing so very terrible in the morning’s + proceedings beyond the general disgrace of violated privacy. “If + we were engaged!” he thought, “what happens wouldn’t matter.” He + felt, indeed, like human society, which kicks and clamours at the + results of matrimony, and hastens to get married. And he galloped + over the winter-dried grass of Richmond Park, fearing to be late. + But again he was alone at the trysting spot, and this second + defection on the part of Holly upset him dreadfully. He could not + go back without seeing her to-day! Emerging from the Park, he + proceeded towards Robin Hill. He could not make up his mind for + whom to ask. Suppose her father were back, or her sister or + brother were in! He decided to gamble, and ask for them all + first, so that if he were in luck and they were not there, it + would be quite natural in the end to ask for Holly; while if any + of them _were_ in—an “excuse for a ride” must be his saving + grace. + + “Only Miss Holly is in, sir.” + + “Oh! thanks. Might I take my horse round to the stables? And + would you say—her cousin, Mr. Val Dartie.” + + When he returned she was in the hall, very flushed and shy. She + led him to the far end, and they sat down on a wide window-seat. + + “I’ve been awfully anxious,” said Val in a low voice. “What’s the + matter?” + + “Jolly knows about our riding.” + + “Is he in?” + + “No; but I expect he will be soon.” + + “Then!” cried Val, and diving forward, he seized her hand. She + tried to withdraw it, failed, gave up the attempt, and looked at + him wistfully. + + “First of all,” he said, “I want to tell you something about my + family. My Dad, you know, isn’t altogether—I mean, he’s left my + mother and they’re trying to divorce him; so they’ve ordered him + to come back, you see. You’ll see that in the paper to-morrow.” + + Her eyes deepened in colour and fearful interest; her hand + squeezed his. But the gambler in Val was roused now, and he + hurried on: + + “Of course there’s nothing very much at present, but there will + be, I expect, before it’s over; divorce suits are beastly, you + know. I wanted to tell you, because—because—you ought to + know—if—” and he began to stammer, gazing at her troubled eyes, + “if—if you’re going to be a darling and love me, Holly. I love + you—ever so; and I want to be engaged.” He had done it in a + manner so inadequate that he could have punched his own head; and + dropping on his knees, he tried to get nearer to that soft, + troubled face. “You do love me—don’t you? If you don’t I....” + There was a moment of silence and suspense, so awful that he + could hear the sound of a mowing-machine far out on the lawn + pretending there was grass to cut. Then she swayed forward; her + free hand touched his hair, and he gasped: “Oh, Holly!” + + Her answer was very soft: “Oh, Val!” + + He had dreamed of this moment, but always in an imperative mood, + as the masterful young lover, and now he felt humble, touched, + trembly. He was afraid to stir off his knees lest he should break + the spell; lest, if he did, she should shrink and deny her own + surrender—so tremulous was she in his grasp, with her eyelids + closed and his lips nearing them. Her eyes opened, seemed to swim + a little; he pressed his lips to hers. Suddenly he sprang up; + there had been footsteps, a sort of startled grunt. He looked + round. No one! But the long curtains which barred off the outer + hall were quivering. + + “My God! Who was that?” + + Holly too was on her feet. + + “Jolly, I expect,” she whispered. + + Val clenched fists and resolution. + + “All right!” he said, “I don’t care a bit now we’re engaged,” and + striding towards the curtains, he drew them aside. There at the + fireplace in the hall stood Jolly, with his back elaborately + turned. Val went forward. Jolly faced round on him. + + “I beg your pardon for hearing,” he said. + + With the best intentions in the world, Val could not help + admiring him at that moment; his face was clear, his voice quiet, + he looked somehow distinguished, as if acting up to principle. + + “Well!” Val said abruptly, “it’s nothing to you.” + + “Oh!” said Jolly; “you come this way,” and he crossed the hall. + Val followed. At the study door he felt a touch on his arm; + Holly’s voice said: + + “I’m coming too.” + + “No,” said Jolly. + + “Yes,” said Holly. + + Jolly opened the door, and they all three went in. Once in the + little room, they stood in a sort of triangle on three corners of + the worn Turkey carpet; awkwardly upright, not looking at each + other, quite incapable of seeing any humour in the situation. + + Val broke the silence. + + “Holly and I are engaged.” + + Jolly stepped back and leaned against the lintel of the window. + + “This is our house,” he said; “I’m not going to insult you in it. + But my father’s away. I’m in charge of my sister. You’ve taken + advantage of me. + + “I didn’t mean to,” said Val hotly. + + “I think you did,” said Jolly. “If you hadn’t meant to, you’d + have spoken to me, or waited for my father to come back.” + + “There were reasons,” said Val. + + “What reasons?” + + “About my family—I’ve just told her. I wanted her to know before + things happen.” + + Jolly suddenly became less distinguished. + + “You’re kids,” he said, “and you know you are. + + “I am _not_ a kid,” said Val. + + “You are—you’re not twenty.” + + “Well, what are you?” + + “I _am_ twenty,” said Jolly. + + “Only just; anyway, I’m as good a man as you.” + + Jolly’s face crimsoned, then clouded. Some struggle was evidently + taking place in him; and Val and Holly stared at him, so clearly + was that struggle marked; they could even hear him breathing. + Then his face cleared up and became oddly resolute. + + “We’ll see that,” he said. “I dare you to do what I’m going to + do.” + + “Dare me?” + + Jolly smiled. “Yes,” he said, “dare you; and I know very well you + won’t.” + + A stab of misgiving shot through Val; this was riding very blind. + + “I haven’t forgotten that you’re a fire-eater,” said Jolly + slowly, “and I think that’s about all you are; or that you called + me a pro-Boer.” + + Val heard a gasp above the sound of his own hard breathing, and + saw Holly’s face poked a little forward, very pale, with big + eyes. + + “Yes,” went on Jolly with a sort of smile, “we shall soon see. + I’m going to join the Imperial Yeomanry, and I dare you to do the + same, Mr. Val Dartie.” + + Val’s head jerked on its stem. It was like a blow between the + eyes, so utterly unthought of, so extreme and ugly in the midst + of his dreaming; and he looked at Holly with eyes grown suddenly, + touchingly haggard. + + “Sit down!” said Jolly. “Take your time! Think it over well.” And + he himself sat down on the arm of his grandfather’s chair. + + Val did not sit down; he stood with hands thrust deep into his + breeches’ pockets—hands clenched and quivering. The full + awfulness of this decision one way or the other knocked at his + mind with double knocks as of an angry postman. If he did not + take that “dare” he was disgraced in Holly’s eyes, and in the + eyes of that young enemy, her brute of a brother. Yet if he took + it, ah! then all would vanish—her face, her eyes, her hair, her + kisses just begun! + + “Take your time,” said Jolly again; “I don’t want to be unfair.” + + And they both looked at Holly. She had recoiled against the + bookshelves reaching to the ceiling; her dark head leaned against + Gibbon’s _Roman Empire_, her eyes in a sort of soft grey agony + were fixed on Val. And he, who had not much gift of insight, had + suddenly a gleam of vision. She would be proud of her + brother—that enemy! She would be ashamed of him! His hands came + out of his pockets as if lifted by a spring. + + “All right!” he said. “Done!” + + Holly’s face—oh! it was queer! He saw her flush, start forward. + He had done the right thing—her face was shining with wistful + admiration. Jolly stood up and made a little bow as who should + say: “You’ve passed.” + + “To-morrow, then,” he said, “we’ll go together.” + + Recovering from the impetus which had carried him to that + decision, Val looked at him maliciously from under his lashes. + “All right,” he thought, “one to you. I shall have to join—but + I’ll get back on you somehow.” And he said with dignity: “I shall + be ready.” + + “We’ll meet at the main Recruiting Office, then,” said Jolly, “at + twelve o’clock.” And, opening the window, he went out on to the + terrace, conforming to the creed which had made him retire when + he surprised them in the hall. + + The confusion in the mind of Val thus left alone with her for + whom he had paid this sudden price was extreme. The mood of + “showing-off” was still, however, uppermost. One must do the + wretched thing with an air. + + “We shall get plenty of riding and shooting, anyway,” he said; + “that’s one comfort.” And it gave him a sort of grim pleasure to + hear the sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of her heart. + + “Oh! the war’ll soon be over,” he said; “perhaps we shan’t even + have to go out. I don’t care, except for you.” He would be out of + the way of that beastly divorce. It was an ill-wind! He felt her + warm hand slip into his. Jolly thought he had stopped their + loving each other, did he? He held her tightly round the waist, + looking at her softly through his lashes, smiling to cheer her + up, promising to come down and see her soon, feeling somehow six + inches taller and much more in command of her than he had ever + dared feel before. Many times he kissed her before he mounted and + rode back to town. So, swiftly, on the least provocation, does + the possessive instinct flourish and grow. + + + + + CHAPTER IX DINNER AT JAMES’ + + + Dinner parties were not now given at James’ in Park Lane—to every + house the moment comes when Master or Mistress is no longer “up + to it”. no more can nine courses be served to twenty mouths above + twenty fine white expanses; nor does the household cat any longer + wonder why she is suddenly shut up. + + So with something like excitement Emily—who at seventy would + still have liked a little feast and fashion now and then—ordered + dinner for six instead of two, herself wrote a number of foreign + words on cards, and arranged the flowers—mimosa from the Riviera, + and white Roman hyacinths not from Rome. There would only be, of + course, James and herself, Soames, Winifred, Val, and Imogen—but + she liked to pretend a little and dally in imagination with the + glory of the past. She so dressed herself that James remarked: + + “What are you putting on that thing for? You’ll catch cold.” + + But Emily knew that the necks of women are protected by love of + shining, unto fourscore years, and she only answered: + + “Let me put you on one of those dickies I got you, James; then + you’ll only have to change your trousers, and put on your velvet + coat, and there you’ll be. Val likes you to look nice.” + + “Dicky!” said James. “You’re always wasting your money on + something.” + + But he suffered the change to be made till his neck also shone, + murmuring vaguely: + + “He’s an extravagant chap, I’m afraid.” + + A little brighter in the eye, with rather more colour than usual + in his cheeks, he took his seat in the drawing-room to wait for + the sound of the front-door bell. + + “I’ve made it a proper dinner party,” Emily said comfortably; “I + thought it would be good practice for Imogen—she must get used to + it now she’s coming out.” + + James uttered an indeterminate sound, thinking of Imogen as she + used to climb about his knee or pull Christmas crackers with him. + + “She’ll be pretty,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t wonder.” + + “She _is_ pretty,” said Emily; “she ought to make a good match.” + + “There you go,” murmured James; “she’d much better stay at home + and look after her mother.” A second Dartie carrying off his + pretty granddaughter would finish him! He had never quite + forgiven Emily for having been as much taken in by Montague + Dartie as he himself had been. + + “Where’s Warmson?” he said suddenly. “I should like a glass of + Madeira to-night.” + + “There’s champagne, James.” + + James shook his head. “No body,” he said; “I can’t get any good + out of it.” + + Emily reached forward on her side of the fire and rang the bell. + + “Your master would like a bottle of Madeira opened, Warmson.” + + “No, no!” said James, the tips of his ears quivering with + vehemence, and his eyes fixed on an object seen by him alone. + “Look here, Warmson, you go to the inner cellar, and on the + middle shelf of the end bin on the left you’ll see seven bottles; + take the one in the centre, and don’t shake it. It’s the last of + the Madeira I had from Mr. Jolyon when we came in here—never been + moved; it ought to be in prime condition still; but I don’t know, + I can’t tell.” + + “Very good, sir,” responded the withdrawing Warmson. + + “I was keeping it for our golden wedding,” said James suddenly, + “but I shan’t live three years at my age.” + + “Nonsense, James,” said Emily, “don’t talk like that.” + + “I ought to have got it up myself,” murmured James, “he’ll shake + it as likely as not.” And he sank into silent recollection of + long moments among the open gas-jets, the cobwebs and the good + smell of wine-soaked corks, which had been appetiser to so many + feasts. In the wine from that cellar was written the history of + the forty odd years since he had come to the Park Lane house with + his young bride, and of the many generations of friends and + acquaintances who had passed into the unknown; its depleted bins + preserved the record of family festivity—all the marriages, + births, deaths of his kith and kin. And when he was gone there it + would be, and he didn’t know what would become of it. It’d be + drunk or spoiled, he shouldn’t wonder! + + From that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him, + followed very soon by that of Winifred and her two eldest. + + They went down arm-in-arm—James with Imogen, the debutante, + because his pretty grandchild cheered him; Soames with Winifred; + Emily with Val, whose eyes lighting on the oysters brightened. + This was to be a proper full “blowout” with “fizz” and port! And + he felt in need of it, after what he had done that day, as yet + undivulged. After the first glass or two it became pleasant to + have this bombshell up his sleeve, this piece of sensational + patriotism, or example, rather, of personal daring, to + display—for his pleasure in what he had done for his Queen and + Country was so far entirely personal. He was now a “blood,” + indissolubly connected with guns and horses; he had a right to + swagger—not, of course, that he was going to. He should just + announce it quietly, when there was a pause. And, glancing down + the menu, he determined on “Bombe aux fraises” as the proper + moment; there would be a certain solemnity while they were eating + that. Once or twice before they reached that rosy summit of the + dinner he was attacked by remembrance that his grandfather was + never told anything! Still, the old boy was drinking Madeira, and + looking jolly fit! Besides, he ought to be pleased at this + set-off to the disgrace of the divorce. The sight of his uncle + opposite, too, was a sharp incentive. He was so far from being a + sportsman that it would be worth a lot to see his face. Besides, + better to tell his mother in this way than privately, which might + upset them both! He was sorry for her, but after all one couldn’t + be expected to feel much for others when one had to part from + Holly. + + His grandfather’s voice travelled to him thinly. “Val, try a + little of the Madeira with your ice. You won’t get that up at + college.” + + Val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil + of the old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its aroma, and + thought: “Now for it!” It was a rich moment. He sipped, and a + gentle glow spread in his veins, already heated. With a rapid + look round, he said, “I joined the Imperial Yeomanry to-day, + Granny,” and emptied his glass as though drinking the health of + his own act. + + “What!” It was his mother’s desolate little word. + + “Young Jolly Forsyte and I went down there together.” + + “You didn’t sign?” from Uncle Soames. + + “Rather! We go into camp on Monday.” + + “I _say!_” cried Imogen. + + All looked at James. He was leaning forward with his hand behind + his ear. + + “What’s that?” he said. “What’s he saying? I can’t hear.” + + Emily reached forward to pat Val’s hand. + + “It’s only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it’s very + nice for him. He’ll look his best in uniform.” + + “Joined the—rubbish!” came from James, tremulously loud. “You + can’t see two yards before your nose. He—he’ll have to go out + there. Why! he’ll be fighting before he knows where he is.” + + Val saw Imogen’s eyes admiring him, and his mother still and + fashionable with her handkerchief before her lips. + + Suddenly his uncle spoke. + + “You’re under age.” + + “I thought of that,” smiled Val; “I gave my age as twenty-one.” + + He heard his grandmother’s admiring, “Well, Val, that was plucky + of you;” was conscious of Warmson deferentially filling his + champagne glass; and of his grandfather’s voice moaning: “_I_ + don’t know what’ll become of you if you go on like this.” + + Imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him + sidelong; only his mother sat unmoving, till, affected by her + stillness, Val said: + + “It’s all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run. I + only hope I shall come in for something.” + + He felt elated, sorry, tremendously important all at once. This + would show Uncle Soames, and all the Forsytes, how to be + sportsmen. He had certainly done something heroic and exceptional + in giving his age as twenty-one. + + Emily’s voice brought him back to earth. + + “You mustn’t have a second glass, James. Warmson!” + + “Won’t they be astonished at Timothy’s!” burst out Imogen. “I’d + give anything to see their faces. Do you have a sword, Val, or + only a popgun?” + + “What made you?” + + His uncle’s voice produced a slight chill in the pit of Val’s + stomach. Made him? How answer that? He was grateful for his + grandmother’s comfortable: + + “Well, I think it’s very plucky of Val. I’m sure he’ll make a + splendid soldier; he’s just the figure for it. We shall all be + proud of him.” + + “What had young Jolly Forsyte to do with it? Why did you go + together?” pursued Soames, uncannily relentless. “I thought you + weren’t friendly with him?” + + “I’m not,” mumbled Val, “but I wasn’t going to be beaten by + _him_.” He saw his uncle look at him quite differently, as if + approving. His grandfather was nodding too, his grandmother + tossing her head. They all approved of his not being beaten by + that cousin of his. There must be a reason! Val was dimly + conscious of some disturbing point outside his range of vision; + as it might be, the unlocated centre of a cyclone. And, staring + at his uncle’s face, he had a quite unaccountable vision of a + woman with dark eyes, gold hair, and a white neck, who smelt + nice, and had pretty silken clothes which he had liked feeling + when he was quite small. By Jove, yes! Aunt Irene! She used to + kiss him, and he had bitten her arm once, playfully, because he + liked it—so soft. His grandfather was speaking: + + “What’s his father doing?” + + “He’s away in Paris,” Val said, staring at the very queer + expression on his uncle’s face, like—like that of a snarling dog. + + “Artists!” said James. The word coming from the very bottom of + his soul, broke up the dinner. + + Opposite his mother in the cab going home, Val tasted the + after-fruits of heroism, like medlars over-ripe. + + She only said, indeed, that he must go to his tailor’s at once + and have his uniform properly made, and not just put up with what + they gave him. But he could feel that she was very much upset. It + was on his lips to console her with the spoken thought that he + would be out of the way of that beastly divorce, but the presence + of Imogen, and the knowledge that his mother would _not_ be out + of the way, restrained him. He felt aggrieved that she did not + seem more proud of him. When Imogen had gone to bed, he risked + the emotional. + + “I’m awfully sorry to have to leave you, Mother.” + + “Well, I must make the best of it. We must try and get you a + commission as soon as we can; then you won’t have to rough it so. + Do you know any drill, Val?” + + “Not a scrap.” + + “I hope they won’t worry you much. I must take you about to get + the things to-morrow. Good-night; kiss me.” + + With that kiss, soft and hot, between his eyes, and those words, + “I hope they won’t worry you much,” in his ears, he sat down to a + cigarette, before a dying fire. The heat was out of him—the glow + of cutting a dash. It was all a damned heart-aching bore. “I’ll + be even with that chap Jolly,” he thought, trailing up the + stairs, past the room where his mother was biting her pillow to + smother a sense of desolation which was trying to make her sob. + + And soon only one of the diners at James’ was awake—Soames, in + his bedroom above his father’s. + + So that fellow Jolyon was in Paris—what was he doing there? + Hanging round Irene! The last report from Polteed had hinted that + there might be something soon. Could it be this? That fellow, + with his beard and his cursed amused way of speaking—son of the + old man who had given him the nickname “Man of Property,” and + bought the fatal house from him. Soames had ever resented having + had to sell the house at Robin Hill; never forgiven his uncle for + having bought it, or his cousin for living in it. + + Reckless of the cold, he threw his window up and gazed out across + the Park. Bleak and dark the January night; little sound of + traffic; a frost coming; bare trees; a star or two. “I’ll see + Polteed to-morrow,” he thought. “By God! I’m mad, I think, to + want her still. That fellow! If...? Um! No!” + + + + + CHAPTER X DEATH OF THE DOG BALTHASAR + + + Jolyon, who had crossed from Calais by night, arrived at Robin + Hill on Sunday morning. He had sent no word beforehand, so walked + up from the station, entering his domain by the coppice gate. + Coming to the log seat fashioned out of an old fallen trunk, he + sat down, first laying his overcoat on it. + + “Lumbago!” he thought; “that’s what love ends in at my time of + life!” And suddenly Irene seemed very near, just as she had been + that day of rambling at Fontainebleau when they had sat on a log + to eat their lunch. Hauntingly near! Odour drawn out of fallen + leaves by the pale-filtering sunlight soaked his nostrils. “I’m + glad it isn’t spring,” he thought. With the scent of sap, and the + song of birds, and the bursting of the blossoms, it would have + been unbearable! “I hope I shall be over it by then, old fool + that I am!” and picking up his coat, he walked on into the field. + He passed the pond and mounted the hill slowly. + + Near the top a hoarse barking greeted him. Up on the lawn above + the fernery he could see his old dog Balthasar. The animal, whose + dim eyes took his master for a stranger, was warning the world + against him. Jolyon gave his special whistle. Even at that + distance of a hundred yards and more he could see the dawning + recognition in the obese brown-white body. The old dog got off + his haunches, and his tail, close-curled over his back, began a + feeble, excited fluttering; he came waddling forward, gathered + momentum, and disappeared over the edge of the fernery. Jolyon + expected to meet him at the wicket gate, but Balthasar was not + there, and, rather alarmed, he turned into the fernery. On his + fat side, looking up with eyes already glazing, the old dog lay. + + “What is it, my poor old man?” cried Jolyon. Balthasar’s curled + and fluffy tail just moved; his filming eyes seemed saying: “I + can’t get up, master, but I’m glad to see you.” + + Jolyon knelt down; his eyes, very dimmed, could hardly see the + slowly ceasing heave of the dog’s side. He raised the head a + little—very heavy. + + “What is it, dear man? Where are you hurt?” The tail fluttered + once; the eyes lost the look of life. Jolyon passed his hands all + over the inert warm bulk. There was nothing—the heart had simply + failed in that obese body from the emotion of his master’s + return. Jolyon could feel the muzzle, where a few whitish + bristles grew, cooling already against his lips. He stayed for + some minutes kneeling; with his hand beneath the stiffening head. + The body was very heavy when he bore it to the top of the field; + leaves had drifted there, and he strewed it with a covering of + them; there was no wind, and they would keep him from curious + eyes until the afternoon. “I’ll bury him myself,” he thought. + Eighteen years had gone since he first went into the St. John’s + Wood house with that tiny puppy in his pocket. Strange that the + old dog should die just now! Was it an omen? He turned at the + gate to look back at that russet mound, then went slowly towards + the house, very choky in the throat. + + June was at home; she had come down hotfoot on hearing the news + of Jolly’s enlistment. His patriotism had conquered her feeling + for the Boers. The atmosphere of his house was strange and + pocketty when Jolyon came in and told them of the dog Balthasar’s + death. The news had a unifying effect. A link with the past had + snapped—the dog Balthasar! Two of them could remember nothing + before his day; to June he represented the last years of her + grandfather; to Jolyon that life of domestic stress and aesthetic + struggle before he came again into the kingdom of his father’s + love and wealth! And he was gone! + + In the afternoon he and Jolly took picks and spades and went out + to the field. They chose a spot close to the russet mound, so + that they need not carry him far, and, carefully cutting off the + surface turf, began to dig. They dug in silence for ten minutes, + and then rested. + + “Well, old man,” said Jolyon, “so you thought you ought?” + + “Yes,” answered Jolly; “I don’t want to a bit, of course.” + + How exactly those words represented Jolyon’s own state of mind + + “I admire you for it, old boy. I don’t believe I should have done + it at your age—too much of a Forsyte, I’m afraid. But I suppose + the type gets thinner with each generation. Your son, if you have + one, may be a pure altruist; who knows?” + + “He won’t be like me, then, Dad; I’m beastly selfish.” + + “No, my dear, that you clearly are not.” Jolly shook his head, + and they dug again. + + “Strange life a dog’s,” said Jolyon suddenly: “The only + four-footer with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God!” + + Jolly looked at his father. + + “Do you believe in God, Dad? I’ve never known.” + + At so searching a question from one to whom it was impossible to + make a light reply, Jolyon stood for a moment feeling his back + tried by the digging. + + “What do you mean by God?” he said; “there are two irreconcilable + ideas of God. There’s the Unknowable Creative Principle—one + believes in That. And there’s the Sum of altruism in + man—naturally one believes in That.” + + “I see. That leaves out Christ, doesn’t it?” + + Jolyon stared. Christ, the link between those two ideas! Out of + the mouth of babes! Here was orthodoxy scientifically explained + at last! The sublime poem of the Christ life was man’s attempt to + join those two irreconcilable conceptions of God. And since the + Sum of human altruism was as much a part of the Unknowable + Creative Principle as anything else in Nature and the Universe, a + worse link might have been chosen after all! Funny—how one went + through life without seeing it in that sort of way! + + “What do _you_ think, old man?” he said. + + Jolly frowned. “Of course, my first year we talked a good bit + about that sort of thing. But in the second year one gives it up; + I don’t know why—it’s awfully interesting.” + + Jolyon remembered that he also had talked a good deal about it + his first year at Cambridge, and given it up in his second. + + “I suppose,” said Jolly, “it’s the second God, you mean, that old + Balthasar had a sense of.” + + “Yes, or he would never have burst his poor old heart because of + something outside himself.” + + “But wasn’t that just selfish emotion, really?” + + Jolyon shook his head. “No, dogs are not pure Forsytes, they love + something outside themselves.” + + Jolly smiled. + + “Well, I think I’m one,” he said. “You know, I only enlisted + because I dared Val Dartie to.” + + “But why?” + + “We bar each other,” said Jolly shortly. + + “Ah!” muttered Jolyon. So the feud went on, unto the third + generation—this modern feud which