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diff --git a/2594-h/2594-h.htm b/2594-h/2594-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d21c6cd --- /dev/null +++ b/2594-h/2594-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16689 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Forsyte Saga, In Chancery, by John Galsworthy</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; + background:#faebd7; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<pre> +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 + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="spines (203K)" src="images/spines.jpg" width="100%" /><br/> + </div> + <p> + <br/> <br/> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="subscription (12K)" src="images/subscription.jpg" width="100%" /><br/> + </div> + <p> + <br/> <br/> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="editon (10K)" src="images/editon.jpg" width="100%" /><br/> + </div> + <p> + <br/> <br/> + </p> + <p> + <br/> <br/> + </p> + <h1> + FORSYTE SAGA + </h1> + <h3> + IN CHANCERY + </h3> + <p> + <br/> + </p> + <h2> + By John Galsworthy + </h2> + + <hr /> + + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <blockquote> + <p> + <br/> <br/> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> <big><b>INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE</b></big> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> V </a> + </p> + <p> + <br/> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> <big><b>IN CHANCERY</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PARTb1"> <b>PART 1</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER I—AT TIMOTHY’S </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER II—EXIT A MAN OF THE WORLD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER III—SOAMES PREPARES TO TAKE STEPS + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER IV—SOHO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER V—JAMES SEES VISIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER VI—NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER VII—THE COLT AND THE FILLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER VIII—JOLYON PROSECUTES + TRUSTEESHIP </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER IX—VAL HEARS THE NEWS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER X—SOAMES ENTERTAINS THE FUTURE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XI—AND VISITS THE PAST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XII—ON FORSYTE ’CHANGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XIII—JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XIV—SOAMES DISCOVERS WHAT HE + WANTS </a> + </p> + <p> + <br/> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PARTb2"> <b>PART II</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER I—THE THIRD GENERATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER II—SOAMES PUTS IT TO THE TOUCH + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER III—VISIT TO IRENE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER IV—WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER V—JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER VI—JOLYON IN TWO MINDS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER VII—DARTIE VERSUS DARTIE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER VIII—THE CHALLENGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER IX—DINNER AT JAMES’ </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER X—DEATH OF THE DOG BALTHASAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER XI—TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER XII—PROGRESS OF THE CHASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER XIII—“HERE WE ARE AGAIN!” + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER XIV—OUTLANDISH NIGHT </a> + </p> + <p> + <br/> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PARTb3"> <b>PART III</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER I—SOAMES IN PARIS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER II—IN THE WEB </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER III—RICHMOND PARK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER IV—OVER THE RIVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0065"> CHAPTER V—SOAMES ACTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0066"> CHAPTER VI—A SUMMER DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0067"> CHAPTER VII—A SUMMER NIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0068"> CHAPTER VIII—JAMES IN WAITING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0069"> CHAPTER IX—OUT OF THE WEB </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0070"> CHAPTER X—PASSING OF AN AGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0071"> CHAPTER XI—SUSPENDED ANIMATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0072"> CHAPTER XII—BIRTH OF A FORSYTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0073"> CHAPTER XIII—JAMES IS TOLD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0074"> CHAPTER XIV—HIS </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + + <hr /> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="titlpage2 (51K)" src="images/cover.jpg" width="100%" /><br/> + </div> + <p> + <br/> <br/> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="frontis2 (109K)" src="images/frontis2.jpg" width="100%" /><br/> + </div> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"></a> + THE FORSYTE SAGA—VOLUME II + </h2> + <h3> + By John Galsworthy + </h3> + <p class="center"> + TO ANDRÉ CHEVRILLON + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"></a> + INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE + </h2> +<p class="poem"> +“And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”<br/> + —Shakespeare +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"></a> + I + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Times</i>, 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let that dog touch your frock,” he said; “he’s + got wet feet. Come here, you!” + </p> + <p> + But the dog Balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand down + and stroked his head. Old Jolyon said quickly: + </p> + <p> + “I saw you at the opera the other night; you didn’t notice me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! I did.” + </p> + <p> + He felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: “Do you + think one could miss seeing you?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Where are you living now?” + </p> + <p> + “I have a little flat in Chelsea.” + </p> + <p> + He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear anything; + but the perverse word came out: + </p> + <p> + “Alone?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “All Alderneys,” he muttered; “they give the best milk. + This one’s a pretty creature. Woa, Myrtle!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “You must come up and have some dinner with me. I’ll send you + home in the carriage.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He rubbed his hands, and said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you do all day?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Teach music; I have another interest, too.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Why? What do you do for them?” + </p> + <p> + “Not much. I’ve no money to spare. I can only give sympathy + and food sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + Involuntarily old Jolyon’s hand sought his purse. He said hastily: + “How d’you get hold of them?” + </p> + <p> + “I go to a hospital.” + </p> + <p> + “A hospital! Phew!” + </p> + <p> + “What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of + beauty.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Times</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner’s in half an hour. You’d like to wash your + hands! I’ll take you to June’s room.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>his</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + He began to mount the stairs with her, slowly, for he felt his side. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Irene nodded. They passed on, up the gallery and entered a large room with + a small bed, and several windows. + </p> + <p> + “This is mine,” he said. The walls were covered with the + photographs of children and watercolour sketches, and he added doubtfully: + </p> + <p> + “These are Jo’s. The view’s first-rate. You can see the + Grand Stand at Epsom in clear weather.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But Holly <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The light was just failing when they went back into the music-room. And, + cigar in mouth, old Jolyon said: + </p> + <p> + “Play me some Chopin.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful!” He said: “Go on—more Chopin!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Again Irene stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like some Gluck? He used to write his music in a sunlit + garden, with a bottle of Rhine wine beside him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + And the dog Balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine them. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>this</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + When the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last, he said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “He’ll get you up in an hour and a quarter. Take this for your + <i>protégées</i>,” 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...!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"></a> + II + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the lady in grey.” What other ladies were there! Stodgy + chap! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Your mistress at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Say Mr. Jolyon Forsyte.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, will you come this way?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I was driving up,” he said. “Thought I’d look in + on you, and ask you how you got up the other night.” + </p> + <p> + And, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved. She was really glad to + see him, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the Park?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and strolled + towards the water. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve gone back to your maiden name, I see,” he said: + “I’m not sorry.” + </p> + <p> + She slipped her hand under his arm: “Has June forgiven me, Uncle + Jolyon?” + </p> + <p> + He answered gently: “Yes—yes; of course, why not?” + </p> + <p> + “And have you?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + She drew a deep breath. “I never regretted—I couldn’t. + Did you ever love very deeply, Uncle Jolyon?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Phil adored them.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He loved balance and symmetry; he loved the whole-hearted way + the Greeks gave themselves to art.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “You’re of the Golden Age, too, Uncle Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Phil thought so. He used to say: ‘But I can never tell him + that I admire him.’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He was a very talented young fellow,” he murmured. “It’s + hot; I feel the heat nowadays. Let’s sit down.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “He thought you had one of those hearts that never grow old. Phil + had real insight.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Love triumphs over everything!” + </p> + <p> + “The young think so,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Love has no age, no limit, and no death.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She still sat gazing straight before her, and suddenly she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “It’s strange enough that <i>I’m</i> alive.” + </p> + <p> + Those words of Jo’s “Wild and lost” came back to him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said: “my son saw you for a moment—that + day.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it your son? I heard a voice in the hall; I thought for a + second it was—Phil.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “One of <i>those?</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But old Jolyon was thinking: “No money!” What fate could + compare with that? Every other was involved in it. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you had come to me,” he said. “Why didn’t + you?” But Irene did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>him</i>. 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>were</i> 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 <i>protégées?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Now thanks to you, I can do something for her.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that.” + </p> + <p> + He was abashed by her quiet smile. “Well then—Sunday,” + he murmured: “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + She put her cheek forward for him to kiss. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"></a> + III + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>coming to lunch</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>too</i> 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: + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Uncle Jolyon; it was here that I first knew.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; there it is for you whenever you like. You’re + looking a little Londony; you’re giving too many lessons.” + </p> + <p> + That she should have to give lessons worried him. Lessons to a parcel of + young girls thumping out scales with their thick fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you go to give them?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “They’re mostly Jewish families, luckily.” + </p> + <p> + Old Jolyon stared; to all Forsytes Jews seem strange and doubtful. + </p> + <p> + “They love music, and they’re very kind.” + </p> + <p> + “They had better be, by George!” He took her arm—his + side always hurt him a little going uphill—and said: + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see anything like those buttercups? They came like + that in a night.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I expect <i>he</i> wouldn’t have let me put that there—had no + notion of time, if I remember.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Well, my darling, here’s the lady in grey I promised you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Heron, Mam’zelle Beauce. Well, Mam’zelle—good + sermon?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>will</i> scratch.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Does Soames never trouble you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a comfort,” he said. “You can see the + Grand Stand to-day. Shall we take a turn round?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s see you dance, you two!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Sweetest picture I’ve seen for ages.” + </p> + <p> + A voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Hollee! <i>Mais enfin—qu’est-ce que tu fais la—danser, + le dimanche! Viens, donc!</i>” + </p> + <p> + But the children came close to old Jolyon, knowing that he would save + them, and gazed into a face which was decidedly “caught out.” + </p> + <p> + “Better the day, better the deed, Mam’zelle. It’s all my + doing. Trot along, chicks, and have your tea.” + </p> + <p> + And, when they were gone, followed by the dog Balthasar, who took every + meal, he looked at Irene with a twinkle and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, there we are! Aren’t they sweet? Have you any little + ones among your pupils?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, three—two of them darlings.” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty?” + </p> + <p> + “Lovely!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I will.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I would like, very much; but there is—June. When are they + coming back?” + </p> + <p> + Old Jolyon frowned. “Not till the middle of next month. What does + that matter?” + </p> + <p> + “You said June had forgiven me; but she could never forget, Uncle + Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + Forget! She <i>must</i> forget, if he wanted her to. + </p> + <p> + But as if answering, Irene shook her head. “You know she couldn’t; + one doesn’t forget.” + </p> + <p> + Always that wretched past! And he said with a sort of vexed finality: + </p> + <p> + “Well, we shall see.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>real</i> 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “D<small>EAR</small> H<small>ERRING</small>,—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.” + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Yours faithfully,<br/> + “J<small>OLYON</small> F<small>ORSYTE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"></a> + IV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “M<small>Y DEAR</small> I<small>RENE</small>,—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 + ....”<br/> + 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....<br/> + “Let me have a line to-morrow morning to the Piedmont Hotel whether + to expect you there at 7 o’clock. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Yours affectionately,<br/> + “J<small>OLYON</small> F<small>ORSYTE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Did you ring, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” Her voice sounded frightened. + </p> + <p> + Old Jolyon made an effort. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why! You <i>are</i> in grey!” he said. “Help me up.” + Once on his feet he gave himself a shake. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t come down, Uncle; you must rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Fiddlesticks! A glass of champagne’ll soon set me to rights. + I can’t have you missing the opera.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I’m a pretty host.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I should have liked you for a daughter,” he said suddenly; + and watching the smile in her eyes, went on: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I made it myself.” + </p> + <p> + Ah! A woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her + interest in life. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>are</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” he said sharply, “who’s + there?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + And across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he passed + back within. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"></a> + V + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The opera that evening was “Carmen,” and he chose the last + <i>entr’acte</i> to break the news, instinctively putting it off till the + latest moment. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, dear Uncle Jolyon, you have been so sweet to me.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Look at the ‘lady in grey,’ Gran; isn’t she + pretty to-day?” + </p> + <p> + Old Jolyon’s heart gave a flutter, and for a second the room was + clouded; then it cleared, and he said with a twinkle: + </p> + <p> + “Who’s been dressing her up?” + </p> + <p> + “Mam’zelle.” + </p> + <p> + “Hollee! Don’t be foolish!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The train’s in, sir; but the lady ’asn’t come.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “D<small>EAREST</small> U<small>NCLE</small> J<small>OLYON</small>,—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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Lovingly your<br/> + I<small>RENE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “My love to you,<br/> + “J<small>OLYON</small> F<small>ORSYTE</small>.” + </p> + <p class="noindent"> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Times</i>, not reading much, the dog + Balthasar lying beside his bed. With his lunch they brought him a + telegram, running thus: + </p> + <p> + “Your letter received coming down this afternoon will be with you at + four-thirty. Irene.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But the thistledown was still as death, and the face of his old master. + </p> + <p> + Summer—summer—summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass! + 1917 + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"></a> + IN CHANCERY + </h2> +<p class="poem"> + Two households both alike in dignity,<br/> + From ancient grudge, break into new mutiny.<br/> + —<i>Romeo and Juliet</i> +</p> + <p class="center"> + TO JESSIE AND JOSEPH CONRAD + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_PARTb1" id="link2H_PARTb1"></a> + PART 1 + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"></a> + CHAPTER I<br/>AT TIMOTHY’S + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Irene!