had no overt expression? + + “Shall I tell the boy about it?” he thought. But to what end—if + he had to stop short of his own part? + + And Jolly thought: “It’s for Holly to let him know about that + chap. If she doesn’t, it means she doesn’t want him told, and I + should be sneaking. Anyway, I’ve stopped it. I’d better leave + well alone!” + + So they dug on in silence, till Jolyon said: + + “Now, old man, I think it’s big enough.” And, resting on their + spades, they gazed down into the hole where a few leaves had + drifted already on a sunset wind. + + “I can’t bear this part of it,” said Jolyon suddenly. + + “Let me do it, Dad. He never cared much for me.” + + Jolyon shook his head. + + “We’ll lift him very gently, leaves and all. I’d rather not see + him again. I’ll take his head. Now!” + + With extreme care they raised the old dog’s body, whose faded tan + and white showed here and there under the leaves stirred by the + wind. They laid it, heavy, cold, and unresponsive, in the grave, + and Jolly spread more leaves over it, while Jolyon, deeply afraid + to show emotion before his son, began quickly shovelling the + earth on to that still shape. There went the past! If only there + were a joyful future to look forward to! It was like stamping + down earth on one’s own life. They replaced the turf carefully on + the smooth little mound, and, grateful that they had spared each + other’s feelings, returned to the house arm-in-arm. + + + + + CHAPTER XI TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT + + + On Forsyte ’Change news of the enlistment spread fast, together + with the report that June, not to be outdone, was going to become + a Red Cross nurse. These events were so extreme, so subversive of + pure Forsyteism, as to have a binding effect upon the family, and + Timothy’s was thronged next Sunday afternoon by members trying to + find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each + other a sense of family credit. Giles and Jesse Hayman would no + longer defend the coast but go to South Africa quite soon; Jolly + and Val would be following in April; as to June—well, you never + knew what she would really do. + + The retirement from Spion Kop and the absence of any good news + from the seat of war imparted an air of reality to all this, + clinched in startling fashion by Timothy. The youngest of the old + Forsytes—scarcely eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble + their father, “Superior Dosset,” even in his best-known + characteristic of drinking Sherry—had been invisible for so many + years that he was almost mythical. A long generation had elapsed + since the risks of a publisher’s business had worked on his + nerves at the age of forty, so that he had got out with a mere + thirty-five thousand pounds in the world, and started to make his + living by careful investment. Putting by every year, at compound + interest, he had doubled his capital in forty years without + having once known what it was like to shake in his shoes over + money matters. He was now putting aside some two thousand a year, + and, with the care he was taking of himself, expected, so Aunt + Hester said, to double his capital again before he died. What he + would do with it then, with his sisters dead and himself dead, + was often mockingly queried by free spirits such as Francie, + Euphemia, or young Nicholas’ second, Christopher, whose spirit + was so free that he had actually said he was going on the stage. + All admitted, however, that this was best known to Timothy + himself, and possibly to Soames, who never divulged a secret. + + Those few Forsytes who had seen him reported a man of thick and + robust appearance, not very tall, with a brown-red complexion, + grey hair, and little of the refinement of feature with which + most of the Forsytes had been endowed by “Superior Dosset’s” + wife, a woman of some beauty and a gentle temperament. It was + known that he had taken surprising interest in the war, sticking + flags into a map ever since it began, and there was uneasiness as + to what would happen if the English were driven into the sea, + when it would be almost impossible for him to put the flags in + the right places. As to his knowledge of family movements or his + views about them, little was known, save that Aunt Hester was + always declaring that he was very upset. It was, then, in the + nature of a portent when Forsytes, arriving on the Sunday after + the evacuation of Spion Kop, became conscious, one after the + other, of a presence seated in the only really comfortable + armchair, back to the light, concealing the lower part of his + face with a large hand, and were greeted by the awed voice of + Aunt Hester: + + “Your Uncle Timothy, my dear.” + + Timothy’s greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and + rather, as it were, passed over by him than expressed: + + “How de do? How de do? ’Xcuse me gettin’ up!” + + Francie was present, and Eustace had come in his car; Winifred + had brought Imogen, breaking the ice of the restitution + proceedings with the warmth of family appreciation at Val’s + enlistment; and Marian Tweetyman with the last news of Giles and + Jesse. These with Aunt Juley and Hester, young Nicholas, + Euphemia, and—of all people!—George, who had come with Eustace in + the car, constituted an assembly worthy of the family’s palmiest + days. There was not one chair vacant in the whole of the little + drawing-room, and anxiety was felt lest someone else should + arrive. + + The constraint caused by Timothy’s presence having worn off a + little, conversation took a military turn. George asked Aunt + Juley when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing + her to a state of gaiety; whereon he turned to Nicholas and said: + + “Young Nick’s a warrior bold, isn’t he? When’s he going to don + the wild khaki?” + + Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation, + intimated that of course his mother was very anxious. + + “The Dromios are off, I hear,” said George, turning to Marian + Tweetyman; “we shall all be there soon. _En avant_, the Forsytes! + Roll, bowl, or pitch! Who’s for a cooler?” + + Aunt Juley gurgled, George was _so_ droll! Should Hester get + Timothy’s map? Then he could show them all where they were. + + At a sound from Timothy, interpreted as assent, Aunt Hester left + the room. + + George pursued his image of the Forsyte advance, addressing + Timothy as Field Marshal; and Imogen, whom he had noted at once + for “a pretty filly,”—as Vivandière; and holding his top hat + between his knees, he began to beat it with imaginary drumsticks. + The reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed. All + laughed—George was licensed; but all felt that the family was + being “rotted”; and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it + was going to give five of its members to the service of the + Queen. George might go too far; and there was relief when he got + up, offered his arm to Aunt Juley, marched up to Timothy, saluted + him, kissed his aunt with mock passion, said, “Oh! what a treat, + dear papa! Come on, Eustace!” and walked out, followed by the + grave and fastidious Eustace, who had never smiled. + + Aunt Juley’s bewildered, “Fancy not waiting for the map! You + mustn’t mind him, Timothy. He’s _so_ droll!” broke the hush, and + Timothy removed the hand from his mouth. + + “I don’t know what things are comin’ to,” he was heard to say. + “What’s all this about goin’ out there? That’s not the way to + beat those Boers.” + + Francie alone had the hardihood to observe: “What is, then, Uncle + Timothy?” + + “All this new-fangled volunteerin’ and expense—lettin’ money out + of the country.” + + Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby + with eruptions. With the assistance of Euphemia it was laid on + the piano, a small Colwood grand, last played on, it was + believed, the summer before Aunt Ann died, thirteen years ago. + Timothy rose. He walked over to the piano, and stood looking at + his map while they all gathered round. + + “There you are,” he said; “that’s the position up to date; and + very poor it is. H’m!” + + “Yes,” said Francie, greatly daring, “but how are you going to + alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?” + + “Men!” said Timothy; “you don’t want men—wastin’ the country’s + money. You want a Napoleon, he’d settle it in a month.” + + “But if you haven’t got him, Uncle Timothy?” + + “That’s their business,” replied Timothy. “What have we kept the + Army up for—to eat their heads off in time of peace! They ought + to be ashamed of themselves, comin’ on the country to help them + like this! Let every man stick to his business, and we shall get + on.” + + And looking round him, he added almost angrily: + + “Volunteerin’, indeed! Throwin’ good money after bad! We must + save! Conserve energy that’s the only way.” And with a prolonged + sound, not quite a sniff and not quite a snort, he trod on + Euphemia’s toe, and went out, leaving a sensation and a faint + scent of barley-sugar behind him. + + The effect of something said with conviction by one who has + evidently made a sacrifice to say it is ever considerable. And + the eight Forsytes left behind, all women except young Nicholas, + were silent for a moment round the map. Then Francie said: + + “Really, I think he’s right, you know. After all, what is the + Army for? They ought to have known. It’s only encouraging them.” + + “My dear!” cried Aunt Juley, “but they’ve been so progressive. + Think of their giving up their scarlet. They were always so proud + of it. And now they all look like convicts. Hester and I were + saying only yesterday we were sure they must feel it very much. + Fancy what the Iron Duke would have said!” + + “The new colour’s very smart,” said Winifred; “Val looks quite + nice in his.” + + Aunt Juley sighed. + + “I do so wonder what Jolyon’s boy is like. To think we’ve never + seen him! His father must be so proud of him.” + + “His father’s in Paris,” said Winifred. + + Aunt Hester’s shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward + off her sister’s next remark, for Juley’s crumpled cheeks had + gushed. + + “We had dear little Mrs. MacAnder here yesterday, just back from + Paris. And whom d’you think she saw there in the street? You’ll + never guess.” + + “We shan’t try, Auntie,” said Euphemia. + + “Irene! Imagine! After all this time; walking with a fair + beard....” + + “Auntie! you’ll kill me! A fair beard....” + + “I was going to say,” said Aunt Juley severely, “a fair-bearded + gentleman. And not a day older; she was always so pretty,” she + added, with a sort of lingering apology. + + “Oh! tell us about her, Auntie,” cried Imogen; “I can just + remember her. She’s the skeleton in the family cupboard, isn’t + she? And they’re such fun.” + + Aunt Hester sat down. Really, Juley had done it now! + + “She wasn’t much of a skeleton as I remember her,” murmured + Euphemia, “extremely well-covered.” + + “My dear!” said Aunt Juley, “what a peculiar way of putting + it—not very nice.” + + “No, but what _was_ she like?” persisted Imogen. + + “I’ll tell you, my child,” said Francie; “a kind of modern Venus, + very well-dressed.” + + Euphemia said sharply: “Venus was never dressed, and she had blue + eyes of melting sapphire.” + + At this juncture Nicholas took his leave. + + “Mrs. Nick is awfully strict,” said Francie with a laugh. + + “She has six children,” said Aunt Juley; “it’s very proper she + should be careful.” + + “Was Uncle Soames awfully fond of her?” pursued the inexorable + Imogen, moving her dark luscious eyes from face to face. + + Aunt Hester made a gesture of despair, just as Aunt Juley + answered: + + “Yes, your Uncle Soames was very much attached to her.” + + “I suppose she ran off with someone?” + + “No, certainly not; that is—not precisely.” + + “What did she do, then, Auntie?” + + “Come along, Imogen,” said Winifred, “we must be getting back.” + + But Aunt Juley interjected resolutely: “She—she didn’t behave at + all well.” + + “Oh, bother!” cried Imogen; “that’s as far as I ever get.” + + “Well, my dear,” said Francie, “she had a love affair which ended + with the young man’s death; and then she left your uncle. I + always rather liked her.” + + “She used to give me chocolates,” murmured Imogen, “and smell + nice.” + + “Of course!” remarked Euphemia. + + “Not of course at all!” replied Francie, who used a particularly + expensive essence of gillyflower herself. + + “I can’t think what we are about,” said Aunt Juley, raising her + hands, “talking of such things!” + + “Was she divorced?” asked Imogen from the door. + + “Certainly not,” cried Aunt Juley; “that is—certainly not.” + + A sound was heard over by the far door. Timothy had re-entered + the back drawing-room. “I’ve come for my map,” he said. “Who’s + been divorced?” + + “No one, Uncle,” replied Francie with perfect truth. + + Timothy took his map off the piano. + + “Don’t let’s have anything of that sort in the family,” he said. + “All this enlistin’s bad enough. The country’s breakin’ up; I + don’t know what we’re comin’ to.” He shook a thick finger at the + room: “Too many women nowadays, and they don’t know what they + want.” + + So saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went + out as if afraid of being answered. + + The seven women whom he had addressed broke into a subdued + murmur, out of which emerged Francie’s, “Really, the Forsytes!” + and Aunt Juley’s: “He must have his feet in mustard and hot water + to-night, Hester; will you tell Jane? The blood has gone to his + head again, I’m afraid....” + + That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after + dinner, she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up: + + “Hester, I can’t think where I’ve heard that dear Soames wants + Irene to come back to him again. Who was it told us that George + had made a funny drawing of him with the words, ‘He won’t be + happy till he gets it’.” + + “Eustace,” answered Aunt Hester from behind _The Times;_ “he had + it in his pocket, but he wouldn’t show it us.” + + Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, _The Times_ + crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley + dropped another stitch. + + “Hester,” she said, “I have had such a dreadful thought.” + + “Then don’t tell me,” said Aunt Hester quickly. + + “Oh! but I must. You can’t think how dreadful!” Her voice sank to + a whisper: + + “Jolyon—Jolyon, they say, has a—has a fair beard, now.” + + + + + CHAPTER XII PROGRESS OF THE CHASE + + + Two days after the dinner at James’, Mr. Polteed provided Soames + with food for thought. + + “A gentleman,” he said, consulting the key concealed in his left + hand, “47 as we say, has been paying marked attention to 17 + during the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to + have been nothing very conclusive. The meetings have all been in + public places, without concealment—restaurants, the Opera, the + Comique, the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and + so forth. She has not yet been traced to his rooms, nor _vice + versa_. They went to Fontainebleau—but nothing of value. In + short, the situation is promising, but requires patience.” And, + looking up suddenly, he added: + + “One rather curious point—47 has the same name as—er—31!” + + “The fellow knows I’m her husband,” thought Soames. + + “Christian name—an odd one—Jolyon,” continued Mr. Polteed. “We + know his address in Paris and his residence here. We don’t wish, + of course, to be running a wrong hare.” + + “Go on with it, but be careful,” said Soames doggedly. + + Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his + secret made him all the more reticent. + + “Excuse me,” said Mr. Polteed, “I’ll just see if there’s anything + fresh in.” + + He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at + the envelopes. + + “Yes, here’s a personal one from 19 to myself.” + + “Well?” said Soames. + + “Um!” said Mr. Polteed, “she says: ‘47 left for England to-day. + Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted from 17 in Louvre + Gallery at 3.30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay + and continue observation of 17. You will deal with 47 in England + if you think desirable, no doubt.’” And Mr. Polteed lifted an + unprofessional glance on Soames, as though he might be storing + material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of + business. “Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful make-up. + Not cheap, but earns her money well. There’s no suspicion of + being shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive + people are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything + definite to go on. I should rather advise letting-up on 17, and + keeping an eye on 47. We can’t get at correspondence without + great risk. I hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell + your client that it’s looking up very well.” And again his + narrowed eyes gleamed at his taciturn customer. + + “No,” said Soames suddenly, “I prefer that you should keep the + watch going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with + this end.” + + “Very well,” replied Mr. Polteed, “we can do it.” + + “What—what is the manner between them?” + + “I’ll read you what she says,” said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a + bureau drawer and taking out a file of papers; “she sums it up + somewhere confidentially. Yes, here it is! ‘17 very + attractive—conclude 47, longer in the tooth’ (slang for age, you + know)—‘distinctly gone—waiting his time—17 perhaps holding off + for terms, impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined + to think on the whole—doesn’t know her mind—likely to act on + impulse some day. Both have style.’” + + “What does that mean?” said Soames between close lips. + + “Well,” murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white + teeth, “an expression we use. In other words, it’s not likely to + be a weekend business—they’ll come together seriously or not at + all.” + + “H’m!” muttered Soames, “that’s all, is it?” + + “Yes,” said Mr. Polteed, “but quite promising.” + + “Spider!” thought Soames. “Good-day!” + + He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria + Station and take the Underground into the City. For so late in + January it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the + frosty grass—an illumined cobweb of a day. + + Little spiders—and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of + all, his own tenacity, for ever wrapping its cocoon of threads + round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene + for? Was it really as Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking + compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it—sentimental + radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as + Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be! The fellow + was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer! + What attraction had he? + + “Besides, he’s come back,” he thought; “that doesn’t look—I’ll go + and see him!” and, taking out a card, he wrote: + + “If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall + be at the Connoisseurs any day between 5.30 and 6, or I could + come to the Hotch Potch if you prefer it. I want to see you.—S. + F.” + + He walked up St. James’s Street and confided it to the porter at + the Hotch Potch. + + “Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in,” he said, + and took one of the new motor cabs into the City.... + + Jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face + towards the Connoisseurs. What did Soames want now? Had he got + wind of Paris? And stepping across St. James’s Street, he + determined to make no secret of his visit. “But it won’t do,” he + thought, “to let him know _she’s_ there, unless he knows + already.” In this complicated state of mind he was conducted to + where Soames was drinking tea in a small bay-window. + + “No tea, thanks,” said Jolyon, “but I’ll go on smoking if I may.” + + The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were + lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each other. + + “You’ve been in Paris, I hear,” said Soames at last. + + “Yes; just back.” + + “Young Val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?” Jolyon + nodded. + + “You didn’t happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she’s + abroad somewhere.” + + Jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he answered: “Yes, I saw + her.” + + “How was she?” + + “Very well.” + + There was another silence; then Soames roused himself in his + chair. + + “When I saw you last,” he said, “I was in two minds. We talked, + and you expressed your opinion. I don’t wish to reopen that + discussion. I only wanted to say this: My position with her is + extremely difficult. I don’t want you to go using your influence + against me. What happened is a very long time ago. I’m going to + ask her to let bygones be bygones.” + + “You have asked her, you know,” murmured Jolyon. + + “The idea was new to her then; it came as a shock. But the more + she thinks of it, the more she must see that it’s the only way + out for both of us.” + + “That’s not my impression of her state of mind,” said Jolyon with + particular calm. “And, forgive my saying, you misconceive the + matter if you think reason comes into it at all.” + + He saw his cousin’s pale face grow paler—he had used, without + knowing it, Irene’s own words. + + “Thanks,” muttered Soames, “but I see things perhaps more plainly + than you think. I only want to be sure that you won’t try to + influence her against me.” + + “I don’t know what makes you think I have any influence,” said + Jolyon; “but if I have I’m bound to use it in the direction of + what I think is her happiness. I am what they call a ‘feminist,’ + I believe.” + + “Feminist!” repeated Soames, as if seeking to gain time. “Does + that mean that you’re against me?” + + “Bluntly,” said Jolyon, “I’m against any woman living with any + man whom she definitely dislikes. It appears to me rotten.” + + “And I suppose each time you see her you put your opinions into + her mind.” + + “I am not likely to be seeing her.” + + “Not going back to Paris?” + + “Not so far as I know,” said Jolyon, conscious of the intent + watchfulness in Soames’ face. + + “Well, that’s all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man and + wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility.” + + Jolyon rose and made him a slight bow. + + “Good-bye,” he said, and, without offering to shake hands, moved + away, leaving Soames staring after him. “We Forsytes,” thought + Jolyon, hailing a cab, “are very civilised. With simpler folk + that might have come to a row. If it weren’t for my boy going to + the war....” The war! A gust of his old doubt swept over him. A + precious war! Domination of peoples or of women! Attempts to + master and possess those who did not want you! The negation of + gentle decency! Possession, vested rights; and anyone ‘agin’ + ’em—outcast! “Thank Heaven!” he thought, “_I always_ felt ‘agin’ + ’em, anyway!” Yes! Even before his first disastrous marriage he + could remember fuming over the bludgeoning of Ireland, or the + matrimonial suits of women trying to be free of men they loathed. + Parsons would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite + different things! Pernicious doctrine! Body and soul could not + thus be separated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not + its weakness. “I ought to have told Soames,” he thought, “that I + think him comic. Ah! but he’s tragic, too!” Was there anything, + indeed, more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own + possessive instinct, who couldn’t see the sky for it, or even + enter fully into what another person felt! “I must write and warn + her,” he thought; “he’s going to have another try.” And all the + way home to Robin Hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty + to his son which prevented him from posting back to Paris.... + + But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing + ache—a jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this + fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of + resistance to his way out. “Does that mean that you’re against + me?” he had got nothing out of that disingenuous question. + Feminist! Phrasey fellow! “I mustn’t rush things,” he thought. “I + have some breathing space; he’s not going back to Paris, unless + he was lying. I’ll let the spring come!” Though how the spring + could serve him, save by adding to his ache, he could not tell. + And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from + pool to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought: + “Nothing seems any good—nothing seems worth while. I’m + lonely—that’s the trouble.” + + He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark + street below a church—passing, turning her neck so that he caught + the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark + hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil hanging down + behind. He opened his eyes—so vividly he had seen her! A woman + _was_ passing below, but not she! Oh no, there was nothing there! + + + + + CHAPTER XIII “HERE WE ARE AGAIN!” + + + Imogen’s frocks for her first season exercised the judgment of + her mother and the purse of her grandfather all through the month + of March. With Forsyte tenacity Winifred quested for perfection. + It took her mind off the slowly approaching rite which would give + her a freedom but doubtfully desired; took her mind, too, off her + boy and his fast approaching departure for a war from which the + news remained disquieting. Like bees busy on summer flowers, or + bright gadflies hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms, + she and her “little daughter,” tall nearly as herself and with a + bust measurement not far inferior, hovered in the shops of Regent + Street, the establishments of Hanover Square and of Bond Street, + lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics. Dozens of young + women of striking deportment and peculiar gait paraded before + Winifred and Imogen, draped in “creations.” The models—“Very new, + modom; quite the latest thing—” which those two reluctantly + turned down, would have filled a museum; the models which they + were obliged to have nearly emptied James’ bank. It was no good + doing things by halves, Winifred felt, in view of the need for + making this first and sole untarnished season a conspicuous + success. Their patience in trying the patience of those + impersonal creatures who swam about before them could alone have + been displayed by such as were moved by faith. It was for + Winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess Fashion, + fervent as a Catholic might make before the Virgin; for Imogen an + experience by no means too unpleasant—she often looked so nice, + and flattery was implicit everywhere: in a word it was “amusing.” + + On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having, as it were, gutted + Skywards, they had sought refreshment over the way at Caramel and + Baker’s, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with + cream, turned homewards through Berkeley Square of an evening + touched with spring. Opening the door—freshly painted a light + olive-green; nothing neglected that year to give Imogen a good + send-off—Winifred passed towards the silver basket to see if + anyone had called, and suddenly her nostrils twitched. What was + that scent? + + Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood + absorbed. Rather sharply, because of the queer feeling in her + breast, Winifred said: + + “Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner.” + + Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Winifred heard the + door of her room slammed to, and drew a long savouring breath. + Was it spring tickling her senses—whipping up nostalgia for her + “clown,” against all wisdom and outraged virtue? A male scent! A + faint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that + early autumn night six months ago, when she had called him “the + limit.” Whence came it, or was it ghost of scent—sheer emanation + from memory? She looked round her. Nothing—not a thing, no + tiniest disturbance of her hall, nor of the diningroom. A little + day-dream of a scent—illusory, saddening, silly! In the silver + basket were new cards, two with “Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Thom,” and + one with “Mr. Polegate Thom” thereon; she sniffed them, but they + smelled severe. “I must be tired,” she thought, “I’ll go and lie + down.” Upstairs the drawing-room was darkened, waiting for some + hand to give it evening light; and she passed on up to her + bedroom. This, too, was half-curtained and dim, for it was six + o’clock. Winifred threw off her coat—that scent again!—then + stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bed-rail. Something + dark had risen from the sofa in the far corner. A word of + horror—in her family—escaped her: “God!” + + “It’s I—Monty,” said a voice. + + Clutching the bed-rail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch + of the light hanging above her dressing-table. He appeared just + on the rim of the light’s circumference, emblazoned from the + absence of his watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown, + but—yes!—split at the toecap. His chest and face were shadowy. + Surely he was thin—or was it a trick of the light? He advanced, + lighted now from toe-cap to the top of his dark head—surely a + little grizzled! His complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black + moustache had lost boldness, become sardonic; there were lines + which she did not know about his face. There was no pin in his + tie. His suit—ah!—she knew that—but how unpressed, unglossy! She + stared again at the toe-cap of his boot. Something big and + relentless had been “at him,” had turned and twisted, raked and + scraped him. And she stayed, not speaking, motionless, staring at + that crack across the toe. + + “Well!” he said, “I got the order. I’m back.” + + Winifred’s bosom began to heave. The nostalgia for her husband + which had rushed up with that scent was struggling with a deeper + jealousy than any she had felt yet. There he was—a dark, and as + if harried, shadow of his sleek and brazen self! What force had + done this to him—squeezed him like an orange to its dry rind! + That woman! + + “I’m back,” he said again. “I’ve had a beastly time. By God! I + came steerage. I’ve got nothing but what I stand up in, and that + bag.” + + “And who has the rest?” cried Winifred, suddenly alive. “How + dared you come? You knew it was just for divorce that you got + that order to come back. Don’t touch me!” + + They held each to the rail of the big bed where they had spent so + many years of nights together. Many times, yes—many times she had + wanted him back. But now that he had come she was filled with + this cold and deadly resentment. He put his hand up to his + moustache; but did not frizz and twist it in the old familiar + way, he just pulled it downwards. + + “Gad!” he said: “If you knew the time I’ve had!” + + “I’m glad I don’t!” + + “Are the kids all right?” + + Winifred nodded. “How did you get in?” + + “With my key.” + + “Then the maids don’t know. You can’t stay here, Monty.” + + He uttered a little sardonic laugh. + + “Where then?” + + “Anywhere.” + + “Well, look at me! That—that damned....” + + “If you mention _her_,” cried Winifred, “I go straight out to + Park Lane and I don’t come back.” + + Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it + moved her. He shut his eyes. It was as if he had said: “All + right! I’m dead to the world!” + + “You can have a room for the night,” she said; “your things are + still here. Only Imogen is at home.” + + He leaned back against the bed-rail. “Well, it’s in your hands,” + and his own made a writhing movement. “I’ve been through it. You + needn’t hit too hard—it isn’t worth while. I’ve been frightened; + I’ve been frightened, Freddie.” + + That old pet name, disused for years and years, sent a shiver + through Winifred. + + “What am I to do with him?” she thought. “What in God’s name am I + to do with him?” + + “Got a cigarette?” + + She gave him one from a little box she kept up there for when she + couldn’t sleep at night, and lighted it. With that action the + matter-of-fact side of her nature came to life again. + + “Go and have a hot bath. I’ll put some clothes out for you in the + dressing-room. We can talk later.” + + He nodded, and fixed his eyes on her—they looked half-dead, or + was it that the folds in the lids had become heavier? + + “He’s not the same,” she thought. He would never be quite the + same again! But what would he be? + + “All right!” he said, and went towards the door. He even moved + differently, like a man who has lost illusion and doubts whether + it is worth while to move at all. + + When he was gone, and she heard the water in the bath running, + she put out a complete set of garments on the bed in his + dressing-room, then went downstairs and fetched up the biscuit + box and whisky. Putting on her coat again, and listening a moment + at the bathroom door, she went down and out. In the street she + hesitated. Past seven o’clock! Would Soames be at his Club or at + Park Lane? She turned towards the latter. Back! + + Soames had always feared it—she had sometimes hoped it.... Back! + So like him—clown that he was—with this: “Here we are again!” to + make fools of them all—of the Law, of Soames, of herself! + + Yet to have done with the Law, not to have that murky cloud + hanging over her and the children! What a relief! Ah! but how to + accept his return? That “woman” had ravaged him, taken from him + passion such as he had never bestowed on herself, such as she had + not thought him capable of. There was the sting! That selfish, + blatant “clown” of hers, whom she herself had never really + stirred, had been swept and ungarnished by another woman! + Insulting! Too insulting! Not right, not decent to take him back! + And yet she had asked for him; the Law perhaps would make her + now! He was as much her husband as ever—she had put herself out + of court! And all he wanted, no doubt, was money—to keep him in + cigars and lavender-water! That scent! “After all, I’m not old,” + she thought, “not old yet!” But that woman who had reduced him to + those words: “I’ve been through it. I’ve been + frightened—frightened, Freddie!” She neared her father’s house, + driven this way and that, while all the time the Forsyte undertow + was drawing her to deep conclusion that after all he was her + property, to be held against a robbing world. And so she came to + James’. + + “Mr. Soames? In his room? I’ll go up; don’t say I’m here.” + + Her brother was dressing. She found him before a mirror, tying a + black bow with an air of despising its ends. + + “Hullo!” he said, contemplating her in the glass; “what’s wrong?” + + “Monty!” said Winifred stonily. + + Soames spun round. “What!” + + “Back!” + + “Hoist,” muttered Soames, “with our own petard. Why the deuce + didn’t you let me try cruelty? I always knew it was too much risk + this way.” + + “Oh! Don’t talk about that! What shall I do?” + + Soames answered, with a deep, deep sound. + + “Well?” said Winifred impatiently. + + “What has he to say for himself?” + + “Nothing. One of his boots is split across the toe.” + + Soames stared at her. + + “Ah!” he said, “of course! On his beam ends. So—it begins again! + This’ll about finish father.” + + “Can’t we keep it from him?” + + “Impossible. He has an uncanny flair for anything that’s + worrying.” + + And he brooded, with fingers hooked into his blue silk braces. + “There ought to be some way in law,” he muttered, “to make him + safe.” + + “No,” cried Winifred, “I won’t be made a fool of again; I’d + sooner put up with him.” + + The two stared at each other. Their hearts were full of feeling, + but they could give it no expression—Forsytes that they were. + + “Where did you leave him?” + + “In the bath,” and Winifred gave a little bitter laugh. “The only + thing he’s brought back is lavender-water.” + + “Steady!” said Soames, “you’re thoroughly upset. I’ll go back + with you.” + + “What’s the use?” + + “We ought to make terms with him.” + + “Terms! It’ll always be the same. When he recovers—cards and + betting, drink and...!” She was silent, remembering the look on + her husband’s face. The burnt child—the burnt child. Perhaps...! + + “Recovers?” replied Soames: “Is he ill?” + + “No; burnt out; that’s all.” + + Soames took his waistcoat from a chair and put it on, he took his + coat and got into it, he scented his handkerchief with + eau-de-Cologne, threaded his watch-chain, and said: “We haven’t + any luck.” + + And in the midst of her own trouble Winifred was sorry for him, + as if in that little saying he had revealed deep trouble of his + own. + + “I’d like to see mother,” she said. + + “She’ll be with father in their room. Come down quietly to the + study. I’ll get her.” + + Winifred stole down to the little dark study, chiefly remarkable + for a Canaletto too doubtful to be placed elsewhere, and a fine + collection of Law Reports unopened for many years. Here she + stood, with her back to maroon-coloured curtains close-drawn, + staring at the empty grate, till her mother came in followed by + Soames. + + “Oh! my poor dear!” said Emily: “How miserable you look in here! + This is too bad of him, really!” + + As a family they had so guarded themselves from the expression of + all unfashionable emotion that it was impossible to go up and + give her daughter a good hug. But there was comfort in her + cushioned voice, and her still dimpled shoulders under some rare + black lace. Summoning pride and the desire not to distress her + mother, Winifred said in her most off-hand voice: + + “It’s all right, Mother; no good fussing.” + + “I don’t see,” said Emily, looking at Soames, “why Winifred + shouldn’t tell him that she’ll prosecute him if he doesn’t keep + off the premises. He took her pearls; and if he’s not brought + them back, that’s quite enough.” + + Winifred smiled. They would all plunge about with suggestions of + this and that, but she knew already what she would be doing, and + that was—nothing. The feeling that, after all, she had won a sort + of victory, retained her property, was every moment gaining + ground in her. No! if she wanted to punish him, she could do it + at home without the world knowing. + + “Well,” said Emily, “come into the dining-room comfortably—you + must stay and have dinner with us. Leave it to me to tell your + father.” And, as Winifred moved towards the door, she turned out + the light. Not till then did they see the disaster in the + corridor. + + There, attracted by light from a room never lighted, James was + standing with his duncoloured camel-hair shawl folded about him, + so that his arms were not free and his silvered head looked cut + off from his fashionably trousered legs as if by an expanse of + desert. He stood, inimitably stork-like, with an expression as if + he saw before him a frog too large to swallow. + + “What’s all this?” he said. “Tell your father? You never tell me + anything.” + + The moment found Emily without reply. It was Winifred who went up + to him, and, laying one hand on each of his swathed, helpless + arms, said: + + “Monty’s not gone bankrupt, Father. He’s only come back.” + + They all three expected something serious to happen, and were + glad she had kept that grip of his arms, but they did not know + the depth of root in that shadowy old Forsyte. Something wry + occurred about his shaven mouth and chin, something scratchy + between those long silvery whiskers. Then he said with a sort of + dignity: “He’ll be the death of me. I knew how it would be.” + + “You mustn’t worry, Father,” said Winifred calmly. “I mean to + make him behave.” + + “Ah!” said James. “Here, take this thing off, I’m hot.” They + unwound the shawl. He turned, and walked firmly to the + dining-room. + + “I don’t want any soup,” he said to Warmson, and sat down in his + chair. They all sat down too, Winifred still in her hat, while + Warmson laid the fourth place. When he left the room, James said: + “What’s he brought back?” + + “Nothing, Father.” + + James concentrated his eyes on his own image in a tablespoon. + “Divorce!” he muttered; “rubbish! What was I about? I ought to + have paid him an allowance to stay out of England. Soames you go + and propose it to him.” + + It seemed so right and simple a suggestion that even Winifred was + surprised when she said: “No, I’ll keep him now he’s back; he + must just behave—that’s all.” + + They all looked at her. It had always been known that Winifred + had pluck. + + “Out there!” said James elliptically, “who knows what + cut-throats! You look for his revolver! Don’t go to bed without. + You ought to have Warmson to sleep in the house. I’ll see him + myself tomorrow.” + + They were touched by this declaration, and Emily said + comfortably: “That’s right, James, we won’t have any nonsense.” + + “Ah!” muttered James darkly, “I can’t tell.” + + The advent of Warmson with fish diverted conversation. + + When, directly after dinner, Winifred went over to kiss her + father good-night, he looked up with eyes so full of question and + distress that she put all the comfort she could into her voice. + + “It’s all right, Daddy, dear; don’t worry. I shan’t need + anyone—he’s quite bland. I shall only be upset if you worry. + Good-night, bless you!” + + James repeated the words, “Bless you!” as if he did not quite + know what they meant, and his eyes followed her to the door. + + She reached home before nine, and went straight upstairs. + + Dartie was lying on the bed in his dressing-room, fully redressed + in a blue serge suit and pumps; his arms were crossed behind his + head, and an extinct cigarette drooped from his mouth. + + Winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her window-boxes + after a blazing summer day; the way they lay, or rather + stood—parched, yet rested by the sun’s retreat. It was as if a + little dew had come already on her burnt-up husband. + + He said apathetically: “I suppose you’ve been to Park Lane. How’s + the old man?” + + Winifred could not help the bitter answer: “Not dead.” + + He winced, actually he winced. + + “Understand, Monty,” she said, “I will _not_ have him worried. If + you aren’t going to behave yourself, you may go back, you may go + anywhere. Have you had dinner?” + + No. + + “Would you like some?” + + He shrugged his shoulders. + + “Imogen offered me some. I didn’t want any.” + + Imogen! In the plenitude of emotion Winifred had forgotten her. + + “So you’ve seen her? What did she say?” + + “She gave me a kiss.” + + With mortification Winifred saw his dark sardonic face relaxed. + “Yes!” she thought, “he cares for her, not for me a bit.” + + Dartie’s eyes were moving from side to side. + + “Does she know about me?” he said. + + It flashed through Winifred that here was the weapon she needed. + _He minded their knowing!_ + + “No. Val knows. The others don’t; they only know you went away.” + + She heard him sigh with relief. + + “But they _shall_ know,” she said firmly, “if you give me cause.” + + “All right!” he muttered, “hit me! I’m down!” + + Winifred went up to the bed. “Look here, Monty! I don’t want to + hit you. I don’t want to hurt you. I shan’t allude to anything. + I’m not going to worry. What’s the use?” She was silent a moment. + “I can’t stand any more, though, and I won’t! You’d better know. + You’ve made me suffer. But I used to be fond of you. For the sake + of that....” She met the heavy-lidded gaze of his brown eyes with + the downward stare of her green-grey eyes; touched his hand + suddenly, turned her back, and went into her room. + + She sat there a long time before her glass, fingering her rings, + thinking of this subdued dark man, almost a stranger to her, on + the bed in the other room; resolutely not “worrying,” but gnawed + by jealousy of what he had been through, and now and again just + visited by pity. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV OUTLANDISH NIGHT + + + Soames doggedly let the spring come—no easy task for one + conscious that time was flying, his birds in the bush no nearer + the hand, no issue from the web anywhere visible. Mr. Polteed + reported nothing, except that his watch went on—costing a lot of + money. Val and his cousin were gone to the war, whence came news + more favourable; Dartie was behaving himself so far; James had + retained his health; business prospered almost terribly—there was + nothing to worry Soames except that he was “held up,” could make + no step in any direction. + + He did not exactly avoid Soho, for he could not afford to let + them think that he had “piped off,” as James would have put it—he + might want to “pipe on” again at any minute. But he had to be so + restrained and cautious that he would often pass the door of the + Restaurant Bretagne without going in, and wander out of the + purlieus of that region which always gave him the feeling of + having been possessively irregular. + + He wandered thus one May night into Regent Street and the most + amazing crowd he had ever seen; a shrieking, whistling, dancing, + jostling, grotesque and formidably jovial crowd, with false noses + and mouth-organs, penny whistles and long feathers, every + appanage of idiocy, as it seemed to him. Mafeking! Of course, it + had been relieved! Good! But was that an excuse? Who were these + people, what were they, where had they come from into the West + End? His face was tickled, his ears whistled into. Girls cried: + “Keep your hair on, stucco!” A youth so knocked off his top-hat + that he recovered it with difficulty. Crackers were exploding + beneath his nose, between his feet. He was bewildered, + exasperated, offended. This stream of people came from every + quarter, as if impulse had unlocked flood-gates, let flow waters + of whose existence he had heard, perhaps, but believed in never. + This, then, was the populace, the innumerable living negation of + gentility and Forsyteism. This was—egad!—Democracy! It stank, + yelled, was hideous! In the East End, or even Soho, perhaps—but + here in Regent Street, in Piccadilly! What were the police about! + In 1900, Soames, with his Forsyte thousands, had never seen the + cauldron with the lid off; and now looking into it, could hardly + believe his scorching eyes. The whole thing was unspeakable! + These people had no restraint, they seemed to think him funny; + such swarms of them, rude, coarse, laughing—and what laughter! + + Nothing sacred to them! He shouldn’t be surprised if they began + to break windows. In Pall Mall, past those august dwellings, to + enter which people paid sixty pounds, this shrieking, whistling, + dancing dervish of a crowd was swarming. From the Club windows + his own kind were looking out on them with regulated amusement. + They didn’t realise! Why, this was serious—might come to + anything! The crowd was cheerful, but some day they would come in + different mood! He remembered there had been a mob in the late + eighties, when he was at Brighton; they had smashed things and + made speeches. But more than dread, he felt a deep surprise. They + were hysterical—it wasn’t English! And all about the relief of a + little town as big as—Watford, six thousand miles away. + Restraint, reserve! Those qualities to him more dear almost than + life, those indispensable attributes of property and culture, + where were they? It wasn’t English! No, it wasn’t English! So + Soames brooded, threading his way on. It was as if he had + suddenly caught sight of someone cutting the covenant “for quiet + possession” out of his legal documents; or of a monster lurking + and stalking out in the future, casting its shadow before. Their + want of stolidity, their want of reverence! It was like + discovering that nine-tenths of the people of England were + foreigners. And if that were so—then, anything might happen! + + At Hyde Park Corner he ran into George Forsyte, very sunburnt + from racing, holding a false nose in his hand. + + “Hallo, Soames!” he said, “have a nose!” + + Soames responded with a pale smile. + + “Got this from one of these sportsmen,” went on George, who had + evidently been dining; “had to lay him out—for trying to bash my + hat. I say, one of these days we shall have to fight these chaps, + they’re getting so damned cheeky—all radicals and socialists. + They want our goods. You tell Uncle James that, it’ll make him + sleep.” + + “_In vino veritas_,” thought Soames, but he only nodded, and + passed on up Hamilton Place. There was but a trickle of + roysterers in Park Lane, not very noisy. And looking up at the + houses he thought: “After all, we’re the backbone of the country. + They won’t upset us easily. Possession’s nine points of the law.” + + But, as he closed the door of his father’s house behind him, all + that queer outlandish nightmare in the streets passed out of his + mind almost as completely as if, having dreamed it, he had + awakened in the warm clean morning comfort of his + spring-mattressed bed. + + Walking into the centre of the great empty drawing-room, he stood + still. + + A wife! Somebody to talk things over with. One had a right! Damn + it! One had a right! + + + + + PART III + + CHAPTER I SOAMES IN PARIS + + + Soames had travelled little. Aged nineteen he had made the “petty + tour” with his father, mother, and Winifred—Brussels, the Rhine, + Switzerland, and home by way of Paris. Aged twenty-seven, just + when he began to take interest in pictures, he had spent five hot + weeks in Italy, looking into the Renaissance—not so much in it as + he had been led to expect—and a fortnight in Paris on his way + back, looking into himself, as became a Forsyte surrounded by + people so strongly self-centred and “foreign” as the French. His + knowledge of their language being derived from his public school, + he did not understand them when they spoke. Silence he had found + better for all parties; one did not make a fool of oneself. He + had disliked the look of the men’s clothes, the closed-in cabs, + the theatres which looked like bee-hives, the Galleries which + smelled of beeswax. He was too cautious and too shy to explore + that side of Paris supposed by Forsytes to constitute its + attraction under the rose; and as for a collector’s bargain—not + one to be had! As Nicholas might have put it—they were a grasping + lot. He had come back uneasy, saying Paris was overrated. + + When, therefore, in June of 1900 he went to Paris, it was but his + third attempt on the centre of civilisation. This time, however, + the mountain was going to Mahomet; for he felt by now more deeply + civilised than Paris, and perhaps he really was. Moreover, he had + a definite objective. This was no mere genuflexion to a shrine of + taste and immorality, but the prosecution of his own legitimate + affairs. He went, indeed, because things were getting past a + joke. The watch went on and on, and—nothing—nothing! Jolyon had + never returned to Paris, and no one else was “suspect!” Busy with + new and very confidential matters, Soames was realising more than + ever how essential reputation is to a solicitor. But at night and + in his leisure moments he was ravaged by the thought that time + was always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as + much “in irons” as ever. Since Mafeking night he had become aware + that a “young fool of a doctor” was hanging round Annette. Twice + he had come across him—a cheerful young fool, not more than + thirty. + + Nothing annoyed Soames so much as cheerfulness—an indecent, + extravagant sort of quality, which had no relation to facts. The + mixture of his desires and hopes was, in a word, becoming + torture; and lately the thought had come to him that perhaps + Irene knew she was being shadowed: It was this which finally + decided him to go and see for himself; to go and once more try to + break down her repugnance, her refusal to make her own and his + path comparatively smooth once more. If he failed again—well, he + would see what she did with herself, anyway! + + He went to an hotel in the Rue Caumartin, highly recommended to + Forsytes, where practically nobody spoke French. He had formed no + plan. He did not want to startle her; yet must contrive that she + had no chance to evade him by flight. And next morning he set out + in bright weather. + + Paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its star-shape which + almost annoyed Soames. He stepped gravely, his nose lifted a + little sideways in real curiosity. He desired now to understand + things French. Was not Annette French? There was much to be got + out of his visit, if he could only get it. In this laudable mood + and the Place de la Concorde he was nearly run down three times. + He came on the “Cours la Reine,” where Irene’s hotel was + situated, almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed on his + procedure. Crossing over to the river side, he noted the + building, white and cheerful-looking, with green sunblinds, seen + through a screen of plane-tree leaves. And, conscious that it + would be far better to meet her casually in some open place than + to risk a call, he sat down on a bench whence he could watch the + entrance. It was not quite eleven o’clock, and improbable that + she had yet gone out. Some pigeons were strutting and preening + their feathers in the pools of sunlight between the shadows of + the plane-trees. A workman in a blue blouse passed, and threw + them crumbs from the paper which contained his dinner. A + “_bonne_” coiffed with ribbon shepherded two little girls with + pig-tails and frilled drawers. A cab meandered by, whose _cocher_ + wore a blue coat and a black-glazed hat. To Soames a kind of + affectation seemed to cling about it all, a sort of + picturesqueness which was out of date. A theatrical people, the + French! He lit one of his rare cigarettes, with a sense of injury + that Fate should be casting his life into outlandish waters. He + shouldn’t wonder if Irene quite enjoyed this foreign life; she + had never been properly English—even to look at! And he began + considering which of those windows could be hers under the green + sunblinds. How could he word what he had come to say so that it + might pierce the defence of her proud obstinacy? He threw the + fag-end of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the thought: “I can’t + stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs. Better give it up and + call on her in the late afternoon.” But he still sat on, heard + twelve strike, and then half-past. “I’ll wait till one,” he + thought, “while I’m about it.” But just then he started up, and + shrinkingly sat down again. A woman had come out in a + cream-coloured frock, and was moving away under a fawn-coloured + parasol. Irene herself! He waited till she was too far away to + recognise him, then set out after her. She was strolling as + though she had no particular objective; moving, if he remembered + rightly, toward the Bois de Boulogne. For half an hour at least + he kept his distance on the far side of the way till she had + passed into the Bois itself. Was she going to meet someone after + all? Some confounded Frenchman—one of those “Bel Ami” chaps, + perhaps, who had nothing to do but hang about women—for he had + read that book with difficulty and a sort of disgusted + fascination. He followed doggedly along a shady alley, losing + sight of her now and then when the path curved. And it came back + to him how, long ago, one night in Hyde Park he had slid and + sneaked from tree to tree, from seat to seat, hunting blindly, + ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her and young Bosinney. The + path bent sharply, and, hurrying, he came on her sitting in front + of a small fountain—a little green-bronze Niobe veiled in hair to + her slender hips, gazing at the pool she had wept: He came on her + so suddenly that he was past before he could turn and take off + his hat. She did not start up. She had always had great + self-command—it was one of the things he most admired in her, one + of his greatest grievances against her, because he had never been + able to tell what she was thinking. Had she realised that he was + following? Her self-possession made him angry; and, disdaining to + explain his presence, he pointed to the mournful little Niobe, + and said: + + “That’s rather a good thing.” + + He could see, then, that she was struggling to preserve her + composure. + + “I didn’t want to startle you; is this one of your haunts?” + + “Yes.” + + “A little lonely.” As he spoke, a lady, strolling by, paused to + look at the fountain and passed on. + + Irene’s eyes followed her. + + “No,” she said, prodding the ground with her parasol, “never + lonely. One has always one’s shadow.” + + Soames understood; and, looking at her hard, he exclaimed: + + “Well, it’s your own fault. You can be free of it at any moment. + Irene, come back to me, and be free.” + + Irene laughed. + + “Don’t!” cried Soames, stamping his foot; “it’s inhuman. Listen! + Is there any condition I can make which will bring you back to + me? If I promise you a separate house—and just a visit now and + then?” + + Irene rose, something wild suddenly in her face and