</i>” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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>I</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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fin de siècle</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>cachet</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>had</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley went on rather hastily: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Had Soames heard that? + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Your cousin Jolyon is a widower now. He is her trustee; you knew + that, of course?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Oh, Soames was not going already! + </p> + <p> + Soames smiled a little vindictively, and said: + </p> + <p> + “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...! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"></a> + CHAPTER II<br/>EXIT A MAN OF THE WORLD + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames turned his + face towards Green Street, what had not happened! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>myself</i>,” 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: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be a clown, Monty. Have you been to Scotland Yard?” + </p> + <p> + 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!) + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Thus had passed Montague Dartie in the forty-fifth year of his age from + the house which he had called his own. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Val’s got heaps of things,” Imogen answered. + </p> + <p> + “I know; but they want overhauling. I hope he’ll come.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll come like a shot, Mother. But he’ll probably skew + his Exam.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help that,” said Winifred. “I want him.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Call him Cato,” said George, “it’ll be damned + piquant!” He had just won a tenner on a horse of that name. + </p> + <p> + “Cato!” Dartie had replied—they were a little ‘on’ + as the phrase was even in those days—“it’s not a + Christian name.” + </p> + <p> + “Halo you!” George called to a waiter in knee breeches. + “Bring me the <i>Encyc’pedia Brit</i>. from the Library, letter C.” + </p> + <p> + The waiter brought it. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered: + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you <i>are</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying: + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps you’d better pay him, but you mustn’t + stand the tickets too.” + </p> + <p> + Val pocketed the fiver. + </p> + <p> + “If I do, I can’t,” he said. “Good-night, Mum!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> + young, after all. Her foot trod on his; she begged his pardon. He said: + </p> + <p> + “Not at all; jolly good ballet, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m tired of it; aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “He seems to know you!” The “bounder” spoke: + </p> + <p> + “H’llo!” he said. “You f’llows, look! There’s + my young rascal of a son!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"></a> + CHAPTER III<br/>SOAMES PREPARES TO TAKE STEPS + </h2> + <p> + 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, <i>savoir faire</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Soames read, on Iseeum Club paper, these words: + </p> + + <p class="letter"> + ‘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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + ‘M.D.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What’s it all about, now?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred recited the story of the pearls calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he’s really gone, Soames? You see the state he + was in when he wrote that.” + </p> + <p> + Soames who, when he desired a thing, placated Providence by pretending + that he did not think it likely to happen, answered: + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t think so. I might find out at his Club.” + </p> + <p> + “If George is there,” said Winifred, “he would know.” + </p> + <p> + “George?” said Soames; “I saw him at his father’s + funeral.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he’s sure to be there.” + </p> + <p> + Soames, whose good sense applauded his sister’s acumen, said + grudgingly: “Well, I’ll go round. Have you said anything in + Park Lane?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve told Emily,” returned Winifred, who retained that + “chic” way of describing her mother. “Father would have + a fit.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Soames! Have a muffin?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks,” murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the + desire to say something suitable and sympathetic, added: + </p> + <p> + “How’s your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said George; “so-so. Haven’t seen you + for ages. You never go racing. How’s the City?” + </p> + <p> + Soames, scenting the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered: + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to ask you about Dartie. I hear he’s....” + </p> + <p> + “Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola. Good for + Winifred and the little Darties. He’s a treat.” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. Naturally inimical as these cousins were, Dartie made them + kin. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle James’ll sleep in his bed now,” resumed George; + “I suppose he’s had a lot off you, too.” + </p> + <p> + Soames smiled. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Tuscarora;</i>” and, fishing + out a card, he read mockingly: + </p> + <p> + “‘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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Remember me to Winifred.... You’ll enter her for the Divorce + Stakes straight off if you ask me.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Val, receiving the idea with but moderate transports, Soames clinched it. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll call for you after lunch. It’s in the country—not + far; you’ll enjoy it.” + </p> + <p> + On the threshold of the drawing-room he recalled with an effort that the + steps he contemplated concerned Winifred at the moment, not himself. + </p> + <p> + Winifred was still sitting at her Buhl bureau. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred said in a dull voice: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. What is cruelty?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, has he struck you, or anything?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred shook herself, and her jaw grew square. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames; “no! I wonder! Of course, there’s + legal separation—we can get that. But separation! Um!” + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean?” asked Winifred desolately. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred shook her head. “It’s so beastly.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And into the chilly kiss he placed on her forehead, Soames put more than + his usual warmth. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"></a> + CHAPTER IV<br/>SOHO + </h2> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p class="center"> + FOR SALE<br/> + T<small>HE</small> L<small>EASE OF THIS</small> D<small>ESIRABLE</small> + R<small>ESIDENCE</small><br/> +<br/> + Enquire of Messrs. Lesson and Tukes, Court Street, Belgravia. +</p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Maman, Monsieur?</i>” in a broken accent. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Soames had answered, “I represent your landlord; + in fact, I’m his son.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you sit down, sir, please? Tell <i>Maman</i> to come to this + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Un Monsieur très distingué</i>,” Madame Lamotte found him; and + presently, “<i>Très amical, très gentil</i>,” watching his eyes upon + her daughter. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I just came in to talk to your mother about pulling down that + partition. No, don’t call her.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Monsieur</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “You look so pretty to-night,” he said, “so very pretty. + Do you know how pretty you look, Annette?” + </p> + <p> + Annette withdrew her hand, and blushed. “Monsieur is very good.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit good,” said Soames, and sat down gloomily. + </p> + <p> + Annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands; a smile was + crinkling her red lips untouched by salve. + </p> + <p> + And, looking at those lips, Soames said: + </p> + <p> + “Are you happy over here, or do you want to go back to France?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Annette clasped her hands. + </p> + <p> + “It will be lovelee. The river is so beautiful” + </p> + <p> + “That’s understood, then. I’ll ask Madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"></a> + CHAPTER V<br/>JAMES SEES VISIONS + </h2> + <p> + The butler himself opened the door, and closing it softly, detained Soames + on the inner mat. + </p> + <p> + “The master’s poorly, sir,” he murmured. “He + wouldn’t go to bed till you came in. He’s still in the + diningroom.” + </p> + <p> + Soames responded in the hushed tone to which the house was now accustomed. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with him, Warmson?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Soames hung his hat on a mahogany stag’s-horn. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Warmson, you can go to bed; I’ll take him up + myself.” And he passed into the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + 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; <i>he grudged the diminution of security</i>. 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: + </p> + <p> + “Have you had a nice nap, James?” + </p> + <p> + Nap! He was in torment, and she asked him that! + </p> + <p> + “What’s this about Dartie?” he said, and his eyes glared + at her. + </p> + <p> + Emily’s self-possession never deserted her. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been hearing?” she asked blandly. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this about Dartie?” repeated James. “He’s + gone bankrupt.” + </p> + <p> + “Fiddle!” + </p> + <p> + James made a great effort, and rose to the full height of his stork-like + figure. + </p> + <p> + “You never tell me anything,” he said; “he’s gone + bankrupt.” + </p> + <p> + The destruction of that fixed idea seemed to Emily all that mattered at + the moment. + </p> + <p> + “He has not,” she answered firmly. “He’s gone to + Buenos Aires.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s he gone there for?” he said. “He’s + got no money. What did he take?” + </p> + <p> + Agitated within by Winifred’s news, and goaded by the constant + reiteration of this jeremiad, Emily said calmly: + </p> + <p> + “He took Winifred’s pearls and a dancer.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” said James, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + His sudden collapse alarmed her, and smoothing his forehead, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Now, don’t fuss, James!” + </p> + <p> + A dusky red had spread over James’ cheeks and forehead. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Drink this,” she said. + </p> + <p> + James waved it aside. + </p> + <p> + “What was Winifred about,” he said, “to let him take her + pearls?” Emily perceived the crisis past. + </p> + <p> + “She can have mine,” she said comfortably. “I never wear + them. She’d better get a divorce.” + </p> + <p> + “There you go!” said James. “Divorce! We’ve never + had a divorce in the family. Where’s Soames?” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll be in directly.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he won’t,” said James, almost fiercely; “he’s + at the funeral. You think I know nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “There you are! Dartie’s gone to Buenos Aires.” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. “That’s all right,” he said; “good + riddance.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “At my age I get nervous. I wish you were more at home, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + James looked up; his long white whiskers quivered, his thin throat between + the points of his collar looked very gristly and naked. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been very poorly all day,” he said; “they + never tell me anything.” + </p> + <p> + Soames’ heart twitched. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, my boy,” said James at his bedroom door. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I want a son,” he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed; + “<i>I want a son</i>.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"></a> + CHAPTER VI<br/>NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>protégés;</i> 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: + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + And Jolly had said: + </p> + <p> + “All right, Dad, I won’t,” and he never had. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MR. SOAMES FORSYTE + + THE SHELTER, CONNOISSEURS CLUB, + MAPLEDURHAM. ST. JAMES’S. +</pre> + <p> + But here the Forsyte Saga must digress again.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right!” he had thought. “We should all like to + go out in full summer with beauty stepping towards us across a lawn.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember ‘the lady in grey,’ who used to give + you music-lessons?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, why? Has she come?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I’m sorry Jolly’s away. What college?” + </p> + <p> + “B.N.C.,” replied Val. + </p> + <p> + “Jolly’s at the ‘House,’ but he’ll be + delighted to look you up.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks awfully.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + With another “Thanks, awfully!” Val vanished, leaving the two + cousins with the ice unbroken. + </p> + <p> + “I see you’ve some drawings at the ‘Water Colours,’” + said Soames. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Twelve years is a long time,” said Soames rapidly: “I—I’m + tired of it.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon found no more appropriate answer than: + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon himself lit a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to be free,” said Soames abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see her,” murmured Jolyon through the fume of + his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “But you know where she lives, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon nodded. He did not mean to give her address without permission. + Soames seemed to divine his thought. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want her address,” he said; “I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “What exactly do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “She deserted me. I want a divorce.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather late in the day, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Soames. And there was a silence. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Soames raised his eyes to his cousin’s face. “I suppose there’s + someone,” he said. + </p> + <p> + A shrug moved Jolyon’s shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>The Times</i> in his hand. It vanished. + </p> + <p> + “My father was fond of her,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “I can go and see her, if you like,” he said. “I suppose + she might be glad of a divorce, but I know nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"></a> + CHAPTER VII<br/>THE COLT AND THE FILLY + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Holly, whose slim brown hand remained in his because she was too shy to + withdraw it, said: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know any of my relations. Are there many?” + </p> + <p> + “Tons. They’re awful—most of them. At least, I don’t + know—some of them. One’s relations always are, aren’t + they?” + </p> + <p> + “I expect they think one awful too,” said Holly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why they should. No one could think you awful, + of course.” + </p> + <p> + Holly looked at him—the wistful candour in those grey eyes gave + young Val a sudden feeling that he must protect her. + </p> + <p> + “I mean there are people and people,” he added astutely. + “Your dad looks awfully decent, for instance.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes!” said Holly fervently; “he is.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “What are they?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! fearfully careful; not sportsmen a bit. Look at Uncle Soames!” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to,” said Holly. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Does he sit on you?” said Val shrewdly. “I shall be + knowing him at Oxford. Have you got any horses?” + </p> + <p> + Holly nodded. “Would you like to see the stables?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Balthasar! That’s a rum name. He isn’t purebred you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “When grandfather died,” she said, “he wouldn’t + eat for two days. He saw him die, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Was that old Uncle Jolyon? Mother always says he was a topper.” + </p> + <p> + “He was,” said Holly simply, and opened the stable door. + </p> + <p> + In a loose-box stood a silver roan of about fifteen hands, with a long + black tail and mane. “This is mine—Fairy.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Holly. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I say, if I hire a gee to-morrow, will you come a ride in Richmond + Park?” + </p> + <p> + Holly clasped her hands. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Val looked doubtfully at his trousered legs. + </p> + <p> + He had imagined them immaculate before her eyes in high brown boots and + Bedford cords. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Cruel?” ejaculated Val. “Oh! that’s all rot. Who’s + June?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This is a ripping place,” said Val from under the oak tree, + where they had paused to allow the dog Balthasar to come up. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Holly, and sighed. “Of course I want to go + everywhere. I wish I were a gipsy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, gipsies are jolly,” replied Val, with a conviction which + had just come to him; “you’re rather like one, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Holly’s face shone suddenly and deeply, like dark leaves gilded by + the sun. + </p> + <p> + “To go mad-rabbiting everywhere and see everything, and live in the + open—oh! wouldn’t it be fun?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s do it!” said Val. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, let’s!” + </p> + <p> + “It’d be grand sport, just you and I.” + </p> + <p> + Then Holly perceived the quaintness and gushed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we’ve got to do it,” said Val obstinately, but + reddening too. + </p> + <p> + “I believe in doing things you want to do. What’s down there?” + </p> + <p> + “The kitchen-garden, and the pond and the coppice, and the farm.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go down!” + </p> + <p> + Holly glanced back at the house. + </p> + <p> + “It’s tea-time, I expect; there’s Dad beckoning.” + </p> + <p> + Val, uttering a growly sound, followed her towards the house. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “And how’s Uncle James?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, very shaky.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “We aren’t the men they were, you know.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Soames took out his watch. + </p> + <p> + “We must go,” he said, “if we’re to catch our + train.” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Soames never misses a train,” muttered Val, with his + mouth full. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I?” Soames answered simply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I don’t know,” grumbled Val, “other people + do.” + </p> + <p> + At the front door he gave Holly’s slim brown hand a long and + surreptitious squeeze. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"></a> + CHAPTER VIII<br/>JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>is</i> the best?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat, asking if Irene would see + him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you sit down?” + </p> + <p> + He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of + embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “You look absolutely unchanged,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “And you look younger, Cousin Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still a comfort + to him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “When did you see me for the first time?” + </p> + <p> + “In the Botanical Gardens.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you know me, if you’d never seen me before?” + </p> + <p> + “By someone who came up to you.” He was looking at her + hardily, but her face did not change; and she said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Yes; many lives ago.” + </p> + <p> + “What is <i>your</i> recipe for youth, Irene?” + </p> + <p> + “People who don’t <i>live</i> are wonderfully preserved.” + </p> + <p> + H’m! a bitter little saying! People who don’t live! But an + opening, and he took it. “You remember my Cousin Soames?” + </p> + <p> + He saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality, and at once went on: + </p> + <p> + “He came to see me the day before yesterday! He wants a divorce. Do + you?” + </p> + <p> + “I?” The word seemed startled out of her. “After twelve + years? It’s rather late. Won’t it be difficult?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon looked hard into her face. “Unless....” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Unless I have a lover now. But I have never had one since.” + </p> + <p> + What did he feel at the simplicity and candour of those words? Relief, + surprise, pity! Venus for twelve years without a lover! + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” he said, “I suppose you would give a good + deal to be free, too?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. What does it matter, now?” + </p> + <p> + “But if you were to love again?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well! Is there anything you would like me to say to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that I’m sorry he’s not free. He had his chance + once. I don’t know why he didn’t take it.” + </p> + <p> + “Because he was a Forsyte; we never part with things, you know, + unless we want something in their place; and not always then.” + </p> + <p> + Irene smiled. “Don’t you, Cousin Jolyon?—I think you do.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what does Soames want in place of me now?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; perhaps children.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent for a little, looking down. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she murmured; “it’s hard. I would help him + to be free if I could.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + The word “Poultry” above the passing citizens brought him back + to reality. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I want Mr. Soames Forsyte,” he said to the boy who opened the + door. + </p> + <p> + “What name?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Jolyon Forsyte.” + </p> + <p> + The youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a Forsyte with a + beard, and vanished. + </p> + <p> + The offices of “Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte” had slowly + absorbed the offices of “Tooting and Bowles,” and occupied the + whole of the first floor. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>versus</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.... + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen her.” + </p> + <p> + Soames frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “She has remained faithful to memory.” + </p> + <p> + Having said that, Jolyon was ashamed. His cousin had flushed a dusky + yellowish red. What had made him tease the poor brute! + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” he said gently, “it lies with yourself. A man + can always put these things through if he’ll take it on himself.” + </p> + <p> + Soames turned square to him, with a sound which seemed to come from + somewhere very deep. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I suffer more than I’ve suffered already? Why + should I?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon could only shrug his shoulders. His reason agreed, his instinct + rebelled; he could not have said why. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “After all,” said Soames with a sort of glum fierceness, + “she was my wife.” + </p> + <p> + In a flash the thought went through his listener: “There it is! + Ownerships! Well, we all own things. But—human beings! Pah!” + </p> + <p> + “You have to look at facts,” he said drily, “or rather + the want of them.” + </p> + <p> + Soames gave him another quick suspicious look. + </p> + <p> + “The want of them?” he said. “Yes, but I am not so sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” replied Jolyon; “I’ve told + you what she said. It was explicit.” + </p> + <p> + “My experience has not been one to promote blind confidence in her + word. We shall see.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon got up. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” he said curtly. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"></a> + CHAPTER IX<br/>VAL HEARS THE NEWS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “He’d better be told.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “All right, Mother, don’t tell me! Only, what does it mean?” + </p> + <p> + “A divorce, Val, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It won’t be public, will it?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t it be done quietly somehow? It’s so disgusting + for—for mother, and—and everybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything will be done as quietly as it can, you may be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but, why is it necessary at all? Mother doesn’t + want to marry again.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Do you, Mother?” he said sharply. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Soames slowly passed a little inlaid paperknife over the smooth surface of + a marqueterie table; then, without looking at his nephew, he began: + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell him?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Soames spoke in a rapid, even voice: + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “He took your mother’s pearls to give to her.” + </p> + <p> + Val jerked up his hand, then. At that signal of distress Winifred cried + out: + </p> + <p> + “That’ll do, Soames—stop!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Val freed his hand. + </p> + <p> + “But—you’re—never going to bring out that about + the pearls! I couldn’t stand that—I simply couldn’t!” + </p> + <p> + Winifred cried out: + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “Can’t mother be protected without?” he said. “I + could look after her. It could always be done later if it was really + necessary.” + </p> + <p> + A smile played for a moment round Soames’ lips, and became bitter. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know what you’re talking of; nothing’s + so fatal as delay in such matters.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, boy, nothing’s so fatal. I know from experience.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! my dear boy,” murmured Winifred, “it <i>is</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t tell—not for months. We must get restitution + first.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Awfully sorry, mother, I’ve got to go out to dinner now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Warmson, any dinner for me, d’you think?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Val grinned. + </p> + <p> + “Well, here I am. Kill the fatted calf, Warmson, let’s have + fizz.” + </p> + <p> + Warmson smiled faintly—in his opinion Val was a young limb. + </p> + <p> + “I will ask Mrs. Forsyte, Master Val.” + </p> + <p> + “I say,” Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, “I’m + not at school any more, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond the stag’s-horn + coat stand, with the words: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Valerus, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Confound him!” thought Val, entering. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you let us know? There’s only saddle of + mutton. Champagne, Warmson,” said Emily. And they went in. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “It’s pretty brutal at home, Granny. I suppose you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear boy.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, my dear!” murmured Emily; “we’re keeping it + from your grandfather.” + </p> + <p> + James’ voice sounded from the other end. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that? What are you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + “About Val’s college,” returned Emily. “Young + Pariser was there, James; you remember—he nearly broke the Bank at + Monte Carlo afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What I’m afraid of,” said Val to his plate, “is + of being hard up, you know.” + </p> + <p> + By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of + insecurity for his grandchildren. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, + “you’ll have a good allowance; but you must keep within it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” murmured Val; “if it is good. How much will + it be, Grandfather?” + </p> + <p> + “Three hundred and fifty; it’s too much. I had next to nothing + at your age.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you?” asked Val hardily. + </p> + <p> + “I?” replied James, flustered. “I’ve got so many + expenses. Your father....” and he was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Cousin Jolyon’s got an awfully jolly place. I went down there + with Uncle Soames—ripping stables.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught James’ + ear. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, James,” said Emily, “eat your dinner. Nobody’s + been seeing anybody.” + </p> + <p> + James put down his fork. + </p> + <p> + “There you go,” he said. “I might die before you’d + tell me of it. Is Soames getting a divorce?” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense,” said Emily with incomparable aplomb; “Soames + is much too sensible.” + </p> + <p> + James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers + together on the skin and bone of it. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Tell us about Uncle Soames, Granny. Why is he so keen on mother’s + getting a divorce?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he?” muttered Val. “But what did become of Aunt + Irene? I remember she was jolly good-looking.” + </p> + <p> + “She—er....” said Emily, “behaved very badly. We + don’t talk about it.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"></a> + CHAPTER X<br/>SOAMES ENTERTAINS THE FUTURE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Madame was in sedate French raptures. “<i>Adorable! Le soleil est si + bon!</i> How everything is <i>chic</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + At tea, which they both took with lemon, Soames spoke of the Transvaal. + </p> + <p> + “There’ll be war,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Madame Lamotte lamented. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ces pauvres gens bergers!</i>” Could they not be left to + themselves? + </p> + <p> + Soames smiled—the question seemed to him absurd. + </p> + <p> + Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could not + abandon their legitimate commercial interests. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “The Boers are only half-civilised,” remarked Soames; “they + stand in the way of progress. It will never do to let our suzerainty go.” + </p> + <p> + “What does that mean to say? Suzerainty!” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “I think Monsieur is right. They should be taught a lesson.” + She was sensible! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Meissonier! Ah! What a jewel!” Soames took advantage of that + moment. Very gently touching Annette’s arm, he said: + </p> + <p> + “How do you like my place, Annette?” + </p> + <p> + She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked down, + and murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Who would not like it? It is so beautiful!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps some day—” Soames said, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By moonlight + too, the river must be ravishing! + </p> + <p> + Annette murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Thou art sentimental, <i>Maman!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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...! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. “<i>Bon soir, monsieur!</i>” 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"></a> + CHAPTER XI<br/>AND VISITS THE PAST + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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>I</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! + </p> + <p> + “Say, Mr. Forsyte,” he said, “your mistress will see me, + I know.” He had thought this out; she would think it was Jolyon! + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Will you walk in, sir?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” he heard her whisper. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s a queer visit! I hope you’re well.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. Will you sit down?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with + silver-coloured stuff, close to where he was standing. + </p> + <p> + “You have not changed,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No? What have you come for?” + </p> + <p> + “To discuss things.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard what you want from your cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I am willing. I have always been.” + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on + which I can act. The law must be complied with.” + </p> + <p> + “I have none to give you that you don’t know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Twelve years! Do you suppose I can believe that?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t suppose you will believe anything I say; but it’s + the truth.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you’re comfortably off now?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you let me provide for you? I would have, in spite + of everything.” + </p> + <p> + A faint smile came on her lips; but she did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Why do that?” he said sharply. “You’ll catch cold + in that dress. I’m not dangerous.” And he uttered a little sad + laugh. + </p> + <p> + She echoed it—faintly, bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “It was—habit.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather odd habit,” said Soames as bitterly. “Shut the + window!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Funny sensation this! He ought to hate her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>have</i> told you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me there has been nothing—nobody?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody. You must go to your own life.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That won’t do,” he said. “You deserted me. In + common justice it’s for you....” + </p> + <p> + He saw her shrug those white shoulders, heard her murmur: + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Why didn’t you divorce me then? Should I have cared?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why couldn’t you have made me a good wife?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Take it. I don’t want it.” + </p> + <p> + Soames put it back on the shelf. + </p> + <p> + “Will you shake hands?” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"></a> + CHAPTER XII<br/>ON FORSYTE ’CHANGE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Soames, that went off all right.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Bound to come,” murmured Soames. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Again Soames nodded. If there was a subject on which the Forsytes really + agreed, it was the character of Montague Dartie. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m advising her,” he said shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Nicholas, “the brougham’s waiting; I + must get home. I’m very poorly. Remember me to your father.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “A man can always work these things, if he’ll take it on + himself,” Jolyon had said. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of it, Warmson?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You, Warmson? Why, I didn’t know you were married.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. I don’t talk of it. I expect he’ll be going + out.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” said Soames, “it’s not a fire. The + Boers have declared war—that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Emily stopped her spraying. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” was all she said, and looked at James. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “H’m!” he muttered suddenly, “I shan’t live + to see the end of this.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, James! It’ll be over by Christmas.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “They ought to send out Roberts. It all comes from that fellow + Gladstone and his Majuba.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mark my words!” said James, “consols will go to par. + For all I know, Val may go and enlist.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, James!” cried Emily, “you talk as if there + were danger.” + </p> + <p> + Her comfortable voice seemed to soothe James for once. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + (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: + </p> + <p> + “Kettle and pot, Uncle Nicholas. What price the Uitlanders?” + What price, indeed! A new expression, and believed to be due to her + brother George. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>mots</i>, scandalising, and so + frequently repeated: + </p> + <p> + “Well, his father’s a Scotchman, and his mother’s a cat.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + But at this moment occurred one of those sensations—so precious at + Timothy’s—which great occasions sometimes bring forth: + </p> + <p> + “Miss June Forsyte.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>them</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The silence of sensation was broken by Francie saying: + </p> + <p> + “What? Are you a pro-Boer?” (undoubtedly the first use of that + expression). + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Dear June is so original. Fancy, Soames, she thinks the Boers are + not to blame.” + </p> + <p> + “They only want their independence,” said June; “and why + shouldn’t they have it?” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” answered Soames, with his smile a little on one + side, “they happen to have agreed to our suzerainty.” + </p> + <p> + “Suzerainty!” repeated June scornfully; “we shouldn’t + like anyone’s suzerainty over us.” + </p> + <p> + “They got advantages in payment,” replied Soames; “a + contract is a contract.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Soames sniffed. “That’s mere sentiment,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hester, to whom nothing was more awful than any kind of disagreement, + here leaned forward and remarked decisively: + </p> + <p> + “What lovely weather it has been for the time of year?” + </p> + <p> + But June was not to be diverted. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Have you bought any pictures lately, Soames?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “One or two,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Oh, yes, Soames knew his work. It was in his view “splashy,” + and would never get hold of the public. + </p> + <p> + June blazed up. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it won’t; that’s the last thing one would + wish for. I thought you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” said Francie, “because <i>you</i> like them.