figure. + + “None! None! None! You may hunt me to the grave. I will not + come.” + + Outraged and on edge, Soames recoiled. + + “Don’t make a scene!” he said sharply. And they both stood + motionless, staring at the little Niobe, whose greenish flesh the + sunlight was burnishing. + + “That’s your last word, then,” muttered Soames, clenching his + hands; “you condemn us both.” + + Irene bent her head. “I can’t come back. Good-bye!” + + A feeling of monstrous injustice flared up in Soames. + + “Stop!” he said, “and listen to me a moment. You gave me a sacred + vow—you came to me without a penny. You had all I could give you. + You broke that vow without cause, you made me a by-word; you + refused me a child; you’ve left me in prison; you—you still move + me so that I want you—I want you. Well, what do you think of + yourself?” + + Irene turned, her face was deadly pale, her eyes burning dark. + + “God made me as I am,” she said; “wicked if you like—but not so + wicked that I’ll give myself again to a man I hate.” + + The sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to + lay a caress all down her clinging cream-coloured frock. + + Soames could neither speak nor move. That word “hate”—so extreme, + so primitive—made all the Forsyte in him tremble. With a deep + imprecation he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran + almost into the arms of the lady sauntering back—the fool, the + shadowing fool! + + He was soon dripping with perspiration, in the depths of the + Bois. + + “Well,” he thought, “I need have no consideration for her now; + she has not a grain of it for me. I’ll show her this very day + that she’s my wife still.” + + But on the way home to his hotel, he was forced to the conclusion + that he did not know what he meant. One could not make scenes in + public, and short of scenes in public what was there he could do? + He almost cursed his own thin-skinnedness. She might deserve no + consideration; but he—alas! deserved some at his own hands. And + sitting lunchless in the hall of his hotel, with tourists passing + every moment, Baedeker in hand, he was visited by black + dejection. In irons! His whole life, with every natural instinct + and every decent yearning gagged and fettered, and all because + Fate had driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon + this woman—so utterly, that even now he had no real heart to set + on any other! Cursed was the day he had met her, and his eyes for + seeing in her anything but the cruel Venus she was! And yet, + still seeing her with the sunlight on the clinging China crepe of + her gown, he uttered a little groan, so that a tourist who was + passing, thought: “Man in pain! Let’s see! what did I have for + lunch?” + + Later, in front of a café near the Opera, over a glass of cold + tea with lemon and a straw in it, he took the malicious + resolution to go and dine at her hotel. If she were there, he + would speak to her; if she were not, he would leave a note. He + dressed carefully, and wrote as follows: + + “Your idyll with that fellow Jolyon Forsyte is known to me at all + events. If you pursue it, understand that I will leave no stone + unturned to make things unbearable for him. + + ‘S. F.’” + + He sealed this note but did not address it, refusing to write the + maiden name which she had impudently resumed, or to put the word + Forsyte on the envelope lest she should tear it up unread. Then + he went out, and made his way through the glowing streets, + abandoned to evening pleasure-seekers. Entering her hotel, he + took his seat in a far corner of the dining-room whence he could + see all entrances and exits. She was not there. He ate little, + quickly, watchfully. She did not come. He lingered in the lounge + over his coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy. But still she did + not come. He went over to the keyboard and examined the names. + Number twelve, on the first floor! And he determined to take the + note up himself. He mounted red-carpeted stairs, past a little + salon; eight-ten-twelve! Should he knock, push the note under, + or...? He looked furtively round and turned the handle. The door + opened, but into a little space leading to another door; he + knocked on that—no answer. The door was locked. It fitted very + closely to the floor; the note would not go under. He thrust it + back into his pocket, and stood a moment listening. He felt + somehow certain that she was not there. And suddenly he came + away, passing the little salon down the stairs. He stopped at the + bureau and said: + + “Will you kindly see that Mrs. Heron has this note?” + + “Madame Heron left to-day, Monsieur—suddenly, about three + o’clock. There was illness in her family.” + + Soames compressed his lips. “Oh!” he said; “do you know her + address?” + + “_Non, Monsieur_. England, I think.” + + Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed + an open horse-cab which was passing. + + “Drive me anywhere!” + + The man, who, obviously, did not understand, smiled, and waved + his whip. And Soames was borne along in that little + yellow-wheeled Victoria all over star-shaped Paris, with here and + there a pause, and the question, “_C’est par ici, Monsieur?_” + “No, go on,” till the man gave it up in despair, and the + yellow-wheeled chariot continued to roll between the tall, + flat-fronted shuttered houses and plane-tree avenues—a little + Flying Dutchman of a cab. + + “Like my life,” thought Soames, “without object, on and on!” + + + + + CHAPTER II IN THE WEB + + + Soames returned to England the following day, and on the third + morning received a visit from Mr. Polteed, who wore a flower and + carried a brown billycock hat. Soames motioned him to a seat. + + “The news from the war is not so bad, is it?” said Mr. Polteed. + “I hope I see you well, sir.” + + “Thanks! quite.” + + Mr. Polteed leaned forward, smiled, opened his hand, looked into + it, and said softly: + + “I think we’ve done your business for you at last.” + + “What?” ejaculated Soames. + + “Nineteen reports quite suddenly what I think we shall be + justified in calling conclusive evidence,” and Mr. Polteed + paused. + + “Well?” + + “On the 10th instant, after witnessing an interview between 17 + and a party, earlier in the day, 19 can swear to having seen him + coming out of her bedroom in the hotel about ten o’clock in the + evening. With a little care in the giving of the evidence that + will be enough, especially as 17 has left Paris—no doubt with the + party in question. In fact, they both slipped off, and we haven’t + got on to them again, yet; but we shall—we shall. She’s worked + hard under very difficult circumstances, and I’m glad she’s + brought it off at last.” Mr. Polteed took out a cigarette, tapped + its end against the table, looked at Soames, and put it back. The + expression on his client’s face was not encouraging. + + “Who is this new person?” said Soames abruptly. + + “That we don’t know. She’ll swear to the fact, and she’s got his + appearance pat.” + + Mr. Polteed took out a letter, and began reading: + + “‘Middle-aged, medium height, blue dittoes in afternoon, evening + dress at night, pale, dark hair, small dark moustache, flat + cheeks, good chin, grey eyes, small feet, guilty look....’” + + Soames rose and went to the window. He stood there in sardonic + fury. Congenital idiot—spidery congenital idiot! Seven months at + fifteen pounds a week—to be tracked down as his own wife’s lover! + Guilty look! He threw the window open. + + “It’s hot,” he said, and came back to his seat. + + Crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on Mr. Polteed. + + “I doubt if that’s quite good enough,” he said, drawling the + words, “with no name or address. I think you may let that lady + have a rest, and take up our friend 47 at this end.” Whether + Polteed had spotted him he could not tell; but he had a mental + vision of him in the midst of his cronies dissolved in + inextinguishable laughter. “Guilty look!” Damnation! + + Mr. Polteed said in a tone of urgency, almost of pathos: “I + assure you we have put it through sometimes on less than that. + It’s Paris, you know. Attractive woman living alone. Why not risk + it, sir? We might screw it up a peg.” + + Soames had sudden insight. The fellow’s professional zeal was + stirred: “Greatest triumph of my career; got a man his divorce + through a visit to his own wife’s bedroom! Something to talk of + there, when I retire!” And for one wild moment he thought: “Why + not?” After all, hundreds of men of medium height had small feet + and a guilty look! + + “I’m not authorised to take any risk!” he said shortly. + + Mr. Polteed looked up. + + “Pity,” he said, “quite a pity! That other affair seemed very + costive.” + + Soames rose. + + “Never mind that. Please watch 47, and take care not to find a + mare’s nest. Good-morning!” + + Mr. Polteed’s eye glinted at the words “mare’s nest!” + + “Very good. You shall be kept informed.” + + And Soames was alone again. The spidery, dirty, ridiculous + business! Laying his arms on the table, he leaned his forehead on + them. Full ten minutes he rested thus, till a managing clerk + roused him with the draft prospectus of a new issue of shares, + very desirable, in Manifold and Topping’s. That afternoon he left + work early and made his way to the Restaurant Bretagne. Only + Madame Lamotte was in. Would _Monsieur_ have tea with her? + + Soames bowed. + + When they were seated at right angles to each other in the little + room, he said abruptly: + + “I want a talk with you, _Madame_.” + + The quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long + expected such words. + + “I have to ask you something first: That young doctor—what’s his + name? Is there anything between him and Annette?” + + Her whole personality had become, as it were, like jet—clear-cut, + black, hard, shining. + + “Annette is young,” she said; “so is _monsieur le docteur_. + Between young people things move quickly; but Annette is a good + daughter. Ah! what a jewel of a nature!” + + The least little smile twisted Soames’ lips. + + “Nothing definite, then?” + + “But definite—no, indeed! The young man is veree nice, but—what + would you? There is no money at present.” + + She raised her willow-patterned tea-cup; Soames did the same. + Their eyes met. + + “I am a married man,” he said, “living apart from my wife for + many years. I am seeking to divorce her.” + + Madame Lamotte put down her cup. Indeed! What tragic things there + were! The entire absence of sentiment in her inspired a queer + species of contempt in Soames. + + “I am a rich man,” he added, fully conscious that the remark was + not in good taste. “It is useless to say more at present, but I + think you understand.” + + Madame’s eyes, so open that the whites showed above them, looked + at him very straight. + + “_Ah! ça—mais nous avons le temps!_” was all she said. “Another + little cup?” Soames refused, and, taking his leave, walked + westward. + + He had got that off his mind; she would not let Annette commit + herself with that cheerful young ass until...! But what chance of + his ever being able to say: “I’m free?” What chance? The future + had lost all semblance of reality. He felt like a fly, entangled + in cobweb filaments, watching the desirable freedom of the air + with pitiful eyes. + + He was short of exercise, and wandered on to Kensington Gardens, + and down Queen’s Gate towards Chelsea. Perhaps she had gone back + to her flat. That at all events he could find out. For since that + last and most ignominious repulse his wounded self-respect had + taken refuge again in the feeling that she must have a lover. He + arrived before the little Mansions at the dinner-hour. No need to + enquire! A grey-haired lady was watering the flower-boxes in her + window. It was evidently let. And he walked slowly past again, + along the river—an evening of clear, quiet beauty, all harmony + and comfort, except within his heart. + + + + + CHAPTER III RICHMOND PARK + + + On the afternoon that Soames crossed to France a cablegram was + received by Jolyon at Robin Hill: + + “Your son down with enteric no immediate danger will cable + again.” + + It reached a household already agitated by the imminent departure + of June, whose berth was booked for the following day. She was, + indeed, in the act of confiding Eric Cobbley and his family to + her father’s care when the message arrived. + + The resolution to become a Red Cross nurse, taken under stimulus + of Jolly’s enlistment, had been loyally fulfilled with the + irritation and regret which all Forsytes feel at what curtails + their individual liberties. Enthusiastic at first about the + “wonderfulness” of the work, she had begun after a month to feel + that she could train herself so much better than others could + train her. And if Holly had not insisted on following her + example, and being trained too, she must inevitably have “cried + off.” The departure of Jolly and Val with their troop in April + had further stiffened her failing resolve. But now, on the point + of departure, the thought of leaving Eric Cobbley, with a wife + and two children, adrift in the cold waters of an unappreciative + world weighed on her so that she was still in danger of backing + out. The reading of that cablegram, with its disquieting reality, + clinched the matter. She saw herself already nursing Jolly—for of + course they would let her nurse her own brother! Jolyon—ever wide + and doubtful—had no such hope. Poor June! + + Could any Forsyte of her generation grasp how rude and brutal + life was? Ever since he knew of his boy’s arrival at Cape Town + the thought of him had been a kind of recurrent sickness in + Jolyon. He could not get reconciled to the feeling that Jolly was + in danger all the time. The cablegram, grave though it was, was + almost a relief. He was now safe from bullets, anyway. And + yet—this enteric was a virulent disease! _The Times_ was full of + deaths therefrom. Why could _he_ not be lying out there in that + up-country hospital, and his boy safe at home? The un-Forsytean + self-sacrifice of his three children, indeed, had quite + bewildered Jolyon. He would eagerly change places with Jolly, + because he loved his boy; but no such personal motive was + influencing _them_. He could only think that it marked the + decline of the Forsyte type. + + Late that afternoon Holly came out to him under the old oak-tree. + She had grown up very much during these last months of hospital + training away from home. And, seeing her approach, he thought: + “She has more sense than June, child though she is; more wisdom. + Thank God _she_ isn’t going out.” She had seated herself in the + swing, very silent and still. “She feels this,” thought Jolyon, + “as much as I” and, seeing her eyes fixed on him, he said: “Don’t + take it to heart too much, my child. If he weren’t ill, he might + be in much greater danger.” + + Holly got out of the swing. + + “I want to tell you something, Dad. It was through me that Jolly + enlisted and went out.” + + “How’s that?” + + “When you were away in Paris, Val Dartie and I fell in love. We + used to ride in Richmond Park; we got engaged. Jolly found it + out, and thought he ought to stop it; so he dared Val to enlist. + It was all my fault, Dad; and I want to go out too. Because if + anything happens to either of them I should feel awful. Besides, + I’m just as much trained as June.” + + Jolyon gazed at her in a stupefaction that was tinged with irony. + So this was the answer to the riddle he had been asking himself; + and his three children were Forsytes after all. Surely Holly + might have told him all this before! But he smothered the + sarcastic sayings on his lips. Tenderness to the young was + perhaps the most sacred article of his belief. He had got, no + doubt, what he deserved. Engaged! So this was why he had so lost + touch with her! And to young Val Dartie—nephew of Soames—in the + other camp! It was all terribly distasteful. He closed his easel, + and set his drawing against the tree. + + “Have you told June?” + + “Yes; she says she’ll get me into her cabin somehow. It’s a + single cabin; but one of us could sleep on the floor. If you + consent, she’ll go up now and get permission.” + + “Consent?” thought Jolyon. “Rather late in the day to ask for + that!” But again he checked himself. + + “You’re too young, my dear; they won’t let you.” + + “June knows some people that she helped to go to Cape Town. If + they won’t let me nurse yet, I could stay with them and go on + training there. Let me go, Dad!” + + Jolyon smiled because he could have cried. + + “I never stop anyone from doing anything,” he said. + + Holly flung her arms round his neck. + + “Oh! Dad, you are the best in the world.” + + “That means the worst,” thought Jolyon. If he had ever doubted + his creed of tolerance he did so then. + + “I’m not friendly with Val’s family,” he said, “and I don’t know + Val, but Jolly didn’t like him.” + + Holly looked at the distance and said: + + “I love him.” + + “That settles it,” said Jolyon dryly, then catching the + expression on her face, he kissed her, with the thought: “Is + anything more pathetic than the faith of the young?” Unless he + actually forbade her going it was obvious that he must make the + best of it, so he went up to town with June. Whether due to her + persistence, or the fact that the official they saw was an old + school friend of Jolyon’s, they obtained permission for Holly to + share the single cabin. He took them to Surbiton station the + following evening, and they duly slid away from him, provided + with money, invalid foods, and those letters of credit without + which Forsytes do not travel. + + He drove back to Robin Hill under a brilliant sky to his late + dinner, served with an added care by servants trying to show him + that they sympathised, eaten with an added scrupulousness to show + them that he appreciated their sympathy. But it was a real relief + to get to his cigar on the terrace of flag-stones—cunningly + chosen by young Bosinney for shape and colour—with night closing + in around him, so beautiful a night, hardly whispering in the + trees, and smelling so sweet that it made him ache. The grass was + drenched with dew, and he kept to those flagstones, up and down, + till presently it began to seem to him that he was one of three, + not wheeling, but turning right about at each end, so that his + father was always nearest to the house, and his son always + nearest to the terrace edge. Each had an arm lightly within his + arm; he dared not lift his hand to his cigar lest he should + disturb them, and it burned away, dripping ash on him, till it + dropped from his lips, at last, which were getting hot. They left + him then, and his arms felt chilly. Three Jolyons in one Jolyon + they had walked. + + He stood still, counting the sounds—a carriage passing on the + highroad, a distant train, the dog at Gage’s farm, the whispering + trees, the groom playing on his penny whistle. A multitude of + stars up there—bright and silent, so far off! No moon as yet! + Just enough light to show him the dark flags and swords of the + iris flowers along the terrace edge—his favourite flower that had + the night’s own colour on its curving crumpled petals. He turned + round to the house. Big, unlighted, not a soul beside himself to + live in all that part of it. Stark loneliness! He could not go on + living here alone. And yet, so long as there was beauty, why + should a man feel lonely? The answer—as to some idiot’s + riddle—was: Because he did. The greater the beauty, the greater + the loneliness, for at the back of beauty was harmony, and at the + back of harmony was—union. Beauty could not comfort if the soul + were out of it. The night, maddeningly lovely, with bloom of + grapes on it in starshine, and the breath of grass and honey + coming from it, he could not enjoy, while she who was to him the + life of beauty, its embodiment and essence, was cut off from him, + utterly cut off now, he felt, by honourable decency. + + He made a poor fist of sleeping, striving too hard after that + resignation which Forsytes find difficult to reach, bred to their + own way and left so comfortably off by their fathers. But after + dawn he dozed off, and soon was dreaming a strange dream. + + He was on a stage with immensely high rich curtains—high as the + very stars—stretching in a semi-circle from footlights to + footlights. He himself was very small, a little black restless + figure roaming up and down; and the odd thing was that he was not + altogether himself, but Soames as well, so that he was not only + experiencing but watching. This figure of himself and Soames was + trying to find a way out through the curtains, which, heavy and + dark, kept him in. Several times he had crossed in front of them + before he saw with delight a sudden narrow rift—a tall chink of + beauty the colour of iris flowers, like a glimpse of Paradise, + remote, ineffable. Stepping quickly forward to pass into it, he + found the curtains closing before him. Bitterly disappointed + he—or was it Soames?—moved on, and there was the chink again + through the parted curtains, which again closed too soon. This + went on and on and he never got through till he woke with the + word “Irene” on his lips. The dream disturbed him badly, + especially that identification of himself with Soames. + + Next morning, finding it impossible to work, he spent hours + riding Jolly’s horse in search of fatigue. And on the second day + he made up his mind to move to London and see if he could not get + permission to follow his daughters to South Africa. He had just + begun to pack the following morning when he received this letter: + + “GREEN HOTEL, + “RICHMOND. + “_June_ 13. + + “MY DEAR JOLYON, + “You will be surprised to see how near I am to you. Paris + became impossible—and I have come here to be within reach of + your advice. I would so love to see you again. Since you left + Paris I don’t think I have met anyone I could really talk to. + Is all well with you and with your boy? No one knows, I + think, that I am here at present. + + “Always your friend, + “IRENE.” + + Irene within three miles of him!—and again in flight! He stood + with a very queer smile on his lips. This was more than he had + bargained for! + + About noon he set out on foot across Richmond Park, and as he + went along, he thought: “Richmond Park! By Jove, it suits us + Forsytes!” Not that Forsytes lived there—nobody lived there save + royalty, rangers, and the deer—but in Richmond Park Nature was + allowed to go so far and no further, putting up a brave show of + being natural, seeming to say: “Look at my instincts—they are + almost passions, very nearly out of hand, but not quite, of + course; the very hub of possession is to possess oneself.” Yes! + Richmond Park possessed itself, even on that bright day of June, + with arrowy cuckoos shifting the tree-points of their calls, and + the wood doves announcing high summer. + + The Green Hotel, which Jolyon entered at one o’clock, stood + nearly opposite that more famous hostelry, the Crown and Sceptre; + it was modest, highly respectable, never out of cold beef, + gooseberry tart, and a dowager or two, so that a carriage and + pair was almost always standing before the door. + + In a room draped in chintz so slippery as to forbid all emotion, + Irene was sitting on a piano stool covered with crewel work, + playing “Hansel and Gretel” out of an old score. Above her on a + wall, not yet Morris-papered, was a print of the Queen on a pony, + amongst deer-hounds, Scotch caps, and slain stags; beside her in + a pot on the window-sill was a white and rosy fuchsia. The + Victorianism of the room almost talked; and in her clinging frock + Irene seemed to Jolyon like Venus emerging from the shell of the + past century. + + “If the proprietor had eyes,” he said, “he would show you the + door; you have broken through his decorations.” Thus lightly he + smothered up an emotional moment. Having eaten cold beef, pickled + walnut, gooseberry tart, and drunk stone-bottle ginger-beer, they + walked into the Park, and light talk was succeeded by the silence + Jolyon had dreaded. + + “You haven’t told me about Paris,” he said at last. + + “No. I’ve been shadowed for a long time; one gets used to that. + But then Soames came. By the little Niobe—the same story; would I + go back to him?” + + “Incredible!” + + She had spoken without raising her eyes, but she looked up now. + Those dark eyes clinging to his said as no words could have: “I + have come to an end; if you want me, here I am.” + + For sheer emotional intensity had he ever—old as he was—passed + through such a moment? + + The words: “Irene, I adore you!” almost escaped him. Then, with a + clearness of which he would not have believed mental vision + capable, he saw Jolly lying with a white face turned to a white + wall. + + “My boy is very ill out there,” he said quietly. + + Irene slipped her arm through his. + + “Let’s walk on; I understand.” + + No miserable explanation to attempt! She had understood! And they + walked on among the bracken, knee-high already, between the + rabbit-holes and the oak-trees, talking of Jolly. He left her two + hours later at the Richmond Hill Gate, and turned towards home. + + “She knows of my feeling for her, then,” he thought. Of course! + One could not keep knowledge of that from such a woman! + + + + + CHAPTER IV OVER THE RIVER + + + Jolly was tired to death of dreams. They had left him now too wan + and weak to dream again; left him to lie torpid, faintly + remembering far-off things; just able to turn his eyes and gaze + through the window near his cot at the trickle of river running + by in the sands, at the straggling milk-bush of the Karoo beyond. + He knew what the Karoo was now, even if he had not seen a Boer + roll over like a rabbit, or heard the whine of flying bullets. + This pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled powder. + A thirsty day and a rash drink, or perhaps a tainted fruit—who + knew? Not he, who had not even strength left to grudge the evil + thing its victory—just enough to know that there were many lying + here with him, that he was sore with frenzied dreaming; just + enough to watch that thread of river and be able to remember + faintly those far-away things.... + + The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have + liked to know the time—to feel his old watch, so butter-smooth, + to hear the repeater strike. It would have been friendly, + home-like. He had not even strength to remember that the old + watch was last wound the day he began to lie here. The pulse of + his brain beat so feebly that faces which came and went, nurse’s, + doctor’s, orderly’s, were indistinguishable, just one indifferent + face; and the words spoken about him meant all the same thing, + and that almost nothing. Those things he used to do, though far + and faint, were more distinct—walking past the foot of the old + steps at Harrow “bill”—“Here, sir! Here, sir!”—wrapping boots in + the Westminster Gazette, greenish paper, shining + boots—grandfather coming from somewhere dark—a smell of earth—the + mushroom house! Robin Hill! Burying poor old Balthasar in the + leaves! Dad! Home.... + + Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no + water in it—someone was speaking too. Want anything? No. What + could one want? Too weak to want—only to hear his watch + strike.... + + Holly! She wouldn’t bowl properly. Oh! Pitch them up! Not + sneaks!... “Back her, Two and Bow!” He was Two!... Consciousness + came once more with a sense of the violet dusk outside, and a + rising blood-red crescent moon. His eyes rested on it fascinated; + in the long minutes of brain-nothingness it went moving up and + up.... + + “He’s going, doctor!” Not pack boots again? Never? “Mind your + form, Two!” Don’t cry! Go quietly—over the river—sleep!... Dark? + If somebody would—strike—his—watch!... + + + + + CHAPTER V SOAMES ACTS + + + A sealed letter in the handwriting of Mr. Polteed remained + unopened in Soames’ pocket throughout two hours of sustained + attention to the affairs of the “New Colliery Company,” which, + declining almost from the moment of old Jolyon’s retirement from + the Chairmanship, had lately run down so fast that there was now + nothing for it but a “winding-up.” He took the letter out to + lunch at his City Club, sacred to him for the meals he had eaten + there with his father in the early seventies, when James used to + like him to come and see for himself the nature of his future + life. + + Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed + potato, he read: + + “DEAR SIR, + “In accordance with your suggestion we have duly taken the + matter up at the other end with gratifying results. + Observation of 47 has enabled us to locate 17 at the Green + Hotel, Richmond. The two have been observed to meet daily + during the past week in Richmond Park. Nothing absolutely + crucial has so far been notified. But in conjunction with + what we had from Paris at the beginning of the year, I am + confident we could now satisfy the Court. We shall, of + course, continue to watch the matter until we hear from you. + + “Very faithfully yours, + “CLAUD POLTEED.” + + Soames read it through twice and beckoned to the waiter: + + “Take this away; it’s cold.” + + “Shall I bring you some more, sir?” + + “No. Get me some coffee in the other room.” + + And, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out, passing two + acquaintances without sign of recognition. + + “Satisfy the Court!” he thought, sitting at a little round marble + table with the coffee before him. That fellow Jolyon! He poured + out his coffee, sweetened and drank it. He would disgrace him in + the eyes of his own children! And rising, with that resolution + hot within him, he found for the first time the inconvenience of + being his own solicitor. He could not treat this scandalous + matter in his own office. He must commit the soul of his private + dignity to a stranger, some other professional dealer in family + dishonour. Who was there he could go to? Linkman and Laver in + Budge Row, perhaps—reliable, not too conspicuous, only nodding + acquaintances. But before he saw them he must see Polteed again. + But at this thought Soames had a moment of sheer weakness. To + part with his secret? How find the words? How subject himself to + contempt and secret laughter? Yet, after all, the fellow knew + already—oh yes, he knew! And, feeling that he must finish with it + now, he took a cab into the West End. + + In this hot weather the window of Mr. Polteed’s room was + positively open, and the only precaution was a wire gauze, + preventing the intrusion of flies. Two or three had tried to come + in, and been caught, so that they seemed to be clinging there + with the intention of being devoured presently. Mr. Polteed, + following the direction of his client’s eye, rose apologetically + and closed the window. + + “Posing ass!” thought Soames. Like all who fundamentally believe + in themselves he was rising to the occasion, and, with his little + sideway smile, he said: “I’ve had your letter. I’m going to act. + I suppose you know who the lady you’ve been watching really is?” + Mr. Polteed’s expression at that moment was a masterpiece. It so + clearly said: “Well, what do you think? But mere professional + knowledge, I assure you—pray forgive it!” He made a little half + airy movement with his hand, as who should say: “Such things—such + things will happen to us all!” + + “Very well, then,” said Soames, moistening his lips: “there’s no + need to say more. I’m instructing Linkman and Laver of Budge Row + to act for me. I don’t want to hear your evidence, but kindly + make your report to them at five o’clock, and continue to observe + the utmost secrecy.” + + Mr. Polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. “My + dear sir,” he said. + + “Are you convinced,” asked Soames with sudden energy, “that there + is enough?” + + The faintest movement occurred to Mr. Polteed’s shoulders. + + “You can risk it,” he murmured; “with what we have, and human + nature, you can risk it.” + + Soames rose. “You will ask for Mr. Linkman. Thanks; don’t get + up.” He could not bear Mr. Polteed to slide as usual between him + and the door. In the sunlight of Piccadilly he wiped his + forehead. This had been the worst of it—he could stand the + strangers better. And he went back into the City to do what still + lay before him. + + That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was + overwhelmed by his old longing for a son—a son, to watch _him_ + eat as he went down the years, to be taken on _his_ knee as James + on a time had been wont to take him; a son of his own begetting, + who could understand him because he was the same flesh and + blood—understand, and comfort him, and become more rich and + cultured than himself because he would start even better off. To + get old—like that thin, grey wiry-frail figure sitting there—and + be quite alone with possessions heaping up around him; to take no + interest in anything because it had no future and must pass away + from him to hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot! + No! He would force it through now, and be free to marry, and have + a son to care for him before he grew to be like the old old man + his father, wistfully watching now his sweetbread, now his son. + + In that mood he went up to bed. But, lying warm between those + fine linen sheets of Emily’s providing, he was visited by + memories and torture. Visions of Irene, almost the solid feeling + of her body, beset him. Why had he ever been fool enough to see + her again, and let this flood back on him so that it was pain to + think of her with that fellow—that stealing fellow. + + + + + CHAPTER VI A SUMMER DAY + + + His boy was seldom absent from Jolyon’s mind in the days which + followed the first walk with Irene in Richmond Park. No further + news had come; enquiries at the War Office elicited nothing; nor + could he expect to hear from June and Holly for three weeks at + least. In these days he felt how insufficient were his memories + of Jolly, and what an amateur of a father he had been. There was + not a single memory in which anger played a part; not one + reconciliation, because there had never been a rupture; nor one + heart-to-heart confidence, not even when Jolly’s mother died. + Nothing but half-ironical affection. He had been too afraid of + committing himself in any direction, for fear of losing his + liberty, or interfering with that of his boy. + + Only in Irene’s presence had he relief, highly complicated by the + ever-growing perception of how divided he was between her and his + son. With Jolly was bound up all that sense of continuity and + social creed of which he had drunk deeply in his youth and again + during his boy’s public school and varsity life—all that sense of + not going back on what father and son expected of each other. + With Irene was bound up all his delight in beauty and in Nature. + And he seemed to know less and less which was the stronger within + him. From such sentimental paralysis he was rudely awakened, + however, one afternoon, just as he was starting off to Richmond, + by a young man with a bicycle and a face oddly familiar, who came + forward faintly smiling. + + “Mr. Jolyon Forsyte? Thank you!” Placing an envelope in Jolyon’s + hand he wheeled off the path and rode away. Bewildered, Jolyon + opened it. + + “Admiralty Probate and Divorce, Forsyte _v._ Forsyte and + Forsyte!” + + A sensation of shame and disgust was followed by the instant + reaction “Why, here’s the very thing you want, and you don’t like + it!” But she must have had one too; and he must go to her at + once. He turned things over as he went along. It was an ironical + business. For, whatever the Scriptures said about the heart, it + took more than mere longings to satisfy the law. They could + perfectly well defend this suit, or at least in good faith try + to. But the idea of doing so revolted Jolyon. If not her lover in + deed he was in desire, and he knew that she was ready to come to + him. Her face had told him so. Not that he exaggerated her + feeling for him. She had had her grand passion, and he could not + expect another from her at his age. But she had trust in him, + affection for him, and must feel that he would be a refuge. + Surely she would not ask him to defend the suit, knowing that he + adored her! Thank Heaven she had not that maddening British + conscientiousness which refused happiness for the sake of + refusing! She must rejoice at this chance of being free after + seventeen years of death in life! As to publicity, the fat was in + the fire! To defend the suit would not take away the slur. Jolyon + had all the proper feeling of a Forsyte whose privacy is + threatened: If he was to be hung by the Law, by all means let it + be for a sheep! Moreover the notion of standing in a witness box + and swearing to the truth that no gesture, not even a word of + love had passed between them seemed to him more degrading than to + take the tacit stigma of being an adulterer—more truly degrading, + considering the feeling in his heart, and just as bad and painful + for his children. The thought of explaining away, if he could, + before a judge and twelve average Englishmen, their meetings in + Paris, and the walks in Richmond Park, horrified him. The + brutality and hypocritical censoriousness of the whole process; + the probability that they would not be believed—the mere vision + of her, whom he looked on as the embodiment of Nature and of + Beauty, standing there before all those suspicious, gloating eyes + was hideous to him. No, no! To defend a suit only made a London + holiday, and sold the newspapers. A thousand times better accept + what Soames and the gods had sent! + + “Besides,” he thought honestly, “who knows whether, even for my + boy’s sake, I could have stood this state of things much longer? + Anyway, her neck will be out of chancery at last!” Thus absorbed, + he was hardly conscious of the heavy heat. The sky had become + overcast, purplish with little streaks of white. A heavy + heat-drop plashed a little star pattern in the dust of the road + as he entered the Park. “Phew!” he thought, “thunder! I hope + she’s not come to meet me; there’s a ducking up there!” But at + that very minute he saw Irene coming towards the Gate. “We must + scuttle back to Robin Hill,” he thought. + + The storm had passed over the Poultry at four o’clock, bringing + welcome distraction to the clerks in every office. Soames was + drinking a cup of tea when a note was brought in to him: + + “DEAR SIR, + + _Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte_ + + “In accordance with your instructions, we beg to inform you + that we personally served the respondent and co-respondent in + this suit to-day, at Richmond, and Robin Hill, respectively. + + “Faithfully yours, + “LINKMAN AND LAVER.” + + For some minutes Soames stared at that note. Ever since he had + given those instructions he had been tempted to annul them. It + was so scandalous, such a general disgrace! The evidence, too, + what he had heard of it, had never seemed to him conclusive; + somehow, he believed less and less that those two had gone all + lengths. But this, of course, would drive them to it; and he + suffered from the thought. That fellow to have her love, where he + had failed! Was it too late? Now that they had been brought up + sharp by service of this petition, had he not a lever with which + he could force them apart? “But if I don’t act at once,” he + thought, “it will be too late, now they’ve had this thing. I’ll + go and see him; I’ll go down!” + + And, sick with nervous anxiety, he sent out for one of the + “new-fangled” motor-cabs. It might take a long time to run that + fellow to ground, and Goodness knew what decision they might come + to after such a shock! “If I were a theatrical ass,” he thought, + “I suppose I should be taking a horse-whip or a pistol or + something!” He took instead a bundle of papers in the case of + “Magentie versus Wake,” intending to read them on the way down. + He did not even open them, but sat quite still, jolted and + jarred, unconscious of the draught down the back of his neck, or + the smell of petrol. He must be guided by the fellow’s attitude; + the great thing was to keep his head! + + London had already begun to disgorge its workers as he neared + Putney Bridge; the ant-heap was on the move outwards. What a lot + of ants, all with a living to get, holding on by their eyelids in + the great scramble! Perhaps for the first time in his life Soames + thought: “_I_ could let go if I liked! Nothing could touch me; I + could snap my fingers, live as I wished—enjoy myself!” No! One + could not live as he had and just drop it all—settle down in + Capua, to spend the money and reputation he had made. A man’s + life was what he possessed and sought to possess. Only fools + thought otherwise—fools, and socialists, and libertines! + + The cab was passing villas now, going a great pace. “Fifteen + miles an hour, I should think!” he mused; “this’ll take people + out of town to live!” and he thought of its bearing on the + portions of London owned by his father—he himself had never taken + to that form of investment, the gambler in him having all the + outlet needed in his pictures. And the cab sped on, down the hill + past Wimbledon Common. This interview! Surely a man of fifty-two + with grown-up children, and hung on the line, would not be + reckless. “He won’t want to disgrace the family,” he thought; “he + was as fond of his father as I am of mine, and they were + brothers. That woman brings destruction—what is it in her? I’ve + never known.” The cab branched off, along the side of a wood, and + he heard a late cuckoo calling, almost the first he had heard + that year. He was now almost opposite the site he had originally + chosen for his house, and which had been so unceremoniously + rejected by Bosinney in favour of his own choice. He began + passing his handkerchief over his face and hands, taking deep + breaths to give him steadiness. “Keep one’s head,” he thought, + “keep one’s head!” + + The cab turned in at the drive which might have been his own, and + the sound of music met him. He had forgotten the fellow’s + daughters. + + “I may be out again directly,” he said to the driver, “or I may + be kept some time”; and he rang the bell. + + Following the maid through the curtains into the inner hall, he + felt relieved that the impact of this meeting would be broken by + June or Holly, whichever was playing in there, so that with + complete surprise he saw Irene at the piano, and Jolyon sitting + in an armchair listening. They both stood up. Blood surged into + Soames’ brain, and all his resolution to be guided by this or + that left him utterly. The look of his farmer forbears—dogged + Forsytes down by the sea, from “Superior Dosset” back—grinned out + of his face. + + “Very pretty!” he said. + + He heard the fellow murmur: + + “This is hardly the place—we’ll go to the study, if you don’t + mind.” And they both passed him through the curtain opening. In + the little room to which he followed them, Irene stood by the + open window, and the “fellow” close to her by a big chair. Soames + pulled the door to behind him with a slam; the sound carried him + back all those years to the day when he had shut out Jolyon—shut + him out for meddling with his affairs. + + “Well,” he said, “what have you to say for yourselves?” + + The fellow had the effrontery to smile. + + “What we have received to-day has taken away your right to ask. I + should imagine you will be glad to have your neck out of + chancery.” + + “Oh!” said Soames; “you think so! I came to tell you that I’ll + divorce her with every circumstance of disgrace to you both, + unless you swear to keep clear of each other from now on.” + + He was astonished at his fluency, because his mind was stammering + and his hands twitching. Neither of them answered; but their + faces seemed to him as if contemptuous. + + “Well,” he said; “you—Irene?” + + Her lips moved, but Jolyon laid his hand on her arm. + + “Let her alone!” said Soames furiously. “Irene, will you swear + it?” + + “No.” + + “Oh! and you?” + + “Still less.” + + “So then you’re guilty, are you?” + + “Yes, guilty.” It was Irene speaking in that serene voice, with + that unreached air which had maddened him so often; and, carried + beyond himself, he cried: + + “_You_ are a devil.” + + “Go out! Leave this house, or I’ll do you an injury.” + + That fellow to talk of injuries! Did he know how near his throat + was to being scragged? + + “A trustee,” he said, “embezzling trust property! A thief, + stealing his cousin’s wife.” + + “Call me what you like. You have chosen your part, we have chosen + ours. Go out!” + + If he had brought a weapon Soames might have used it at that + moment. + + “I’ll make you pay!” he said. + + “I shall be very happy.” + + At that deadly turning of the meaning of his speech by the son of + him who had nicknamed him “the man of property,” Soames stood + glaring. It was ridiculous! + + There they were, kept from violence by some secret force. No blow + possible, no words to meet the case. But he could not, did not + know how to turn and go away. His eyes fastened on Irene’s + face—the last time he would ever see that fatal face—the last + time, no doubt! + + “You,” he said suddenly, “I hope you’ll treat him as you treated + me—that’s all.” + + He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not + quite relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the + hall, and got into his cab. He lolled against the cushion with + his eyes shut. Never in his life had he been so near to murderous + violence, never so thrown away the restraint which was his second + nature. He had a stripped and naked feeling, as if all virtue had + gone out of him—life meaningless, mind-striking work. Sunlight + streamed in on him, but he felt cold. The scene he had passed + through had gone from him already, what was before him would not + materialise, he could catch on to nothing; and he felt + frightened, as if he had been hanging over the edge of a + precipice, as if with another turn of the screw sanity would have + failed him. “I’m not fit for it,” he thought; “I mustn’t—I’m not + fit for it.” The cab sped on, and in mechanical procession trees, + houses, people passed, but had no significance. “I feel very + queer,” he thought; “I’ll take a Turkish bath.—I’ve been very + near to something. It won’t do.” The cab whirred its way back + over the bridge, up the Fulham Road, along the Park. + + “To the Hammam,” said Soames. + + Curious that on so warm a summer day, heat should be so + comforting! Crossing into the hot room he met George Forsyte + coming out, red and glistening. + + “Hallo!” said George; “what are you training for? You’ve not got + much superfluous.” + + Buffoon! Soames passed him with his sideway smile. Lying back, + rubbing his skin uneasily for the first signs of perspiration, he + thought: “Let them laugh! I _won’t_ feel anything! I can’t stand + violence! It’s not good for me!” + + + + + CHAPTER VII A SUMMER NIGHT + + + Soames left dead silence in the little study. “Thank you for that + good lie,” said Jolyon suddenly. “Come out—the air in here is not + what it was!” + + In front of a long high southerly wall on which were trained + peach-trees the two walked up and down in silence. Old Jolyon had + planted some cupressus-trees, at intervals, between this grassy + terrace and the dipping meadow full of buttercups and ox-eyed + daisies; for twelve years they had flourished, till their dark + spiral shapes had quite a look of Italy. Birds fluttered softly + in the wet shrubbery; the swallows swooped past, with a + steel-blue sheen on their swift little bodies; the grass felt + springy beneath the feet, its green refreshed; butterflies chased + each other. After that painful scene the quiet of Nature was + wonderfully poignant. Under the sun-soaked wall ran a narrow + strip of garden-bed full of mignonette and pansies, and from the + bees came a low hum in which all other sounds were set—the mooing + of a cow deprived of her calf, the calling of a cuckoo from an + elm-tree at the bottom of the meadow. Who would have thought that + behind them, within ten miles, London began—that London of the + Forsytes, with its wealth, its misery; its dirt and noise; its + jumbled stone isles of beauty, its grey sea of hideous brick and + stucco? That London which had seen Irene’s early tragedy, and + Jolyon’s own hard days; that web; that princely workhouse of the + possessive instinct! + + And while they walked Jolyon pondered those words: “I hope you’ll + treat him as you treated me.” That would depend on himself. Could + he trust himself? Did Nature permit a Forsyte not to make a slave + of what he adored? Could beauty be confided to him? Or should she + not be just a visitor, coming when she would, possessed for + moments which passed, to return only at her own choosing? “We are + a breed of spoilers!” thought Jolyon, “close and greedy; the + bloom of life is not safe with us. Let her come to me as she + will, when she will, not at all if she will not. Let me be just + her stand-by, her perching-place; never—never her cage!” + + She was the chink of beauty in his dream. Was he to pass through + the curtains now and reach her? Was the rich stuff of many + possessions, the close encircling fabric of the possessive + instinct walling in that little black figure of himself, and + Soames—was it to be rent so that he could pass through into his + vision, find there something not of the senses only? “Let me,” he + thought, “ah! let me only know how not to grasp and destroy!” + + But at dinner there were plans to be made. To-night she would go + back to the hotel, but tomorrow he would take her up to London. + He must instruct his solicitor—Jack Herring. Not a finger must be + raised to hinder the process of the Law. Damages exemplary, + judicial strictures, costs, what they liked—let it go through at + the first moment, so that her neck might be out of chancery at + last! To-morrow he would see Herring—they would go and see him + together. And then—abroad, leaving no doubt, no difficulty about + evidence, making the lie she had told into the truth. He looked + round at her; and it seemed to his adoring eyes that more than a + woman was sitting there. The spirit of universal beauty, deep, + mysterious, which the old painters, Titian, Giorgione, + Botticelli, had known how to capture and transfer to the faces of + their women—this flying beauty seemed to him imprinted on her + brow, her hair, her lips, and in her eyes. + + “And this is to be mine!” he thought. “It frightens me!” + + After dinner they went out on to the terrace to have coffee. They + sat there long, the evening was so lovely, watching the summer + night come very slowly on. It was still warm and the air smelled + of lime blossom—early this summer. Two bats were flighting with + the faint mysterious little noise they make. He had placed the + chairs in front of the study window, and moths flew past to visit + the discreet light in there. There was no wind, and not a whisper + in the old oak-tree twenty yards away! The moon rose from behind + the copse, nearly full; and the two lights struggled, till + moonlight conquered, changing the colour and quality of all the + garden, stealing along the flagstones, reaching their feet, + climbing up, changing their faces. + + “Well,” said Jolyon at last, “you’ll be tired, dear; we’d better + start. The maid will show you Holly’s room,” and he rang the + study bell. The maid who came handed him a telegram. Watching her + take Irene away, he thought: “This must have come an hour or more + ago, and she didn’t bring it out to us! That shows! Well, we’ll + be hung for a sheep soon!” And, opening the telegram, he read: + + “JOLYON FORSYTE, Robin Hill.—Your son passed painlessly away on + June 20th. Deep sympathy”—some name unknown to him. + + He dropped it, spun round, stood motionless. The moon shone in on + him; a moth flew in his face. The first day of all that he had + not thought almost ceaselessly of Jolly. He went blindly towards + the window, struck against the old armchair—his father’s—and sank + down on to the arm of it. He sat there huddled forward, staring + into the night. Gone out like a candle flame; far from home, from + love, all by himself, in the dark! His boy! From a little chap + always so good to him—so friendly! Twenty years old, and cut down + like grass—to have no life at all! “I didn’t really know him,” he + thought, “and he didn’t know me; but we loved each other. It’s + only love that matters.” + + To die out there—lonely—wanting them—wanting home! This seemed to + his Forsyte heart more painful, more pitiful than death itself. + No shelter, no protection, no love at the last! And all the + deeply rooted clanship in him, the family feeling and essential + clinging to his own flesh and blood which had been so strong in + old Jolyon was so strong in all the Forsytes—felt outraged, cut, + and torn by his boy’s lonely passing. Better far if he had died + in battle, without time to long for them to come to him, to call + out for them, perhaps, in his delirium! + + The moon had passed behind the oak-tree now, endowing it with + uncanny life, so that it seemed watching him—the oak-tree his boy + had been so fond of climbing, out of which he had once fallen and + hurt himself, and hadn’t cried! + + The door creaked. He saw Irene come in, pick up the telegram and + read it. He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She sank on her + knees close to him, and he forced himself to smile at her. She + stretched up her arms and drew his head down on her shoulder. The + perfume and warmth of her encircled him; her presence gained + slowly his whole being. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII JAMES IN WAITING + + + Sweated to serenity, Soames dined at the Remove and turned his + face toward Park Lane. His father had been unwell lately. This + would have to be kept from him! Never till that moment had he + realised how much the dread of bringing James’ grey hairs down + with sorrow to the grave had counted with him; how intimately it + was bound up with his own shrinking from scandal. His affection + for his father, always deep, had increased of late years with the + knowledge that James looked on him as the real prop of his + decline. It seemed pitiful that one who had been so careful all + his life and done so much for the family name—so that it was + almost a byword for solid, wealthy respectability—should at his + last gasp have to see it in all the newspapers. This was like + lending a hand to Death, that final enemy of Forsytes. “I must + tell mother,” he thought, “and when it comes on, we must keep the + papers from him somehow. He sees hardly anyone.” Letting himself + in with his latchkey, he was beginning to ascend he stairs when + he became conscious of commotion on the second-floor landing. His + mother’s voice was saying: + + “Now, James, you’ll catch cold. Why can’t you wait quietly?” + + His father’s answering + + “Wait? I’m always waiting. Why doesn’t he come in?” + + “You can speak to him to-morrow morning, instead of making a guy + of yourself on the landing.” + + “He’ll go up to bed, I shouldn’t wonder. I shan’t sleep.” + + “Now come back to bed, James.” + + “Um! I might die before to-morrow morning for all you can tell.” + + “You shan’t have to wait till to-morrow morning; I’ll go down and + bring him up. Don’t fuss!” + + “There you go—always so cock-a-hoop. He mayn’t come in at all.” + + “Well, if he doesn’t come in you won’t catch him by standing out + here in your dressing-gown.” + + Soames rounded the last bend and came in sight of his father’s + tall figure wrapped in a brown silk quilted gown, stooping over + the balustrade above. Light fell on his silvery hair and + whiskers, investing his head with a sort of halo. + + “Here he is!” he heard him say in a voice which sounded injured, + and his mother’s comfortable answer from the bedroom door: + + “That’s all right. Come in, and I’ll brush your hair.” James + extended a thin, crooked finger, oddly like the beckoning of a + skeleton, and passed through the doorway of his bedroom. + + “What is it?” thought Soames. “What has he got hold of now?” + + His father was sitting before the dressing-table sideways to the + mirror, while Emily slowly passed two silver-backed brushes + through and through his hair. She would do this several times a + day, for it had on him something of the effect produced on a cat + by scratching between its ears. + + “There you are!” he said. “I’ve been waiting.” + + Soames stroked his shoulder, and, taking up a silver button-hook, + examined the mark on it. + + “Well,” he said, “you’re looking better.” + + James shook his head. + + “I want to say something. Your mother hasn’t heard.” He announced + Emily’s ignorance of what he hadn’t told her, as if it were a + grievance. + + “Your father’s been in a great state all the evening. I’m sure I + don’t know what about.” + + The faint “whisk-whisk” of the brushes continued the soothing of + her voice. + + “No! you know nothing,” said James. “Soames can tell me.” And, + fixing his grey eyes, in which there was a look of strain, + uncomfortable to watch, on his son, he muttered: + + “I’m getting on, Soames. At my age I can’t tell. I might die any + time. There’ll be a lot of money. There’s Rachel and Cicely got + no children; and Val’s out there—that chap his father will get + hold of all he can. And somebody’ll pick up Imogen, I shouldn’t + wonder.” + + Soames listened vaguely—he had heard all this before. + Whish-whish! went the brushes. + + “If that’s all!” said Emily. + + “All!” cried James; “it’s nothing. I’m coming to that.” And again + his eyes strained pitifully at Soames. + + “It’s you, my boy,” he said suddenly; “you ought to get a + divorce.” + + That word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for + Soames’ composure. His eyes reconcentrated themselves quickly on + the buttonhook, and as if in apology James hurried on: + + “I don’t know what’s become of her—they say she’s abroad. Your + Uncle Swithin used to admire her—he was a funny fellow.” (So he + always alluded to his dead twin—“The Stout and the Lean of it,” + they had been called.) “She wouldn’t be alone, I should say.” And + with that summing-up of the effect of beauty on human nature, he + was silent, watching his son with eyes doubting as a bird’s. + Soames, too, was silent. Whish-whish went the brushes. + + “Come, James! Soames knows best. It’s his business.” + + “Ah!” said James, and the word came from deep down; “but there’s + all my money, and there’s his—who’s it to go to? And when he dies + the name goes out.” + + Soames replaced the button-hook on the lace and pink silk of the + dressing-table coverlet. + + “The name?” said Emily, “there are all the other Forsytes.” + + “As if that helped me,” muttered James. “I shall be in my grave, + and there’ll be nobody, unless he marries again.” + + “You’re quite right,” said Soames quietly; “I’m getting a + divorce.” + + James’ eyes almost started from his head. + + “What?” he cried. “There! nobody tells me anything.” + + “Well,” said Emily, “who would have imagined you wanted it? My + dear boy, that _is_ a surprise, after all these years.” + + “It’ll be a scandal,” muttered James, as if to himself; “but I + can’t help that. Don’t brush so hard. When’ll it come on?” + + “Before the Long Vacation; it’s not defended.” + + James’ lips moved in secret calculation. “I shan’t live to see my + grandson,” he muttered. + + Emily ceased brushing. “Of course you will, James. Soames will be + as quick as he can.” + + There was a long silence, till James reached out his arm. + + “Here! let’s have the eau-de-Cologne,” and, putting it to his + nose, he moved his forehead in the direction of his son. Soames + bent over and kissed that brow just where the hair began. A + relaxing quiver passed over James’ face, as though the wheels of + anxiety within were running down. + + “I’ll get to bed,” he said; “I shan’t want to see the papers when + that comes. They’re a morbid lot; I can’t pay attention to them, + I’m too old.” + + Queerly affected, Soames went to the door; he heard his father + say: + + “Here, I’m tired. I’ll say a prayer in bed.” + + And his mother answering + + “That’s right, James; it’ll be ever so much more comfy.” + + + + + CHAPTER IX OUT OF THE WEB + + + On Forsyte ’Change the announcement of Jolly’s death, among a + batch of troopers, caused mixed sensation. Strange to read that + Jolyon Forsyte (fifth of the name in direct descent) had died of + disease in the service of his country, and not be able to feel it + personally. It revived the old grudge against his father for + having estranged himself. For such was still the prestige of old + Jolyon that the other Forsytes could never quite feel, as might + have been expected, that it was they who had cut off his + descendants for irregularity. The news increased, of course, the + interest and anxiety about Val; but then Val’s name was Dartie, + and even if he were killed in battle or got the Victoria Cross, + it would not be at all the same as if his name were Forsyte. Not + even casualty or glory to the Haymans would be really + satisfactory. Family pride felt defrauded. + + How the rumour arose, then, that “something very dreadful, my + dear,” was pending, no one, least of all Soames, could tell, + secret as he kept everything. Possibly some eye had seen “Forsyte + _v._ Forsyte and Forsyte,” in the cause list; and had added it to + “Irene in Paris with a fair beard.” Possibly some wall at Park + Lane had ears. The fact remained that it _was_ known—whispered + among the old, discussed among the young—that family pride must + soon receive a blow. + + Soames, paying one of his Sunday visits to Timothy’s—paying it + with the feeling that after the suit came on he would be paying + no more—felt knowledge in the air as he came in. Nobody, of + course, dared speak of it before him, but each of the four other + Forsytes present held their breath, aware that nothing could + prevent Aunt Juley from making them all uncomfortable. She looked + so piteously at Soames, she checked herself on the point of + speech so often, that Aunt Hester excused herself and said she + must go and bathe Timothy’s eye—he had a sty coming. Soames, + impassive, slightly supercilious, did not stay long. He went out + with a curse stifled behind his pale, just smiling lips. + + Fortunately for the peace of his mind, cruelly tortured by the + coming scandal, he was kept busy day and night with plans for his + retirement—for he had come to that grim conclusion. To go on + seeing all those people who had known him as a “long-headed + chap,” an astute adviser—after _that_—no! The fastidiousness and + pride which was so strangely, so inextricably blended in him with + possessive obtuseness, revolted against the thought. He would + retire, live privately, go on buying pictures, make a great name + as a collector—after all, his heart was more in that than it had + ever been in Law. In pursuance of this now fixed resolve, he had + to get ready to amalgamate his business with another firm without + letting people know, for that would excite curiosity and make + humiliation cast its shadow before. He had pitched on the firm of + Cuthcott, Holliday and Kingson, two of whom were dead. The full + name after the amalgamation would therefore be Cuthcott, + Holliday, Kingson, Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. But after debate + as to which of the dead still had any influence with the living, + it was decided to reduce the title to Cuthcott, Kingson and + Forsyte, of whom Kingson would be the active and Soames the + sleeping partner. For leaving his name, prestige, and clients + behind him, Soames would receive considerable value. + + One night, as befitted a man who had arrived at so important a + stage of his career, he made a calculation of what he was worth, + and after writing off liberally for depreciation by the war, + found his value to be some hundred and thirty thousand pounds. At + his father’s death, which could not, alas, be delayed much + longer, he must come into at least another fifty thousand, and + his yearly expenditure at present just reached two. Standing + among his pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains + earned by the trained faculty of knowing better than other + people. Selling what was about to decline, keeping what was still + going up, and exercising judicious insight into future taste, he + would make a unique collection, which at his death would pass to + the nation under the title “Forsyte Bequest.” + + If the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with + Madame Lamotte. She had, he knew, but one real ambition—to live + on her “_rentes_” in Paris near her grandchildren. He would buy + the goodwill of the Restaurant Bretagne at a fancy price. Madame + would live like a Queen-Mother in Paris on the interest, invested + as she would know how. (Incidentally Soames meant to put a + capable manager in her place, and make the restaurant pay good + interest on his money. There were great possibilities in Soho.) + On Annette he would promise to settle fifteen thousand pounds + (whether designedly or not), precisely the sum old Jolyon had + settled on “that woman.” + + A letter from Jolyon’s solicitor to his own had disclosed the + fact that “those two” were in Italy. And an opportunity had been + duly given for noting that they had first stayed at an hotel in + London. The matter was clear as daylight, and would be disposed + of in half an hour or so; but during that half-hour he, Soames, + would go down to hell; and after that half-hour all bearers of + the Forsyte name would feel the bloom was off the rose. He had no + illusions like Shakespeare that roses by any other name would + smell as sweet. The name was a possession, a concrete, unstained + piece of property, the value of which would be reduced some + twenty per cent. at least. Unless it were Roger, who had once + refused to stand for Parliament, and—oh, irony!—Jolyon, hung on + the line, there had never been a distinguished Forsyte. But that + very lack of distinction was the name’s greatest asset. It was a + private name, intensely individual, and his own property; it had + never been exploited for good or evil by intrusive report. He and + each member of his family owned it wholly, sanely, secretly, + without any more interference from the public than had been + necessitated by their births, their marriages, their deaths. And + during these weeks of waiting and preparing to drop the Law, he + conceived for that Law a bitter distaste, so deeply did he resent + its coming violation of his name, forced on him by the need he + felt to perpetuate that name in a lawful manner. The monstrous + injustice of the whole thing excited in him a perpetual + suppressed fury. He had asked no better than to live in spotless + domesticity, and now he must go into the witness box, after all + these futile, barren years, and proclaim his failure to keep his + wife—incur the pity, the amusement, the contempt of his kind. It + was all upside down. She and that fellow ought to be the + sufferers, and they—were in Italy! In these weeks the Law he had + served so faithfully, looked on so reverently as the guardian of + all property, seemed to him quite pitiful. What could be more + insane than to tell a man that he owned his wife, and punish him + when someone unlawfully took her away from him? Did the Law not + know that a man’s name was to him the apple of his eye, that it + was far harder to be regarded as cuckold than as seducer? He + actually envied Jolyon the reputation of succeeding where he, + Soames, had failed. The question of damages worried him, too. He + wanted to make that fellow suffer, but he remembered his cousin’s + words, “I shall be very happy,” with the uneasy feeling that to + claim damages would make not Jolyon but himself suffer; he felt + uncannily that Jolyon would rather like to pay them—the chap was + so loose. Besides, to claim damages was not the thing to do. The + claim, indeed, had been made almost mechanically; and as the hour + drew near Soames saw in it just another dodge of this insensitive + and topsy-turvy Law to make him ridiculous; so that people might + sneer and say: “Oh, yes, he got quite a good price for her!” And + he gave instructions that his Counsel should state that the money + would be given to a Home for Fallen Women. He was a long time + hitting off exactly the right charity; but, having pitched on it, + he used to wake up in the night and think: “It won’t do, too + lurid; it’ll draw attention. Something quieter—better taste.” He + did not care for dogs, or he would have named them; and it was in + desperation at last—for his knowledge of charities was + limited—that he decided on the blind. That could not be + inappropriate, and it would make the Jury assess the damages + high. + + A good many suits were dropping out of the list, which happened + to be exceptionally thin that summer, so that his case would be + reached before August. As the day grew nearer, Winifred was his + only comfort. She showed the fellow-feeling of one who had been + through the mill, and was the “femme-sole” in whom he confided, + well knowing that she would not let Dartie into her confidence. + That ruffian would be only too rejoiced! At the end of July, on + the afternoon before the case, he went in to see her. They had + not yet been able to leave town, because Dartie had already spent + their summer holiday, and Winifred dared not go to her father for + more money while he was waiting not to be told anything about + this affair of Soames. + + Soames found her with a letter in her hand. + + “That from Val,” he asked gloomily. “What does he say?” + + “He says he’s married,” said Winifred. + + “Whom to, for Goodness’ sake?” + + Winifred looked up at him. + + “To Holly Forsyte, Jolyon’s daughter.” + + “What?” + + “He got leave and did it. I didn’t even know he knew her. + Awkward, isn’t it?” + + Soames uttered a short laugh at that characteristic minimisation. + + “Awkward! Well, I don’t suppose they’ll hear about this till they + come back. They’d better stay out there. That fellow will give + her money.” + + “But I want Val back,” said Winifred almost piteously; “I miss + him, he helps me to get on.” + + “I know,” murmured Soames. “How’s Dartie behaving now?” + + “It might be worse; but it’s always money. Would you like me to + come down to the Court to-morrow, Soames?” + + Soames stretched out his hand for hers. The gesture so betrayed + the loneliness in him that she pressed it between her two. + + “Never mind, old boy. You’ll feel ever so much better when it’s + all over.” + + “I don’t know what I’ve done,” said Soames huskily; “I never + have. It’s all upside down. I was fond of her; I’ve always been.” + + Winifred saw a drop of blood ooze out of his lip, and the sight + stirred her profoundly. + + “Of course,” she said, “it’s been _too_ bad of her all along! But + what shall I do about this marriage of Val’s, Soames? I don’t + know how to write to him, with this coming on. You’ve seen that + child. Is she pretty?” + + “Yes, she’s pretty,” said Soames. “Dark—lady-like enough.” + + “That doesn’t sound so bad,” thought Winifred. “Jolyon had + style.” + + “It is a coil,” she said. “What will father say? + + “Mustn’t be told,” said Soames. “The war’ll soon be over now, + you’d better let Val take to farming out there.” + + It was tantamount to saying that his nephew was lost. + + “I haven’t told Monty,” Winifred murmured desolately. + + The case was reached before noon next day, and was over in little + more than half an hour. Soames—pale, spruce, sad-eyed in the + witness-box—had suffered so much beforehand that he took it all + like one dead. The moment the decree nisi was pronounced he left + the Courts of Justice. + + Four hours until he became public property! “Solicitor’s divorce + suit!” A surly, dogged anger replaced that dead feeling within + him. “Damn them all!” he thought; “I won’t run away. I’ll act as + if nothing had happened.” And in the sweltering heat of Fleet + Street and Ludgate Hill he walked all the way to his City Club, + lunched, and went back to his office. He worked there stolidly + throughout the afternoon. + + On his way out he saw that his clerks knew, and answered their + involuntary glances with a look so sardonic that they were + immediately withdrawn. In front of St. Paul’s, he stopped to buy + the most gentlemanly of the evening papers. Yes! there he was! + “Well-known solicitor’s divorce. Cousin co-respondent. Damages + given to the blind”—so, they had got that in! At every other + face, he thought: “I wonder if you know!” And suddenly he felt + queer, as if something were racing round in his head. + + What was this? He was letting it get hold of him! He mustn’t! He + would be ill. He mustn’t think! He would get down to the river + and row about, and fish. “I’m not going to be laid up,” he + thought. + + It flashed across him that he had something of importance to do + before he went out of town. Madame Lamotte! He must explain the + Law. Another six months before he was really free! Only he did + not want to see Annette! And he passed his hand over the top of + his head—it was very hot. + + He branched off through Covent Garden. On this sultry day of late + July the garbage-tainted air of the old market offended him, and + Soho seemed more than ever the disenchanted home of + rapscallionism. Alone, the Restaurant Bretagne, neat, daintily + painted, with its blue tubs and the dwarf trees therein, retained + an aloof and Frenchified self-respect. It was the slack hour, and + pale trim waitresses were preparing the little tables for dinner. + Soames went through into the private part. To his discomfiture + Annette answered his knock. She, too, looked pale and dragged + down by the heat. + + “You are quite a stranger,” she said languidly. + + Soames smiled. + + “I haven’t wished to be; I’ve been busy.” + + “Where’s your mother, Annette? I’ve got some news for her.” + + “Mother is not in.” + + It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way. What + did she know? How much had her mother told her? The worry of + trying to make that out gave him an alarming feeling in the head. + He gripped the edge of the table, and dizzily saw Annette come + forward, her eyes clear with surprise. He shut his own and said: + + “It’s all right. I’ve had a touch of the sun, I think.” The sun! + What he had was a touch of darkness! Annette’s voice, French and + composed, said: + + “Sit down, it will pass, then.” Her hand pressed his shoulder, + and Soames sank into a chair. When the dark feeling dispersed, + and he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him. What an + inscrutable and odd expression for a girl of twenty! + + “Do you feel better?” + + “It’s nothing,” said Soames. Instinct told him that to be feeble + before her was not helping him—age was enough handicap without + that. Will-power was his fortune with Annette, he had lost ground + these latter months from indecision—he could not afford to lose + any more. He got up, and said: + + “I’ll write to your mother. I’m going down to my river house for + a long holiday. I want you both to come there presently and stay. + It’s just at its best. You will, won’t you?” + + “It will be veree nice.” A pretty little roll of that “r” but no + enthusiasm. And rather sadly he added: + + “You’re feeling the heat, too, aren’t you, Annette? It’ll do you + good to be on the river. Good-night.” Annette swayed forward. + There was a sort of compunction in the movement. + + “Are you fit to go? Shall I give you some coffee?” + + “No,” said Soames firmly. “Give me your hand.” + + She held out her hand, and Soames raised it to his lips. When he + looked up, her face wore again that strange expression. “I can’t + tell,” he thought, as he went out; “but I mustn’t think—I mustn’t + worry.” + + But worry he did, walking toward Pall Mall. English, not of her + religion, middle-aged, scarred as it were by domestic tragedy, + what had he to give her? Only wealth, social position, leisure, + admiration! It was much, but was it enough for a beautiful girl + of twenty? He felt so ignorant about Annette. He had, too, a + curious fear of the French nature of her mother and herself. They + knew so well what they wanted. They were almost Forsytes. They + would never grasp a shadow and miss a substance. + + The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame + Lamotte when he reached his Club warned him still further that he + was at the end of his tether. + + “MY DEAR MADAME (he said), + “You will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that I + obtained my decree of divorce to-day. By the English Law I + shall not, however, be free to marry again till the decree is + confirmed six months hence. In the meanwhile I have the honor + to ask to be considered a formal suitor for the hand of your + daughter. I shall write again in a few days and beg you both + to come and stay at my river house. + + “I am, dear Madame, + “Sincerely yours, + “SOAMES FORSYTE.” + + Having sealed and posted this letter, he went into the + dining-room. Three mouthfuls of soup convinced him that he could + not eat; and, causing a cab to be summoned, he drove to + Paddington Station and took the first train to Reading. He + reached his house just as the sun went down, and wandered out on + to the lawn. The air was drenched with the scent of pinks and + picotees in his flower-borders. A stealing coolness came off the + river. + + Rest—peace! Let a poor fellow rest! Let not worry and shame and + anger chase like evil night-birds in his head! Like those doves + perched half-sleeping on their dovecot, like the furry creatures + in the woods on the far side, and the simple folk in their + cottages, like the trees and the river itself, whitening fast in + twilight, like the darkening cornflower-blue sky where stars were + coming up—let him cease _from himself_, and rest! + + + + + CHAPTER X PASSING OF AN AGE + + + The marriage of Soames with Annette took place in Paris on the + last day of January, 1901, with such privacy that not even Emily + was told until it was accomplished. + + The day after the wedding he brought her to one of those quiet + hotels in London where greater expense can be incurred for less + result than anywhere else under heaven. Her beauty in the best + Parisian frocks was giving him more satisfaction than if he had + collected a perfect bit of china, or a jewel of a picture; he + looked forward to the moment when he would exhibit her in Park + Lane, in Green Street, and at Timothy’s. + + If some one had asked him in those days, “In confidence—are you + in love with this girl?” he would have replied: “In love? What is + love? If you mean do I feel to her as I did towards Irene in + those old days when I first met her and she would not have me; + when I sighed and starved after her and couldn’t rest a minute + until she yielded—no! If you mean do I admire her youth and + prettiness, do my senses ache a little when I see her moving + about—yes! Do I think she will keep me straight, make me a + creditable wife and a good mother for my children?—again, yes!” + + “What more do I need? and what more do three-quarters of the + women who are married get from the men who marry them?” And if + the enquirer had pursued his query, “And do you think it was fair + to have tempted this girl to give herself to you for life unless + you have really touched her heart?” he would have answered: “The + French see these things differently from us. They look at + marriage from the point of view of establishments and children; + and, from my own experience, I am not at all sure that theirs is + not the sensible view. I shall not expect this time more than I + can get, or she can give. Years hence I shouldn’t be surprised if + I have trouble with her; but I shall be getting old, I shall have + children by then. I shall shut my eyes. I have had my great + passion; hers is perhaps to come—I don’t suppose it will be for + me. I offer her a great deal, and I don’t expect much in return, + except children, or at least a son. But one thing I am sure + of—she has very good sense!” + + And if, insatiate, the enquirer had gone on, “You do not look, + then, for spiritual union in this marriage?” Soames would have + lifted his sideway smile, and rejoined: “That’s as it may be. If + I get satisfaction for my senses, perpetuation of myself; good + taste and good humour in the house; it is all I can expect at my + age. I am not likely to be going out of my way towards any + far-fetched sentimentalism.” Whereon, the enquirer must in good + taste have ceased enquiry. + + The Queen was dead, and the air of the greatest city upon earth + grey with unshed tears. Fur-coated and top-hatted, with Annette + beside him in dark furs, Soames crossed Park Lane on the morning + of the funeral procession, to the rails in Hyde Park. Little + moved though he ever was by public matters, this event, supremely + symbolical, this summing-up of a long rich period, impressed his + fancy. In ’37, when she came to the throne, “Superior Dosset” was + still building houses to make London hideous; and James, a + stripling of twenty-six, just laying the foundations of his + practice in the Law. Coaches still ran; men wore stocks, shaved + their upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels; “tigers” swung + behind cabriolets; women said, “La!” and owned no property; there + were manners in the land, and pigsties for the poor; unhappy + devils were hanged for little crimes, and Dickens had but just + begun to write. Well-nigh two generations had slipped by—of + steamboats, railways, telegraphs, bicycles, electric light, + telephones, and now these motorcars—of such accumulated wealth, + that eight per cent. had become three, and Forsytes were numbered + by the thousand! Morals had changed, manners had changed, men had + become monkeys twice-removed, God had become Mammon—Mammon so + respectable as to deceive himself: Sixty-four years that favoured + property, and had made the upper middle class; buttressed, + chiselled, polished it, till it was almost indistinguishable in + manners, morals, speech, appearance, habit, and soul from the + nobility. An epoch which had gilded individual liberty so that if + a man had money, he was free in law and fact, and if he had not + money he was free in law and not in fact. An era which had + canonised hypocrisy, so that to seem to be respectable was to be. + A great Age, whose transmuting influence nothing had escaped save + the nature of man and the nature of the Universe. + + And to witness the passing of this Age, London—its pet and + fancy—was pouring forth her citizens through every gate into Hyde + Park, hub of Victorianism, happy hunting-ground of Forsytes. + Under the grey heavens, whose drizzle just kept off, the dark + concourse gathered to see the show. The “good old” Queen, full of + years and virtue, had emerged from her seclusion for the last + time to make a London holiday. From Houndsditch, Acton, Ealing, + Hampstead, Islington, and Bethnal Green; from Hackney, Hornsey, + Leytonstone, Battersea, and Fulham; and from those green pastures + where Forsytes flourish—Mayfair and Kensington, St. James’ and + Belgravia, Bayswater and Chelsea and the Regent’s Park, the + people swarmed down on to the roads where death would presently + pass with dusky pomp and pageantry. Never again would a Queen + reign so long, or people have a chance to see so much history + buried for their money. A pity the war dragged on, and that the + Wreath of Victory could not be laid upon her coffin! All else + would be there to follow and commemorate—soldiers, sailors, + foreign princes, half-masted bunting, tolling bells, and above + all the surging, great, dark-coated crowd, with perhaps a simple + sadness here and there deep in hearts beneath black clothes put + on by regulation. After all, more than a Queen was going to her + rest, a woman who had braved sorrow, lived well and wisely + according to her lights. + + Out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in + Annette’s, Soames waited. Yes! the Age was passing! What with + this Trade Unionism, and Labour fellows in the House of Commons, + with continental fiction, and something in the general feel of + everything, not to be expressed in words, things were very + different; he recalled the crowd on Mafeking night, and George + Forsyte saying: “They’re all socialists, they want our goods.” + Like James, Soames didn’t know, he couldn’t tell—with Edward on + the throne! Things would never be as safe again as under good old + Viccy! Convulsively he pressed his young wife’s arm. There, at + any rate, was something substantially his own, domestically + certain again at last; something which made property worth + while—a real thing once more. Pressed close against her and + trying to ward others off, Soames was content. The crowd swayed + round them, ate sandwiches and dropped crumbs; boys who had + climbed the plane-trees chattered above like monkeys, threw twigs + and orange-peel. It was past time; they should be coming soon! + And, suddenly, a little behind them to the left, he saw a tallish + man with a soft hat and short grizzling beard, and a tallish + woman in a little round fur cap and veil. Jolyon and Irene + talking, smiling at each other, close together like Annette and + himself! They had not seen him; and stealthily, with a very queer + feeling in his heart, Soames watched those two. They looked + happy! What had they come here for—inherently illicit creatures, + rebels from the Victorian ideal? What business had they in this + crowd? Each of them twice exiled by morality—making a boast, as + it were, of love and laxity! He watched them fascinated; + admitting grudgingly even with his arm thrust through Annette’s + that—that she—Irene—No! he would _not_ admit it; and he turned + his eyes away. He would _not_ see them, and let the old + bitterness, the old longing rise up within him! And then Annette + turned to him and said: “Those two people, Soames; they know you, + I am sure. Who are they?” + + Soames nosed sideways. + + “What people?” + + “There, you see them; just turning away. They know you.” + + “No,” Soames answered; “a mistake, my dear.” + + “A lovely face! And how she walk! _Elle est très distinguée!