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The third sensation came before anyone had time to speak: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. James Forsyte.” + </p> + <p> + James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat which gave + him a fictitious bulk. + </p> + <p> + Everyone stood up. James was so old; and he had not been at Timothy’s + for nearly two years. + </p> + <p> + “It’s hot in here,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the meaning of that?” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I’d come and see for myself. What have they + answered Kruger?” + </p> + <p> + Soames took out an evening paper, and read the headline. + </p> + <p> + “‘Instant action by our Government—state of war + existing!’” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said James, and sighed. “I was afraid they’d + cut and run like old Gladstone. We shall finish with them this time.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Timothy?” said James. “He ought to pay + attention to this.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “The Boers are a hard nut to crack, Uncle James.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m!” muttered James. “Where do you get your + information? Nobody tells me.” + </p> + <p> + Young Nicholas remarked in his mild voice that Nick (his eldest) was now + going to drill regularly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see him again; he was rather a dear.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He’s going grey,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Indeed! Had Soames seen him? Soames nodded, and the pink vanished. + </p> + <p> + James said suddenly: “Well—I don’t know, I can’t + tell.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Timothy,” she said in a low voice, “Timothy has bought + a map, and he’s put in—he’s put in three flags.” + </p> + <p> + Timothy had...! A sigh went round the company. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"></a> + CHAPTER XIII<br/>JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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>I</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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “A lady to see you, sir; Mrs. Heron.” + </p> + <p> + Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picture-gallery, as it was + still called, he saw Irene standing over by the window. + </p> + <p> + She came towards him saying: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and + garden. I always used to come that way to see Uncle Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + “You couldn’t trespass here,” replied Jolyon; “history + makes that impossible. I was just thinking of you.” + </p> + <p> + Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere + spirituality—serener, completer, more alluring. + </p> + <p> + “History!” she answered; “I once told Uncle Jolyon that + love was for ever. Well, it isn’t. Only aversion lasts.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!’” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What more?” + </p> + <p> + “He asked me to shake hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. When he came in I’m sure he didn’t want to; he + changed while he was there.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I know no woman I could ask; and I can’t take a lover to + order, Cousin Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Truly?” + </p> + <p> + “Truly. I’ll be ready in five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she did + with her days. + </p> + <p> + Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano, + translated from the French. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe that,” said Jolyon. “Do you know + many people?” + </p> + <p> + “Very few.” + </p> + <p> + At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door of her + mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said: + </p> + <p> + “You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let + me know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” she answered softly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” thought Jolyon; “Soames himself! What’s + <i>he</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hansom!” he said. “Engaged? Hallo!” + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” answered Jolyon. “You?” + </p> + <p> + The quick suspicion on his cousin’s face, white in the lamplight, + decided him. + </p> + <p> + “I can give you a lift,” he said, “if you’re going + West.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” answered Soames, and got in. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been seeing Irene,” said Jolyon when the cab had + started. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “You went to see her yesterday yourself, I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “I did,” said Soames; “she’s my wife, you know.” + </p> + <p> + The tone, the half-lifted sneering lip, roused sudden anger in Jolyon; but + he subdued it. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re very good to warn me,” said Soames, “but I + have not made up my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>She</i> has,” said Jolyon, looking straight before him; “you + can’t take things up, you know, as they were twelve years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “That remains to be seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” said Jolyon, “she’s in a damnable + position, and I am the only person with any legal say in her affairs.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” exclaimed Jolyon; and a shiver went through his whole + body. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” ejaculated Jolyon, and he uttered a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “It would be the best thing that could happen to her in many ways.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “As I say,” said Soames, “I have not made up my mind. I + shall be obliged if you will kindly leave her quite alone.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon bit his lips; he who had always hated rows almost welcomed the + thought of one now. + </p> + <p> + “I can give you no such promise,” he said shortly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! <i>He</i> + 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!” + </p> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"></a> + CHAPTER XIV<br/>SOAMES DISCOVERS WHAT HE WANTS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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). + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been dining here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Another little cup of very special coffee, <i>monsieur;</i> a liqueur, + Grand Marnier?” and Madame Lamotte rose to order these delicacies. + </p> + <p> + Alone with Annette Soames said, “Well, Annette?” with a + defensive little smile about his lips. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Annette looked up at him for a moment, looked down, and played with her + fork. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, “I do not like it.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said calmly, “you’re young. There’s + everything before <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Annette shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I think sometimes there is nothing before me but hard work. I am + not so in love with work as mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother is a wonder,” said Soames, faintly mocking; + “she will never let failure lodge in her house.” + </p> + <p> + Annette sighed. “It must be wonderful to be rich.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! You’ll be rich some day,” answered Soames, still + with that faint mockery; “don’t be afraid.” + </p> + <p> + Annette shrugged her shoulders. “<i>Monsieur</i> is very kind.” And + between her pouting lips she put a chocolate. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear,” thought Soames, “they’re very + pretty.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Lamotte, with coffee and liqueur, put an end to that colloquy. + Soames did not stay long. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>should</i> 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_PARTb2" id="link2H_PARTb2"></a> + PART II + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"></a> + CHAPTER I<br/>THE THIRD GENERATION + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” said Jolly. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” replied Val. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. “<i>Rouge gagne, impair, et + manque!</i>” He had not seen him again. + </p> + <p> + “Come in to the Frying-pan and have tea,” said Jolly, and they + went in. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tea and buttered buns, waiter, please,” said Jolly. + </p> + <p> + “Have one of my cigarettes?” said Val. “I saw you last + night. How did you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t play.” + </p> + <p> + “I won fifteen quid.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap. He’s an + awful fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I don’t know,” said Val, as one might speak in + defence of a disparaged god; “he’s a pretty good sport.” + </p> + <p> + They exchanged whiffs in silence. + </p> + <p> + “You met my people, didn’t you?” said Jolly. “They’re + coming up to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Val grew a little red. + </p> + <p> + “Really! I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester November + handicap.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, I only take interest in the classic races.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t make any money over them,” said Val. + </p> + <p> + “I hate the ring,” said Jolly; “there’s such a row + and stink. I like the paddock.” + </p> + <p> + “I like to back my judgment,” answered Val. + </p> + <p> + Jolly smiled; his smile was like his father’s. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t got any. I always lose money if I bet.” + </p> + <p> + “You have to buy experience, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but it’s all messed-up with doing people in the eye.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, or they’ll do you—that’s the + excitement.” + </p> + <p> + Jolly looked a little scornful. + </p> + <p> + “What do you do with yourself? Row?” + </p> + <p> + “No—ride, and drive about. I’m going to play polo next + term, if I can get my granddad to stump up.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s old Uncle James, isn’t it? What’s he like?” + </p> + <p> + “Older than forty hills,” said Val, “and always thinking + he’s going to be ruined.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose my granddad and he were brothers.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe any of that old lot were sportsmen,” + said Val; “they must have worshipped money.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine didn’t!” said Jolly warmly. + </p> + <p> + Val flipped the ash off his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Money’s only fit to spend,” he said; “I wish the + deuce I had more.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where are your people going to stay?” asked Val, elaborately + casual. + </p> + <p> + “‘Rainbow.’ What do you think of the war?” + </p> + <p> + “Rotten, so far. The Boers aren’t sports a bit. Why don’t + they come out into the open?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should they? They’ve got everything against them except + their way of fighting. I rather admire them.” + </p> + <p> + “They can ride and shoot,” admitted Val, “but they’re + a lousy lot. Do you know Crum?” + </p> + <p> + “Of Merton? Only by sight. He’s in that fast set too, isn’t + he? Rather La-di-da and Brummagem.” + </p> + <p> + Val said fixedly: “He’s a friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>summum + bonum</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + And Val, finishing his bun, was thinking: “He’s rather a young + beast!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, I’ll ask them.” + </p> + <p> + “Would they lunch? I’ve got rather a decent scout.” + </p> + <p> + Jolly doubted if they would have time. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll ask them, though?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather. What time?” + </p> + <p> + “Seven-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + “Dress?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” And they parted, a subtle antagonism alive within them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Holly’s rather sallow face had become suffused with pink. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon took refuge in a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Ask Holly,” he said; “she saw his uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>liked</i> Val,” Holly answered, staring at the ground before + her; “his uncle looked—awfully different.” She stole a + glance at Jolly from under her lashes. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “No, Dad,” said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly said: + “It’s fascinating, Dad.” + </p> + <p> + None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “I never said anything about our ride, Val.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather not! It’s just between us.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do tell me about Oxford. It must be ever so lovely.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance dropped. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t forgotten,” he said, suddenly gathering + courage, “that we’re going mad-rabbiting together?” + </p> + <p> + Holly smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! That was only make-believe. One can’t do that sort of + thing after one’s grown up, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, Holly shook + her head. “It won’t come off,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t it!” said Val fervently; “who’s going + to stop it? Not your father or your brother.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “D<small>EAR</small> J<small>OLYON</small>,<br/> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Yours affectionately,<br/> + “I<small>RENE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"></a> + CHAPTER II<br/>SOAMES PUTS IT TO THE TOUCH + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>he</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Times</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Soames flinched. He had not expected such a challenge to disclose the + secret in his heart. And Emily, who saw him wince, said: + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, James; don’t talk like that!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, breathless. “I + happened to see you. Let me come in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Why have you come again? Didn’t you understand that I would + rather you did not?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “It’s your birthday. I brought you this,” and he held + out to her the green morocco case. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! No-no!” + </p> + <p> + Soames pressed the clasp; the seven stones gleamed out on the pale grey + velvet. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” he said. “Just as a sign that you don’t + bear me ill-feeling any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Soames took it out of the case. + </p> + <p> + “Let me just see how it looks.” + </p> + <p> + She shrank back. + </p> + <p> + He followed, thrusting his hand with the brooch in it against the front of + her dress. She shrank again. + </p> + <p> + Soames dropped his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Irene,” he said, “let bygones be bygones. If <i>I</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. + </p> + <p> + She, who was standing literally with her back against the wall, gave a + little gulp, and that was all her answer. Soames went on: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He saw her face quiver ironically. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Irene seemed to try, but did not succeed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not too late,” he said; “it’s not—if + you’ll only believe it.” + </p> + <p> + Irene uncovered her lips, and both her hands made a writhing gesture in + front of her breast. Soames seized them. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “I am alone here. You won’t behave again as you once behaved.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And almost with surprise he heard her say: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Soames stared at her. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he said again, “as bad as that? Indeed! You would + rather die. That’s pretty!” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry. You wanted me to answer. I can’t help the truth, + can I?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The truth!” he said; “there’s no such thing with + women. It’s nerves—nerves.” + </p> + <p> + He heard the whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Yes; nerves don’t lie. Haven’t you discovered that?” + He was silent, obsessed by the thought: “I <i>will</i> hate this woman. I + <i>will</i> 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever think of anybody but yourself?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Irene’s lips quivered; then she answered slowly: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Her answer was a long sigh. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + That whisper from across the room maddened Soames afresh. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"></a> + CHAPTER III<br/>VISIT TO IRENE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Only the income, fortunately, my love.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A small Gallery,” murmured Jolyon, “seems a modest + desire. But your grandfather foresaw it.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But can’t I borrow the money?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon shook his head. “You could rent a Gallery, no doubt, if you + could manage it out of your income.” + </p> + <p> + June uttered a contemptuous sound. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and have no income left to help anybody with.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child,” murmured Jolyon, “wouldn’t it + come to the same thing?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Names worth making make themselves in time.” + </p> + <p> + “When they’re dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having his + name made?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you,” said June, pressing his arm. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + June came closer to him in the cab. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + June looked at him with admiring appraisement. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Jolyon’s face expressed quizzical despair. + </p> + <p> + “Where is this desirable Gallery? Splendidly situated, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Just off Cork Street.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” thought Jolyon, “I knew it was just off somewhere. + Now for what I want out of <i>her!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most calculated + to rouse June’s interest. + </p> + <p> + “Irene! I haven’t seen her since! Of course! I’d love to + help her.” + </p> + <p> + It was Jolyon’s turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration for this + spirited, generous-hearted little creature of his begetting. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t bear Soames,” said June as she got out; “he + sneers at everything that isn’t successful.” + </p> + <p> + Irene was in what was called the “Ladies’ drawing-room” + of the Piedmont Hotel. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So Soames has been worrying you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I had a visit from him last night; he wants me to go back to him.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not going, of course?” cried June. + </p> + <p> + Irene smiled faintly and shook her head. “But his position is + horrible,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “It’s his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he + could.