_” + + Soames looked then. Into his life, out of his life she had walked + like that swaying and erect, remote, unseizable; ever eluding the + contact of his soul! He turned abruptly from that receding vision + of the past. + + “You’d better attend,” he said, “they’re coming now!” + + But while he stood, grasping her arm, seemingly intent on the + head of the procession, he was quivering with the sense of always + missing something, with instinctive regret that he had not got + them both. + + Slow came the music and the march, till, in silence, the long + line wound in through the Park gate. He heard Annette whisper, + “How sad it is and beautiful!” felt the clutch of her hand as she + stood up on tiptoe; and the crowd’s emotion gripped him. There it + was—the bier of the Queen, coffin of the Age slow passing! And as + it went by there came a murmuring groan from all the long line of + those who watched, a sound such as Soames had never heard, so + unconscious, primitive, deep and wild, that neither he nor any + knew whether they had joined in uttering it. Strange sound, + indeed! Tribute of an Age to its own death.... Ah! Ah!... The + hold on life had slipped. That which had seemed eternal was gone! + The Queen—God bless her! + + It moved on with the bier, that travelling groan, as a fire moves + on over grass in a thin line; it kept step, and marched alongside + down the dense crowds mile after mile. It was a human sound, and + yet inhuman, pushed out by animal subconsciousness, by intimate + knowledge of universal death and change. None of us—none of us + can hold on for ever! + + It left silence for a little—a very little time, till tongues + began, eager to retrieve interest in the show. Soames lingered + just long enough to gratify Annette, then took her out of the + Park to lunch at his father’s in Park Lane.... + + James had spent the morning gazing out of his bedroom window. The + last show he would see, last of so many! So she was gone! Well, + she was getting an old woman. Swithin and he had seen her + crowned—slim slip of a girl, not so old as Imogen! She had got + very stout of late. Jolyon and he had seen her married to that + German chap, her husband—he had turned out all right before he + died, and left her with that son of his. And he remembered the + many evenings he and his brothers and their cronies had wagged + their heads over their wine and walnuts and that fellow in his + salad days. And now he had come to the throne. They said he had + steadied down—he didn’t know—couldn’t tell! He’d make the money + fly still, he shouldn’t wonder. What a lot of people out there! + It didn’t seem so very long since he and Swithin stood in the + crowd outside Westminster Abbey when she was crowned, and Swithin + had taken him to Cremorne afterwards—racketty chap, Swithin; no, + it didn’t seem much longer ago than Jubilee Year, when he had + joined with Roger in renting a balcony in Piccadilly. + + Jolyon, Swithin, Roger all gone, and he would be ninety in + August! And there was Soames married again to a French girl. The + French were a queer lot, but they made good mothers, he had + heard. Things changed! They said this German Emperor was here for + the funeral, his telegram to old Kruger had been in shocking + taste. He should not be surprised if that chap made trouble some + day. Change! H’m! Well, they must look after themselves when he + was gone: he didn’t know where he’d be! And now Emily had asked + Dartie to lunch, with Winifred and Imogen, to meet Soames’ + wife—she was always doing something. And there was Irene living + with that fellow Jolyon, they said. He’d marry her now, he + supposed. + + “My brother Jolyon,” he thought, “what would he have said to it + all?” And somehow the utter impossibility of knowing what his + elder brother, once so looked up to, would have said, so worried + James that he got up from his chair by the window, and began + slowly, feebly to pace the room. + + “She was a pretty thing, too,” he thought; “I was fond of her. + Perhaps Soames didn’t suit her—I don’t know—I can’t tell. We + never had any trouble with _our_ wives.” Women had changed + everything had changed! And now the Queen was dead—well, there it + was! A movement in the crowd brought him to a standstill at the + window, his nose touching the pane and whitening from the chill + of it. They had got her as far as Hyde Park Corner—they were + passing now! Why didn’t Emily come up here where she could see, + instead of fussing about lunch. He missed her at that + moment—missed her! Through the bare branches of the plane-trees + he could just see the procession, could see the hats coming off + the people’s heads—a lot of them would catch colds, he shouldn’t + wonder! A voice behind him said: + + “You’ve got a capital view here, James!” + + “_There_ you are!” muttered James; “why didn’t you come before? + You might have missed it!” + + And he was silent, staring with all his might. + + “What’s the noise?” he asked suddenly. + + “There’s no noise,” returned Emily; “what are you thinking + of?—they wouldn’t cheer.” + + “I can hear it.” + + “Nonsense, James!” + + No sound came through those double panes; what James heard was + the groaning in his own heart at sight of his Age passing. + + “Don’t you ever tell me where I’m buried,” he said suddenly. “I + shan’t want to know.” And he turned from the window. There she + went, the old Queen; she’d had a lot of anxiety—she’d be glad to + be out of it, he should think! + + Emily took up the hair-brushes. + + “There’ll be just time to brush your head,” she said, “before + they come. You must look your best, James.” + + “Ah!” muttered James; “they say she’s pretty.” + + The meeting with his new daughter-in-law took place in the + dining-room. James was seated by the fire when she was brought + in. He placed, his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly + raised himself. Stooping and immaculate in his frock-coat, thin + as a line in Euclid, he received Annette’s hand in his; and the + anxious eyes of his furrowed face, which had lost its colour now, + doubted above her. A little warmth came into them and into his + cheeks, refracted from her bloom. + + “How are you?” he said. “You’ve been to see the Queen, I suppose? + Did you have a good crossing?” + + In this way he greeted her from whom he hoped for a grandson of + his name. + + Gazing at him, so old, thin, white, and spotless, Annette + murmured something in French which James did not understand. + + “Yes, yes,” he said, “you want your lunch, I expect. Soames, ring + the bell; we won’t wait for that chap Dartie.” But just then they + arrived. Dartie had refused to go out of his way to see “the old + girl.” With an early cocktail beside him, he had taken a “squint” + from the smoking-room of the Iseeum, so that Winifred and Imogen + had been obliged to come back from the Park to fetch him thence. + His brown eyes rested on Annette with a stare of almost startled + satisfaction. The second beauty that fellow Soames had picked up! + What women could see in him! Well, she would play him the same + trick as the other, no doubt; but in the meantime he was a lucky + devil! And he brushed up his moustache, having in nine months of + Green Street domesticity regained almost all his flesh and his + assurance. Despite the comfortable efforts of Emily, Winifred’s + composure, Imogen’s enquiring friendliness, Dartie’s showing-off, + and James’ solicitude about her food, it was not, Soames felt, a + successful lunch for his bride. He took her away very soon. + + “That Monsieur Dartie,” said Annette in the cab, “_je n’aime pas + ce type-là!_” + + “No, by George!” said Soames. + + “Your sister is veree amiable, and the girl is pretty. Your + father is veree old. I think your mother has trouble with him; I + should not like to be her.” + + Soames nodded at the shrewdness, the clear hard judgment in his + young wife; but it disquieted him a little. The thought may have + just flashed through him, too: “When I’m eighty she’ll be + fifty-five, having trouble with me!” + + “There’s just one other house of my relations I must take you + to,” he said; “you’ll find it funny, but we must get it over; and + then we’ll dine and go to the theatre.” + + In this way he prepared her for Timothy’s. But Timothy’s was + different. They were _delighted_ to see dear Soames after this + long long time; and so this was Annette! + + “You are _so_ pretty, my dear; almost too young and pretty for + dear Soames, aren’t you? But he’s very attentive and careful—such + a good hush....” Aunt Juley checked herself, and placed her lips + just under each of Annette’s eyes—she afterwards described them + to Francie, who dropped in, as: “Cornflower-blue, so pretty, I + quite wanted to kiss them. I must say dear Soames is a perfect + connoisseur. In her French way, and not so very French either, I + think she’s as pretty—though not so distinguished, not so + alluring—as Irene. Because she was alluring, wasn’t she? with + that white skin and those dark eyes, and that hair, _couleur + de_—what was it? I always forget.” + + “_Feuille morte_,” Francie prompted. + + “Of course, dead leaves—so strange. I remember when I was a girl, + before we came to London, we had a foxhound puppy—to ‘walk’ it + was called then; it had a tan top to its head and a white chest, + and beautiful dark brown eyes, and it was a lady.” + + “Yes, auntie,” said Francie, “but I don’t see the connection.” + + “Oh!” replied Aunt Juley, rather flustered, “it was so alluring, + and her eyes and hair, you know....” She was silent, as if + surprised in some indelicacy. “_Feuille morte_,” she added + suddenly; “Hester—do remember that!”.... + + Considerable debate took place between the two sisters whether + Timothy should or should not be summoned to see Annette. + + “Oh, don’t bother!” said Soames. + + “But it’s no trouble, only of course Annette’s being French might + upset him a little. He was so scared about Fashoda. I think + perhaps we had better not run the risk, Hester. It’s nice to have + her all to ourselves, isn’t it? And how are you, Soames? Have you + quite got over your....” + + Hester interposed hurriedly: + + “What do you think of London, Annette?” + + Soames, disquieted, awaited the reply. It came, sensible, + composed: “Oh! I know London. I have visited before.” + + He had never ventured to speak to her on the subject of the + restaurant. The French had different notions about gentility, and + to shrink from connection with it might seem to her ridiculous; + he had waited to be married before mentioning it; and now he + wished he hadn’t. + + “And what part do you know best?” said Aunt Juley. + + “Soho,” said Annette simply. + + Soames snapped his jaw. + + “Soho?” repeated Aunt Juley; “Soho?” + + “That’ll go round the family,” thought Soames. + + “It’s very French, and interesting,” he said. + + “Yes,” murmured Aunt Juley, “your Uncle Roger had some houses + there once; he was always having to turn the tenants out, I + remember.” + + Soames changed the subject to Mapledurham. + + “Of course,” said Aunt Juley, “you will be going down there soon + to settle in. We are all so looking forward to the time when + Annette has a dear little....” + + “Juley!” cried Aunt Hester desperately, “ring tea!” + + Soames dared not wait for tea, and took Annette away. + + “I shouldn’t mention Soho if I were you,” he said in the cab. + “It’s rather a shady part of London; and you’re altogether above + that restaurant business now; I mean,” he added, “I want you to + know nice people, and the English are fearful snobs.” + + Annette’s clear eyes opened; a little smile came on her lips. + + “Yes?” she said. + + “H’m!” thought Soames, “that’s meant for me!” and he looked at + her hard. “She’s got good business instincts,” he thought. “I + must make her grasp it once for all!” + + “Look here, Annette! it’s very simple, only it wants + understanding. Our professional and leisured classes still think + themselves a cut above our business classes, except of course the + very rich. It may be stupid, but there it is, you see. It isn’t + advisable in England to let people know that you ran a restaurant + or kept a shop or were in any kind of trade. It may have been + extremely creditable, but it puts a sort of label on you; you + don’t have such a good time, or meet such nice people—that’s + all.” + + “I see,” said Annette; “it is the same in France.” + + “Oh!” murmured Soames, at once relieved and taken aback. “Of + course, class is everything, really.” + + “Yes,” said Annette; “_comme vous êtes sage_.” + + “That’s all right,” thought Soames, watching her lips, “only + she’s pretty cynical.” His knowledge of French was not yet such + as to make him grieve that she had not said “tu.” He slipped his + arm round her, and murmured with an effort: + + “_Et vous êtes ma belle femme_.” + + Annette went off into a little fit of laughter. + + “_Oh, non!_” she said. “_Oh, non! ne parlez pas Français_, + Soames. What is that old lady, your aunt, looking forward to?” + + Soames bit his lip. “God knows!” he said; “she’s always saying + something;” but he knew better than God. + + + + + CHAPTER XI SUSPENDED ANIMATION + + + The war dragged on. Nicholas had been heard to say that it would + cost three hundred millions if it cost a penny before they’d done + with it! The income-tax was seriously threatened. Still, there + would be South Africa for their money, once for all. And though + the possessive instinct felt badly shaken at three o’clock in the + morning, it recovered by breakfast-time with the recollection + that one gets nothing in this world without paying for it. So, on + the whole, people went about their business much as if there were + no war, no concentration camps, no slippery de Wet, no feeling on + the Continent, no anything unpleasant. Indeed, the attitude of + the nation was typified by Timothy’s map, whose animation was + suspended—for Timothy no longer moved the flags, and they could + not move themselves, not even backwards and forwards as they + should have done. + + Suspended animation went further; it invaded Forsyte ’Change, and + produced a general uncertainty as to what was going to happen + next. The announcement in the marriage column of _The Times_, + “Jolyon Forsyte to Irene, only daughter of the late Professor + Heron,” had occasioned doubt whether Irene had been justly + described. And yet, on the whole, relief was felt that she had + not been entered as “Irene, late the wife,” or “the divorced + wife,” “of Soames Forsyte.” Altogether, there had been a kind of + sublimity from the first about the way the family had taken that + “affair.” As James had phrased it, “There it was!” No use to + fuss! Nothing to be had out of admitting that it had been a + “nasty jar”—in the phraseology of the day. + + But what would happen now that both Soames and Jolyon were + married again? That was very intriguing. George was known to have + laid Eustace six to four on a little Jolyon before a little + Soames. George was so droll! It was rumoured, too, that he and + Dartie had a bet as to whether James would attain the age of + ninety, though which of them had backed James no one knew. + + Early in May, Winifred came round to say that Val had been + wounded in the leg by a spent bullet, and was to be discharged. + His wife was nursing him. He would have a little limp—nothing to + speak of. He wanted his grandfather to buy him a farm out there + where he could breed horses. Her father was giving Holly eight + hundred a year, so they could be quite comfortable, because his + grandfather would give Val five, he had said; but as to the farm, + he didn’t know—couldn’t tell: he didn’t want Val to go throwing + away his money. + + “But you know,” said Winifred, “he must do something.” + + Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise, + because if he didn’t buy a farm it couldn’t turn out badly. + + “But Val loves horses,” said Winifred. “It’d be such an + occupation for him.” + + Aunt Juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not + Montague found them so? + + “Val’s different,” said Winifred; “he takes after me.” + + Aunt Juley was sure that dear Val was very clever. “I always + remember,” she added, “how he gave his bad penny to a beggar. His + dear grandfather was so pleased. He thought it showed such + presence of mind. I remember his saying that he ought to go into + the Navy.” + + Aunt Hester chimed in: Did not Winifred think that it was much + better for the young people to be secure and not run any risk at + their age? + + “Well,” said Winifred, “if they were in London, perhaps; in + London it’s amusing to do nothing. But out there, of course, + he’ll simply get bored to death.” + + Aunt Hester thought that it would be nice for him to work, if he + were quite sure not to lose by it. It was not as if they had no + money. Timothy, of course, had done so well by retiring. Aunt + Juley wanted to know what Montague had said. + + Winifred did not tell her, for Montague had merely remarked: + “Wait till the old man dies.” + + At this moment Francie was announced. Her eyes were brimming with + a smile. + + “Well,” she said, “what do you think of it?” + + “Of what, dear?” + + “In _The Times_ this morning.” + + “We haven’t seen it, we always read it after dinner; Timothy has + it till then.” + + Francie rolled her eyes. + + “Do you think you _ought_ to tell us?” said Aunt Juley. “What + _was_ it?” + + “Irene’s had a son at Robin Hill.” + + Aunt Juley drew in her breath. “But,” she said, “they were only + married in March!” + + “Yes, Auntie; isn’t it interesting?” + + “Well,” said Winifred, “I’m glad. I was sorry for Jolyon losing + his boy. It might have been Val.” + + Aunt Juley seemed to go into a sort of dream. “I wonder,” she + murmured, “what dear Soames will think? He has so wanted to have + a son himself. A little bird has always told me that.” + + “Well,” said Winifred, “he’s going to—bar accidents.” + + Gladness trickled out of Aunt Juley’s eyes. + + “How delightful!” she said. “When?” + + “November.” + + Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a + long time for James to wait, at his age! + + To wait! They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it + themselves. Indeed, it was their great distraction. To wait! For + _The Times_ to read; for one or other of their nieces or nephews + to come in and cheer them up; for news of Nicholas’ health; for + that decision of Christopher’s about going on the stage; for + information concerning the mine of Mrs. MacAnder’s nephew; for + the doctor to come about Hester’s inclination to wake up early in + the morning; for books from the library which were always out; + for Timothy to have a cold; for a nice quiet warm day, not too + hot, when they could take a turn in Kensington Gardens. To wait, + one on each side of the hearth in the drawing-room, for the clock + between them to strike; their thin, veined, knuckled hands plying + knitting-needles and crochet-hooks, their hair ordered to + stop—like Canute’s waves—from any further advance in colour. To + wait in their black silks or satins for the Court to say that + Hester might wear her dark green, and Juley her darker maroon. To + wait, slowly turning over and over, in their old minds the little + joys and sorrows, events and expectancies, of their little family + world, as cows chew patient cuds in a familiar field. And this + new event was so well worth waiting for. Soames had always been + their pet, with his tendency to give them pictures, and his + almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and his need for + their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage. This + new event—the birth of an heir to Soames—was so important for + him, and for his dear father, too, that James might not have to + die without some certainty about things. James did so dislike + uncertainty; and with Montague, of course, he could not feel + really satisfied to leave no grand-children but the young + Darties. After all, one’s own name did count! And as James’ + ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what precautions he was + taking. He would be the first of the Forsytes to reach that age, + and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to life. That + was so important, they felt, at their ages eighty-seven and + eighty-five; though they did not want to think of themselves when + they had Timothy, who was not yet eighty-two, to think of. There + was, of course, a better world. “In my Father’s house are many + mansions” was one of Aunt Juley’s favourite sayings—it always + comforted her, with its suggestion of house property, which had + made the fortune of dear Roger. The Bible was, indeed, a great + resource, and on _very_ fine Sundays there was church in the + morning; and sometimes Juley would steal into Timothy’s study + when she was sure he was out, and just put an open New Testament + casually among the books on his little table—he was a great + reader, of course, having been a publisher. But she had noticed + that Timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards. And Smither + had told her more than once that she had picked books off the + floor in doing the room. Still, with all that, they did feel that + heaven could not be quite so cosy as the rooms in which they and + Timothy had been waiting so long. Aunt Hester, especially, could + not bear the thought of the exertion. Any change, or rather the + thought of a change—for there never _was_ any—always upset her + very much. Aunt Juley, who had more spirit, sometimes thought it + would be quite exciting; she had so enjoyed that visit to + Brighton the year dear Susan died. But then Brighton one knew was + nice, and it was so difficult to tell what heaven would be like, + so on the whole she was more than content to wait. + + On the morning of James’ birthday, August the 5th, they felt + extraordinary animation, and little notes passed between them by + the hand of Smither while they were having breakfast in their + beds. Smither must go round and take their love and little + presents and find out how Mr. James was, and whether he had + passed a good night with all the excitement. And on the way back + would Smither call in at Green Street—it was a little out of her + way, but she could take the bus up Bond Street afterwards; it + would be a nice little change for her—and ask dear Mrs. Dartie to + be sure and look in before she went out of town. + + All this Smither did—an undeniable servant trained many years ago + under Aunt Ann to a perfection not now procurable. Mr. James, so + Mrs. James said, had passed an excellent night, he sent his love; + Mrs. James had said he was very funny and had complained that he + didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Oh! and Mrs. Dartie sent + her love, and she would come to tea. + + Aunts Juley and Hester, rather hurt that their presents had not + received special mention—they forgot every year that James could + not bear to receive presents, “throwing away their money on him,” + as he always called it—were “delighted”; it showed that James was + in good spirits, and that was so important for him. And they + began to wait for Winifred. She came at four, bringing Imogen, + and Maud, just back from school, and “getting such a pretty girl, + too,” so that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about + Annette. Aunt Juley, however, summoned courage to enquire whether + Winifred had heard anything, and if Soames was anxious. + + “Uncle Soames is always anxious, Auntie,” interrupted Imogen; “he + can’t be happy now he’s got it.” + + The words struck familiarly on Aunt Juley’s ears. Ah! yes; that + funny drawing of George’s, which had _not_ been shown them! But + what did Imogen mean? That her uncle always wanted more than he + could have? It was not at all nice to think like that. + + Imogen’s voice rose clear and clipped: + + “Imagine! Annette’s only two years older than me; it must be + awful for her, married to Uncle Soames.” + + Aunt Juley lifted her hands in horror. + + “My dear,” she said, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. + Your Uncle Soames is a match for anybody. He’s a very clever man, + and good-looking and wealthy, and most considerate and careful, + and not at all old, considering everything.” + + Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the + “old dears,” only smiled. + + “I hope,” said Aunt Juley quite severely, “that _you_ will marry + as good a man.” + + “_I_ shan’t marry a good man, Auntie,” murmured Imogen; “they’re + dull.” + + “If you go on like this,” replied Aunt Juley, still very much + upset, “you won’t marry anybody. We’d better not pursue the + subject;” and turning to Winifred, she said: “How is Montague?” + + That evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured: + + “I’ve told Smither to get up half a bottle of the sweet + champagne, Hester. I think we ought to drink dear James’ health, + and—and the health of Soames’ wife; only, let’s keep that quite + secret. I’ll just say like this, ‘And _you know_, Hester!’ and + then we’ll drink. It might upset Timothy.” + + “It’s more likely to upset us,” said Aunt Nester. “But we must, I + suppose; for such an occasion.” + + “Yes,” said Aunt Juley rapturously, “it _is_ an occasion! Only + fancy if he has a dear little boy, to carry the family on! I do + feel it so important, now that Irene has had a son. Winifred says + George is calling Jolyon ‘The Three-Decker,’ because of his three + families, you know! George _is_ droll. And fancy! Irene is living + after all in the house Soames had built for them both. It does + seem hard on dear Soames; and he’s always been so regular.” + + That night in bed, excited and a little flushed still by her + glass of wine and the secrecy of the second toast, she lay with + her prayer-book opened flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling + yellowed by the light from her reading-lamp. Young things! It was + so nice for them all! And she would be so happy if she could see + dear Soames happy. But, of course, he must be now, in spite of + what Imogen had said. He would have all that he wanted: property, + and wife, and children! And he would live to a green old age, + like his dear father, and forget all about Irene and that + dreadful case. If only she herself could be here to buy his + children their first rocking-horse! Smither should choose it for + her at the stores, nice and dappled. Ah! how Roger used to rock + her until she fell off! Oh dear! that was a long time ago! It + _was!