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon remembered how fervently in the old days June had hoped that no + divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover’s name. + </p> + <p> + “Let us hear what Irene <i>is</i> going to do,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Irene’s lips quivered, but she spoke calmly. + </p> + <p> + “I’d better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me.” + </p> + <p> + “How horrible!” cried June. + </p> + <p> + “What else can I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Out of the question,” said Jolyon very quietly, “<i>sans + amour</i>.” + </p> + <p> + He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she half turned + her back on them, and stood regaining control of herself. + </p> + <p> + June said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone. + What does he want at his age?” + </p> + <p> + “A child. It’s not unnatural” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring June—her + violent partizanship was fighting Soames’ battle. + </p> + <p> + “It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill, and + see how things shape.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said June; “only....” + </p> + <p> + Irene looked full at Jolyon—in all his many attempts afterwards to + analyze that glance he never could succeed. + </p> + <p> + “No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad.” + </p> + <p> + He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant thought flashed + through him: “Well, I could see her there.” But he said: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he + followed?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I can but try.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you want money?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “And would you like me to let your flat?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Jolyon, please.” + </p> + <p> + “When shall you be going?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t go back there in the meantime, will you?” + This he said with an anxiety strange to himself. + </p> + <p> + “No; I’ve got all I want here.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll send me your address?” + </p> + <p> + She put out her hand to him. “I feel you’re a rock.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think of him,” she said under her breath; “enjoy + yourself, and bless you!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"></a> + CHAPTER IV<br/>WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take steps to know where I am,” he thought; + “I’ll go to Polteed’s the first thing tomorrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was too insulting to himself! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed. He knows me—never mind my + name.” + </p> + <p> + To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was reduced to + having his wife spied on, was the overpowering consideration. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door with a + certain ostentation. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his eyes over + it, and locked the drawer up again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said; “the very woman.” + </p> + <p> + Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs—nothing but a faint + flush, which might have been his normal complexion, betrayed him. + </p> + <p> + “Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat C, + Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Deal with any reports yourself,” resumed Soames, “and + send them to me personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. My + client exacts the utmost secrecy.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Make his mind perfectly easy,” he said. “Do you smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Polteed nodded. “I can put it into the cipher category. Under + that system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers.” + </p> + <p> + He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote on them, + and handed one to Soames. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames; “that is—every consideration + compatible.” + </p> + <p> + Again Mr. Polteed nodded. “Expense?” + </p> + <p> + Soames shrugged. “In reason,” he answered curtly, and got up. + “Keep it entirely in your own hands.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning,” said Soames, looking neither to right nor + left. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “D<small>EAR</small> M<small>ONTAGUE</small>,<br/> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Your still affectionate wife,<br/> + “W<small>INIFRED</small> D<small>ARTIE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? <i>Must</i> it be in the papers? It’s so bad for him, and the + girls.” + </p> + <p> + With his own calamity all raw within him, Soames answered: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! What a clown Monty’s been!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bellby is here, sir,” said the clerk; “Mr. Dreamer + will be ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The introduction to Winifred accomplished, they leaped the weather and + spoke of the war. Soames interrupted suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “If he doesn’t comply we can’t bring proceedings for six + months. I want to get on with the matter, Bellby.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bellby, who had the ghost of an Irish brogue, smiled at Winifred and + murmured: “The Law’s delays, Mrs. Dartie.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dreamer will see you now, sir.” + </p> + <p> + They filed in, Mr. Bellby going first, and Soames escorting Winifred after + an interval of one minute by his watch. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I know all that;” and coming round the corner at Winifred, + smothered the words: + </p> + <p> + “We want to get him back, don’t we, Mrs. Dartie?” + </p> + <p> + Soames interposed sharply: + </p> + <p> + “My sister’s position, of course, is intolerable.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “The sooner....” Soames began. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say, Bellby?” said Dreamer, coming round his + corner. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bellby seemed to sniff the air like a hound. + </p> + <p> + “We won’t be on till the middle of December. We’ve no + need to give um more rope than that.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames, “why should my sister be incommoded + by his choosing to go...” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at present,” said Soames meaningly; “I wanted + you to see my sister.” + </p> + <p> + Dreamer growled softly: “Delighted. Good evening!” And let + fall the protection of his gown. + </p> + <p> + They filed out. Winifred went down the stairs. Soames lingered. In spite + of himself he was impressed by Dreamer. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>he</i> understands that?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make um,” said Bellby. “Good man though—good + man.” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded and hastened after his sister. He found her in a draught, + biting her lips behind her veil, and at once said: + </p> + <p> + “The evidence of the stewardess will be very complete.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"></a> + CHAPTER V<br/>JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + <i>He</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say about me in there?” + </p> + <p> + “Mayn’t I say what I like?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I said you were a pro-Boer—and so you are!” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a liar!” + </p> + <p> + “D’you want a row?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, but not here; in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Come on.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took off their + coats. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not screwed, are you?” said Jolly suddenly. + “I can’t fight you if you’re screwed.” + </p> + <p> + “No more than you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right then.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Your names, young gentlemen?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>had</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Now, my boy, you mustn’t go on like this.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she boxed my ears, Gran, so I only boxed hers, and then she + boxed mine again.” + </p> + <p> + “Strike a lady? That’ll never do! Have you begged her pardon?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you must go and do it at once. Come along.” + </p> + <p> + “But she began it, Gran; and she had two to my one.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, it was an outrageous thing to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she lost her temper; and I didn’t lose mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Come along.” + </p> + <p> + “You come too, then, Gran.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—this time only.” + </p> + <p> + And they had gone hand in hand. + </p> + <p> + Here—where the Waverley novels and Byron’s works and Gibbon’s + <i>Roman Empire</i> and Humboldt’s <i>Cosmos</i>, 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 <i>The Times</i>—here + they came, those two grandchildren. And Jolly said: + </p> + <p> + “I saw you and that fellow in the Park.” + </p> + <p> + The sight of blood rushing into her cheeks gave him some satisfaction; she + <i>ought</i> to be ashamed! + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Jolly was surprised; he had expected more, or less. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” he said weightily, “that he called me a + pro-Boer last term? And I had to fight him.” + </p> + <p> + “Who won?” + </p> + <p> + Jolly wished to answer: “I should have,” but it seemed beneath + him. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” he said, “what’s the meaning of it? + Without telling anybody!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? Dad isn’t here; why shouldn’t I ride with + him?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got me to ride with. I think he’s an awful young + rotter.” + </p> + <p> + Holly went pale with anger. + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t. It’s your own fault for not liking him.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>did</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.... + </p> + <p> + But up in her room, divested of her habit, Holly was still frowning. + “He is <i>not</i>—he is <i>not!</i>” were the words which kept forming + on her lips. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"></a> + CHAPTER VI<br/>JOLYON IN TWO MINDS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “M<small>Y DEAR</small> J<small>OLYON</small>,<br/> + “It will be a happiness for me to see you. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “I<small>RENE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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, “<i>Madame</i>,” 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “what news, poor exile?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing from Soames?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “I have let the flat for you, and like a good steward I bring you + some money. How do you like Paris?” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “That will hardly be your case,” said Jolyon; “you + should appeal to the French.” + </p> + <p> + “It has its disadvantages.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you must let <i>me</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + It was the beginning of daily meetings. + </p> + <p> + 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: “<i>Elle est ton rêve! Elle est ton rêve!</i>” 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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “Have enlisted in Imperial Yeomanry.—J<small>OLLY</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>that?</i>” 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” he said. + </p> + <p> + She read the telegram, and he heard her sigh. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I must go home at once,” he said at last. + “I shall miss all this awfully.” + </p> + <p> + “So shall I; but, of course, you must go.” + </p> + <p> + “Well!” said Jolyon holding out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Meeting her eyes, a flood of feeling nearly mastered him. + </p> + <p> + “Such is life!” he said. “Take care of yourself, my + dear!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"></a> + CHAPTER VII<br/>DARTIE VERSUS DARTIE + </h2> + <p> + The suit—Dartie <i>versus</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I hear,” he said, “that you want to play polo up at + Oxford.” + </p> + <p> + Val became less recumbent in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Val’s thick dark lashes concealed his eyes, but a slight grimace + appeared on his wide mouth, and he muttered: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean my Dad!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Her voice interrupted + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to be nice to me, dear boy?” + </p> + <p> + Val grinned doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come with me this morning....” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to see....” began Val, but something in her + face stopped him. “I say,” he said, “you don’t + mean....” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + The little tufted white tails of Winifred’s muff began to shiver. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If they bully you....” began Val. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! they won’t. I shall be very cool. It’s the only + way.” + </p> + <p> + “They won’t want me to give evidence or anything?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” he said as they passed into the hall, “this’d + make four or five jolly good racket courts.” + </p> + <p> + Soames was awaiting them at the foot of some stairs. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Uncle, you’re not going to let those beastly papers + in, are you?” + </p> + <p> + Soames gave him the sideway look which had reduced many to silence in its + time. + </p> + <p> + “In here,” he said. “You needn’t take off your + furs, Winifred.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dartie <i>versus</i> Dartie!” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Old brute!” thought Val, flushing deeper; “you’re + not paid to make jokes!” + </p> + <p> + “‘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.” + </p> + <p> + “Sniggering owls!” thought Val, and his flush deepened. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “‘I am going to live a new life. M. D.’” + </p> + <p> + “And next day, me Lud, the respondent left by the steamship + <i>Tuscarora</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + And he received a most unpleasant jar when the Judge said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “Now, why did your husband leave you—not because you called + him ‘the limit,’ you know?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, my Lord, but it had gone on a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “What had gone on?” + </p> + <p> + “Our differences about money.” + </p> + <p> + “But you supplied the money. Do you suggest that he left you to + better his position?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + “I see, you had refused. But you’ve sent him some since.” + </p> + <p> + “My Lord, I wanted him back.” + </p> + <p> + “And you thought that would bring him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, my Lord, I acted on my father’s advice.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + The Judge was speaking: + </p> + <p> + “Just one more question, Mrs. Dartie. Are you still fond of your + husband?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You behaved beautifully, dear. It was such a comfort to have you. + Your uncle and I are going to lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. + </p> + <p> + “And I compliment ye, Mrs. Dartie,” went on Mr. Bellby; + “ye’ve a natural gift for giving evidence. Steady as a rock.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"></a> + CHAPTER VIII<br/>THE CHALLENGE + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>were</i> in—an “excuse + for a ride” must be his saving grace. + </p> + <p> + “Only Miss Holly is in, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! thanks. Might I take my horse round to the stables? And would + you say—her cousin, Mr. Val Dartie.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been awfully anxious,” said Val in a low voice. + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Jolly knows about our riding.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he in?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but I expect he will be soon.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes deepened in colour and fearful interest; her hand squeezed his. + But the gambler in Val was roused now, and he hurried on: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Her answer was very soft: “Oh, Val!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My God! Who was that?” + </p> + <p> + Holly too was on her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Jolly, I expect,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Val clenched fists and resolution. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon for hearing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” Val said abruptly, “it’s nothing to you.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “I’m coming too.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jolly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Holly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Val broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “Holly and I are engaged.” + </p> + <p> + Jolly stepped back and leaned against the lintel of the window. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean to,” said Val hotly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “There were reasons,” said Val. + </p> + <p> + “What reasons?” + </p> + <p> + “About my family—I’ve just told her. I wanted her to + know before things happen.” + </p> + <p> + Jolly suddenly became less distinguished. + </p> + <p> + “You’re kids,” he said, “and you know you are. + </p> + <p> + “I am <i>not</i> a kid,” said Val. + </p> + <p> + “You are—you’re not twenty.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>am</i> twenty,” said Jolly. + </p> + <p> + “Only just; anyway, I’m as good a man as you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll see that,” he said. “I dare you to do what + I’m going to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Dare me?” + </p> + <p> + Jolly smiled. “Yes,” he said, “dare you; and I know very + well you won’t.” + </p> + <p> + A stab of misgiving shot through Val; this was riding very blind. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” said Jolly. “Take your time! Think it over + well.” And he himself sat down on the arm of his grandfather’s + chair. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Take your time,” said Jolly again; “I don’t want + to be unfair.” + </p> + <p> + And they both looked at Holly. She had recoiled against the bookshelves + reaching to the ceiling; her dark head leaned against Gibbon’s <i>Roman + Empire</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” he said. “Done!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, then,” he said, “we’ll go together.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"></a> + CHAPTER IX<br/>DINNER AT JAMES’ + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What are you putting on that thing for? You’ll catch cold.” + </p> + <p> + But Emily knew that the necks of women are protected by love of shining, + unto fourscore years, and she only answered: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dicky!” said James. “You’re always wasting your + money on something.” + </p> + <p> + But he suffered the change to be made till his neck also shone, murmuring + vaguely: + </p> + <p> + “He’s an extravagant chap, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + James uttered an indeterminate sound, thinking of Imogen as she used to + climb about his knee or pull Christmas crackers with him. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll be pretty,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t + wonder.” + </p> + <p> + “She <i>is</i> pretty,” said Emily; “she ought to make a good + match.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Warmson?” he said suddenly. “I should + like a glass of Madeira to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s champagne, James.” + </p> + <p> + James shook his head. “No body,” he said; “I can’t + get any good out of it.” + </p> + <p> + Emily reached forward on her side of the fire and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Your master would like a bottle of Madeira opened, Warmson.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir,” responded the withdrawing Warmson. + </p> + <p> + “I was keeping it for our golden wedding,” said James + suddenly, “but I shan’t live three years at my age.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, James,” said Emily, “don’t talk like + that.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + From that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him, followed very + soon by that of Winifred and her two eldest. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What!” It was his mother’s desolate little word. + </p> + <p> + “Young Jolly Forsyte and I went down there together.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t sign?” from Uncle Soames. + </p> + <p> + “Rather! We go into camp on Monday.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>say!</i>” cried Imogen. + </p> + <p> + All looked at James. He was leaning forward with his hand behind his ear. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” he said. “What’s he saying? I + can’t hear.” + </p> + <p> + Emily reached forward to pat Val’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it’s + very nice for him. He’ll look his best in uniform.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Val saw Imogen’s eyes admiring him, and his mother still and + fashionable with her handkerchief before her lips. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly his uncle spoke. + </p> + <p> + “You’re under age.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought of that,” smiled Val; “I gave my age as + twenty-one.” + </p> + <p> + 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>I</i> + don’t know what’ll become of you if you go on like this.” + </p> + <p> + Imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him sidelong; only + his mother sat unmoving, till, affected by her stillness, Val said: + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run. + I only hope I shall come in for something.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Emily’s voice brought him back to earth. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t have a second glass, James. Warmson!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “What made you?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not,” mumbled Val, “but I wasn’t going + to be beaten by <i>him</i>.” 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: + </p> + <p> + “What’s his father doing?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Artists!” said James. The word coming from the very bottom of + his soul, broke up the dinner. + </p> + <p> + Opposite his mother in the cab going home, Val tasted the after-fruits of + heroism, like medlars over-ripe. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>not</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m awfully sorry to have to leave you, Mother.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a scrap.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope they won’t worry you much. I must take you about to + get the things to-morrow. Good-night; kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And soon only one of the diners at James’ was awake—Soames, in + his bedroom above his father’s. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"></a> + CHAPTER X<br/>DEATH OF THE DOG BALTHASAR + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, old man,” said Jolyon, “so you thought you ought?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Jolly; “I don’t want to a bit, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + How exactly those words represented Jolyon’s own state of mind + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t be like me, then, Dad; I’m beastly selfish.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear, that you clearly are not.” Jolly shook his head, + and they dug again. + </p> + <p> + “Strange life a dog’s,” said Jolyon suddenly: “The + only four-footer with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God!” + </p> + <p> + Jolly looked at his father. + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe in God, Dad? I’ve never known.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. That leaves out Christ, doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “What do <i>you</i> think, old man?” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon remembered that he also had talked a good deal about it his first + year at Cambridge, and given it up in his second. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Jolly, “it’s the second God, you + mean, that old Balthasar had a sense of.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, or he would never have burst his poor old heart because of + something outside himself.” + </p> + <p> + “But wasn’t that just selfish emotion, really?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon shook his head. “No, dogs are not pure Forsytes, they love + something outside themselves.” + </p> + <p> + Jolly smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I think I’m one,” he said. “You know, I + only enlisted because I dared Val Dartie to.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” + </p> + <p> + “We bar each other,” said Jolly shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” muttered Jolyon. So the feud went on, unto the third + generation—this modern feud which had no overt expression? + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell the boy about it?” he thought. But to what end—if + he had to stop short of his own part? + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + So they dug on in silence, till Jolyon said: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t bear this part of it,” said Jolyon suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Let me do it, Dad. He never cared much for me.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll lift him very gently, leaves and all. I’d rather + not see him again. I’ll take his head. Now!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"></a> + CHAPTER XI<br/>TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Your Uncle Timothy, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Timothy’s greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and rather, + as it were, passed over by him than expressed: + </p> + <p> + “How de do? How de do? ’Xcuse me gettin’ up!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Young Nick’s a warrior bold, isn’t he? When’s he + going to don the wild khaki?” + </p> + <p> + Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation, intimated that + of course his mother was very anxious. + </p> + <p> + “The Dromios are off, I hear,” said George, turning to Marian + Tweetyman; “we shall all be there soon. <i>En avant</i>, the Forsytes! + Roll, bowl, or pitch! Who’s for a cooler?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley gurgled, George was <i>so</i> droll! Should Hester get Timothy’s + map? Then he could show them all where they were. + </p> + <p> + At a sound from Timothy, interpreted as assent, Aunt Hester left the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley’s bewildered, “Fancy not waiting for the map! You + mustn’t mind him, Timothy. He’s <i>so</i> droll!” broke the + hush, and Timothy removed the hand from his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Francie alone had the hardihood to observe: “What is, then, Uncle + Timothy?” + </p> + <p> + “All this new-fangled volunteerin’ and expense—lettin’ + money out of the country.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There you are,” he said; “that’s the position up + to date; and very poor it is. H’m!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Francie, greatly daring, “but how are you + going to alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?” + </p> + <p> + “Men!” said Timothy; “you don’t want men—wastin’ + the country’s money. You want a Napoleon, he’d settle it in a + month.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you haven’t got him, Uncle Timothy?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And looking round him, he added almost angrily: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “The new colour’s very smart,” said Winifred; “Val + looks quite nice in his.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley sighed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “His father’s in Paris,” said Winifred. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We shan’t try, Auntie,” said Euphemia. + </p> + <p> + “Irene! Imagine! After all this time; walking with a fair beard....” + </p> + <p> + “Auntie! you’ll kill me! A fair beard....” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hester sat down. Really, Juley had done it now! + </p> + <p> + “She wasn’t much of a skeleton as I remember her,” + murmured Euphemia, “extremely well-covered.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!” said Aunt Juley, “what a peculiar way of + putting it—not very nice.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but what <i>was</i> she like?” persisted Imogen. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you, my child,” said Francie; “a kind + of modern Venus, very well-dressed.” + </p> + <p> + Euphemia said sharply: “Venus was never dressed, and she had blue + eyes of melting sapphire.” + </p> + <p> + At this juncture Nicholas took his leave. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Nick is awfully strict,” said Francie with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “She has six children,” said Aunt Juley; “it’s + very proper she should be careful.” + </p> + <p> + “Was Uncle Soames awfully fond of her?” pursued the inexorable + Imogen, moving her dark luscious eyes from face to face. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hester made a gesture of despair, just as Aunt Juley answered: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your Uncle Soames was very much attached to her.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she ran off with someone?” + </p> + <p> + “No, certainly not; that is—not precisely.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she do, then, Auntie?” + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Imogen,” said Winifred, “we must be getting + back.” + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Juley interjected resolutely: “She—she didn’t + behave at all well.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, bother!” cried Imogen; “that’s as far as I + ever get.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She used to give me chocolates,” murmured Imogen, “and + smell nice.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course!” remarked Euphemia. + </p> + <p> + “Not of course at all!” replied Francie, who used a + particularly expensive essence of gillyflower herself. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t think what we are about,” said Aunt Juley, + raising her hands, “talking of such things!” + </p> + <p> + “Was she divorced?” asked Imogen from the door. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” cried Aunt Juley; “that is—certainly + not.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “No one, Uncle,” replied Francie with perfect truth. + </p> + <p> + Timothy took his map off the piano. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went out as if + afraid of being answered. + </p> + <p> + 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....” + </p> + <p> + That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after dinner, she + dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up: + </p> + <p> + “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’.” + </p> + <p> + “Eustace,” answered Aunt Hester from behind <i>The Times;</i> “he + had it in his pocket, but he wouldn’t show it us.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, <i>The Times</i> crackled, + the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley dropped another stitch. + </p> + <p> + “Hester,” she said, “I have had such a dreadful thought.” + </p> + <p> + “Then don’t tell me,” said Aunt Hester quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! but I must. You can’t think how dreadful!” Her + voice sank to a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Jolyon—Jolyon, they say, has a—has a fair beard, now.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"></a> + CHAPTER XII<br/>PROGRESS OF THE CHASE + </h2> + <p> + Two days after the dinner at James’, Mr. Polteed provided Soames + with food for thought. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>vice versa</i>. They went to Fontainebleau—but + nothing of value. In short, the situation is promising, but requires + patience.” And, looking up suddenly, he added: + </p> + <p> + “One rather curious point—47 has the same name as—er—31!” + </p> + <p> + “The fellow knows I’m her husband,” thought Soames. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on with it, but be careful,” said Soames doggedly. + </p> + <p> + Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret + made him all the more reticent. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” said Mr. Polteed, “I’ll just see if + there’s anything fresh in.” + </p> + <p> + He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at the + envelopes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, here’s a personal one from 19 to myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames suddenly, “I prefer that you should + keep the watch going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with + this end.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” replied Mr. Polteed, “we can do it.” + </p> + <p> + “What—what is the manner between them?” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “What does that mean?” said Soames between close lips. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m!” muttered Soames, “that’s all, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mr. Polteed, “but quite promising.” + </p> + <p> + “Spider!” thought Soames. “Good-day!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Besides, he’s come back,” he thought; “that doesn’t + look—I’ll go and see him!” and, taking out a card, he + wrote: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He walked up St. James’s Street and confided it to the porter at the + Hotch Potch. + </p> + <p> + “Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in,” he + said, and took one of the new motor cabs into the City.... + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>she’s</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “No tea, thanks,” said Jolyon, “but I’ll go on + smoking if I may.” + </p> + <p> + The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were lighted; + the two cousins sat waiting on each other. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been in Paris, I hear,” said Soames at last. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; just back.” + </p> + <p> + “Young Val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?” + Jolyon nodded. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she’s + abroad somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he answered: “Yes, I saw + her.” + </p> + <p> + “How was she?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + There was another silence; then Soames roused himself in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You have asked her, you know,” murmured Jolyon. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He saw his cousin’s pale face grow paler—he had used, without + knowing it, Irene’s own words. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Feminist!” repeated Soames, as if seeking to gain time. + “Does that mean that you’re against me?” + </p> + <p> + “Bluntly,” said Jolyon, “I’m against any woman + living with any man whom she definitely dislikes. It appears to me rotten.” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose each time you see her you put your opinions into her + mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not likely to be seeing her.” + </p> + <p> + “Not going back to Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so far as I know,” said Jolyon, conscious of the intent + watchfulness in Soames’ face. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man + and wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon rose and made him a slight bow. + </p> + <p> + “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>I always</i> 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> passing below, but not she! Oh no, + there was nothing there! + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"></a> + CHAPTER XIII<br/>“HERE WE ARE AGAIN!” + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s I—Monty,” said a voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” he said, “I got the order. I’m back.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Gad!” he said: “If you knew the time I’ve had!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad I don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Are the kids all right?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred nodded. “How did you get in?” + </p> + <p> + “With my key.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the maids don’t know. You can’t stay here, Monty.” + </p> + <p> + He uttered a little sardonic laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Where then?” + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, look at me! That—that damned....” + </p> + <p> + “If you mention <i>her</i>,” cried Winifred, “I go straight out + to Park Lane and I don’t come back.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “You can have a room for the night,” she said; “your + things are still here. Only Imogen is at home.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + That old pet name, disused for years and years, sent a shiver through + Winifred. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do with him?” she thought. “What in God’s + name am I to do with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Got a cigarette?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go and have a hot bath. I’ll put some clothes out for you in + the dressing-room. We can talk later.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded, and fixed his eyes on her—they looked half-dead, or was + it that the folds in the lids had become heavier? + </p> + <p> + “He’s not the same,” she thought. He would never be + quite the same again! But what would he be? + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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’. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Soames? In his room? I’ll go up; don’t say I’m + here.” + </p> + <p> + Her brother was dressing. She found him before a mirror, tying a black bow + with an air of despising its ends. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” he said, contemplating her in the glass; “what’s + wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Monty!” said Winifred stonily. + </p> + <p> + Soames spun round. “What!” + </p> + <p> + “Back!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Don’t talk about that! What shall I do?” + </p> + <p> + Soames answered, with a deep, deep sound. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Winifred impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “What has he to say for himself?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. One of his boots is split across the toe.” + </p> + <p> + Soames stared at her. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said, “of course! On his beam ends. So—it + begins again! This’ll about finish father.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t we keep it from him?” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible. He has an uncanny flair for anything that’s + worrying.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” cried Winifred, “I won’t be made a fool of + again; I’d sooner put up with him.” + </p> + <p> + The two stared at each other. Their hearts were full of feeling, but they + could give it no expression—Forsytes that they were. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you leave him?” + </p> + <p> + “In the bath,” and Winifred gave a little bitter laugh. + “The only thing he’s brought back is lavender-water.” + </p> + <p> + “Steady!” said Soames, “you’re thoroughly upset. I’ll + go back with you.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use?” + </p> + <p> + “We ought to make terms with him.” + </p> + <p> + “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...! + </p> + <p> + “Recovers?” replied Soames: “Is he ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No; burnt out; that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to see mother,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll be with father in their room. Come down quietly to the + study. I’ll get her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! my poor dear!” said Emily: “How miserable you look + in here! This is too bad of him, really!” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, Mother; no good fussing.