_ “In my Father’s house are many mansions—”A little + scrattling noise caught her ear—“but no mice!” she thought + mechanically. The noise increased. There! it _was_ a mouse! How + naughty of Smither to say there wasn’t! It would be eating + through the wainscot before they knew where they were, and they + would have to have the builders in. They were such destructive + things! And she lay, with her eyes just moving, following in her + mind that little scrattling sound, and waiting for sleep to + release her from it. + + + + + CHAPTER XII BIRTH OF A FORSYTE + + + Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on + the path above the river, turned round and walked back to the + garden door, without having realised that he had moved. The sound + of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed, + and the doctor gone. What, exactly, had he said? + + “This is the position, Mr. Forsyte. I can make pretty certain of + her life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead. If I don’t + operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it’s a + great risk for the mother—a great risk. In either case I don’t + think she can ever have another child. In her state she obviously + can’t decide for herself, and we can’t wait for her mother. It’s + for you to make the decision, while I’m getting what’s necessary. + I shall be back within the hour.” + + The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down! + No time for anything! + + The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent; + then, suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. To + come before its time like this, with no chance to foresee + anything, not even to get her mother here! It was for her mother + to make that decision, and she couldn’t arrive from Paris till + to-night! If only he could have understood the doctor’s jargon, + the medical niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the + chances properly; but they were Greek to him—like a legal problem + to a layman. And yet he _must_ decide! He brought his hand away + from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. These sounds which + came from her room! To go back there would only make it more + difficult. He must be calm, clear. On the one hand life, nearly + certain, of his young wife, death quite certain, of his child; + and—no more children afterwards! On the other, death _perhaps_ of + his wife, nearly certain life for the child; and—no more children + afterwards! Which to choose?.... It had rained this last + fortnight—the river was very full, and in the water, collected + round the little house-boat moored by his landing-stage, were + many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a frost. Leaves + fell, lives drifted down—Death! To decide about death! And no one + to give him a hand. Life lost was lost for good. Let nothing go + that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn’t get it back. + It left you bare, like those trees when they lost their leaves; + barer and barer until you, too, withered and came down. And, by a + queer somersault of thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying + up there behind that window-pane on which the sun was shining, + but Irene lying in their bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it + might conceivably have been her fate to lie, sixteen years ago. + Would he have hesitated then? Not a moment! Operate, operate! + Make certain of her life! No decision—a mere instinctive cry for + help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she did not love + him! But this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling + for Annette! Many times these last months, especially since she + had been growing frightened, he had wondered. She had a will of + her own, was selfish in her French way. And yet—so pretty! What + would she wish—to take the risk. “I know she wants the child,” he + thought. “If it’s born dead, and no more chance afterwards—it’ll + upset her terribly. No more chance! All for nothing! Married life + with her for years and years without a child. Nothing to steady + her! She’s too young. Nothing to look forward to, for her—for me! + _For me!_” He struck his hands against his chest! Why couldn’t he + think without bringing himself in—get out of himself and see what + he ought to do? The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it + had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself! + Impossible! Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless + space! The very idea was ghastly, futile! And touching there the + bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames + rested for a moment. When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, + but there’d be nothing in it! + + He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. + He _must_ decide! If against the operation and she died, how face + her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own + conscience? It was _his_ child that she was having. If for the + operation—then he condemned them both to childlessness. And for + what else had he married her but to have a lawful heir? And his + father—at death’s door, waiting for the news! “It’s cruel!” he + thought; “I ought never to have such a thing to settle! It’s + cruel!” He turned towards the house. Some deep, simple way of + deciding! He took out a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he + knew he would not abide by what came up! He went into the + dining-room, furthest away from that room whence the sounds + issued. The doctor had said there was a chance. In here that + chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the leaves + fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked the tantalus. He hardly + ever touched spirits, but now—he poured himself out some whisky + and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. “That fellow + Jolyon,” he thought; “he had children already. He has the woman I + really loved; and now a son by her! And I—I’m asked to destroy my + only child! Annette _can’t_ die; it’s not possible. She’s + strong!” + + He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the + doctor’s carriage, and went out to him. He had to wait for him to + come downstairs. + + “Well, doctor?” + + “The situation’s the same. Have you decided?” + + “Yes,” said Soames; “don’t operate!” + + “Not? You understand—the risk’s great?” + + In Soames’ set face nothing moved but the lips. + + “You said there was a chance?” + + “A chance, yes; not much of one.” + + “You say the baby _must_ be born dead if you do?” + + “Yes.” + + “Do you still think that in any case she can’t have another?” + + “One can’t be absolutely sure, but it’s most unlikely.” + + “She’s strong,” said Soames; “we’ll take the risk.” + + The doctor looked at him very gravely. “It’s on your shoulders,” + he said; “with my own wife, I couldn’t.” + + Soames’ chin jerked up as if someone had hit him. + + “Am I of any use up there?” he asked. + + “No; keep away.” + + “I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where.” + + The doctor nodded, and went upstairs. + + Soames continued to stand, listening. “By this time to-morrow,” + he thought, “I may have her death on my hands.” No! it was + unfair—monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him + again, and he went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The + wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy + ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through + the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour, + glowing, burnished—an early autumn. If it were his own life, + would he be taking that risk? “But _she’d_ take the risk of + losing me,” he thought, “sooner than lose her child! She doesn’t + really love me!” What could one expect—a girl and French? The one + thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and + their futures, was a child! “I’ve been through a lot for this,” + he thought, “I’ll hold on—hold on. There’s a chance of keeping + both—a chance!” One kept till things were taken—one naturally + kept! He began walking round the gallery. He had made one + purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he + halted before it—a girl with dull gold hair which looked like + filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was + holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he could just + feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made—admire + the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl’s + figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold + filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster. + Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, if...! He + turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window. + Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the + dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In the + clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew + far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed + the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her + hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came + into his throat. She would not—could not die! She was too—too + sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in + spite of her fair prettiness. + + It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and + stood listening. Not a sound! A milky twilight crept about the + stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound + caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and + his heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of Death + coming from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She + came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly: + + “The doctor wants to see you, sir.” + + He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and + said: + + “Oh, Sir! it’s over.” + + “Over?” said Soames, with a sort of menace; “what d’you mean?” + + “It’s born, sir.” + + He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on + the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow. + + “Well?” he said; “quick!” + + “Both living; it’s all right, I think.” + + Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes. + + “I congratulate you,” he heard the doctor say; “it was touch and + go.” + + Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face. + + “Thanks,” he said; “thanks very much. What is it?” + + “Daughter—luckily; a son would have killed her—the head.” + + A daughter! + + “The utmost care of both,” he hears the doctor say, “and we shall + do. When does the mother come?” + + “To-night, between nine and ten, I hope.” + + “I’ll stay till then. Do you want to see them?” + + “Not now,” said Soames; “before you go. I’ll have dinner sent up + to you.” And he went downstairs. + + Relief unspeakable, and yet—a daughter! It seemed to him unfair. + To have taken that risk—to have been through this agony—and what + agony!—for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood + logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust + himself. “My father!” he thought. A bitter disappointment, no + disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And + there was no other—at least, if there was, it was no use! + + While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him. + + “Come up at once, your father sinking fast.—MOTHER.” + + He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he + couldn’t feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this. + Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame’s + train, if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty—he would meet + that, and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner + mechanically, and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him. + + “They’re sleeping.” + + “I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My father’s dying; I + have to—go up. Is it all right?” + + The doctor’s face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. “If + they were all as unemotional” he might have been saying. + + “Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You’ll be down soon?” + + “To-morrow,” said Soames. “Here’s the address.” + + The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy. + + “Good-night!” said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on + his fur coat. Death! It was a chilly business. He smoked a + cigarette in the carriage—one of his rare cigarettes. The night + was windy and flew on black wings; the carriage lights had to + search out the way. His father! That old, old man! A comfortless + night—to die! + + The London train came in just as he reached the station, and + Madame Lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the + lamplight, came towards the exit with a dressing-bag. + + “This all you have?” asked Soames. + + “But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?” + + “Doing well—both. A girl!” + + “A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!” + + Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, + climbed into the brougham. + + “And you, _mon cher?_” + + “My father’s dying,” said Soames between his teeth. “I’m going + up. Give my love to Annette.” + + “_Tiens!_” murmured Madame Lamotte; “_quel malheur!_” + + Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. “The + French!” he thought. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII JAMES IS TOLD + + + A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the + air and the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the + room he had not left since the middle of September—and James was + in deep waters. A little cold, passing his little strength and + flying quickly to his lungs. “He mustn’t catch cold,” the doctor + had declared, and he had gone and caught it. When he first felt + it in his throat he had said to his nurse—for he had one + now—“There, I knew how it would be, airing the room like that!” + For a whole day he was highly nervous about himself and went in + advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath + with extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour. + Emily was not alarmed. + + But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: “He won’t + have his temperature taken.” + + Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said + softly, “How do you feel, James?” holding the thermometer to his + lips. James looked up at her. + + “What’s the good of that?” he murmured huskily; “I don’t want to + know.” + + Then she _was_ alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked + terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had + “had trouble” with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been + James for nearly fifty years; she couldn’t remember or imagine + life without James—James, behind all his fussiness, his + pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and + generous to them all! + + All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was + in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his + face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. + His very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of + energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It + touched her deeply; and though her face was composed and + comfortable in the sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks when she + was out of it. + + About tea-time on the third day—she had just changed her dress, + keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed + everything—she saw a difference. “It’s no use; I’m tired,” was + written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to + him, he muttered: “Send for Soames.” + + “Yes, James,” she said comfortably; “all right—at once.” And she + kissed his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it + off she saw that his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and + without hope now, she sent Soames the telegram. + + When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was + still as a grave. Warmson’s broad face looked almost narrow; he + took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying: + + “Will you have a glass of wine, sir?” + + Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry. + + Warmson’s lips twitched. “He’s asking for you, sir;” and suddenly + he blew his nose. “It’s a long time, sir,” he said, “that I’ve + been with Mr. Forsyte—a long time.” + + Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs. + This house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never + seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last + pilgrimage to his father’s room. It was not his taste; but in its + own substantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and + security. And the night was so dark and windy; the grave so cold + and lonely! + + He paused outside the door. No sound came from within. He turned + the handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived. + The light was shaded. His mother and Winifred were sitting on the + far side of the bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side + where was an empty chair. “For me!” thought Soames. As he moved + from the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his + hand and they sat down again. He went up to the chair and stood + looking at his father. James’ breathing was as if strangled; his + eyes were closed. And in Soames, looking on his father so worn + and white and wasted, listening to his strangled breathing, there + rose a passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, cruel, + inexorable Nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body, + slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the + being who was dearest to him in the world. His father, of all + men, had lived a careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was + his reward—to have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him! + And, without knowing that he spoke, he said: “It’s cruel!” + + He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face + towards the bed. Women! They put up with things so much better + than men. He took a step nearer to his father. For three days + James had not been shaved, and his lips and chin were covered + with hair, hardly more snowy than his forehead. It softened his + face, gave it a queer look already not of this world. His eyes + opened. Soames went quite close and bent over. The lips moved. + + “Here I am, Father:” + + “Um—what—what news? They never tell....” the voice died, and a + flood of emotion made Soames’ face work so that he could not + speak. Tell him?—yes. But what? He made a great effort, got his + lips together, and said: + + “Good news, dear, good—Annette, a son.” + + “Ah!” It was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful, + triumphant—like the noise a baby makes getting what it wants. The + eyes closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again. + Soames recoiled to the chair and stonily sat down. The lie he had + told, based, as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct + that after death James would not know the truth, had taken away + all power of feeling for the moment. His arm brushed against + something. It was his father’s naked foot. In the struggle to + breathe he had pushed it out from under the clothes. Soames took + it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, very cold. + What use to put it back, to wrap up that which must be colder + soon! He warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his + father’s laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose + again within him. A little sob, quickly smothered, came from + Winifred, but his mother sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on + James. Soames signed to the nurse. + + “Where’s the doctor?” he whispered. + + “He’s been sent for.” + + “Can’t you do anything to ease his breathing?” + + “Only an injection; and he can’t stand it. The doctor said, while + he was fighting....” + + “He’s not fighting,” whispered Soames, “he’s being slowly + smothered. It’s awful.” + + James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying. + Soames rose and bent over him. James feebly moved his two hands, + and Soames took them. + + “He wants to be pulled up,” whispered the nurse. + + Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of + anger passed over James’ face. The nurse plumped the pillows. + Soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father’s + forehead. As he was raising himself again, James’ eyes bent on + him a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what was + left within. “I’m done, my boy,” it seemed to say, “take care of + them, take care of yourself; take care—I leave it all to you.” + + “Yes, Yes,” Soames whispered, “yes, yes.” + + Behind him the nurse did he knew not what, for his father made a + tiny movement of repulsion as if resenting that interference; and + almost at once his breathing eased away, became quiet; he lay + very still. The strained expression on his face passed, a curious + white tranquillity took its place. His eyelids quivered, rested; + the whole face rested; at ease. Only by the faint puffing of his + lips could they tell that he was breathing. Soames sank back on + his chair, and fell to cherishing the foot again. He heard the + nurse quietly crying over there by the fire; curious that she, a + stranger, should be the only one of them who cried! He heard the + quiet lick and flutter of the fire flames. One more old Forsyte + going to his long rest—wonderful, they were!—wonderful how he had + held on! His mother and Winifred were leaning forward, hanging on + the sight of James’ lips. But Soames bent sideways over the feet, + warming them both; they gave him comfort, colder and colder + though they grew. Suddenly he started up; a sound, a dreadful + sound such as he had never heard, was coming from his father’s + lips, as if an outraged heart had broken with a long moan. What a + strong heart, to have uttered that farewell! It ceased. Soames + looked into the face. No motion; no breath! Dead! He kissed the + brow, turned round and went out of the room. He ran upstairs to + the bedroom, his old bedroom, still kept for him; flung himself + face down on the bed, and broke into sobs which he stilled with + the pillow.... + + A little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. James + lay alone, wonderfully calm, free from shadow and anxiety, with + the gravity on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the + worn fine gravity of old coins. + + Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room + with windows thrown open to the London night. + + “Good-bye!” he whispered, and went out. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV HIS + + + He had much to see to, that night and all next day. A telegram at + breakfast reassured him about Annette, and he only caught the + last train back to Reading, with Emily’s kiss on his forehead and + in his ears her words: + + “I don’t know what I should have done without you, my dear boy.” + + He reached his house at midnight. The weather had changed, was + mild again, as though, having finished its work and sent a + Forsyte to his last account, it could relax. A second telegram, + received at dinner-time, had confirmed the good news of Annette, + and, instead of going in, Soames passed down through the garden + in the moonlight to his houseboat. He could sleep there quite + well. Bitterly tired, he lay down on the sofa in his fur coat and + fell asleep. He woke soon after dawn and went on deck. He stood + against the rail, looking west where the river swept round in a + wide curve under the woods. In Soames, appreciation of natural + beauty was curiously like that of his farmer ancestors, a sense + of grievance if it wasn’t there, sharpened, no doubt, and + civilised, by his researches among landscape painting. But dawn + has power to fertilise the most matter-of-fact vision, and he was + stirred. It was another world from the river he knew, under that + remote cool light; a world into which man had not entered, an + unreal world, like some strange shore sighted by discovery. Its + colour was not the colour of convention, was hardly colour at + all; its shapes were brooding yet distinct; its silence stunning; + it had no scent. Why it should move him he could not tell, unless + it were that he felt so alone in it, bare of all relationship and + all possessions. Into such a world his father might be voyaging, + for all resemblance it had to the world he had left. And Soames + took refuge from it in wondering what painter could have done it + justice. The white-grey water was like—like the belly of a fish! + Was it possible that this world on which he looked was all + private property, except the water—and even that was tapped! No + tree, no shrub, not a blade of grass, not a bird or beast, not + even a fish that was not owned. And once on a time all this was + jungle and marsh and water, and weird creatures roamed and + sported without human cognizance to give them names; rotting + luxuriance had rioted where those tall, carefully planted woods + came down to the water, and marsh-misted reeds on that far side + had covered all the pasture. Well! they had got it under, + kennelled it all up, labelled it, and stowed it in lawyers’ + offices. And a good thing too! But once in a way, as now, the + ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and whisper to any + human who chanced to be awake: “Out of my unowned loneliness you + all came, into it some day you will all return.” + + And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world—new + to him and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of + its past—went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. When he + had drunk it, he took out writing materials and wrote two + paragraphs: + + “On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James + Forsyte, in his ninety-first year. Funeral at noon on the 24th at + Highgate. No flowers by request.” + + “On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife + of Soames Forsyte, of a daughter.” And underneath on the + blottingpaper he traced the word “son.” + + It was eight o’clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went + across to the house. Bushes across the river stood round and + bright-coloured out of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue + and straight; and his doves cooed, preening their feathers in the + sunlight. + + He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh + linen and dark clothes. + + Madame Lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down. + + She looked at his clothes, said, “Don’t tell me!” and pressed his + hand. “Annette is prettee well. But the doctor say she can never + have no more children. You knew that?” Soames nodded. “It’s a + pity. _Mais la petite est adorable. Du café?_” + + Soames got away from her as soon as he could. She offended + him—solid, matter-of-fact, quick, clear—_French_. He could not + bear her vowels, her “r’s”. he resented the way she had looked at + him, as if it were his fault that Annette could never bear him a + son! His fault! He even resented her cheap adoration of the + daughter he had not yet seen. + + Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child! + + One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first + moment. On the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from + it—fastidious possessor that he was. He was afraid of what + Annette was thinking of him, author of her agonies, afraid of the + look of the baby, afraid of showing his disappointment with the + present and—the future. + + He spent an hour walking up and down the drawing-room before he + could screw his courage up to mount the stairs and knock on the + door of their room. + + Madame Lamotte opened it. + + “Ah! At last you come! _Elle vous attend!_” She passed him, and + Soames went in with his noiseless step, his jaw firmly set, his + eyes furtive. + + Annette was very pale and very pretty lying there. The baby was + hidden away somewhere; he could not see it. He went up to the + bed, and with sudden emotion bent and kissed her forehead. + + “Here you are then, Soames,” she said. “I am not so bad now. But + I suffered terribly, terribly. I am glad I cannot have any more. + Oh! how I suffered!” + + Soames stood silent, stroking her hand; words of endearment, of + sympathy, absolutely would not come; the thought passed through + him: “An English girl wouldn’t have said that!” At this moment he + knew with certainty that he would never be near to her in spirit + and in truth, nor she to him. He had collected her—that was all! + And Jolyon’s words came rushing into his mind: “I should imagine + you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery.” Well, he had + got it out! Had he got it in again? + + “We must feed you up,” he said, “you’ll soon be strong.” + + “Don’t you want to see baby, Soames? She is asleep.” + + “Of course,” said Soames, “very much.” + + He passed round the foot of the bed to the other side and stood + staring. For the first moment what he saw was much what he had + expected to see—a baby. But as he stared and the baby breathed + and made little sleeping movements with its tiny features, it + seemed to assume an individual shape, grew to be like a picture, + a thing he would know again; not repulsive, strangely bud-like + and touching. It had dark hair. He touched it with his finger, he + wanted to see its eyes. They opened, they were dark—whether blue + or brown he could not tell. The eyes winked, stared, they had a + sort of sleepy depth in them. And suddenly his heart felt queer, + warm, as if elated. + + “_Ma petite fleur!_” Annette said softly. + + “Fleur,” repeated Soames: “Fleur! we’ll call her that.” + + The sense of triumph and renewed possession swelled within him. + + By God! this—this thing was his! By God! this—this thing was + _his!_ + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forsyte Saga, In Chancery, by John Galsworthy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, IN CHANCERY *** + +***** This file should be named 2594-0.txt or 2594-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/9/2594/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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