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s all this?” he said. “Tell your father? You + never tell me anything.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Monty’s not gone bankrupt, Father. He’s only come back.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t worry, Father,” said Winifred calmly. + “I mean to make him behave.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said James. “Here, take this thing off, I’m + hot.” They unwound the shawl. He turned, and walked firmly to the + dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, Father.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + They all looked at her. It had always been known that Winifred had pluck. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + They were touched by this declaration, and Emily said comfortably: “That’s + right, James, we won’t have any nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” muttered James darkly, “I can’t tell.” + </p> + <p> + The advent of Warmson with fish diverted conversation. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + James repeated the words, “Bless you!” as if he did not quite + know what they meant, and his eyes followed her to the door. + </p> + <p> + She reached home before nine, and went straight upstairs. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He said apathetically: “I suppose you’ve been to Park Lane. + How’s the old man?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred could not help the bitter answer: “Not dead.” + </p> + <p> + He winced, actually he winced. + </p> + <p> + “Understand, Monty,” she said, “I will <i>not</i> have him + worried. If you aren’t going to behave yourself, you may go back, + you may go anywhere. Have you had dinner?” + </p> + <p> + No. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like some?” + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Imogen offered me some. I didn’t want any.” + </p> + <p> + Imogen! In the plenitude of emotion Winifred had forgotten her. + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve seen her? What did she say?” + </p> + <p> + “She gave me a kiss.” + </p> + <p> + With mortification Winifred saw his dark sardonic face relaxed. “Yes!” + she thought, “he cares for her, not for me a bit.” + </p> + <p> + Dartie’s eyes were moving from side to side. + </p> + <p> + “Does she know about me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + It flashed through Winifred that here was the weapon she needed. <i>He minded + their knowing!</i> + </p> + <p> + “No. Val knows. The others don’t; they only know you went + away.” + </p> + <p> + She heard him sigh with relief. + </p> + <p> + “But they <i>shall</i> know,” she said firmly, “if you give me + cause.” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” he muttered, “hit me! I’m down!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"></a> + CHAPTER XIV<br/>OUTLANDISH NIGHT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + At Hyde Park Corner he ran into George Forsyte, very sunburnt from racing, + holding a false nose in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Soames!” he said, “have a nose!” + </p> + <p> + Soames responded with a pale smile. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>In vino veritas</i>,” 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Walking into the centre of the great empty drawing-room, he stood still. + </p> + <p> + A wife! Somebody to talk things over with. One had a right! Damn it! One + had a right! + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_PARTb3" id="link2H_PARTb3"></a> + PART III + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"></a> + CHAPTER I<br/>SOAMES IN PARIS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>bonne</i>” coiffed with ribbon shepherded two little + girls with pig-tails and frilled drawers. A cab meandered by, whose <i>cocher</i> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “That’s rather a good thing.” + </p> + <p> + He could see, then, that she was struggling to preserve her composure. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t want to startle you; is this one of your haunts?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “A little lonely.” As he spoke, a lady, strolling by, paused + to look at the fountain and passed on. + </p> + <p> + Irene’s eyes followed her. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, prodding the ground with her parasol, “never + lonely. One has always one’s shadow.” + </p> + <p> + Soames understood; and, looking at her hard, he exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s your own fault. You can be free of it at any + moment. Irene, come back to me, and be free.” + </p> + <p> + Irene laughed. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Irene rose, something wild suddenly in her face and figure. + </p> + <p> + “None! None! None! You may hunt me to the grave. I will not come.” + </p> + <p> + Outraged and on edge, Soames recoiled. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “That’s your last word, then,” muttered Soames, + clenching his hands; “you condemn us both.” + </p> + <p> + Irene bent her head. “I can’t come back. Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + A feeling of monstrous injustice flared up in Soames. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Irene turned, her face was deadly pale, her eyes burning dark. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to lay a + caress all down her clinging cream-coloured frock. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + He was soon dripping with perspiration, in the depths of the Bois. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + ‘S. F.’” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly see that Mrs. Heron has this note?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame Heron left to-day, Monsieur—suddenly, about three o’clock. + There was illness in her family.” + </p> + <p> + Soames compressed his lips. “Oh!” he said; “do you know + her address?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Non, Monsieur</i>. England, I think.” + </p> + <p> + Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed an open + horse-cab which was passing. + </p> + <p> + “Drive me anywhere!” + </p> + <p> + 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, “<i>C’est + par ici, Monsieur?</i>” “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. + </p> + <p> + “Like my life,” thought Soames, “without object, on and + on!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"></a> + CHAPTER II<br/>IN THE WEB + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The news from the war is not so bad, is it?” said Mr. + Polteed. “I hope I see you well, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks! quite.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Polteed leaned forward, smiled, opened his hand, looked into it, and + said softly: + </p> + <p> + “I think we’ve done your business for you at last.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” ejaculated Soames. + </p> + <p> + “Nineteen reports quite suddenly what I think we shall be justified + in calling conclusive evidence,” and Mr. Polteed paused. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this new person?” said Soames abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “That we don’t know. She’ll swear to the fact, and she’s + got his appearance pat.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Polteed took out a letter, and began reading: + </p> + <p> + “‘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....’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s hot,” he said, and came back to his seat. + </p> + <p> + Crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on Mr. Polteed. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “I’m not authorised to take any risk!” he said shortly. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Polteed looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Pity,” he said, “quite a pity! That other affair seemed + very costive.” + </p> + <p> + Soames rose. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that. Please watch 47, and take care not to find a mare’s + nest. Good-morning!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Polteed’s eye glinted at the words “mare’s nest!” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. You shall be kept informed.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Monsieur</i> have tea + with her? + </p> + <p> + Soames bowed. + </p> + <p> + When they were seated at right angles to each other in the little room, he + said abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “I want a talk with you, <i>Madame</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long expected + such words. + </p> + <p> + “I have to ask you something first: That young doctor—what’s + his name? Is there anything between him and Annette?” + </p> + <p> + Her whole personality had become, as it were, like jet—clear-cut, + black, hard, shining. + </p> + <p> + “Annette is young,” she said; “so is <i>monsieur le + docteur</i>. Between young people things move quickly; but Annette is a good + daughter. Ah! what a jewel of a nature!” + </p> + <p> + The least little smile twisted Soames’ lips. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing definite, then?” + </p> + <p> + “But definite—no, indeed! The young man is veree nice, but—what + would you? There is no money at present.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her willow-patterned tea-cup; Soames did the same. Their eyes + met. + </p> + <p> + “I am a married man,” he said, “living apart from my + wife for many years. I am seeking to divorce her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Madame’s eyes, so open that the whites showed above them, looked at + him very straight. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ah! ça—mais nous avons le temps!</i>” was all she said. + “Another little cup?” Soames refused, and, taking his leave, + walked westward. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"></a> + CHAPTER III<br/>RICHMOND PARK + </h2> + <p> + On the afternoon that Soames crossed to France a cablegram was received by + Jolyon at Robin Hill: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “Your son down with enteric no immediate danger will cable again.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! <i>The + Times</i> was full of deaths therefrom. Why could <i>he</i> 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 <i>them</i>. He could only think that it + marked the decline of the Forsyte type. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>she</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Holly got out of the swing. + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you something, Dad. It was through me that Jolly + enlisted and went out.” + </p> + <p> + “How’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you told June?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Consent?” thought Jolyon. “Rather late in the day to + ask for that!” But again he checked himself. + </p> + <p> + “You’re too young, my dear; they won’t let you.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon smiled because he could have cried. + </p> + <p> + “I never stop anyone from doing anything,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Holly flung her arms round his neck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Dad, you are the best in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “That means the worst,” thought Jolyon. If he had ever doubted + his creed of tolerance he did so then. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not friendly with Val’s family,” he said, + “and I don’t know Val, but Jolly didn’t like him.” + </p> + <p> + Holly looked at the distance and said: + </p> + <p> + “I love him.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p class="right"> + “G<small>REEN</small> H<small>OTEL</small>,<br/> + “R<small>ICHMOND</small>.<br/> + “<i>June</i> 13. + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “M<small>Y DEAR</small> J<small>OLYON</small>,<br/> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Always your friend,<br/> + “I<small>RENE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t told me about Paris,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Incredible!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + For sheer emotional intensity had he ever—old as he was—passed + through such a moment? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My boy is very ill out there,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + Irene slipped her arm through his. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s walk on; I understand.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She knows of my feeling for her, then,” he thought. Of + course! One could not keep knowledge of that from such a woman! + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064"></a> + CHAPTER IV<br/>OVER THE RIVER + </h2> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + “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!... + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0065" id="link2HCH0065"></a> + CHAPTER V<br/>SOAMES ACTS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed potato, + he read: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “D<small>EAR</small> S<small>IR</small>,<br/> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Very faithfully yours,<br/> + “C<small>LAUD</small> P<small>OLTEED</small>.” + </p> + <p> + Soames read it through twice and beckoned to the waiter: + </p> + <p> + “Take this away; it’s cold.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I bring you some more, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Get me some coffee in the other room.” + </p> + <p> + And, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out, passing two + acquaintances without sign of recognition. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. “My dear + sir,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Are you convinced,” asked Soames with sudden energy, “that + there is enough?” + </p> + <p> + The faintest movement occurred to Mr. Polteed’s shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “You can risk it,” he murmured; “with what we have, and + human nature, you can risk it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was overwhelmed by + his old longing for a son—a son, to watch <i>him</i> eat as he went down + the years, to be taken on <i>his</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0066" id="link2HCH0066"></a> + CHAPTER VI<br/>A SUMMER DAY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Jolyon Forsyte? Thank you!” Placing an envelope in Jolyon’s + hand he wheeled off the path and rode away. Bewildered, Jolyon opened it. + </p> + <p> + “Admiralty Probate and Divorce, Forsyte <i>v.</i> Forsyte and Forsyte!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “D<small>EAR</small> S<small>IR</small>, + </p> + <p class="center"> + <i>Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte</i> + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “Faithfully yours,<br/> + “L<small>INKMAN AND</small> L<small>AVER</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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>I</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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I may be out again directly,” he said to the driver, “or + I may be kept some time”; and he rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Very pretty!” he said. + </p> + <p> + He heard the fellow murmur: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “what have you to say for yourselves?” + </p> + <p> + The fellow had the effrontery to smile. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said; “you—Irene?” + </p> + <p> + Her lips moved, but Jolyon laid his hand on her arm. + </p> + <p> + “Let her alone!” said Soames furiously. “Irene, will you + swear it?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! and you?” + </p> + <p> + “Still less.” + </p> + <p> + “So then you’re guilty, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> are a devil.” + </p> + <p> + “Go out! Leave this house, or I’ll do you an injury.” + </p> + <p> + That fellow to talk of injuries! Did he know how near his throat was to + being scragged? + </p> + <p> + “A trustee,” he said, “embezzling trust property! A + thief, stealing his cousin’s wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Call me what you like. You have chosen your part, we have chosen + ours. Go out!” + </p> + <p> + If he had brought a weapon Soames might have used it at that moment. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make you pay!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be very happy.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “You,” he said suddenly, “I hope you’ll treat him + as you treated me—that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “To the Hammam,” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” said George; “what are you training for? You’ve + not got much superfluous.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>won’t</i> feel anything! I can’t stand violence! It’s + not good for me!” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0067" id="link2HCH0067"></a> + CHAPTER VII<br/>A SUMMER NIGHT + </h2> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And this is to be mine!” he thought. “It frightens me!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “J<small>OLYON</small> F<small>ORSYTE</small>, Robin Hill.—Your son passed painlessly away + on June 20th. Deep sympathy”—some name unknown to him. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0068" id="link2HCH0068"></a> + CHAPTER VIII<br/>JAMES IN WAITING + </h2> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Now, James, you’ll catch cold. Why can’t you wait + quietly?” + </p> + <p> + His father’s answering + </p> + <p> + “Wait? I’m always waiting. Why doesn’t he come in?” + </p> + <p> + “You can speak to him to-morrow morning, instead of making a guy of + yourself on the landing.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll go up to bed, I shouldn’t wonder. I shan’t + sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Now come back to bed, James.” + </p> + <p> + “Um! I might die before to-morrow morning for all you can tell.” + </p> + <p> + “You shan’t have to wait till to-morrow morning; I’ll go + down and bring him up. Don’t fuss!” + </p> + <p> + “There you go—always so cock-a-hoop. He mayn’t come in + at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if he doesn’t come in you won’t catch him by + standing out here in your dressing-gown.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is!” he heard him say in a voice which sounded + injured, and his mother’s comfortable answer from the bedroom door: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” thought Soames. “What has he got hold of + now?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” he said. “I’ve been waiting.” + </p> + <p> + Soames stroked his shoulder, and, taking up a silver button-hook, examined + the mark on it. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “you’re looking better.” + </p> + <p> + James shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Your father’s been in a great state all the evening. I’m + sure I don’t know what about.” + </p> + <p> + The faint “whisk-whisk” of the brushes continued the soothing + of her voice. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Soames listened vaguely—he had heard all this before. Whish-whish! + went the brushes. + </p> + <p> + “If that’s all!” said Emily. + </p> + <p> + “All!” cried James; “it’s nothing. I’m + coming to that.” And again his eyes strained pitifully at Soames. + </p> + <p> + “It’s you, my boy,” he said suddenly; “you ought + to get a divorce.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Come, James! Soames knows best. It’s his business.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Soames replaced the button-hook on the lace and pink silk of the + dressing-table coverlet. + </p> + <p> + “The name?” said Emily, “there are all the other + Forsytes.” + </p> + <p> + “As if that helped me,” muttered James. “I shall be in + my grave, and there’ll be nobody, unless he marries again.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re quite right,” said Soames quietly; “I’m + getting a divorce.” + </p> + <p> + James’ eyes almost started from his head. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he cried. “There! nobody tells me anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Emily, “who would have imagined you wanted + it? My dear boy, that <i>is</i> a surprise, after all these years.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Before the Long Vacation; it’s not defended.” + </p> + <p> + James’ lips moved in secret calculation. “I shan’t live + to see my grandson,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + Emily ceased brushing. “Of course you will, James. Soames will be as + quick as he can.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence, till James reached out his arm. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Queerly affected, Soames went to the door; he heard his father say: + </p> + <p> + “Here, I’m tired. I’ll say a prayer in bed.” + </p> + <p> + And his mother answering + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, James; it’ll be ever so much more comfy.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0069" id="link2HCH0069"></a> + CHAPTER IX<br/>OUT OF THE WEB + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>v.</i> 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 <i>was</i> known—whispered among the old, + discussed among the young—that family pride must soon receive a + blow. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>that</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + “<i>rentes</i>” 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Soames found her with a letter in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “That from Val,” he asked gloomily. “What does he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He says he’s married,” said Winifred. + </p> + <p> + “Whom to, for Goodness’ sake?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “To Holly Forsyte, Jolyon’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “He got leave and did it. I didn’t even know he knew her. + Awkward, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Soames uttered a short laugh at that characteristic minimisation. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want Val back,” said Winifred almost piteously; “I + miss him, he helps me to get on.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” murmured Soames. “How’s Dartie behaving + now?” + </p> + <p> + “It might be worse; but it’s always money. Would you like me + to come down to the Court to-morrow, Soames?” + </p> + <p> + Soames stretched out his hand for hers. The gesture so betrayed the + loneliness in him that she pressed it between her two. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, old boy. You’ll feel ever so much better when it’s + all over.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred saw a drop of blood ooze out of his lip, and the sight stirred + her profoundly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said, “it’s been <i>too</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she’s pretty,” said Soames. “Dark—lady-like + enough.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t sound so bad,” thought Winifred. “Jolyon + had style.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a coil,” she said. “What will father say? + </p> + <p> + “Mustn’t be told,” said Soames. “The war’ll + soon be over now, you’d better let Val take to farming out there.” + </p> + <p> + It was tantamount to saying that his nephew was lost. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t told Monty,” Winifred murmured desolately. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are quite a stranger,” she said languidly. + </p> + <p> + Soames smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t wished to be; I’ve been busy.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s your mother, Annette? I’ve got some news for + her.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother is not in.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel better?” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be veree nice.” A pretty little roll of that “r” + but no enthusiasm. And rather sadly he added: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you fit to go? Shall I give you some coffee?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames firmly. “Give me your hand.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “M<small>Y DEAR</small> M<small>ADAME</small> (he said),<br/> + “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. + </p> + <p class="right"> + “I am, dear Madame,<br/> + “Sincerely yours,<br/> + “S<small>OAMES</small> F<small>ORSYTE</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>from + himself</i>, and rest! + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0070" id="link2HCH0070"></a> + CHAPTER X<br/>PASSING OF AN AGE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>not</i> admit it; and he turned his eyes away. He would <i>not</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + Soames nosed sideways. + </p> + <p> + “What people?” + </p> + <p> + “There, you see them; just turning away. They know you.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Soames answered; “a mistake, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “A lovely face! And how she walk! <i>Elle est très distinguée!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You’d better attend,” he said, “they’re + coming now!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>our</i> 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: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a capital view here, James!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>There</i> you are!” muttered James; “why didn’t you + come before? You might have missed it!” + </p> + <p> + And he was silent, staring with all his might. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the noise?” he asked suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no noise,” returned Emily; “what are you + thinking of?—they wouldn’t cheer.” + </p> + <p> + “I can hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, James!” + </p> + <p> + No sound came through those double panes; what James heard was the + groaning in his own heart at sight of his Age passing. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + Emily took up the hair-brushes. + </p> + <p> + “There’ll be just time to brush your head,” she said, + “before they come. You must look your best, James.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” muttered James; “they say she’s pretty.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” he said. “You’ve been to see the + Queen, I suppose? Did you have a good crossing?” + </p> + <p> + In this way he greeted her from whom he hoped for a grandson of his name. + </p> + <p> + Gazing at him, so old, thin, white, and spotless, Annette murmured + something in French which James did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “That Monsieur Dartie,” said Annette in the cab, “<i>je n’aime + pas ce type-là!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “No, by George!” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + In this way he prepared her for Timothy’s. But Timothy’s was + different. They were <i>delighted</i> to see dear Soames after this long long + time; and so this was Annette! + </p> + <p> + “You are <i>so</i> 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, <i>couleur de</i>—what was it? I always + forget.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Feuille morte</i>,” Francie prompted. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, auntie,” said Francie, “but I don’t see the + connection.” + </p> + <p> + “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. “<i>Feuille morte</i>,” she added + suddenly; “Hester—do remember that!”.... + </p> + <p> + Considerable debate took place between the two sisters whether Timothy + should or should not be summoned to see Annette. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t bother!” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + Hester interposed hurriedly: + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of London, Annette?” + </p> + <p> + Soames, disquieted, awaited the reply. It came, sensible, composed: + “Oh! I know London. I have visited before.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And what part do you know best?” said Aunt Juley. + </p> + <p> + “Soho,” said Annette simply. + </p> + <p> + Soames snapped his jaw. + </p> + <p> + “Soho?” repeated Aunt Juley; “Soho?” + </p> + <p> + “That’ll go round the family,” thought Soames. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very French, and interesting,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” murmured Aunt Juley, “your Uncle Roger had some + houses there once; he was always having to turn the tenants out, I + remember.” + </p> + <p> + Soames changed the subject to Mapledurham. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + “Juley!” cried Aunt Hester desperately, “ring tea!” + </p> + <p> + Soames dared not wait for tea, and took Annette away. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Annette’s clear eyes opened; a little smile came on her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Annette; “it is the same in France.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” murmured Soames, at once relieved and taken aback. + “Of course, class is everything, really.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Annette; “<i>comme vous êtes sage</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Et vous êtes ma belle femme</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Annette went off into a little fit of laughter. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Oh, non!</i>” she said. “<i>Oh, non! ne parlez pas Français</i>, + Soames. What is that old lady, your aunt, looking forward to?” + </p> + <p> + Soames bit his lip. “God knows!” he said; “she’s + always saying something;” but he knew better than God. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0071" id="link2HCH0071"></a> + CHAPTER XI<br/>SUSPENDED ANIMATION + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Times</i>, “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But you know,” said Winifred, “he must do something.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise, because if + he didn’t buy a farm it couldn’t turn out badly. + </p> + <p> + “But Val loves horses,” said Winifred. “It’d be + such an occupation for him.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not Montague found + them so? + </p> + <p> + “Val’s different,” said Winifred; “he takes after + me.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Winifred did not tell her, for Montague had merely remarked: “Wait + till the old man dies.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Francie was announced. Her eyes were brimming with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “what do you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of what, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “In <i>The Times</i> this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “We haven’t seen it, we always read it after dinner; Timothy + has it till then.” + </p> + <p> + Francie rolled her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you <i>ought</i> to tell us?” said Aunt Juley. “What + <i>was</i> it?” + </p> + <p> + “Irene’s had a son at Robin Hill.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley drew in her breath. “But,” she said, “they + were only married in March!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Auntie; isn’t it interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Winifred, “I’m glad. I was sorry for + Jolyon losing his boy. It might have been Val.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Winifred, “he’s going to—bar + accidents.” + </p> + <p> + Gladness trickled out of Aunt Juley’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How delightful!” she said. “When?” + </p> + <p> + “November.” + </p> + <p> + Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a long + time for James to wait, at his age! + </p> + <p> + To wait! They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it themselves. + Indeed, it was their great distraction. To wait! For <i>The Times</i> 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 <i>very</i> 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 <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Soames is always anxious, Auntie,” interrupted Imogen; + “he can’t be happy now he’s got it.” + </p> + <p> + The words struck familiarly on Aunt Juley’s ears. Ah! yes; that + funny drawing of George’s, which had <i>not</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Imogen’s voice rose clear and clipped: + </p> + <p> + “Imagine! Annette’s only two years older than me; it must be + awful for her, married to Uncle Soames.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Juley lifted her hands in horror. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the “old + dears,” only smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” said Aunt Juley quite severely, “that <i>you</i> will + marry as good a man.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> shan’t marry a good man, Auntie,” murmured Imogen; + “they’re dull.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + That evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you know</i>, Hester!’ + and then we’ll drink. It might upset Timothy.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s more likely to upset us,” said Aunt Nester. + “But we must, I suppose; for such an occasion.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aunt Juley rapturously, “it <i>is</i> 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 <i>is</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was!</i> “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 + <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0072" id="link2HCH0072"></a> + CHAPTER XII<br/>BIRTH OF A FORSYTE + </h2> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down! No time + for anything! + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>must</i> 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 <i>perhaps</i> 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! <i>For me!</i>” 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! + </p> + <p> + He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. He <i>must</i> + decide! If against the operation and she died, how face her mother and the + doctor afterwards? How face his own conscience? It was <i>his</i> 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 <i>can’t</i> + die; it’s not possible. She’s strong!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “The situation’s the same. Have you decided?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Soames; “don’t operate!” + </p> + <p> + “Not? You understand—the risk’s great?” + </p> + <p> + In Soames’ set face nothing moved but the lips. + </p> + <p> + “You said there was a chance?” + </p> + <p> + “A chance, yes; not much of one.” + </p> + <p> + “You say the baby <i>must</i> be born dead if you do?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you still think that in any case she can’t have another?” + </p> + <p> + “One can’t be absolutely sure, but it’s most unlikely.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s strong,” said Soames; “we’ll take the + risk.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked at him very gravely. “It’s on your + shoulders,” he said; “with my own wife, I couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Soames’ chin jerked up as if someone had hit him. + </p> + <p> + “Am I of any use up there?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No; keep away.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor nodded, and went upstairs. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>she’d</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “The doctor wants to see you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sir! it’s over.” + </p> + <p> + “Over?” said Soames, with a sort of menace; “what d’you + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s born, sir.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said; “quick!” + </p> + <p> + “Both living; it’s all right, I think.” + </p> + <p> + Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I congratulate you,” he heard the doctor say; “it was + touch and go.” + </p> + <p> + Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” he said; “thanks very much. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Daughter—luckily; a son would have killed her—the head.” + </p> + <p> + A daughter! + </p> + <p> + “The utmost care of both,” he hears the doctor say, “and + we shall do. When does the mother come?” + </p> + <p> + “To-night, between nine and ten, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll stay till then. Do you want to see them?” + </p> + <p> + “Not now,” said Soames; “before you go. I’ll have + dinner sent up to you.” And he went downstairs. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him. + </p> + <p class="letter"> + “Come up at once, your father sinking fast.—M<small>OTHER</small>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “They’re sleeping.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My + father’s dying; I have to—go up. Is it all right?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. “If + they were all as unemotional” he might have been saying. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You’ll be down + soon?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” said Soames. “Here’s the address.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This all you have?” asked Soames. + </p> + <p> + “But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?” + </p> + <p> + “Doing well—both. A girl!” + </p> + <p> + “A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!” + </p> + <p> + Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, climbed into + the brougham. + </p> + <p> + “And you, <i>mon cher?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “My father’s dying,” said Soames between his teeth. + “I’m going up. Give my love to Annette.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Tiens!</i>” murmured Madame Lamotte; “<i>quel malheur!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. “The French!” + he thought. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0073" id="link2HCH0073"></a> + CHAPTER XIII<br/>JAMES IS TOLD + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: “He won’t + have his temperature taken.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the good of that?” he murmured huskily; “I + don’t want to know.” + </p> + <p> + Then she <i>was</i> 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Will you have a glass of wine, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Here I am, Father:” + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “Good news, dear, good—Annette, a son.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the doctor?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “He’s been sent for.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you do anything to ease his breathing?” + </p> + <p> + “Only an injection; and he can’t stand it. The doctor said, + while he was fighting....” + </p> + <p> + “He’s not fighting,” whispered Soames, “he’s + being slowly smothered. It’s awful.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He wants to be pulled up,” whispered the nurse. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Yes,” Soames whispered, “yes, yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room with + windows thrown open to the London night. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!” he whispered, and went out. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2HCH0074" id="link2HCH0074"></a> + CHAPTER XIV<br/>HIS + </h2> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what I should have done without you, my dear + boy.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and + dark clothes. + </p> + <p> + Madame Lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down. + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>Mais la petite est adorable. Du café?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Soames got away from her as soon as he could. She offended him—solid, + matter-of-fact, quick, clear—<i>French</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Madame Lamotte opened it. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! At last you come! <i>Elle vous attend!</i>” She passed him, and + Soames went in with his noiseless step, his jaw firmly set, his eyes + furtive. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “We must feed you up,” he said, “you’ll soon be + strong.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you want to see baby, Soames? She is asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Soames, “very much.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ma petite fleur!</i>” Annette said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Fleur,” repeated Soames: “Fleur! we’ll call her + that.” + </p> + <p> + The sense of triumph and renewed possession swelled within him. + </p> + <p> + By God! this—this thing was his! By God! this—this thing was + <i>his!</i> + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<pre> + + + + + +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-h.htm or 2594-h.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. 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